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I shake my head. “I need it to stay sane.” When I look at him, he doesn’t seem the least bit afraid. “I’m sorry. I almost killed you there. I wasn’t trying to.”
“I’m fine,” he says, touching his neck to make sure there’s no blood, then he shows me his hand. “See?”
I smile. “Good.”
“Good?” His brow rises. “Lana fucking Rivera not trying to kill me? That’s a first.”
I snort and bump into him. “Stop, you know why I am the way I am.” I think about my nightmare, trying to decipher what I saw. Something just doesn’t sit right with me. The memories I have of that time are so blurry that I don’t know what part is real and what part isn’t. My brain prevents me from accessing them and has stored them away for my own safety, but they still creep out in my sleep.
When I shiver again, he places a hand on my back. “What do you usually do when you have those dreams?”
I gulp and tuck my hair behind my ear. “The thing you guys have been holding over my head…”
“Murder,” he fills in.
I nod. “It’s an outlet. The killing keeps me sane.”
“And since your victims deserve their fate, you don’t feel guilty,” he says.
I sigh out loud. “I wonder if it’ll ever be enough.” My fist balls. “But killing is the only thing that douses the fire burning in my heart.”
“Be right back.” He hops off the bed and exits the room, leaving me confused.
What is he planning?
I wait until he eventually returns with something that looks like leather.
“What is that?” I ask.
“An outfit. Stole it from Nathan’s room.”
I narrow my eyes as he approaches and tosses it my way. “Put it on.”
“You think I’ll fit into this?”
“It fits Milo snugly, so I’m confident,” he says.
Suddenly, he grabs my hand, and he pulls me out of the bed. “C’mon.”
“What are we doing?” I ask as I put on the outfit, which fits surprisingly well.
But he doesn’t answer as he continues rummaging in his closet.
So I go and check myself out in the mirror. It’s like a wetsuit with pants, but much softer and more flexible, with a zipper that goes to the top. Slick.
“What’s this been used for?” I ask. “I hope it isn’t what I think it is.”
“It is,” he replies.
“Ew.”
He snorts. “It’s been washed.” He’s still going through his closet until he finally finds what he’s looking for. “Perfect.”
He comes up behind me. “Close your eyes.” When he gets too close to my neck with whatever he has in his hands, I grip his wrist. He leans in to whisper, “Trust me.”
I throw him another glare through the mirror, but I still do what he says, and I release his wrist.
Something brushes past my cheeks, pressing against my forehead, as two ribbons are tied behind my head. And I can feel his breath near my ear, drawing me closer to him as he whispers, “Open your eyes.”
