Page 57 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

The cabin smells like garlic.

It’s the first thing I notice when I walk through the door.

The second thing is that it’s clean. Unnaturally clean.

My project is still taking up all the space in the living room, all of my supplies untouched, but everything else? Spotless.

I bite back a smile, trying to imagine Thatcher walking around my house cleaning. Gods knows what he found in this place along the way. I drag my finger across a shelf on the wall, the one that has jars of creatures soaked in formaldehyde, and when I lift my finger back up, there isn’t a speck of dust to be found.

I didn’t even know I owned a duster.

For the last two weeks, Thatcher and I have found a routine. I can still feel him keeping his distance emotionally, but he leaves the door to his room open during the day. The other night, I was up late working on my spider frame. He came down and sat on the love seat across from me to read.

We sat there in silence, just existing in each other’s presence for hours.

His company is that of a shadow.

Quiet, subtle, but you know he’s there.

My shoes thud against the wall as I kick them off, throwing my coat across the couch, before I make my way into the kitchen, where the smell of actual food, not the frozen meals I consume, is wafting from.

When I walk through the archway, I find Thatcher’s back to me, a purple hand towel tossed over his shoulder, wearing a white button-down rolled to his elbows and his standard black slacks. Classical music plays from my speaker, and I watch in awe as he pulls the silver pan from my stove and flips the food in the air.

He turns, showing the side profile of his face. Pieces of his white hair fall in front of his forehead, just a few, and it’s those pieces of hair that do me in every single time.

“You cook?” I question, moving to the fridge, trying to pretend I wasn’t staring.

He peers at me over his shoulder, acknowledging my presence before pouring red wine into the pan, making steam erupt.

“I’m fantastic with anything that requires a knife.”

I snag a bottle of water, smirking. “Should I be worried about where the meat in this dish came from, Hannibal?”

Thatcher rolls his eyes. “Human beings are disgusting. I don’t touch them with my bare hands, and you think I’m going to eat their flesh? Some stalker you are. Do you even know me?”

My jaw drops. “You jerk!”

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and a laugh bubbles up from my stomach. He’s funny when he wants to be. Warm when he isn’t busy convincing the world he’s Jack Frost.

I adore this version of Thatch, the one only I get to see. I love it almost as much as the part that terrifies people.

He is both their nightmare and my daydream.

“Speaking of killing people.” I lift myself up onto the wooden island in the center of the kitchen, scooting towards the middle before sitting cross-legged. “Conner Godfrey is officially on a leave of absence after his heroic run-in with the Ponderosa Springs Imitator. He still hasn’t been able to identify the masked man responsible for the damage to his tongue.”

“Tragic,” he mutters.

“I know that Rook is sold already, but do you believe Easton is the copycat killer?”

Thatcher pulls a knife from the block, moving over to the counter, where he chops pieces of vegetables.“You don’t?”

“I should. It’s clear he’s the one sending you notes, but I just don’t know.” I shrug, taking a drink of my water. “I’ve known Easton since elementary school. He’s always been an asshole, but a murderer? No.”

“There are many faces of a killer.” His tone is indifferent. “It’s almost never the creep in the corner. It’s more likely to be the man in the center of the room. We’re chameleons, able to blend in and copy emotions. If Easton is the Imitator, then he efficiently camouflages himself enough that even you don’t believe it.”

I know I shouldn’t push him, that I should be thankful he’s showing so much of himself, even if it’s not nearly enough, but I’ve always been curious by nature. It’s impossible to not want more from him.

How do you tell someone that you want to know everything? Every memory, every moment, every quirk and habit just so you can be closer. I’m jealous of all the seconds I don’t share with him.

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