Page 24 of Dead By Dusk

Not unusual behavior from him, for sure. He’s always been one to invite women into his bed, and often. But never are they anyone from the manor, always a stranger from a bar or club out in town.

She’s not his usual type, though. Her deep, olive-toned face is all sharp edges. Her hair is the color of a tree’s dark timber, slicked back in a hair tie, yet still falling in cascading waves down her back. Several strands fall down and frame her face, and her eyes are the color of the moss that tends to grow in abundance over the estate walls.

She’s mesmerizing, for sure.

Anyone would stare, but she’s not the type I’ve seen him chase after. So, I follow. Though I’m not sure if it was to see what would happen to him, or if it was because I hadn’t taken my eyes off her from the moment we arrived here today, but I allow one foot to fall in front of the other over and over again until I’m across the room and able to see her up close.

Devastating.

She is completely and utterly devastating in every sense of the word.

And she was completely locked onto whatever bullshit was flying out of William’s mouth. The only saving grace was that she wasn’t falling at his feet and laughing at every word he said like most women would have been doing by now. Instead, she wore a small smirk with her head cocked to the side and nodded her agreements every now and again.

“William, is it?” she questions, and he extends his hand before responding with one of the worst lines in the books.

“Yeah, but you can call me whatever you like.” I can practically hear the answering eyeroll as she begins to outstretch her hand towards his.

At the last second, she shifts her body to mine with a mumbled, “I don’t think I will,” and gives me a soft smile. “That was William, and you are…” her voice trails off in a questioning tone, but I stare at her. Momentarily paralyzed by the sound of her voice coupled with her attention wholly on me.

Her voice sounds like melting butter on freshly made pancakes, a wealth of knowledge, the fountain of youth. It feels like life washes over me in a refreshing bout of rain after years of choking on the life that had been thrust upon me.

“Ronan.”

It’s the only word that I say. The only one that I can muster as I drink her in, my voice raspier than usual as I take her waiting hand and bring it up to my mouth to lay a feather light kiss on her knuckles.

Her answering blush is patient, polite—

“This isn’t right,” I say to her, and the grin that spreads across her face is wicked. I find myself smiling just the same.

“Shucks, Ronan. What gave me away?” Her deep sultry voice and feigned accent brings laughter out of me.

“Well, the first hint was that I’ve never known you to be the docile type.”

“True. What else?” It was a question, but by the way she asks, it seems like she already knows the answer but wants me to say it first.

“That was when we first met. I tried to kiss your knuckles, but you tried to break my wrist.” The laugh that bubbles out of her is uncontained and raw and all her. Not this version of her, but the late-night movie and baking adventures “her.”

The version that let me catch up.

“Ahhhh, that I did. Sorry for going a little off script. I didn’t think you would notice.”

“I notice everything you do, Killer. Besides, I fell in love with every wicked, sharp edge of yours. Bashful isn’t really your look.” My eyes roam over her figure and then check the surroundings of the gathering room in the manor. Everyone else has vanished.

“This is a dream.” It’s a statement, not a question and the way her eyes light up at my acknowledgment of the situation is like a beacon of hope at a time where there is none.

“A dream. A memory. Whatever you’d like to call it, I suppose. Part of your subconscious. You control this.” She responds, beginning to walk away from me. Before she can get too far, I reach out a hand and take hold of her arm, forcing her to stand before me again.

“I control this.”

“Of course. I’m sure you already know I’m not really here. This version of the two of us are just ghosts of who we used to be, you and I. A ghost of simpler times.”

“Can we go somewhere else?” I ask, wishing to speak in private. Even in my dreams where only my truths reside,heredoesn’t feel safe to be so open with my thoughts.

“And where exactly would you like to go, Blue?”

My answer is simple. A place made up of four letters. The answer is the only place I want to be with her, and once I say it, understanding washes across her face.

“Home, Killer. I want to go home.”

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