The cut on my palm screams in protest, but I don’t stop. I scrub the scorched skin as it blooms bright red, scouring every inch until my hands begin to crack, peeling and splitting like rotting fruit, and pain courses through every fiber of my being. Blinding, excruciating agony that has less to do with the physical hurt I’ve wrought on myself than the torture my mind keeps up.
Less to do with my bleeding hands and more to do with my bleeding heart.
A creak somewhere in the back of the cottage catches my attention, pulling me from my hand washing; I freeze, flicking the water off, and hold my hands out of the sink. They air-dry while I listen for more, suspicion worming its way down to my core, drawing the muscles in my stomach taut with vexation.
Drying my hands off the rest of the way on my pants, I dig into a drawer and fish out a syringe and insulin bottle, though that’s not what’s inside. I fit the tip of the needle into the soft top, turning it over and withdrawing the drug, then toss the bottle into the sink and position the needle in my fist. My thumb sweeps over the plunger as I move toward my bedroom in the back, my jaw clenched tight.
All of the white doors are shut, and I know there isn’t enough hallway closet space for someone to hide in. Kicking open the bathroom door as I pass it, I stick my head in, scanning the room, and find it empty.
My eyes lock on the bedroom, the last door at the end of the hall, and a sinking feeling settles in my gut, constricting my throat and making it hard to breathe. My nostrils flare, and I shove the door open with my boot, coming face-to-face with the last person I ever expected to be in here.
Chapter 9
Juliet
My palms feel slick against my bare thighs as I press them in deeper, trying to make myself as invisible as I normally feel. I focus on regulating my breathing to a slow, long inhale and exhale, timing it in an attempt to calm my racing heart and push out the tremor in my arms.
Moving my head down a fraction, I peer out through the slat in the closet door at the petite redhead seated on Kieran’s bed. Her long, pale legs are crossed, her hands clasped over her knees, and she sits there, unmoving, staring at the door as someone moves around in another part of the cottage.
This was a bad idea.
I hadn’t been expecting anyone to be home when I finally broke into this house, thinking the security here is probably less intensive than what they must have at their mansion. My plan was to get in, see if he’d discarded my locket, and get out without having to interact with Kieran ever again.
Partway through my search through his ancient chest of drawers, though, Fiona Ivers had come in and situated herself in the room, forcing me to take cover in the first available hiding spot; the closet.
It smells like mothballs, a hint of masculine cologne, and death, and I’ve been trying to keep myself from dry-heaving for over an hour.
If he hadn’t taken his sweet time contacting me again after forcing me into a date, I probably would’ve already fucked him and been on my way by now, but with every day that passes with no word from him, unease bears down on my chest like an unstoppable avalanche, threatening to pull me under if I don’t get the necklace back.
Caroline still hasn’t even noticed that it’s missing, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve put more meaning into the gift than was ever necessary. But I’m too far in this now to lose face and give up; if nothing else, I want Kieran to lose this game we’re caught in, for him to be the one that relinquishes his power.
For once in my life, I want towin.
Being trapped in his closet is not the easiest path to victory, but if I’m quiet enough, I’m hoping I can at least sneak back out unscathed. I don’t want to imagine what he might do to me if he sees me here.
The bedroom door flies open, slamming into the wall to the left of my head, the force of it making my teeth rattle. My lungs seize up, stalling my breaths, a reflex I learned as a kid when my father got drunk and went looking for Caroline.
A scratchy knot lodges in my throat as I think about the nights I spent listening to her sob herself to sleep in her room across from mine, and how many times I’d wake up in the mornings and let my father convince me she was just being dramatic. My stomach churns, bile burning the base of my esophagus, as I think about what he was actually doing to her.
Pressing the back of my hand to my mouth as Kieran’s body comes into view, I will the vomit away, shoving my secret guilt to the recesses of my brain where only my demons can access it.
I step back into the coats hanging around me, trying to immerse myself in the laundry as Kieran regards his sister with an expression of pure rage. The hollowness in his cheeks is highlighted by the heat staining them, his dark hair slick with sweat, eyes red-rimmed and crazed, as if he’s recovering from a month of no sleep and starting to hallucinate.
“What the fuck, Fi? How—what are youdoinghere?” There’s an instrument wrapped in his palm, but I can’t quite make out what it is before he shoves it into his hoodie pocket, carding a large hand through his hair.
“I think the better question is, what areyoudoing here, Kieran? Spending half your time in this… mausoleum.” His sister’s voice is calm, collected, and slightly terrifying.Is that a family trait?
“Actually, no.” He flops on the bed beside her, dropping his back to the mattress and pulling his arms up above his head.Christ. His hoodie rides up with the movement, revealing rippling stomach muscles just above the waistband of his jeans, and my mouth practically salivates at the sight. “In the history of every question that’s ever been asked,that particular onehas never been the better question. Try again.”
“Well, brother, you’re not an easy guy to get a hold of. You haven’t been home much lately, so I figured I’d ambush you in your house of horrors. I’ve still got my old key from Murphy.” She folds her arms across her chest and moves to look down at him. “What the hell is this place? Some kind of shrine?”
“It’s my house.”
“It looksexactlythe way it did when Murphy lived in it.”
“Him dying didn’t suddenly make everything unusable. Besides, aren’t you and Mom really into recycling and shit? You should be praising me for my conservation efforts.” There’s a twinge of something that flashes across my vision, some kind of sick excitement at the notion of Kieran Ivers caring about the planet.
Of a monster caring about something other than himself.