Page 35 of Soul of a Psycho

Jesus Christ.

I brace my elbows over my knees and spit the taste of dirty water from my mouth. I deserve to sit here all night for being a fool. Maybe it will knock some sense into me. I need to stop watching her. It’s driving me crazy. Now, I’m dreaming she’s screaming? I don’t want to know what that means.

I clench my jaw, letting the sounds of the stream calm me. It was just a dream. A fucked up dream from the pills. I’ve had them before, coupled with sleep paralysis, and I should know better. But jesus, if even the chance that Sky might be in danger didn’t rip me from my bed. I don’t even remember putting on myshoes, the echo of her terror the only thing I could feel. I scrub at my face again, trying to rid it from my memory.

A whimpering breaks the soothing current, and I whip my vision to the right. What the fuck was that? I wipe the last remnants of water from my lashes and blink into the woods. Am I still dreaming? I carefully push myself up, watching the darkness for movement. I stand still, annoyed at the sound of my dripping clothes, and listen.

The familiar acoustics of night and wilderness are present, a serene rustling of leaves, wind over mountain tops, butthere,there it is again. A tiny whimper that isn’t part of the song.

I wonder if I’m really losing it as I pick myself out of the water, slowly making my way closer to the sound. I flinch with every snapped twig under my boots. I’m no longer hunting, but stalking, and I don’t fling the foliage out of my way, instead gently sifting through as if I’m one with it. The closer I get, the more a pit forms in my stomach, because I don’t think the screams were the product of a nightmare. Soft and desperate sobs are right before me, just out of sight, and I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to come up on, steeling myself for anything.

But when I push the bushel of spanish moss away, my chest excavates itself.

“Sky!” her name rips from the throat.

I knew I heard her, her call the only thing that could pull me out of a drug induced coma. Her hair is drenched, filled with leaves and twigs, but I would know that bronze shade anywhere. She’s shivering, her lips practically blue as she whips her head up. Her red rimmed eyes are filled with fear before they go wide.

“Cade?” Her voice is hoarse, and it breaks as she sucks in a breath.

“What the fuck?” I fall to my knees beside her. “What happened?”

I look for wounds, anything major that could kill her, but all I find are thousands of tiny cuts and scrapes. Somehow it feels worse, knowing there’s no one spot I can tend to. Despair curdles my muscles.

“He… I was… There was…” She starts to hyperventilate.

He?Red leaks into my vision.

Sky gasps and chokes, her body trembling, and I try to focus. I grab her face, pushing the wet hair away and thumbing the tears that cascade down her cheeks. Her skin is ice cold, and I pull her into me, even though I know I’m not much warmer.

“You’re okay. I got you,” I say, crushing her against me as if I can absorb her fright. “I got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

The words out of my mouth feel foreign, like the words of someone with a soul, but I mean them. I mean them with every hollowed out piece of me I have. I got her, and I’m not letting go.

“He’s still out here,” she whispers into my ear, and the red prickles back into my vision.

“Who? What did he look like?” I demand, holding her head against my shoulder as I scan the night. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him and ruin my plans. I don’t care. “Tell me what he looked like,” I repeat.

“He… He was just a skull.”

* * *

I carry Sky back to my shack, anger kicking up a notch with every shiver that wracks her body against mine. The walk only takes a few minutes, and I grit my teeth with the audacity this fuck has. Hunt my girl? In my woods? The urge to lock Sky into the shed and go looking for him is barely contained. No one will ruin Sky’s last year alive and get away with it.

I kick the door open with my boot and quickly one-hand a tarp over my desk. The crate is safely tucked away, but if Skyis smart, she’ll know exactly what the stuff on my workbench is for. Luckily, that’s all I have to hide right now. I just burned the packaging from my recent shipment, and as long as Sky keeps her hands to herself, this should be okay.

At least, that’s what I convince myself, because I’m not leaving her in the woods, and the idea of letting her out of my sight queues a rush of anxiety that threatens to unravel me.

I set her down on my mattress and wrap the blanket around her shoulders. As I kneel at her feet, I realize she’s a fucking mess—still gorgeous—but a mess. She’s covered in dirt, clear streaks going down her face where the tears ran, and her hair, jesus, it looks like a bird made a nest of it. I must be eyeing it oddly because she sniffles and pats at it.

I growl and push her hand away. I don’t want her to feel self conscious. She was just attacked, for fuck’s sake.

“Whe-re ar-e weee?” she chatters.

“Nowhere,” I deflect and push the blanket off her shoulders.

I’m an idiot. I should have taken off her wet jacket first. I fumble with the zipper, but then remember how to jimmy it. It ismyjacket, after all. I’ve been watching her for weeks, and I never see her in anything but it. It makes my dick throb whenever she pulls the hood over her little head, and I have to resist dumping the rest of my collection at her door. But why she keeps wearing it, I haven’t a fucking clue.

When I slip her arms from the damp weight, my mouth goes dry. She’s wearing the tiniest scrap of a sports bra, and it’s barely holding her in. Her nipples are hard peaks through the flimsy fabric, and I quickly put the blanket back over her shoulders. I don’t need my dick popping up right now.

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