Page 103 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

The house that haunts Pierson Point is immaculate. Staring from the outside could never do the inside justice. It’s still hard to believe that this place is my home now. That all the tall ceilings, fancy marble, and over-the-top extravagance is where I spend my days.

We’re remodeling most of it, trying to find a balance between an obsessively clean and eclectic mess. The only thing we’d been able to agree on so far was that we would make the sunroom my workspace. That’s currently where all my specimen jars and equipment are, along with Alvi, who is quite content with his new living quarters.

But honestly, I’d be okay living in the cabin. Anywhere, really. I just love waking up every morning to Thatch, our bodies a sleepy, tangled mess of limbs. When he’s tired, he forgets all about personal space, and I always wind up plastered to the side of him or lying on his chest.

It feels obnoxious, but I don’t care that there isn’t a moment we aren’t together. I enjoy eating breakfast with him, running in the mornings, and grabbing lunch off campus, then coming home. This has been our new routine since he’d come back to school.

The only thing I’m not a fan of is losing shit. There is so much space, so many rooms on the estate, I can never keep track of anything for longer than three seconds. Including Thatcher.

“Where is it? Where is it, where…” I mutter. “Found it!”

I raise the shoe into the air triumphantly before slipping my foot into the rogue Doc Marten. Quickly, I exit our bedroom and jog down the steps to the foyer. We are running so late, and I do not have time to play missing person with my boyfriend.

Thatcher is usually in a number of places, depending on the time of day.

In the mornings, he’s in the gym; in the evenings, he’s usually in the kitchen cooking something because Gods knows I will burn the house down. Recently, he’s been hovering in the backyard, micromanaging the construction workers.

We’d decided together to redesign the garden. We wanted to dig up and tear down the old memories and trauma that rotted there so that we could build something new that represented our future.

However, I’m rolling the dice and betting on him being in the basement.

I turn the corner, jogging down the hall until I reach the correct door. I’m hoping he’s ready because I don’t want Rook and Sage to leave without saying goodbye.

It still feels weird thinking about it, knowing everyone is about to embark on their own adventures away from Ponderosa Springs. It’s sad, but in a way, that feels worth it.

We all deserve to chase the things that make us happy, regardless of where it takes us. I never imagined that I would form friendships that would hurt to say goodbye to.

I know we will still be connected, bonded in a way no one can ever take away from us, but it’s going to be hard watching them leave.

My heavy footfalls thud against the steps as I make my way down them, slowing down when I hear the round tone of the piano.

The song is haunting and nostalgic. It almost carries an ethereal beauty, making an otherworldly sense of solitude settle into my bones. The flow of the tune is mellow, tickling my ears with warmth.

Somehow, it makes me feel distant but not alone. Dark, melancholy notes evoke a sense of gloom and death, but not one that sorrowful. It sounds like the joy of rebirth, cresting beneath a wave that has stolen all your air and coming up on the other side for fresh air.

Thatcher’s back is to me as he plays.

I watch him in his softest form bow and break against every single note, fingers caressing the keys with swift kisses, swirling the shades of white and black.

When he plays, I listen.

More often than not, it’s him saying something he doesn’t have the words for. I hear him in these moments so clearly, as if he’s whispering in my ear. There is no question about what emotion he feels or what he is thinking. The piano requires Thatcher to be candid.

It’s more than just his body playing; it’s his soul.

When it tumbles to a graceful end, he takes a minute before speaking to me. I don’t know how we realize the other is in the room, but we do. It’s a little alarm that buzzes when he steps into my space, my body always aware of him.

“What do you think?”

I take the last few steps, walking over and taking a seat on the bench next to him. We’re facing opposite directions but turn our bodies so that we can see one another.

“It’s haunting,” I tell him, admiring the lines and curves of his handsome face as he looks at me.

His thumb reaches up, grazing my bottom lip before moving to my cheek.

“It should.” He nods. “It’s yours.”

My chest expands. I didn’t even know he’d been working on it.

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