Page 17 of Burn for Her

Dorian managed to drive himself home and not run off the road as he checked the vanity mirror a thousand times. He showered and cleaned up, but still nothing except his angry gaze stared back at him in the new mirrors he installed in the house. They were everywhere now.

Dressed and waiting for Lucian to return to him, Dorian paced in his tiny living room.

“Damnit.” He hooked his fingers into the collar of his shirt and yanked his tie loose. He still couldn’t breathe right, so he popped the first three buttons of his shirt.

Still not better.

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, Dorian pulled the tie off his neck and ignored the tremble in his deft fingers as he unbuttoned his dress shirt and shrugged it off. It was - Dorian glanced at his watch - three o’clock in the afternoon. Pacing made him feel like a caged animal, but it was safer to stay in than be set loose again today. He was no longer in his right mind. Too aggressive. Too dangerous.

He might not care for humans, but he didn’t want to hurt them either. The aggression riding his ass right now brought him to nuclear levels of violence. He wanted to shred things. Tear, rip, crush things.

Holy fuck, he couldn’t stand this!

Dorian stormed into the bathroom for the tenth time that day and splashed cold water on his face. Droplets hit the floor, wall, and new mirror he installed over his sink. Dorian snagged a hand towel and gently wiped the mirror clean.

Funny, he lived his whole life avoiding mirrors. Didn’t have a single possession with a reflection in his house. All windows were blacked out. All surfaces sanded down. Anything he couldn’t alter to save his soul, he ignored with fervor. Now, he craved reflections more than he craved blood.

“One glimpse,” he whispered darkly. “Show yourself one more time so I have some hope of finding you.”

All that stared back was his green eyes with dark circles under them. He looked worn down and filthy. Christ, just look at the scruff on his face.

That was another no-no for him. Dorian had lived in poverty growing up, with a monster he was convinced the devil himself had spat out of Hell because he was too vile for even demons to harbor. When Dorian finally freed himself of that beast, he’d vowed to never be so dirty or live so wretchedly ever again. He kept his clothes clean and blades sharp. Hair washed, face shaved, nails trimmed, and suits pressed.

Staring at his reflection, he forgot how much he looked like his father until now. Maybe that was one more reason why he always kept away from mirrors—so he didn’t have to see a killer’s predatory gaze looking at him all the time. At least he inherited his mother’s toffee-colored curls instead of his father’s jet black, stick straight hair. Dorian kept his at chin’s length and made sure it stayed clean and finger combed.

His father would have hated this hair style and hacked it off with a blunt blade or likely ripped it out by the roots until Dorian’s scalp bled and he begged for the monster to stop.

Wait, why was he thinking about any of this right now?

“Snap out of it,” Dorian growled at himself. Turning away from the mirror was harder than he ever expected. But he managed to make his way over to the shower and start the hot water. Again. He needed to wash this misery off so he could begin with a clear mind.

Again.

Jesus, he was a wreck. A stir-crazy, overthinking, ball of chaos.

Stepping under the spray, he braced his hands on the tiled wall and groaned with the heat steaming around him as scorching hot water cascaded down his back. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth as a memory assaulted him…

“Get over here, son.”

Dorian’s heart clogged his throat, making it impossible to swallow the saliva building in his mouth. “Yes, father?”

“Did you cover the wood to keep it dry?”

“Yes, father.”

“Good. Bring me the water bucket.”

Dorian ran outside in the pouring rain and retrieved the bucket they used to collect river water. Looking back at the light flickering in the window of their one-room shack, his feet seemed bolted to the ground.

“Now, Dorian!”

His father’s booming voice snapped him back into action. Head down, he focused on the pricks of evergreen needles piercing the bottoms of his bare feet instead of the sounds coming from father’s newest victim. He ran back into their shack as fast as he could. The water sloshed out of the bucket, splashing his legs. “Here!”

Dorian was cracked across his face so fast and so hard he saw stars. The shock of the attack caused him to drop the bucket.

“That’s for making me wait.” His father snagged the bucket from the ground. “I swear the best part of you slipped between your mother’s legs the day you were conceived. Waste of spunk, you are.”

Dorian kept his mouth shut and gaze fixed on the ground. Gritting his teeth, he fought the instinct to act out and retaliate. He knew better than to run. He knew better than to help.

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