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When I reach the cabin’s huge, unruly backyard, I freeze. A large shadow stands in front of a massive oak tree that nearly swallows the house from above. Its roots resemble giant snakes in the darkness.
Only the moon, constantly shadowed by clouds, offers any semblance of light.
It’s a night in which monsters would plan chaos, throw their parties, and harvest some poor lives.
The thumps I heard earlier are in fact thwacks as he punches the tree’s trunk over and over again.
Since I first met Kingsley—officially as himself and not in an Anonymous mask—he’s been the most infuriatingly confident person I’ve ever seen.
He walks, talks, and breathes with purpose. He owns whatever room he enters and it isn’t because he has money.
Kingsley Shaw is the kind of man who not only steals attention but does it so seamlessly that no one notices when they stop to listen to him.
I’ve always envied his type of confidence that seems as if he was born with it.
So to see him unruly, savage, and like a demon finding refuge in the darkness brings about a whole different emotion.
One that’s terrifyingly similar to the past, where the naïve me ruled my life.
“Kingsley.” My voice is low but has the weight of a bomb in the silence—or semi-silence.
He shows no signs of hearing me and continues punching the tree. Something dark streams down the trunk, glistening in the night.
Please don’t tell me that’s blood.
I call him again, and when there’s no response, I slowly approach him. To say I’m not afraid would be a lie. In fact, every self-preserving fiber in my being is telling me to go back to my car and drive the hell away from here.
But I don’t.
I’m doing this because he helped me once—or twice—and I don’t like owing people.
Or that’s what I tell myself as I carefully put a hand on his shoulder.
One moment, I’m standing by his side, the next, I’m flung around and pain explodes in my back when I’m slammed against the tree.
With a steel-like hand around my throat.
Eyes that have no glint in them stare down at me. They’re dim, blank.
Dead.
And even though I can’t see his face in the darkness, I’m almost sure there’s no expression there either.
He squeezes my throat enough to make me lightheaded. The lack of oxygen robs me of breath and any thoughts.
My knee-jerk reaction is to claw, kick, hit.
Survive.
That’s the only drug I’ve been on since I was a toddler.
But I don’t do that.
I reach my hand to his face, feeling the tension in his jaw, in his demeanor, and in his deep, controlled breaths. “It’s…me…”
Though that probably holds the importance of a rock in his shoe to him, I continue stroking his face, desperate to chase away his demons.
I’ve never seen him without them, even when he’s in his element, but I’ve also never seen them take over him either.
