Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Strawberries and citrus, that’ll fix this, right? I huff out a scoff, staring down at the little pink block in my shower. Hot water sprays over it, melting the square into a gooey mess. Scented steam wafts upward, spreading through my bathroom until the whole room smells like summertime.
I roll my eyes, irritated by my own na?veté.
“A shower steamer, really? Like this is going to solve anything.” It’s not as if I’ve been in this situation before, but thinking it could be made better by bath products seems asinine, even for me.
I could dump all the calming toiletries in the world over my body and it wouldn’t fix this.
I should try anyway, though, shouldn’t I?
I crush the loofa to my body, rubbing it so roughly that my skin pinkens. If I can wash the scent of him from my body, scrub away his touch, can I break his hold on me? If only there was a way to reach into my chest and scour him from my heart.
He shouldn’t be in there at all, but he is.
The walls I’ve so carefully built around my heart are starting to crack, the stones chipping and crumbling.
His constant presence, his words, his caress, they become fissures in the rocks, forcing them apart.
You’re everything to me. Precious. I’d never hurt you.
Good girl. I’d never lie to you. His words drift through my mind, waging a war inside of me.
My insides are fragmenting, and it hurts.
A sinking feeling churns in my belly as chunks of myself wander and collide.
I want to believe what he tells me, to believe that someone wants me.
Is it possible that I could become more to someone than what I’ve always been?
A body to use, a soul to break, a speck of nothing in a world of somethings?
Can I truly risk letting myself believe?
If I allow myself to hope, it could break me.
If it’s all lies, it’ll crack me open like an egg.
My soul will spill out into a slimy mess that can’t be put back.
My skin heats, not from the spray of the hot water, but from the memory of his hands on me, his rumbling words purred in my ears.
There’s something heady in the way he blends violence and tenderness that makes my head spin and my core ache.
Looking down at the bruises on my hip, purple stains in the shape of his fingertips, I can’t help but feel the warmth slithering through my belly.
His mark on my skin will fade in a few days, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be sad to see them gone.
My eyelids flutter and close. My hand runs down the length of my stomach, fingers tickling over my damp skin.
But it’s not my hand I feel; it’s his. I imagine the rough texture of his palms skating over my body, igniting a fire within me.
It’s his hand that inches downward, dancing over my mound.
When I open my legs, it’s his finger that parts my folds.
His skilled touch teases my clit, sending ripples of pleasure zipping through my body.
As my fingers swirl around the sensitive nub, I feel his fingers.
The memory of Gray’s hands, drawn from my mind, yanks me closer to release until I’m unable to control the way my hips twitch and gyrate.
My orgasm looms over me, but without his touch, it feels unattainable, weak and small.
It’s an ache inside me that can’t be sated by my fingers alone, but I don’t stop.
I don’t stop working my clit until my inner walls flutter, however weakly.
With a heavy sigh, I pull my hand away, frustrated and aching.
I quickly shampoo my hair before dragging myself out of the shower.
My old towel scratches against my skin as I dry myself.
I bet the towels at Gray’s are expensive and soft.
I quickly shake the thought away as I shove my legs into a pair of fuzzy sweatpants.
The fleecy fabric wraps around me like a warm hug—a very ugly, warm hug.
My most comfortable lounge-around-the-house outfit is matching pants and a sweatshirt that are so pink, they look like a unicorn puked them out.
Little yellow hearts line the edges, making me look like I’m dressed in the wallpaper from a child’s nursery.
“Yup,” I drawl with a tone filled with sarcasm, “if the stupid shower steamers can’t fix this, surely some hideous, fuzzy lounge wear will.” A strange giggle bubbles from my mouth. “Maybe he’ll see me in this and never come back.”
I try to tell myself that that’s what I want, for him to leave and never darken my doorstep again.
I told him as much when he brought me home, but I know that it’s a lie.
When we arrived at my house, my heart did a little backflip because my car was already in my driveway, my keys safely tucked away under my doormat.
I felt like I was watching from afar as he walked me to my door, guiding me with his hand on my lower back. It was so…normal. Like he was just a regular guy dropping me off after a date.
“I have something important I need to do, something I have to do to keep us safe,” he had said. “I promise I won’t stay away so long this time. I’ll never leave you alone again.”
Us. He had said it with such casualty, like it was just the way of things. He said it like we’re a single entity now, a couple. But what could he have to do to keep us safe?
“You will be a good girl for me,” he murmured against my lips.
It wasn’t a question, but a command. And damn, I felt that command rush through me like lightning when his hand wrapped around my throat and his lips crashed into mine.
He kissed me like he needed to consume me, to rip out a piece of my soul to take with him.
His tongue wrapped around mine, stroking me from the inside until I felt boneless.
When he pulled away, the hard lines of his face were drawn down, his lips pressed into a thin line.
He looked pained, like it physically hurt him to leave.
“I’ll be watching, little bird.” He left me with a threat and a promise. I tried not to let hope bloom in my chest. I tried to tamp it down, to shove it back into the box inside me, but the box is cracking under the pressure he’s exerting on it.
* * *
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
A heavy knock bangs against my front door, startling me. The manuscript in my hands slips between my fingers, pages scattering across the floor. I scowl down at the jumble of papers, wondering why I still print the damn things. Because paper is better, the feral book gremlin inside me screeches.
Reluctantly, I leave the scattered mass. Frustration bubbles in my belly. I hate to leave a story mid-chapter to yank myself back into my body, back into the real world.
After my unsatisfying shower, I allowed myself to become someone else, to lose myself in a new manuscript.
I became Olivia, a woman trapped by circumstance.
I had traveled to a distant world, wrought by an unending war.
The sounds of metal rang out as swords clashed on the battlefield.
I was a warrior, fighting on the side of humans in the war against the monsters who crawled up from the bowels of the Earth.
Their powerful bodies brought soldiers to their knees, their horns and talons gleaming with blood.
I watched the demon hoard advance on us, their ranks marching down the mountain in tight formations.
Their leader, a monster far larger than any I’d ever seen, stood at the front of the lines.
Shadows writhed along his scaled skin. His eyes never strayed from his path, even as his shadow magic whipped out to suck the life force from our men.
His path, as it turned out, led him directly to me, the woman he claimed to be his fated mate.
I shake my head, forcing the compelling story to the back of my mind as I head for the door. A large-brimmed hat peers at me from the small window in my front door. A tan hat, that unfortunately, I recognize.
“Hello, Sheriff Lynnfield,” I state through gritted teeth that I hope are hidden by my fake smile.
He tips his hat in greeting. “Ava, I have some bad news.”
My heart turns to metal, sinking into my stomach. James, my head screams. It must be about the deputy. Do they know he’s dead? Do they know that Gray killed him? Will his actions damn me to a life in prison? I try not to gasp for air as my breathing becomes shallow.
The sheriff clears his throat in the way that old men seem to do. “It’s about your daddy.”
My eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up to the sky. “My father?”
“Mhmm,” he grumbles an affirmative sound, pulling his hat from his head to rest it against his bulging stomach.
Despite the frigid air of late autumn, sweat beads on his bare head.
He wipes his hand across his forehead, collecting the beads that have dripped onto his eyebrows.
“He was supposed to go on a fishing trip today and…” He lets out a heavy breath.
His eyes seem far away for a moment before refocusing on me.
“Well, there’s just no easy way to say this,” he continues. “He’s dead. They found him in his cabin this morning.”
I stumble back a step, slapping my palm on the doorframe for balance. “Dead? What?” I stammer. “How?”
“It…uh…well, it looks like a suicide,” he says softly as if the news pains him to repeat. Perhaps it does, given how close he once was with my father. “He…he hanged himself.”
I shove my tongue between my teeth and bite.
I gnaw on my tongue until I taste copper, because I can’t say anything.
I can’t tell him that I’m not sad, that my father was the worst kind of monster.
I can’t tell him that the bastard deserved a far worse death than one of his own choosing.
So, I bite my tongue and let the tears fall from my eyes.
He doesn’t need to know that they’re tears of relief.