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Jesus. I have to relax a little. Getting my heartbeat back under control, I figure it’s unlikely he went far without his phone, so it shouldn’t be long till he gets back. I slip off my shoes and snuggle under the covers, reveling in his warmth and scent of teakwood and mint. If life was perfect, this is what it would be. Him, me, us spending time together, and not worrying about all the other bullshit.
I know I shouldn't have to be concerned that my boyfriend is about to kill his father. That shit isn't normal. None of this is normal. So how do I fix it? If I told him not to do it, would he even listen? Doubtful. Drew is the single most hardheaded person I know. Telling him not to do something is the ammunition needed for him to do it just to spite you.
What if things go wrong? What if he fails, or worse, what if he doesn’t? Who will he be if he succeeds? Will killing his father push him closer to damnation, or is it the saving grace he needs to climb out of the dark?
These thoughts swimming in my head are the reason I barely slept last night. I inhale long and hard, using his scent to chase away some of my doubts and fears.
It’s not easy with our history, but after yesterday, after he’s been so transparent about everything, how can I not give him the benefit of the doubt? He’s changed. I know it. I see it when he speaks to me and touches me with reverence and respect. He touches me with love. Something I don’t think he could have fathomed when all of this started months ago.
And I know he’s noticed the changes in me too. The way I don’t roll over and take every blow, every slight. I’m no longer a wallflower. I’m a fucking wildflower. I’m his wildflower.
I roll over on the mussed covers and climb out of the lush bed to wander the room. I’m restless and need to move around to get some of the energy out. Yes, I trust him, but just because I trust him doesn’t mean that I’m not worried about him.
His father is a monster, and Drew is, admittedly, also a monster. I guess it takes one to kill one, but how much of a monster will this turn him into?
I pace by the edge of his bed, back and forth, back and forth. I continue pacing, and as I do, I scan the shelves around the fireplace, dark thick wood lined with battered paperbacks, textbooks, and a few old classics. Somehow, the old classics look fresher than the paperbacks. It makes me smile, and I skim the lines of books with my fingers reading the titles, tilting my head as I walk to scan each one of them.
Drew knows how much I love books and reading in general, but we’ve never talked about any of these books. He’s never indicated an interest in reading.
I continue, my smile growing wider and wider until I reach the end of the shelf. At the very edge of the shelf my entire body clamps up. My heart hammers in my chest, and my thoughts take a nose dive into the dark.
Lying there on top of one of the hardbound books is a syringe, with its clear blue cap over the needle tip. The contents are clear from what I can see. I twist around and peer over my shoulder, half expecting him to jump out of the shadows, but he’s still not here, and that only intensifies my worry.
I’ve seen him drink several times, but I’ve never considered that he might use drugs. I blink, and without thinking, I pick up the syringe to inspect it closer. What would he be taking that’s in a syringe form? God. I need to stop thinking about this. It’s probably nothing. Maybe a steroid for football or maybe it’s a shot for some type of illness.
I hear his footsteps a heartbeat before he enters the room, and as I whirl around, I see the ghost of a smile on his lips. It slips off his face the moment he sees the syringe in my hand.
“What are you doing?”
I gulp around the ball of anxiety that’s now formed in my throat and gently place the syringe back on the shelf. He stalks toward me, and I take an involuntary step back right as he reaches me. I don’t know why I do it. He doesn’t appear angry. If anything, he looks sorry, which makes no sense to me.
Snatching the syringe off the book, he repeats the question he asked a moment ago. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I was… I was waiting for you. You seem to enjoy going through my things, so I thought I'd return the favor.” I force myself to smile, but he doesn’t return it. My gaze shifts back to the syringe, and I can’t stop myself from asking. I trust him. I love him, so why am I so afraid to know what this is all about?
“What’s in the syringe?”
His mouth folds into a thin line. “It’s something that I didn’t want to have to use, but that I no longer have an option not to use.”
It’s neither an answer, nor a question.
I chuckle and shake my head. “Is it some kind of steroid, a football thing?” I try to make my tone teasing, but instead, it comes out shaky with what...fear?
“Bel.” He sucks a deep breath into his lungs, then exhales with a slight rumble through his chest. When his arm snakes around my waist and he drags me against his chest, I’m unable to resist. “I hate that I have to do this to you, and I promise I’ll be able to explain everything when it’s over, but right now...I can’t. I know I don’t deserve it, but I need your complete trust.”
I pull away enough so I can see his face. “I told you I trust you, and I do. I’m just confused and worried. You’re speaking in riddles.”
“You’re looking at me a lot like you did that first night in the woods, so I don’t really feel like you trust me.”
I blink and swallow. “I don’t know. I trust you, obviously. I just…why would you have a syringe? And what’s in it? Why are you talking like you’re going to use it on me?” I force myself to look away from the syringe that he’s just uncapped. Like if I don’t look at it, then it means he won’t do what I’m suspecting he will.
“Bel...Wallflower, look at me.”
I do, only from habit, the sharp bite of command in his tone. “You either trust me or you don’t. Say you trust me.”
“I do.” The words slip from my lips with ease. The sharp jab of a needle hits the side of my neck, and I hiss out a breath. “What the hell?”
“Trust me, Bel. That’s all you need to do right now, okay?” A slow tingly warmth moves through my veins, and my knees wobble.
