Page 17 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

Space, cruelty, distance. It was the only option he thought he had. Push us away, and we’d stay safe. While it hadn’t been obvious when we were burying Player One’s body, who I’d learned was named Colin, it became clear when we were at Rook’s yesterday.

He wanted me safe, all of us, and for him, that meant pulling away.

“This is my bedroom.” I wave my hand towards the first door across from the balcony that overlooks the living room. “You can have the one next to mine.”

“Why not that one? Or the one downstairs?”

I don’t hold back my eye roll at his attempt to get the furthest away from me as he possibly can.

“The one downstairs is my workspace, unless you’re cool sleeping with my pet snake and all the dead bugs.”

He shakes his head, tightening his jaw. “Aren’t people supposed to have pets that are fluffy and not likely to eat you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I arch an eyebrow, opening the door to the clean spare room. “Plus, Alvi is quiet and minds his business.”

“And what’s in that room?” He motions his hand towards the door at the end of the upstairs hall. “Safe haven for the rest of your slithering pets?”

I chew the inside of my cheek, glancing at the room hidden away in the dim light. Heat blooms on my face, and I clear my throat, looking at him.

“It’s storage and still needs to be remodeled, so it’s locked.” It’s a seamless lie, one I hope he leaves alone. “There’s an en suite bathroom, bed, and dresser. It’s not a lot, but it will do.”

He stares at the door down the hall for a moment longer, making my palms sweat before brushing by me in order to enter the room. I take a breath of his familiar cologne, savoring the closeness for the second he allows it.

Thatcher lays his things on the bed, then slides his hands into his pockets and looks around. I trace the veins in his arms with my eyes, fingers itching to run along the bluish lines. Tailored slacks frame his lean legs, and the simple starched button-down doesn’t hide just how toned his stomach is beneath. Not a hair out of place nor a single imperfection.

The light shines in through the blindless window, casting an evening glow against his skin.

He looks so out of place. A high-priced marble statue that a relative bought for the impressive price tag without actually knowing what I like. Thatcher looks far too clean, too expensive to be staying on my spare bed that I bought on sale in a department store.

His footsteps echo across the hardwood floor as he walks to the nightstand next to the bed. I watch as he scoops up the black leather-bound book, one I’d forgotten in here a while ago, his hand running down the spine before pulling it open.

A piece of fabric rests as a page marker. It’s almost intimate the way his fingers run along the edges of the pages, reading the words along the page with innate curiosity.

“Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony wood,” he reads aloud, lifting his gaze to mine with a knowing smirk. “Is this page marked ’cause it’s where you stopped or because it’s your favorite Grimms’ fairy tale?”

“It was my mother’s favorite,” I answer softly, pinpricks running along my spine. “She used to read those to me as a kid.”

“Smart woman to raise her daughter not to believe in happy ever afters.”

I furrow my brow, walking further into the room, plucking the book from his hands and tucking it against my chest as if I could protect the memories inside.

“Wicked people dancing on hot coals and kings dying from their greed is happy. Not for those who watched Disney classics, but for people like me.”

“People like you?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Those who know happily ever afters don’t always come with the promise of sunshine or midnight kisses.” I tighten my grip on the book. “The night can be cold, cloaked in bitter darkness, and even then, you can still have your fairy-tale ending.”

Like a story about a boy called Jack Frost, who saved me from a monster.

There is a question in his eyes, but he keeps it to himself, dismissing our conversation to continue looking around the room. I walk back to the doorframe, letting him get comfortable, ready to leave until he speaks again.

“It’s cleaner than I expected it to be. Chaotic with no sense of design structure, but clean.”

How sweet of him, insulting me. I wonder, is this him trying to remind me of my place in his life so I don’t get attached to having him under the same roof, right next door? Or is he trying to remind himself?

I don’t bother looking over my shoulder at him, just stand in the doorway with my back to him.

“Woah, how nice to have your approval ofmyhome.”

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