Page 52 of Ghosts of Halloween

That would be a shame.

Still, I do nothing. A hot kind of triumph surges in my chest, and Harlow’s pain gives me so much pleasure, my cock twitches eagerly. After all, what Silas said is true. Itisher fault. And I spent two years hating and craving her on top of four pining after her, and I don’t think any man, dead or alive, can handle something like this.

Harlow is why we’re dead. Her promiscuity and need for attention got us killed.

So I don’t rush to her side just yet. I let myself see it, truly see how knowing that makes her suffer. Is it cruel? I don’t know. I know I’ll be on my knees for her soon, doing my best to comfort her, but the dead, cold, bitter part of me, the part that suffered the most while trapped in this house for two years, is glad.

It’s cleansing to see that she cares. Her pain is punishment, and I revel in it. As I listen to Harlow’s animalistic howls, my need for retribution settles, something dark and hollow inside me partly satisfied.

With that, I finally move. I go to her, trying to get her in my lap and comfort her, but Harlow lashes out. She kicks me hard, making my breath rush out of me, and hits me blindly, her eyes unfocused, her mouth open with those desperate wails of pain.

“Fuck,” I mutter, hands clamping down on her wrists, one warm, one cold. I don’t want her to hurt herself, so I hold her hands down, but it’s difficult. Her body is suddenly powerful with everything she feels, and Harlow writhes in my grasp until I pant, the mere effort of holding her almost too much.

Fuck, she’s strong.

Then she lands another kick and I let go with a curse.

“Fucking bitch!” I spit, too angry to hold myself in check. “I’m trying to help you!”

But I don’t think she can hear or understand me. She’s somewhere else, locked in her own head, and nothing reaches her. My words, my touch… They do nothing. I’m helpless.

I consider doing something drastic, like slapping her to get some sense into her, but just then, Harlow grows quiet. Her howls are replaced by ragged breathing, and I keep my distance, watching her warily. She stands up on shaky legs, hunching, and looks at Silas, her face a terrible sight. She lookslike a vengeful demon, something creepy and so at home in this house, I flinch.

Next thing I know, she launches herself at him.

Silas takes a step back, shock on his ashen face, and drops the knife. It lands on the floor with a thud, and Harlow dives for it with a shriek.

And I’m too slow. Too shocked with what she’s doing, so I don’t react at first.

Her bionic fingers clawed around the knife, she slashes it across her wrist, and I watch as a gash opens, showing the red underneath, blood bubbling out. She raises the knife again, and I take a step, reaching out, too slow in my shock…

The knife is wrestled out of her hand and thrown out the door, and Silas holds her in a tight, bruising grip, his body absorbing her mindless rage. Harlow flails against him, but he only presses her closer with a grunt, his face sharp and determined.

They wrestle, and she scratches down his arm and back where she can reach, struggling to get free. When he doesn’t release her, she bites his arm until he winces, but that doesn’t work, either. Silas holds her tight, his body shaking with her rage, until she flags, and her snarls turn into soft, broken whimpers.

And I can’t fucking believe it. After what he just did, after breaking her to pieces so completely that she tried to kill herself, he… holds her?

No. I can’t be seeing what I’m seeing. Except I do, and it makes me want to rip his fucking throat out.

Because the sick, twisted fuck buries his face in her hair, strokes her back, and apologizes.

He fucking apologizes. And this is not what was supposed to happen. That dark part of me wants blood now, and Harlow’s pitiful self-inflicted wound won’t satisfy me.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Silas murmurs, voice unsteady. “I’m so sorry. Please, sweetheart. You’re okay. Everything will be good now. I’m so sorry.”

“You motherfucking…” I begin, voice raised, but as Harlow whimpers and shrinks into Silas, I stop, breathing hard.

I can’t fucking believe it. The cold, cruel fucker has his arms around her, and she fucking lets him touch her. After what he just did.

She’s out of her mind.

But before I decide what to do about it and how to get Harlow away from Silas, Caden lays his hand on my shoulder.

“He’s sorry, Jack,” he says, sounding weary. “It’s done, and he needed that. And I don’t know about you, but I did, too.”

I don’t reply, opening and closing my fists with helpless jealousy and need. Caden doesn’t get it. Now that Silas started this, I need it to go on. I want to hurt her, too. Even though I fucking love her.

I love her, but she killed me. This rampant rage that burned inside me for years won’t disappear so easily. It needs the score to settle. Somehow.

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