Page 43 of Such Sharp Teeth

He doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter. Because now I’m thinking about it. Thinking about those red eyes stalking me in the dark, the sensation of being chased. Of being caught. Of lying there, a helpless witness to the destruction of my body.

I could close my eyes and summon that feeling easily. The feeling of being so totally aware, awake for my own desecration, distraught by my powerlessness to stop it.

I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. So that’s on me, isn’t it?

You’re strong, he said just a minute ago.

I should have told him. Tried to explain.

I am strong, just not strong enough.

I reach up to feel for the silver burn around my neck, but it’s gone. It’s healed.

I’m changing. My body is changing.

What happens in a week? What happens when the moon is full?

I press my ear to Ian’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He rests an arm over my back. I never do this. I never stay after. But I want to. I want to stay. I don’t ever want to get out of this bed.

Right now I could give a fuck about a full moon.

—

I open a single sleepy eye to watch Ian get out of bed. Sunlight’s coming in from somewhere. A skylight? I hate it.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells me.

No objection.

I sleep for a while longer, and when I finally wake up again, there’s no more sun. It’s gray and raining. The room around me has been tidied. The books restacked, lamps now standing. The sheets are still a mess. We ripped them. And at least one pillow. Pillow guts are everywhere.

I step cautiously out of bed in case there’s still glass on the floor. I tiptoe into the bathroom.

It’s very clean, this bathroom. Either he knew I was coming or he’s the rare gem of a man who keeps a clean bathroom.

I pee, then wash my hands. Briefly check my reflection. My hair is a nest. I think I smell. That goddamn wet-dog smell. I have a perfume roller in my bag downstairs that I desperately need. I take some of his toothpaste on my finger and swish it around my mouth.

I head downstairs and find it’s empty. No Ian.

I grab my bag off the kitchen table and check my phone. He texted to tell me he was going out to get breakfast seven minutes ago. Which means . . .

I have some time alone in his apartment.

I commence snooping.

His books are first. There’s a decent variety. Classic literature. Some Stephen Hawking, which . . . sure. A lot of music books. Rock biographies. Autobiographies.

I spot something tucked between two books and carefully untuck it.

It’s a photograph. A Polaroid of Ian and a girl. His arm is around her and she’s pulled close to him. To my horror, she’s a stunner. I squint and bring the photo closer. Yep. Gorgeous.

Is this jealousy? It’s like heartburn, only a thousand times worse. No, thanks.

I hear keys jiggling. I stuff the picture back in and plop myself on the couch, pretend to be preoccupied with my phone.

“Morning,” he says.

He holds up a paper bag full of something. I smell bacon. And sausage. Across the room I can smell it like it’s right under my nose.