It’s not much to brag about.
Though neither is Daze’s pathetic excuse for a bedroom—a futon crammed into a space no bigger than a closet. The door to it is propped open with a cinderblock, bringing to mind all sorts of paranoid reasons.
One look at him only cements that thought. His shirt is still gone, allowing his tattoos to catch the light. From this angle, the horseman looks alive, riding the waves of Hell across his back. Literally and figuratively—there’s nothing holy about his expression as he faces me directly.
“Last chance to bail,” he warns, though there’s no real punch to the threat. He sounds more amused than anything. Like he’s really issuing a dare. It’s only when he raises his hand that I realize what he’s holding. Something small and squarish that he sets onto a counter cluttered with dirty plates—a fresh condom. “You have five minutes. Though hell, maybe we could actuallyjustchill this time—”
“Or we could stop talking.” My fingers fly to the hem of my sweater and catch the wrinkled fabric, winding it up to my ribcage. As the chilled air kisses my bare torso, I feel a fleeting second of something that could be…excitement?
“Come here.” He stands like a wall, barricading me from the doorway. With one hand braced against the counter behind him, he leans back and crooks a finger.
My heart stutters at the summons, pulsing like crazy. Odd. I haven’t felt this way in forever—something other than...numb. It’s like the shock that comes from stepping on a nail. Sharp and unexpected.
“Earth to Frey.” I’ve annoyed him again, letting my attention stray. He makes sure to reclaim it by lunging toward me, jarring me back a step until we’re toe to toe, and I’m forced to crane my neck just to meet his gaze directly. Sharp. Honed. Gray. He takes me in with a single, searching flick and then frowns at what he sees.
Like any gatekeeper to desperation, he cashes the check without hesitation—I feel his hand on my thigh now, steadily drifting higher. He unfastens the zipper at the side of my skirt, before dropping to his knees. Working it down my hips, as slow and torturous as ever, he stares up at me with undeniable hunger. Like magic, my thoughts start to scatter like I want them to.
But oblivion comes with a price.
My heart is racing, palms sweating. My skirt now pools at my feet, leaving me in just my panties and a thin, practically see-through undershirt. Daze leans down, pressing his warm lips against my bare thigh as he caresses my legs.
A soft, eager breath escapes me without my permission.
Before long, he stands, and we’re locked in a battle of writhing tongues. Harsh breaths. Touching. Touching...
I don’t hear the door open until it’s too late. When soft footsteps have already crept inside, and a tiny voice utters the words that make us fly apart.
Heart pounding, I spin around, clutching my hands to my chest, but it’s a few seconds before I process what I’m seeing. Someone small, ridiculously so, standing in the doorway. A boy? No, a kid. He’s barely waist-height, dressed in bright red rain boots and a matching jacket. A mop of blond hair falls messily into his eyes. Eyes so piercing it’s like déjà vu staring into them when a twin set belongs to the man behind me.
“Hi, Daddy,” the boy says in a deadpan tone as he cuts his gaze to the ceiling. It’s almost like he’s reading a script, completely unfazed by what he’s seeing. “Auntie Lyra says I have to stay with you now,” he recites, wringing his pale hands. “Since I’m yourresponsibility.” The way he mangles the word proves that he was told to say it, coached by an adult.
Daddy.
Lyra.
All of those pieces click like a slow-moving jigsaw puzzle.
Then I feel it‚ that powerful gut punch I’ve avoided for months since Hale’s death. Not even the events of his funeral could make me experience it like this—guilt. Regret. Unbearable self-loathing.
It all descends like a wave, building behind my burning eyes as one question echoes off the inside of my skull—What have I done?
EIGHT
“Oh shit.”
The painful reality takes its sweet time setting in, one second after the other. Shame bites into me first. Then guilt. Finally hate. It’s the typical symphony of self-loathing I’m more than used to enduring.
As my cheeks heat up to the reddest color possible, I hear something rustling behind me. I turn and barely catch a wad of fabric thrown in my direction—a dish towel, which I assume I’m supposed to use to cover...something. Before I can decide what, I’m shoved aside and backed into a corner by bulldozer strength. Daze.
“Mutt,” he stammers, his voice strained. “Hey... What are you doing here, buddy?”
“Auntie Lyra,” the little boy repeats on cue. I can’t see his face, but I imagine him still staring up at the ceiling, wringing his tiny hands. “She told me that I have to stay here tonight so....so you can learn yourresponsibility—”
“Sammy?” a woman’s voice rings out, tense and worried. “Sammy, where are you?”
Footsteps race down the hall seconds after, and another figure enters the apartment. She’s tall, with a strawberry-blond head glimpsed beyond Daze’s shoulder. My nostrils flare, catching a whiff of crisp, feminine perfume like my mother used to wear. Expensive but simple.
“Oh, Sammy,” the woman says sternly. “What did I tell you about holding hands when we—” Her exasperated groan conveys she finally notices the scene taking place in my corner as I scramble to compose myself. “Damn it, Daze! What the hell?”