Page 15 of Monstrous Grave

A deep grumble emanates through his throat as he stands in the doorway, his bare chest showcasing a chiseled, well-sculpted body. He casually props himself against the door, eyes meeting mine from across the room, with a smirk hinting at his lips.

Another roar from outside makes my body flinch as it splits the sky, feeling as if Thor is raging war against the clouds with his hammer. A pathetic squeak escapes me, causing my cheeks to redden, which he notices. The corner of his lips twitches, revealing an even bigger smirk.

With one step over the threshold, he comes closer before settling down beside me in bed. He puts his hand above mine, staring into my eyes with a glance that doesn’t reveal his emotions.

Leaning closer, he whispers into the silence of the night. “Are you scared, little sister?”

“Don’t mock me!” I exclaim, my cheeks flushing at the humiliation.

I don’t want to seem weak or pathetic in front of the only person I look up to, a fifteen-year-old girl terrified of the rumbling sound of thunder. He brings his hand up to ruffle my hair, which only has me scowling at him, knowing how tangled it will be the next morning.

“I’m not.” However, the smirk on his lips tells me otherwise.

Another ominous rumble rolls through the sky, but this time, it’s a sharp, explosive clap that punctuates the atmosphere all around us. The intensity of the sound has my heart nearly breaking out of my ribcage, a faint panic taking on that I cannot get rid of. Without thought, my body moves closer to his. There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he looks at me, shoulders subtly shaking from his chuckle. I hit his arm playfully, yet still rattled by the frightening sound.

“Stop it, Kaiden!”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes.

Despite that, he still laughs at me, before his expression turns into a somber one when a louder, more vibrating and pulsating thunder explodes in the air.

Throughout the night, he holds my body close to his, my frame underneath the covers and his on top. He gently plays with my hair, allowing me to sleep while his husky yet soft voice drowns out the sound of thunder, hushing me into tranquility.

Gritting my teeth, I damn myself for the persistent memories of him that refuse to fade, despite the many years that have passed. It would be so much fucking easier if I could forget him. I’d rather do that, throw him and his haunting presence out of my mind before locking the gate to it, leaving him no possibility of ever entering again. If I could, I would erase his entire existence from my mind and past in the same way he destroyed me after promising to always be by my side.

The thunder roars again, and I decide to go grab a glass of water in the kitchen, knowing something cold will calm me down. Making my way to the kitchen, the quietness inside the apartment appears almost eerie, with the storm violently raging on the outside.

Right as I step foot inside the kitchen, goosebumps ripple across my skin, sending shivers down my spine and transforming the room into an instant ice world. The tension in the air thickens with my inability to breathe, and my eyes widen in response to the sight before me.

There’s something on the window frame, a cryptic message that leaves me damn near gasping for breath.

What the fuck?

Written in what seems to be freshly formed fog is a message, as enigmatic as the one I encountered in the warehouse by the dock with the same handwriting. I swallow harshly, knives slicing through my throat.

“The reaper watches you when you sleep. You’re as exquisite as a blood angel from hell.”

Something is chilling about the words on the windowpane, as if someone has exhaled onto it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the words came from within my kitchen.

That’s impossible.

With deliberate steps, I approach the sink that is the closest to the window, and grab the gun from the kitchen drawer—tucked away in case of emergencies.

I’m not sure what I plan to do with it. It isn’t as if I’ll shoot through the glass if someone is outside, but the heavy weight in my hand is reassuring.

No one seems to be there.

With the gun still in hand, I return to my bedroom, forgetting what I’d intended to do in the kitchen.

As I’m about to lie down in bed, I notice the crimson droplets on top of my sheets, growing larger as I lift the blanket draping across them. Shock renders me motionless as I stare at the smeared blood, a contrast against the pristine fabric.

Frowning, I inspect myself for any signs of injury but find nothing at first, deepening my confusion.

I continue searching my body, standing in front of the full-length mirror on the other side of my room. Turning around, I look at my reflection, only to realize that I am indeed bleeding.

The frown marring my brow etches itself into my features as I discover a deep gash sliding across my shoulder blade to the front of my breast. Dried blood smears across my skin, evidence of the profuse bleeding. Despite the quantity of blood, the wound isn’t deep. The adrenaline surging through me dulls the pain, but a lingering stinging sensation persists.

Suspicion gnaws at me, knowing I couldn’t have inflicted it on myself while asleep, especially considering its clean, precise appearance, looking as if it was made by a sharper knife.

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