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Chicago's night air slapped me awake as we piled into the van. This was it—no turning back now. I was going to whisk Celeste away to safety, consequences be damned.
Because if that son of a bitch thought he could hurt her, he hadn't met the kind of monster I could be.
Chapter 19
Celeste
Ijerked awake. A scratching sound, subtle yet unmistakably real, filtered in from what sounded like the depths of my apartment. Great, just what I needed—a soundtrack to my already screwed-up insomnia.
Must be my overworked brain conjuring up monsters. I tried to laugh it off. But the laughter died in my throat, strangled by the gnawing unease that refused to let me dismiss the noise as a figment of my overactive imagination.
"Probably just the wind," I told myself, my voice sounding too high-pitched, too forced even to my own ears. It was Chicago, after all; the Windy City loved to mess with people's heads, especially at the ungodly hour when most self-respecting citizens were asleep. In bed. Probably getting laid. While I was playing Nancy Drew meets Paranoid Insomniac.
Fuck it. I groaned, pushing off the couch. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor as adrenaline shot through me. If someone was stupid enough to break into the home of a woman who channeled her dark fantasies into art—and an anonymous blog, no less—they were going to get a hell of a surprise.
The frigid air raised goosebumps along my skin as I groped through the darkness. A jagged bolt of lightning briefly illuminated my living room, followed swiftly by an earth-shattering clap of thunder.
The storm must have knocked out the power.
My fingers danced across the screen of my phone, swiping it to life. The flashlight feature cut through the darkness, a lone beacon in the sea of shadows that was my damn apartment. I wasn't a fan of surprises—especially not the kind that went bump in the night.
I tiptoed through the silent hallway like some kind of badass ballerina. Yeah, right. More like a badass with potential bedhead and an oversized t-shirt that read 'Art is pain'. Fitting, considering my art was born from the very depths of my screwed-up heart.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, traitorous bastards, announcing my every move. Stealth was clearly not on my resume.
I reached the threshold of the kitchen, pausing for a moment to scan the familiar terrain turned alien by the dark. I squinted, trying to make out anything beyond the ordinary. Nothing jumped out at me, but that didn't mean shit. It was the things you couldn't see that fucked you up the most.
Come on, Celeste. You've faced worse than your own kitchen. I chided myself as I stepped inside. The cold tile sent shivers up my bare legs—the sensation feeling way too much like fear tap-dancing up my spine.
There, on the counter, lay my salvation—or at least, a good old-fashioned knife that promised a fighting chance. I snatched it up, the weight of it surprisingly comforting in my hand. I gripped it like it was Excalibur, and I was about to go full King Arthur on someone's ass.
"Whoever you are, you're about one stupid decision away from a makeover." My grip on the handle tightened, knuckles whitening. If some psycho was going to try and make me their next victim, they had another thing coming.
Pick a number, take a seat, I'm serving up ass-kickings tonight.
The sharp crack of glass shattering split the air, a sound so violently intrusive it felt like it punctured the night itself. My heart didn't just race; it damn near leapt out of my chest, sprinting faster than a cheetah on steroids. Reflexes kicked in before reason could—backpedaling to the living room.
"Shit," I hissed through clenched teeth, my free hand fumbling along the wall like a blind mole rat as I stumbled. The flashlight's beam jittered across the room, a chaotic dance of light and shadow while I clutched the knife.
Great, Celeste, real smooth. Break your neck before the psycho can get you. That'll show 'em. My inner monologue was about as comforting as a hug from a cactus.
I squinted against the dimness, the adrenaline coursing through me doing absolutely nothing to improve my night vision. And there it was—the source of my near heart attack: the gnarled branch that had been playing peekaboo with my window during every storm for the past year. It had finally crashed through, an uninvited guest at the crappiest party ever.
I poked at the jagged shards of glass with the tip of the knife, the bitter laugh that escaped me sounding more unhinged than I liked. "You've been threatening to do that for months, you leafy bastard."
I exhaled, a shaky breath that did little to steady my nerves. Here I was, ready to go all Kill Bill on an intruder, and what do I get? A goddamn foliage fiasco.
"Guess I owe you a thank you," I muttered to the offending branch, sarcasm dripping thicker than paint on my palette. "Nothing like a good ol' midnight scare to remind me how alone I am. Well, except for you, you wooden prick."
With a wary glance over my shoulder, I set the knife down—still within reach, because tonight had already proved I wasn't winning any awards for normalcy. And as the silence settled back around me, broken only by the sighs of the wounded window, I couldn't help but feel that familiar twinge of disappointment.
The adrenaline that had surged through my veins like wildfire began to ebb away, leaving behind a charred landscape of embarrassment and the all too familiar scent of disappointment. My body, wound tight with anxiety and something darker, something hungrier, thirsted for a release that didn't come in the form of splintered wood and shattered glass.
I was ready to drown the night's stupidity in a bottle of the cheapest wine I owned. The sense of relief that washed over me felt like a betrayal in itself—was I really so desperate for excitement that I'd waltz with the devil himself?
But the devil doesn't knock; he barges in uninvited.
Before the thought fully formed, darkness enveloped me. A coarse sack scraped against my face, stealing my vision, muzzling my scream. My heartbeat rocketed to hellish speeds, blood roaring in my ears louder than the L trains rattling Chicago's bones outside.
