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I strip down and throw my clothes in a trash bag under the sink, careful not to mix them with my laundry where Elaine would see the blood-soaked garments and likely have some questions that would be tough to answer. I’ll have to make sure Claire does the same.
As I languish under the spray of the shower, I think of her wild eyes, the palpable mix of fear and excitement when she’d thrown herself at me.
We’ve been playing push and pull all week, and finally, she gave in to the mutual desire. It was absolutely worth the wait, worth the back and forth we went through to get to that moment, but I can’t fight the slightest disappointment trying to close around me. She deserves better than what I gave her—more than a hasty hook up in the guest house. I want to take my time with her, explore every inch of what she has to offer, taste every drop of her arousal, feel every gasp against my neck when I push into her deeper and deeper.
The look in her eyes as I’d driven her to the edge had been one of freedom, of ecstasy. Though she could feel herself falling, she hadn’t been scared in the moment. It’s not the fall that’s frightening—it’s what comes when you land, whether in a heap or on your feet knowing the impact will shatter you.
I know, no matter how scared she may have been, no matter how weary her soul was after the kidnapping, that whether I’d meant to or not, I pulled Claire into my world.
Some people live in the light, afraid to step out of the space that it covers. Others thrive in the dark. It’s clear to see that she’s had a taste of the darkness, but is a single taste enough?
The selfish part of me hopes not.
I’ve had a taste of her, and I know that it won’t be enough.
I want more.
Chapter two
Claire
I watch, holding a stale breath in my lungs, as the shadow passes my door and carries on down the hall. After a moment, Remy’s door shuts quietly, and I let go of the breath that was caught in my lungs.
I feel strange, and I’m not even sure why. From my brain attempting to process everything that’s happened since… well, since that night at the Piazza? From Remy’s touch, his kiss that left my lips feeling swollen and tingling? From the murder I just committed? Or maybe it’s more physical than any of that. Maybe I simply hit my head and am just now feeling the effects? Maybe it’s a lingering side-effect of whatever Mack shot into my veins to subdue me when Jovich abandoned me to monsters?
Whatever ‘it’ is, it feels like a finger dusting my spine, eyes trained on the back of my neck, the distinct feeling of being exposed, vulnerable. My shoulders itch, tense with something I can’t name. I’m not sure what scares me the most… the fact that I have it in me to do something so heinous, or the fact that I actually liked it?
Because if I’m honest with myself, I did like it.
Killing Eric gave me a catharsis of sorts. Remy saw it firsthand when I threw myself at him, drunk on the adrenaline because I hadn’t even had the decency to pretend that I was horrified with what I did. I mean, I am horrified, but I'm sure it didn't look like I was. What kind of person commits murder and then throws themself at their accomplice like a sex-starved whore? Surely only the most perverse, wicked people to walk the earth would do something so awful.
I’ve known I’m damaged goods for years. As a child who seemed to connect with multiple families but never got adopted, I’d simply come to the conclusion that there was something wrong with me. It had become more and more evident with time, and I thought it had reached its pinnacle when I was subjected to the Giante’s house. They seemed to despise me more than anyone I’d ever met, and I’d eventually just assumed I was the problem. When he hurt me, he even said that I was. I thought I could solve it with a handful of pills and a knife, but that clearly didn’t resolve anything. In my recovery, I started to believe that maybe I wasn’t broken, but part of a broken system.
Meeting Rhea my freshman year had been a confirmation of as much. She’s allowed me to live these last three years as if I’m vindicated, as if I’m normal and whole and worthy. Just being a part of her light had me believing that I wasn’t the darkness, the pain, the thing that made people not love me. And maybe I’m not entirely to blame. Clearly, Eric Giante was no saint. But maybe I’m more of a sinner than I ever realized. Maybe I am every bit as fucked up and disgusting as him. I certainly feel like I am.
The rain has picked up again, falling faster now. I close my eyes and lay flat on my back, drawing the blanket over me and trying to force all thoughts of anything other than the sound of comfort out of my mind. I cast out the blood, the pain, the fear, and the anger to empty my mind, refusing to focus on what I’ve just done or what’s been done to me.
When I was a kid, I used to lay in bed during thunderstorms, listening to the howling wind outside and just imagine the rain busting a window and flooding in. It would carry my bed away on a swell of it, taking me away to a world that was brighter, kinder, better. When I became Eric’s victim, the dreams had shifted so that when it stormed, it wasn’t rain that fell. And it wasn’t rain that broke through the window and washed me away… it was blood.
Maybe I’ve always been sick, and the things that I lived through have just triggered it.
I lay there for hours until the dark recedes, and the sun rises weakly in the sky. I don’t sleep, don’t close my eyes. I just stare at the white planks of wood over my head and try to make myself number than I already am.
When the clouds part enough for the sun to rise, I still haven’t slept, and I still can’t get a hold of myself. My brain keeps repeating the same thoughts in a loop, louder and louder, until they’re echoing through my skull with the blood pulsing in my temples.
I sit up so fast my stomach churns at the pain that surges through me, a searing burn as my broken skin stretches too far.
I clutch my abdomen as I cross to the bag I left behind when I tried to go home. I feel like my insides are falling out, so maybe I think doing so will help hold me together a little while longer. I’m errantly grateful that I didn’t take any of my belongings when I left. My phone was taken from me when Mack first snatched me out of the back of the car, and I sure as hell am not going back there to look for it. If I had taken all of my luggage with me, I wouldn’t have anything now.
It's a small comfort to have my own stuff as I rustle through my bag in search of the bottle of ibuprofen that I always keep with me, my hands running over clothes and socks, the paperback and e-reader I brought.
The package that my hand closes upon first isn’t a bottle of ibuprofen. It’s a blister pack of medication, and the moment I touch it, cold realization spills through me. I snatch the birth control out of my bag with my heart in my throat and count the pills that are still sealed versus how many are gone.
How long was I gone? How long have I been in Remy’s room flitting between consciousness and sleep? When did I take the pill last?
I suck air through my nose in a desperate attempt to calm the rising tidal wave of fear that’s nestling in me.
Count the days, Claire.
