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I turned in his grip, my hands colliding with his chest. He’s bigger. Stronger. Harder. And so, so tall.
“If I release your mouth, will you keep quiet?”
I wasn’t sure why he asked me this question, but I nodded.
His touch was gone, and immediately the shivers started again. The teeth chattering. The coldness that stuck to me like icicles against warmth. It was then that I realized I was standing out in my silk pajamas. A simple spaghetti strap top, trimmed with lace, with matching shorts. They were white, so I guess it was easy for him to see me, but he was in black, so I couldn’t see anything of him. I only had his touch. And it was blinding.
“What are you doing out here? Why are you out of the house?”
“I—” I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth because my teeth were chattering so hard.
“Fuck,” he cursed, and moved my hand away from his body before something warm was being shoved into my chest. “Arms up.”
I did as I was told, though my body would not stop convulsing. Seconds later, I was surrounded by fuzzy warmth and the scent of cologne that stung the back of my throat like a deadly poison. Strong leather notes, with a subtle hint of fresh pine, a dash of soap, and the delicate fume from an already smoked cigarette. Did he smoke now? He was just seventeen.
“Thank you,” I said, forgetting I was to be quiet. His hand was back on my mouth, while his other was behind my head, holding me in place.
“Be. Quiet.” His whisper-growl reverberated around me. If I didn’t feel so safe, it would be horrifying. I could see the flesh of his arms now, and when I finally trailed my eyes up to his face that was now bare from the hoodie, I froze.
My brows curved.
“Yes, Saint, be quiet. And yes, my face looks like a skull.” The lines of the skull that were painted over his face were hypnotizing. I was awestruck, unable to speak or move from beneath his hold. Black and white colors crafted perfectly over his high cheekbones and eyes. His eyes were now hidden behind the brightest white contacts.
He released my mouth again.
“What are you doing?” I asked, wrapping my arms around my stomach protectively. Brantley was hardly home anymore, but recently, he’d passed through more often. More often than Lucan anyway. I sensed something was happening around the house, but never spoke a word. The house was always quiet, but with Lucan and Brantley living under the same roof, it was loud. Loud with anger, tension, hate.
He grabbed my hand and began dragging me back through the forest. “Don’t fucking worry about what I’m doing. Fuck. Why are you out here?”
I didn’t speak until I could see the high arches of the entry and exit of the cemetery, with the manor glaring down at us both in the distance.
“Speak, Saint. You can speak now…”
We were still walking toward the house when I finally opened my mouth.
“I don’t know how I got there. I’ve—”
He paused, turning to face me. I hung onto the silence, awaiting his next words. But instead of words, he picked me up from around my legs and threw me over his shoulder.
“Brantley!” I hissed.
“Your legs are too fuckin’ small and I need you back in your room now, not in an hour.” He continued to carry me up the steps of the patio and through the glass doors, kicking them closed with his foot.
He placed me onto the ground once we were back in the living room of the house. No TV. Just three sofas, a fireplace you could ignite a bonfire in, old family portraits from years and years ago, and candles. So many candles.
The dim light from the fireplace and said candles gave me the perfect view of his face now. My throat swelled. I had no words. It had been three months since I’d last seen him. Lucan was never home, always away in his office. I didn’t mind him being away, though. Lucan had always been somewhat distant from me. He avoided me like he was, I don’t know. Afraid.
“Saint…” Brantley’s voice tapped through my straying thoughts.
“Why is your face painted like that?” I felt like the longer he stayed away, the more he aged. I almost had to bend my neck to look up at him now.
“It’s Halloween…” He drops down onto the sofa behind him.
“And?” I didn’t understand the statement.
He refused to answer now. Bored with my questions, as per usual. And as usual, he’d simply just not answered it. “When did you start sleepwalking?” His eyes traveled down my body flagrantly. He took his time with it, though, with slow, almost blatant carnality. I recognized the look. I’d seen it in movies before. I just knew that’s not what he was trying to do. This was just Brantley.
