Page 16 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Yeah, like fucking?” Rook adds.

My jaw tightens.

I don’t want to move in with her, but I definitely don’t need anyone asking questions regarding myself and Lyra. Giving in to this feels like signing her death certificate, but maybe if I can stay with her a few days, I’ll find another arrangement quickly.

Just a few days.

“Funny,” I muse, “but no. Jail and extended time spent with Lyra feel very similar right now. I was hoping for a third option.”

Hurt flashes across her face, and I want to grab her. Shake her shoulders and tell her that this is for the best. That I wish she could see how dangerous being near me is, that all of this is for her. Make her understand that, for whatever reason, my brain can’t handle the thought of her youthful corpse.

But I keep quiet, let her believe all the worst things about me.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Briar asks her friend, worried.

If Briar knew just how scary Lyra Abbott could become, she’d never be concerned for her safety. She herself would be fearful of this little killer. Her best friend would stand in front of her and think, how did this sweet girl turn into such a horrible creature?

The wall slams down in front of her eyes, protecting all emotion behind it, flicking her gaze to the people behind me with a tight-lipped smile.

“Yup,” she hums. “I just have to cancel my plans with Godfrey this weekend. He was coming over to help with a spider display I’m working on.”

My jaw tightens, hands flexing inside my pockets. I dare her with my eyes to let her invite him to her home. She’ll spend the evening weeping in a puddle of his mangled body parts.

He’s not allowed to have her either.

No one is.

Because even though I can’t have her, she’s still my ghost.

She still haunts me.

And every single murderous inch belongs to me.

SNOW WHITE

FIVE

Lyra

Pulling the door open for Thatcher feels like letting him further into my soul, as if he wasn’t embedded there enough. Seeing his lean frame step into my home, my very own forgotten world, makes my chest tighten.

Everything inside was curated by my two hands. From the Nevermore collage pasted on the living room walls to the deep purple kitchen. A gothic, cozy, dim masterpiece. Taxidermy items littered across every space, the smell of lavender—it is me, and he is seeing all of that.

“There are four rooms,” I hum, hearing his footsteps follow me up the steps. “Two bathrooms.”

This does not pull any sort of response. It’s not as if I thought it would, considering when he walked inside, he barely nodded in recognition when I greeted him.

I’m not stupid, nor am I naive, contrary to what he probably believes in that thick skull.

A person who doesn’t know him might chalk his bitter behavior towards me up to the fact his grandmother had just died, which is partially true. Another might think it’s just how he is, that he never really cared to begin with and he’s only been toying with my measly feelings.

But neither is accurate.

Thatcher’s wedge of distance he’d shoved between us—him leaving, all his ridiculous behavior—was the result of fear. Now, he’d never admit this to himself or out loud, of course, but I can see it.

He’s afraid.

This copycat killer went after his grandmother, the last living relative that cared for him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s scared of the same thing happening to the guys. To me.

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