What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.
My life has been torn from me. The stability of it. The solidity of my father’s protection. The routine. It kept me together in a way. Now, all of this, it’s unraveling me.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Long enough.”
I glance away. The room is dark, so maybe he can’t see my face. My eyes.
“What was it?” he asks. He stands, glass in hand, and I’m reminded how tall he is as he crosses the room toward me. How big and powerful. So much stronger than me.
There’s a sickness inside me. A darkness. It’s always been there. Flashes of it return when I least expect them. Like the dream. A thing hidden deep within. And that twisted thing, that sickness, he stirs it up, awakens it, because no matter what I may want or what I may tell myself, I’m attracted to this man. To both of the brothers.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, standing too. I try to slip past him into the bathroom, but he catches my arm to stop me. He sets his drink on the nightstand, takes my other arm as well and studies me. Even in this dim light, I think his steely eyes can see right inside me. Through to all those dark, hidden places.
To the blood staining my hands. The death marking my soul.
I shake my head, unsure where that thought came from.
“Tell me the dream, Dandelion.”
“Why do you care?”
“Tell me.”
I push against him. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
He grins and makes a show of releasing me. It’s too easy, though. I don’t trust him. I study him for a long moment but can read nothing in his eyes, so I walk to the bathroom. He follows, standing in the doorway when I try to close it.
“Go on. Use the bathroom,” he tells me. “Or do you suddenly have your period and need a tampon?”
“What do you want with me?” He gestures into the room, and I set my jaw, narrow my eyes. Fine. “Will you get some sick joy out of watching me pee?”
“Tell me the dream.”
“I don’t remember it. Do you often remember your nightmares?”
“Yes, actually. There’s just the one when your brother and father invade our home, our lives, and destroy what’s left of our family.”
I walked into that one. But he won’t get a response from me. I turn and go to the toilet. Facing him, I sit down, and although it takes all I have to hold his gaze, I do it, feeling my cheeks grow hot as he watches me pee. When I’m finished, I clean myself, flush, then wash my hands and my face. I look drawn and tired, my hair dried into tangles. I swear I still taste soap when I pick up the toothbrush and brush my teeth all while he watches. All while I’m hyper aware of how close he is. How much space he takes up.
Hyper aware of the heat coming off him. That live wire of electricity.
But I remind myself his every move is calculated. He has the upper hand, and he’ll rub it in my face. So I do what I can and stand tall to face him. What does it matter?
I force it all down and walk past him and into my borrowed closet to change into a pair of leggings and a top. Someone unpacked my suitcase. I’m running out of clothes, though.
When I return to the bedroom, he’s reading a text on his phone. He types something out, then tucks the phone into his pocket and turns his full attention to me.
“Hungry?”
My stomach growls in answer before I can, and he smiles. He opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead.
I don’t move.