Page 53 of Shattered Souls

“You’re running, Rayvn. That much is obvious. But have you ever thought maybe we’re running too? Maybe the cops snooping in our business is just as detrimental?”

“Oh, scared of them finding your body stash?” I cross my arms. I will not let my kidnapper make me feel bad for him.

“You have no idea the shit I’ve been through to get us to where we are. And you’re just a fucking snake in the grass, waiting to strike. Waiting for the perfect moment to run to the cops and rat us out.” I step back. My eyes narrow at him, at the gall he has to say something so crass to me.

“But, I’m selfish?” I storm off, heading straight for the concrete room that will get me away from either brother. I pull it open, throw myself inside, and slam the door shut behind me, not caring that I’m sealed in until one of them comes and rescues me. Only once I’m inside and alone do I let the tears dominate my body.

The door opens, light from the living room flooding inside. I blink to adjust to the light and try to see which demon I’m getting stuck in here with. It takes me a second to pick apart which brother this is. What gives it away is once he lifts his hand—Hayze.

BED

“No.” I tuck my knees into my chest. I know I’m acting childish, but I don’t want to face either of them. I want to forget about the body I watched them chop up, or the way I was fucked while forced to watch.

He turns, a sound coming from deep within his chest, and leaves the room. I flex my hands, angry at myself for pushing him away. I can’t decide if I want company or isolation. Someone to listen to my problems, or fix them.

My chest swells when he comes back with a pen and a pad of paper. He scribbles on the paper, the pen moving frantically before pushing it my way. My eyes skip the writing at first. Instead they land on the rough pen sketch of a Raven perched on a fence post.

Sitting in here isn’t going to get rid of your demons.

“Yeah, well it gets rid of one of them—your brother.” I toss the paper back at him, he catches it with ease. His pen scratches at the paper once more. I hate this. Each time I have to wait for a response, my mind has time to bash me for my harsh tone.

He steps closer, turning it so I can read it.

He means well.

“You two just don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life not living. I only had two years of truly living, and even then it was always shadowed with fear. Now, I’m under your lock and key.” My voice isn’t raised anymore, and the fight has left me once more.

You think we want to live under a fucking haunted house? I had dreams, Rayvn.

“Then go live those dreams. The only dream I ever had was to leave that fucking trailer.” That sinks into my skin like some sort of ink. I used to stay up late into the night, dreaming of leaving. Dreaming of going anywhere but there.

I used to dream of running away from my father and going to Disney World. It wasn’t far from us, and when I was in school, all the kids would talk about their trips to the happiest place on earth. I was always so envious, I’m surprised I never turned green.

I want to be a full time tattoo artist. But that’s not exactly something I can do.

“Why not?” I look into his hazel eyes. They’re soft for a man capable of such violence.

I’m a freak, remember?

I huff out a stressed breath. The regret I feel for calling him that is deep. He’s mute, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s a freak. He’s a fucking freak for fucking me in front of a dead body.

“You’re only a freak for fucking me in front of your brother—while he butchered a fucking body.” I voice my internal thoughts.

Just trying to give you as many firsts as I can, little scarecrow.

“What? Being fucked in front of a body? Yeah, definitely a first—though, I wish it never happened.” I manage to laugh at the absurdity of this conversation.

Your first dead body—first dismemberment—first orgasm in front of one.

I roll my eyes, a smile spreading across his face. “Two out of three, not bad, I guess.” He tilts his head, brows pinching together. “What?” He gives me a long look before moving his pen once more.

2/3?

“Oh,” I didn’t realize my error. I swallow thickly as the words get trapped in my throat. “Yeah, I’ve seen a dead body before.” One of his hands reaches out and strokes the skin of my ankle, almost as if touching me will anchor me and make the confession easier.

WHO?

“Yeah, not happening.” I laugh. I’m not one for secrets. I’ve never spilled that one, and I have no intention of ever doing so. He goes back to the paper, hand leaving my skin.