Page 54 of For Fillies and Monsters

I should scold Gus, tell him off, defend my house guest. But I do not fucking care enough. And Gus in a full-on rage?Hot.It’s fucked up, I know. But I want him worse when he’s like this than any other time.

“You fucking what? I am here because she asked me to come,” Nathan sputters. Actually, I asked him to meet me in town to discuss a business opportunity. But I know if I attempt to utter that now, it will fall on deaf ears.

“Nathan, please go on in. I will be right there.” Nathan doesn’t argue, stomping into the house like an annoyed child. I turn to face Gus and instantly regret it.

His face is dark, eyes so black they look like rounded onyx stones. His lips are so tightly pressed together, even the skin around them is turning white, and his jaw pops so rapidly I canonly fathom how badly it will hurt in the morning. He stands up, the bottle swinging in his hand, and I put up a finger between us.

“Relax. This isn’t a big deal.”

“Isn’t a big deal? You think I’m not good enough to talk to, so you invite that—” he growls, prowling a step closer “—that boy here. Are you that much of a coward?”

My spine snaps straighter, irritation spearing through me.

“I will not talk to you while you’re drinking. I’ve dealt with my fair share of mean drunks, and I refuse to add you to that list. You’re the coward for burying your problems at the bottom of a bottle, using that as your strength instead of growing a backbone of your own.” My chest heaves, the words pouring from me.

I should be scared of him. Mean drunks are the basis for every single one of my nightmares. But I’m not the kind of woman to shy away from the things that once scared me; I lean into them, let them wrap their hands around my throat and squeeze. Because I’m stronger, stronger than any of them.

His eyes rake over my face, and then he laughs. Fucking laughs—the sound full of venom. I step back, now slightly afraid. He notes the movement and steps toward me again, and again, and again, until my back is pressed against the door. His body is flush with my own, his breath fanning across my face.

His minty, non-alcoholic tinged breath.

“I don’t drink, Stetson. I stopped ten years ago, when I found something worth living for. Sometimes, I just hold the bottle to remind myself why I don’t, why I refuse to fall victim to the demon at the bottom of the bottle.” He leans even closer, his hips pushing into my own, and I gasp, holding my breath. “You are right, I am a nasty drunk, but I don’t need alcohol to be mean. And I’m not the coward here.”

He pushes off the wall, dropping the bottle at my feet. It lands with a thud, rolling around my boots, the harsh scent ofspilt whiskey hitting my nostrils. He storms off toward the barn, his back quivering, and I watch him go. I cling to the wall of the house, hoping it will hold me and give me strength.

But not the strength to see this stupid idea with Nathan through, the strength to not chase after Gus and beg him to forgive me.

TWENTY-TWO

AUGUSTUS

February 21st, 2021

My palms twitch,and I hold my breath to avoid making any noise. She cannot know I’m here—not that she ever does, but this time is different.

This time I’m a week late; a week past her birthday and our normal night of binging shitty TV and eating a tub of coffee ice cream—her inside on her bed, typically, me in the shadows just beyond her window. After an unsatisfying, yet relaxing frisk with her vibrator, she goes to sleep, and I go to get my commemorative tattoo—the mark in my flesh, to match the mark on my heart. Another year come and gone; another year closer to our beginning.

It’s our thing. Has been since I found her.

I smile, tracing the inked flesh of my leg. It is an unconventional gift; I know that. But my fucked up little filly will love it. When she gets over…all the other stuff.

But this year I’m a week late—the first time in seven years—and there is no TV, no tub of coffee ice cream, but there is a very real, very skinny, shaggy-haired boy sitting on her bed.

I gnash my teeth together, the clank of the small white bones loud in my impossibly silent head. I rub my palm on theseam of my jeans; the only reminder I can’t storm into her house. Not yet. She’s not ready—and wouldn’t accept me because, regardless of how much kinky shit she likes, falling in love with her stalker is not on the short list of her fantasies. But it will be, I’ll make sure of it. And when her mind is as fucked up as mine, I’ll introduce the good guy Augustus and make her fall in love with him first, saving the monster for after she’s too deep, too far gone to run.

Is it fucked up? Is it manipulative?

Only if she doesn’t want it. And my little filly wants it. I just have to make her admit it to herself.

I don’t mind waiting for her. It’s the most delicious kind of torture. What I do mind, though, is watching another man walk into my woman’s house. I’ve watched her fuck other men, but never during her birthday—over our special time together.

Everything is all fucked up because I’m late. I’ve let myself down—I’ve let her down. And now I will pay the price.

I watch the skinny, shaggy black-haired boy she pulled into her doorway twenty minutes ago through the glass of her bedroom window. It’s almost completely dark now, and I’m grateful; inching closer to the sill, I slide the glass back a fraction, the darkness swallowing the movement. I need to hear what they’re saying—how she talks to him. The boy’s face is all angular lines, his eyes a dull brown, the dark tattoos on his arms reminding me faintly of my brother’s. He looks like a tool.

And from the raised voices within the house, he sounds like one, too.

I’ll never let anything truly bad happen to her, not if I can help it. But I’m not willing to blow my cover, not yet. My little filly is strong and fierce, more so than she gives herself credit for. She’d hate me if I stepped in, even if she knew me, knew I was here for her. Because Stetson fights her own battles,and she likes it that way.

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