Page 136 of The Truths We Burn

I lift both of my fists above my head, then heave them down. My arms begin to ache and spasm. My lungs aren’t able to inhale quick enough, and the blistering pain in my hands thrums through my entire body.But I keep going, slamming my hands over and over again, until it finally shatters.

Water bubbles up, and I immediately reach down into the frigid stream, slashing around to reach for her. I let her know that I’m here and I’m going to save her. That she’s going to be okay.

But I never feel her body.

Not until she shoots from the water, hair matted to her scalp with eyes that don’t look human. They are rotted and black, leaking dark sludge from the sockets, and all I can do is scream as her nails dig into my arms like daggers.

“It should have been you,” she hisses with a mouthful of black soot, oozing like tar.

“Rose!” I gasp, springing from the pillows, my hand clutching my t-shirt just above my heart.

My breathing is erratic, and I can feel sweat trickling down my lower back. I aggressively kick the blanket off my body, pressing my palms into my eyes and rubbing the sleep away. I haven’t had a nightmare since I was in the psych ward.

I glance over at the clock, seeing the green numbers flash, letting me know it’s three in the morning.

I’d thought my subconscious had finally given me a break. That my brain was done with the repetitive nightmares, that no matter how many times I had them, I still wasn’t prepared for.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Throwing my feet over the edge, I wiggle my toes on the chilly hardwood floors. My mouth feels like I’ve been gargling sand, and I’m in desperate need of water. I just hope I hadn’t woken any of the Hawthornes up.

I grab the cardigan I’d worn earlier today just in case anyone else is awake. I’m too exhausted to try and explain the scars on my wrists to Silas’s father if he happens to be up for work.

My door whines as I pull it open, making me cringe. I pad down the hallway, to the stairs, and through the living room until I reach their open-design kitchen. As quietly as I can, I open nearly every single cabinet trying to find a glass, grabbing the door to the very last one before I locate one.

“Of course,” I whisper. Why does everything in my life have to be so fucking hard?I can’t even find drinkware without a challenge.

I turn on the faucet, making sure it’s running cold before filling up the glass to the brim. Bringing the rim to my lips, I stare out the window in front of me as I gulp down half of the water. Rain is making soft pitter-patter noises against the glass, and I hope it continues because I always sleep best when it’s raining.

I refill the cup and spin on the ball of my foot to take a step, but then I see him standing there. Rook is cloaked in darkness as he leans against the refrigerator door, staring at me. My grip on the glass loosens, the cup tumbling to the ground and crashing onto the tiled floor. Large and tiny pieces of glass scatter across the space, and the sound coupled with his presence in the shadows makes me jump.

A needlelike pinch makes me lift my foot from the ground, cursing in discomfort as I do. With what little light is inside the kitchen, I can see a piece of the glittering glass has sliced the bottom of my sole open.

I hear his footsteps approach me, knowing the sound of his walk. I look up to see the moonlight casting a dim glow on his face, and my entire being starts to ache.

His brown hair is tossed from sleep, eyes hooded and hazy, but somehow his gaze remains sharp and keen. The shadows of the night contrast his naked upper torso, highlighting every cut and grove. Those narrow lines of his body look like they’d been etched in stone. Everything from his shoulders to his lower abdomen that flexes every time he inhales is hard and defined.

My core throbs so badly, I could cry.

I run my tongue across my chapped lips as he starts to come closer, my hand reaching out to stop him before he steps on the sharp pieces that lie between us.

“Don’t,” I whisper, but he does what Rook does best.

Ignores me.

He takes another step, unbothered by the glass as he curls an arm around my waist, hauling me up and into his warm frame. My eyes follow the snake tattoo that adorns the side of his neck and disappears down his back.

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, having to physically stop myself from pressing my nose into his skin and inhaling his scent. The leftover cologne from the day and the earthy smell of cannabis stick to him like a glove.

His hoodies used to be my favorite thing to sleep in because of the smell, because of the warmth, the comfort. With surprising gentleness, he places me onto the island, my feet dangling over the edge.

“Stay here,” he orders, his voice gravelly probably from just waking up or because he’d been smoking. Either way, I wanted to hear more of it.

When he turns away from me, the moonlight catches his back, and this time it’s not the toned muscles I’m caught off guard by.

It’s not even the tattoo that spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. The wings of the angel kissing each tip of his shoulder and the body of the tethered man they are attached to are inked down the center of his spine.

No, it’s not the way it fits his body beautifully.

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