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“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Luca.” She pulls a puppy-eyed expression, pink mouth blossoming into a pout. “I’m just a sad little poor girl.”
A wave of sensation crawls through me, as physical as a cold wind gliding across my skin. I can’t quite tell what it is—excitement or revulsion. A heady, disorienting mix of both, like wanting to stick your thumb into an open cut. I push away from her.
“Make yourself comfortable. This is where you’ll be living from now on.”
“You said I could come and go as I please,” she says, looking around quickly. “I want to go grab some stuff from my flat.”
“You’re staying here until I get the contract notarized. After that, you can do whatever you want.” I gesture at the room. “You’ll find everything you need for tonight in here, don’t worry.”
“Fine, alright.” She stretches her hand out to me, palm up. “My notebook.”
Does she suspect that I’ve already had a look at it? Maybe she doesn’t care. I hand her the notebook and she tosses it on the bed without looking at it.
“Right,” she says, turning away and limping towards the bed, “fuck off, then. I’m exhausted and my leg is killing me. And if I wake up to catch you watching me while I’m asleep or something creepy like that, I’ll break your nose.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Lynch, you look like shit.” I pull the box of painkillers out of my pocket. “If the pain gets too much and you need some relief, all you need to do is come crawling to me on all fours and beg.”
“In your dreams, sicko,” she says immediately, but her eyes linger on the box in my hand.
I shrug and put the painkillers back in my pocket. “Have it your way. Good luck sleeping tonight, Lynch.”
14
Lame Beast
Luca
That night I havemy first sex dream since I was a teenager.
It takes me by surprise, though perhaps it shouldn’t. Catching Willow was the closest I’ve felt to true pleasure in a long time, a feat more enjoyable than any sexual encounter or drink or drugs could ever feel.
In the dream, a girl lies naked in the centre of my bed, her face concealed by the darkness of a black hood. Her breasts are small, her body is slim; there’s a triangle of dark hair between her legs. Nothing about her body is remarkable aside from the bruise blooming like an exotic flower across her ribcage, the rich purple of nightshade petals.
But it’s the bruise which, in the dream, arouses my excitement. My hand, in the white glove of my fencing uniform, fans over the bruise, and I press down hard, fingers curling into warm skin.The girl on the bed, who could have been anyone but for the telltale bruise, lets out a low whimper of pain.
In the dream, her skin yields like melting butter, my gloved hand sinks into her, and I feel wet warmth seeping through the glove. I pull my hand out, and it’s soaked crimson with fresh, fragrant blood.
I wake up in a start, breathless and disoriented.
It’s still dark outside. An angry wind growls low as it passes through the woodlands and past the sliver of space left by my open window. I check the time; I overslept by fifteen minutes.
When I make my way downstairs, I stop in my tracks outside the kitchen. Willow Lynch is perched on a counter, one leg dangling down, one folded against her body. The sight of her bare foot on my kitchen counter makes me want to have every surface in the kitchen bleached, but I say nothing.
She’s got a book in one hand, and she’s chewing on the plump pink flesh of an apple like a witch gorging on the meat of a child.
“What are you doing here?”
She looks up from the book. Her mascara is a black smear around her eyes, her expression is wan. “I couldn’t sleep.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So you broke out of your room?”
“The lock was easy to pick. I don’t see why I should be locked in anyway.” She glances up at me with a scornful curl of her lips. “It’s not stipulated in the contract, is it?”
“Neither is damaging my books and eating my food.”
She frowns at the book in her hand, which she’s holding folded in half like the godless heathen she is. “How am I damaging it?”
“That spine is cracked beyond hope.”
