Page 90 of Bake the Town Red

I let go of the fact that we let Ian go in his fragile state and haven’t searched for him.

We aren’t Dahlia and Tyler in my head anymore. She’s my unhinged Juliet. I’m her fucked-up Romeo.

Our love story is an impossible one. One riddled with tragedy. Loss. Pain.

So. Much. Gore.

The rail’s steps creak beneath me. I shed the pain from my heart. Convince myself we’ll have our happy ending. I’m going to cling to that. I’m going to keep clinging to that while being Dahlia’s savior and protector for the rest of my goddamn life.

Inside the apartment, her scent hits me like a freight train. A blend of sugar and blood carries to me. Leads me into the sad excuse of a bedroom.

She deserves better. She’ll have better. I’ll make sure of that.

Hovering at the foot of her bed, I watch Dahlia. She’s on her side, wearing the oversizedThe Nightmare Before ChristmasT-shirt I gave her on the last Christmas we spent together. Hugging a pillow to her chest.

A pillow instead of me.

Jealousy swipes over me. Shoots up my spine. Burns my chest.

It’s frying my brain cells, this illogical hatred for a pillow. Eating at my sanity.

There’s no helping or controlling this, though.

That’s how it usually goes. The moment my connection with the world begins to tether, it’s impossible to stop it.

The snowball from hell.

Anger, resentment, and self-loathing join it. For the things I’ve done. For things I’ve allowed to happen.

Dahlia was there for my grandma when it should’ve been me. Ian was there for Dahlia even as he left burn marks on her neck, and I wasn’t. My fear controlled my actions, and I left Dahlia for four years. I hurt her for four years.

Me.

My brow furrows. Fists clenched.

More than anything, I’m jealous. What the actual fuck.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Focus.

The right thing to do would be to take a few cleansing breaths. Talk myself down from this crazy ledge.

Fuck that.

Fuck that fucking pillow. Fuck being gentle.

Within seconds, I drop my shoulder bag and throw my clothes into a pile.

A strong, furious sense of possessiveness pounds inside my head. Bangs against my skull. The blood in my veins is hot and demanding.

The relentless, feral craving inside me has come alive.

My cock has never been harder. I stroke myself, roll my hips into my hand.

I need to fuck her. Be inside her. Watch her face contort with horror when she wakes up with my cock buried in her cunt. Or delight. Either will do.

I’ll go slow at first. Try, at least. Fuck her with her eyes closed. Until she wakes up to the same pain that makes my bones ache. The pain that comes with loving her. With the constant worry of losing her.

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