She fucking wants this. This is her way of telling me so.
I’m asking her to give up on the idea of going out and getting herself hurt, and she’s asking the same from me. She’s asking me if I thinkshe’senough.
“Fine.”
Her eyes widen, but then she looks suspicious.
“Really? It’s that easy?”
“That easy.”
“I don’t fucking believe you.”
“Only because you’ve never met anyone you can fully trust until now.”
She watches my face for a long moment before speaking. “I’ll never fully trust you.”
A wide grin spreads across my face. “Smart girl.”
“I’ll end up running,” she confesses. “I won’t be able to help myself.”
I think I can appreciate her honesty, but it won’t change anything.
“I can’t fucking wait. I’ll fuck you right into the dirt where I catch you.”
Chapter 38
Lauren
That itchy feeling I’ve suffered all my life never leaves me, but I’ve gotten used to not scratching at it the last several weeks.
Instead of fighting the lows when they start, I give in to them. It’s been taking less time to get past the darkness. I blame that fucking podcast Angel forced me to listen to for the suggestion.
Angel leaves me alone now. The first time he found me that way, he tried to fuck me through it. As much as I enjoyed the pain he offered, it did nothing to help. I thanked him by nearly clawing his eyes out. I was fucking rabid.
When he comes to find me in the morning now and I’m still in the bed, he walks right back out. He doesn’t say a word or try to urge me to feel better. I don’t know if he suffers from some of the same types of demons as I do, but it’s clear he understands to a certain point.
I’ll never tell him that I’m grateful for it, but I think he knows I need the solitude as much as I need the other elements of whatever it is we have. When I get back to feeling normal, I suck him off harder as a thank you for letting me live in my darkness. I’d never actually use the words because it still feels like handing him too much of me.
I press a finger into one of the bruises on my arm, smiling at the sharp burst of pain. His entire handprint is there, a kaleidoscope of reds, blues, and purples. I sigh with as much contentment as I can manage, but it never lasts long.
I haven’t left since I arrived set on stabbing him in the chest. I literally haven’t stepped off the front porch. I’ve thought about it many times, but that makes my skin crawl more than the darkness that sets in.
Angel runs the errands and grabs food.
I use nearly every second he’s gone, which has only been a handful of times in the last couple of weeks, to search his house high and low for my sister’s things. I’ve tried to convince myself that I’m only here for those two things, that when I find them, I can leave.
The first time I searched, I did it in his office. The man is smart enough to lock his computer system down but leaves the combination to his safe taped to the underside of his desk drawer?
Does he really think I’m that stupid? I know he isn’t, and it didn’t take long before I realized he’s fucking with me. It’s why I go back and search the same spots over and over. I wouldn’t put it past him to keep moving the damn things around. It’s a game I both love and hate.
He doesn’t mention things being out of place despite him being so fucking OCD about where things go. Last time, he locked eyes with me as he put the handful of books he owns back in the correct order on the bookcase.
I’ve already checked the office. The code has changed, and the combination is no longer written down anywhere I can find. Although I’m certain the things are in the safe, I keep searching elsewhere because it could be a week before I get the chance to look again.
The closet is so organized, literally by style and color, it makes me freak out a little. He’s so fucking meticulous it’s annoying. I check every pocket, knowing they aren’t big enough for the diary but that fucking necklace could be hidden anywhere. I kick at the shirt that falls off the hanger, making sure it’s crumpled in the corner just to be annoying.
Next is the dresser. I start at the bottom because I know from digging in them before that they hold summer clothes, not that I can picture Angel in a pair of fucking cargo shorts, but he owns them, nonetheless.