Time slowed when I returned to the house. In the dark, the one thing that should have made me strong had betrayed me, because when I first heard that sound, it was difficult to understand what it was. Keeping up this shit around Omar, pretending that my bones weren’t rotting in this disgusting carcass, was second nature. To come home to that noise, the gentle trill of a running shower, I was reminded of the real challenge. This control I’d worked so hard to maintain was impossible around Birdie. This thing wanted blood, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to withstand a willing sacrifice.
It’d been nearly 12 hours since I’d last been in the house. Fifteen minutes spent arguing with the cop, but it was the other hours that had stolen my last bits of clarity, of sanity. As cops walked in and out of her home, my nails dug painfully into my leg. The opportunity to sneak in, to climb through her bathroom window, wouldn’t come until dark had already settled. The scent I loved,herscent, was gone by the time I arrived. The sick fucks had touched everything that belonged to her, had taken everything I used to call home. The anger ate up another two hours. It was only after I’d dug through her photo boxes that I finally found the name I’d been so desperate to pull up.
Tristan McClain.
I’d left Bridget’s house with a bag full of her old clothes, some panties that didn’t smell like her anymore, and the only lead I had left. I was supposed to wait for Omar to dig up whatever he could, but when that awful sound filled my ears, waiting seemed like the one thing I’d never be able to do. There was no peace to be found in hanging my jacket, in sorting away groceries. There was no hiding in a book or drowning in a bottle— not when that sound was still present. My cock started to ache the moment I thought about her in there, about the water cascading down her back. The sound of her mewls would forever be tattooed in my brain, but the sound of the shower brought a new meaning.
Make her beg.
Make her need you.
Make her never leave you.
“Fuck.” A sharp breath was the best I could do to strangle her infectious hope. The voice in my head had no problem reminding me of the truth. The moment I remembered her eyes, my grip on reality loosened. The woman who I spent my nights imagining, the one who begged for a love I couldn’t give, wasn’t the same one who waited in the shower. She was scared of me now, terrified of the things I could do.
The beast wanted to scare her.
The man just wanted her touch.
“Fuck me.”
Another sharp breath, another painful grind of my teeth, and the ache lessened. All I needed to do was be able to get through tonight. Adjusting my stiff cock through my jeans, I reminded myself that I’d have time to take care of it all tonight. I needed to change her bloodied sheets, needed to drop off her meds and her food, and then I’d be alone again. I could deal with those sick fantasies in the dark. I could pretend the woman I needed the most still existed once the rest of the world quieted.
Because that’s what pathetic boys do.
That’s what I always did.
It only took a few minutes to throw together some food— but maybe I couldn’t trust the haze. For all I really knew, it had been a few hours. I rationed out another day’s worth of medicine on her plate, dragged my corpse down the hall to get another sheet for my single bed, and then made my way to the room I hadn’t dared to glance at. The fog clouded everything as I unlocked the door and pushed forward. Part of me wanted to believe that so long as the running water still filled the house, I was safe to let go. It wasn’t until I noticed those golden eyes that I knew I’d never be so lucky.
My first thought was this monster had created her, that hallucinations offered a new kind of torture. Lack of sleep was blurring everything together, made me doubt the things I had seen, made me put weight in a fat desk-jockey’s opinion. A single look into her eyes held the truth.
The broken bird in front of me was real.
You should know. You created her.
Birdie watched me from across the room, refusing to straighten until I turned to face her. Nimble fingers tucked her auburn hair behind her ear, and slender arms folded over her chest. Her attention turned once more to the shower, and my chest hollowed. I wouldn’t question the sickness that pulled me forward, that demanded her eyes rest on me again. By the time I entered the bathroom, Birdie had already shut off the water from the tap. She rested back against the sink, but nothing would pull her eyes from the floor.
“Why aren’t you in the shower?”
When her shoulders shrugged, my stomach tightened. “Did you hear anything about Josh?”
“No.” The lie came out easier than the truth ever had, and when her golden eyes traced over me, they came again. My snort filled the room, and her cheeks darkened. “It’s pathetic to still be worried about those fucking scars, Bridget.”
It was the shiver that reminded me of how much we had changed, of how far apart we’d grown. Six years ago, a snarl like that would have pulled her closer. Pain was the siren’s call to a woman like Birdie, but things were different now. Her arms tightened around herself, and she shifted into a new routine. Her head bowed, stealing her eyes away from me all together, and she swallowed a hurt I hadn’t seen before— one I never wanted to see again.
I’d taken things too far. Again.
“It’s not about the scars.” The admission came with another burn of her cheeks, and Birdie’s head jerked up. “I can’t get—” Her throat closed, and Birdie’s tongue darted out to lick her lips. She wouldn’t look at me, but she didn’t have to. “I can’t lift my arm high enough to get this sweater off.”
I knew it was a death sentence. I knew that the heat in her voice was only brought on by the lack of sleep, by the need that lurked inside me. I wouldn’t believe any of it, but maybe I’d just been gone too long. Maybe I’d been alone, hurt, living in a world without her warmth for too long. My body didn’t hesitant when the admission came from her lips, and hers didn’t hesitate when she felt my fingers dance along her skin. As our eyes locked, everything blurred.
The fear in her eye and the guilt in my stomach was a lethal combination.
“Michael, I can do it—”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” The hiss straightened her, but I wouldn’t look away. “I’ve already seen everything anyway.”
When the insomnia took hold, it was impossible to know if anything was real. I’d never know whether she was actually breathing a little harder or whether that was another fucked up part of my brain. I couldn’t tell if the room heated or if that was just the prickle of my skin. Her fight died with the lowering of her arm. It was then that she surrendered to this awful thing, and everything clouded a little further. The slow movements didn’t feel real. Lack of control shook my hand as my fingers looped under her sweater, and a careful hand lifted the material over her stomach, over her breasts. Whatever breath I had left was gone. I couldn’t look at her without seeing her the way she was, the way she should have been: