Page 23 of Don’t Let Him In

My thoughts break apart when he speaks again, drawing back all my doubts. “It’s not a flaw in your character to want them dead. To secretly wish for it. It doesn’t make you bad.”

He eases back an inch, a tendon in his neck flexing as his gaze drops to my lips, a brief glance before he cants his and glides back up to study my reaction. For one dizzy second, I think I’m going to black out when he leans in again, my lashes fluttering shut in quiet anticipation.

Bolstering my strength, I manage not to flinch or retreat, but there’s a stutter somewhere inside me. When he kisses me, it’s strange.

There’s a quiet reverence in the way he presses his lips over the bridge of my nose.

Although featherlight, it’s enough to stir something inside me, a knot of longing tightening despite knowing I probably shouldn’t feel this way.

But I can’t help it.

He lingers there a moment longer than I expect. The gesture lasts only a few seconds, yet it sends every nerve on edge as he drifts toward my ear, his presence close enough to rattle me.

“It isn’t too late, you know.”

Bottom lip trapped between my teeth, I blink my way out of a tangle of emotions rising inside me. Disappointment at the loss of his nearness collides with a sharp crack of fear, twisting together so violently that my knees would’ve buckled had I not been seated.

“This could be your chance,” he murmurs, voice scraped raw from any decipherable emotion, but his eyes almost take on a hopeful sheen. “To make it right.”

His words sink their hooks somewhere deep inside me, dragging up a conflicting churn of dread, and something else I thought had been stripped from me alongside everything else.

Hope.

Before I can examine the meaning behind them too deeply, I rush to respond, pushing against the bone-dry boulder in my throat. “My chance?”

Lips twitching, something faint but indistinguishable flickers across his face before he pulls back, stealing away the newfound steadiness I’d latched onto. “Only if you want.”

Blinking back, I mull it over, only to realize some unconscious part of me has already decided. A moment later, I must’ve nodded because the next thing I know, he’s helping me stand and we’re walking. Paving our way through the abandoned house, drab, soiled walls crowd closer once we reach the dim corridor. My feet won’t coordinate, though, stumbling all over each other, and eventually, he draws me closer into the crook of his arm.

Something isn’t sitting right with me, though, like a slick of oil floating atop water, stubbornly separate from everything around it.

Mouth dry, I try to sound my concern, but it crumbles almost instantly, the remnants clogging my throat at the sound of Blair’s voice cutting across the hall. The last thread of fragile comfort slips away.

Eclipsed by a sense of dread growing subtly in my gut, but despite it, I follow him on shaky legs, unable to stop. I don’t know what else to do, or if there’s even a way forward from all this. All I know is once we’re close to the doorway, my skin curdles as Manson inches us through the sliver of opening, guiding me inside.

Immediately, I seek out Dax, finding him standing rigidly in front of Blair, whose lips are pursed tight, arms locked across her chest as she glares back at him. Careful on my feet, I still manage to graze the side of the door enough to make it creak, and Blair blows out a choppy breath, eyes panning toward us.

Some part of me still expects her to see me.

But she doesn’t.

“What was that?” she snaps, her voice cinched tight, facing the doorway.

“It’s an old house in the middle of nowhere,” he tells her, irritation threaded through his tone. “It’s going to make weird noises. Who cares?”

A pulse kicks in Blair’s throat. Her composure slips for a fraction of a second before she flattens her lips into a thin line. “I don’t care. I still don’t like it here.”

Without a word, he cranes his neck, glancing toward the room’s entrance before blowing out a breath and stepping around her to cross the empty room. He reaches back to pat his jean pocket, slipping a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out before wedging one between his lips and tucking the rest away.

“Are you okay?” Manson asks to my right, eyeing me curiously before allowing me some space, breaking away our tether.

Nodding, still hovering by the doorway, I shuffle in place, managing to mask the tremors running along my body with a small smile. But the unease from earlier refuses to fade, gnawing at me, more insistent this time. I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, or if I should just turn around.

But something keeps me glued in place.

Curiosity, maybe.

Or maybe it’s the obstinate belief that if I leave now, I’ll miss something important. Something that’ll make sense of all of this.