Chapter 5
Turner
So much fucking crying.
She thinks she’s being quiet, muffling it with her head pressed against her knees, but it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me. I hate it.
I hate her.
Well, I hate the way her cries tug on what little shred of humanity I have left, torturing me with the reminders that before I became this, I was human. Twenty years ago, I would’ve sat beside her and at least offered some semblance of comfort—maybe a hand on her shoulder? A hug? I don’t know.
Regardless, back then, I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing in the shadows of the hallway watching her like the freak I am now. I don’t know how talk to her in a civilian way. I can’t remember the last time I had an interaction that wasn’t a ‘thank you,’ at the fucking store. I grind my teeth as I clench and unclench my fists.
Maybe I should’ve let her use my old, dead phone.
But honestly, I don’t know if it even works anymore, and I don’t need visitors of any capacity. I sigh quietly, and my gaze darts back to her on the couch.
The things I could do to silence her flick through my head, and none of them involve getting within a few feet of her. I clamp my lids together, drawing myself into the darkness, as the banging and screaming begin in my head again. A nudge from Gunner causes my eyes to flutter open, and I glance down to him sitting beside me. He’s supposed to know when my demons come for me, and he does…
But he can’t stop the worst of them anymore.
No one can.
She’s not safe here with me.
When the urge to kill comes, I kill. There’s no stopping me. Her sobbing for whatever reason is already pushing me toward losing it, too, and there’s nowhere for her to go if I do. She’ll never survive a blackout. My eyes flicker to the walls of the hallway, where pictures of my good memories once hung—before I ripped the mangled frames down. A sob tears through my psyche again.
FUCK. I have to stop her crying before these walls are smattered with her damn brains.
I crack my knuckles and slip out of the shadows. It’s mid-afternoon of Saturday, December 14 th , and it might as well be the middle of the night with the blizzard hanging out overhead.
Her cries instantly cease as the floor creaks. Her head jerks up at the sight of me, and the way her green eyes widen with fear only serves to remind me of who I am. I’m a nightmare. My home is the last place you want to end up stranded.
And I sometimes abhor myself for it. Sometimes.
“Are you hungry?” I grunt out, trying and failing to sound pleasant. Though, maybe if I feed her, she’ll shut the fuck up.
“Um,” she sniffles, her eyes red and puffy. “Yeah. I can make myself food. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Impossible to prevent that.”
She winces at my response, her eyes dropping to her hands. “Okay, well, I can do my best to be less of one.”
“I don’t like people touching my stuff.”
“You have granola bars,” she reasons, eyeing me. “I can just have one of those.”
So she’s been in my kitchen. Anger tugs at me, but I push it off. I can’t decide if she’s a manipulative brat, or if she’s being sincere. “Okay,” I finally say. I sidestep into the kitchen, keeping my eye on her as I open the pantry and grab two. She needs to eat and drink. Basic human needs.
Oh shit. She should also need a bathroom?
I blink twice at that as I return to the living room. There’s only one bathroom in the cabin. It’s through my room. I don’t like that idea.
It won’t last long. The moment she triggers me, or I get annoyed, she’ll be dead. This courtesy won’t last forever. I hold out the granola bars for her, and she’s careful not to touch my hand, grabbing them by the very end. Her instincts must be kicking in, sending her signals that I’m a danger to wellbeing.
That won’t save you, I want to tell her, warn her of what’s coming. But then again, it might be better to bring her death without warning. I don’t want to give her the false hope she’ll survive me…
No one ever does.
“Thank you,” her voice cuts through my thoughts. “Can I use your bathroom?”
Again. Basic human needs.
“Yeah, okay.” My muscles tense as she stands to her feet. I take in the fragility of her, and the way she staggers when she takes a step.
Fuck, one hit and she’d be done… I could easily pummel this woman. She stands maybe five-feet-four. She’s not skin and bones by any means, and while I think she’s got some fight in her, she’d be no match for me. That’s the difference between her and those before her. They were different—they were challenges. She’s no fucking physical challenge, and it’s got me hung up.
She clears her throat. “Where is it?” She smooths at her hair, though her brown locks are a matted mess. She needs a fucking shower. Would I have to sit in the bathroom to make sure she doesn’t try anything? My body reacts to that thought, and I let out a grunt.
“Last door on the hallway, through the bedroom on the right. Your suitcase is over there.” I nod to the bags by the front door. I went through her purse enough to know she’s Emersyn Lewis. Thirty-one years old. Her current address is in Stillwater, Oklahoma. She’s a writer of some sort.
Which confirms that she is, indeed, weak.
And once upon a time, I would’ve beat my chest that I was the fucking lunatic protecting people like her, Mr. Special Ops out to keep weak little writer girls safe. But now, I don’t think so. She got herself stuck here. I owe her nothing.
“Is there a shower?”
Jeez. She asks the stupidest questions.
“Yeah,” I say flatly. She watches me warily as she makes her way to her luggage, picking up her black duffle bag. My gaze drops to her sweatpants as she bends over. I changed her jeans in a haze of duty, but I still recall the way the glow of the fire lit up her bare legs as I did. I could’ve stared at her longer. I suddenly wish I would’ve.
My body reacts once more, and I watch her disappear down the hallway. Fuck, if I let her live, will I want to touch her? Get close? I know I probably won’t. But there’s this deep, buried part of me that likes the idea. I’ve been holed up here, living the cycle of my broken psyche for years. Maybe I could find some pleasure.
No, bad idea. My thoughts stand to reason with me. I don’t know what would happen if I tried. And what if I got attached? I swallow that thought. There’s no way I could let someone know me….
‘You don’t need to be alone,’ My brother’s voice in my head hits me right in the gut. ‘I want better for you.’
You had no fucking clue, Tommy. No clue.
My poor older brother thought I got an honorable discharge when I left the Marines. He had no idea that I snapped the way I did. And I only made it out uncuffed because Bradford, my commanding officer, had some sort of sick pity on me.
‘Disappear, find some way to get your fix or get help, Martin,’ I hear his words in my head. ‘And if you choose the first, just don’t fucking get caught.’
And that small spew of words is what led me here. I nabbed my dead parents old hunting cabin and made it my fucking prison for life. As long as I stay here, no one gets hurt. Well, except for the fucking fools who have trespassed or tried to make friends.
I start down the hallway, hearing the pipes fill with water. I worked hard to make sure this cabin could make it through the bitter winter, and now someone else is experiencing the benefits. I’m a selfish asshole, but it’s strangely satisfying for some reason.
Enjoy the hot water, I think as I hesitate outside of the bedroom door. I reach for the knob and turn it, opening the door in silence. I’m a fucking brute for infringing on her space like this, but also… This is my house.
I pad silently across the floor to the bathroom door. It’s closed, but there’s no lock on the door. My tongue darts across my bottom lip as I hear a hum on the other side of the door. She’s singing to herself in there. I nearly laugh, though my dick seems to like the sound of her sweet alto voice carrying through the air.
It’s the first time I’ve heard any semblance of music in years, and as I fight the urge to come unglued, I listen a little closer. I don’t recognize whatever is coming out of her mouth—but that’s not all that surprising. Again, I haven’t listened to anything in almost a decade.
Finally, it hits as I process the lyrics. She’s singing some sort of heartbreak song, and I curl my lip in disgust.
Probably her fucking boyfriend.
That enrages me. My fist collides with the door and it slams open, the knob going through the drywall. “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at her.
She yelps, spinning around while trying to cover herself through the foggy glass. “I-I-I’m sorry.”
I rake my gaze over what curves I can make out through the glass, suddenly turned on and pissed off, all at the same time. “I don’t want to hear you sing,” I say, sounding fucking psychotic—even to myself.
“Uh…” Her eyes hold mine, confusion and terror riddling them. “Okay. Okay, I won’t. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know.”
Fuck. Me, either. What is wrong with me? The moment causes me pause, and I slip away, heading for the staircase to the lookout. I clearly don’t remember how to blend in like I used to. I feel like the beast in the castle, only poor Belle won’t get to kiss me and turn me into a prince.
No, no way in hell.
I thud up the stairs, taking the blind corner, inwardly bracing as per usual. I pass the first door. It’s the room I don’t enter. It’s got nothing but reminders of who I once was. That’s not me anymore. Well, maybe I’ve always been a psychopath, but that was back when I tried not to be. Maybe I just wore a mask and wore it well.
Hmm. Never considered that.
Regardless, now I know I’m a fucking menace to humankind. I’m the nightmare in people’s dreams. I’m a hunter that only gets a high if the blood that spills is of a person with a soul. I don’t care if it’s your father, brother, son, or uncle. A grave is a grave, and I’ve got too many in my backyard.
I open up the door to my lookout, frowning at the window with no view due to the blinding snow. I pull out the chair at my desk and take a seat, letting my mind draw back. I started out trying to work out my problems like anyone else—a therapist, medication, whatever. Then one day, I had a hunter decide to trespass on my property. He started a fight, and I took my shot, adrenaline pulsing through my veins.
And it all went downhill from there.
I started actively waiting for people to trespass, their unwanted presence triggering my broken mind. Believe it or not, it happened more often than one would think, especially during hunting season. They weren’t supposed to be here anyway, so when they got a bullet to the head, no one came here looking.
However, in a total of seven instances in the last decade, I’ve never had this happen. A woman has never graced this land since my mother, and Emersyn has something about her that makes my body remember its primal urges. I start to picture her bare legs again, the way her dark hair was matted to her head in the shower, and the curvature of her hips through the foggy glass.
I drum my fingers on the desk, as my dick grows hard. Emersyn. Before I realize what I’m doing, I unbutton my jeans and set my cock free. I start to stroke, and then think of her mentioning her boyfriend. I immediately grow limp.
No , I want to share her. I conjure up a scenario where she changes her mind, where fear turns to desire, and she falls for the beast.
I know that’s bad, bad for me, but when I want something, I take it.
And I think I want Emersyn Lewis.