Page 6 of Her Reclusive Beast

Max shakes his head and proceeds to eat the toast. Without butter and jam. Which disturbs me on some level. “Did you want honey instead?”

He seems surprised by my question. Glancing first at me, then down to his toast. “No, this is fine.”

I shake my head in bewilderment and sit down next to him at the table. Smearing generous amounts of butter and apricot jam on my own toast makes my mouth water in anticipation.

“I’ll be busy in the office. Will you call me if you need anything?” I ask softly.

Max looks surprised again, but then abruptly nods. He stands and slides his plate in the dishwasher before refilling his coffee cup and disappearing.

A few minutes later, when I follow on my way to the office and his messy manuscript, I notice that the door to the stairwell is firmly shut. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. Slightly offended? Because it implies I might make noise… Or maybe this is hurt, that he’s literally shutting me out. I wince and continue on my way. If I don’t see or hear from him by dinnertime, I’ll go check. But the anxious feeling stays with me despite my attempts to banish it.

I make it through several chapters before coming up for air. This is a completely different story. And it’s both disturbing and intriguing on so many levels. A young boy forced to hide from government authorities because of genetics they manipulated, grows up to face the ultimate conflict of revenge versus avoidance. But, at least so far, he’s always alone. There are people around him, but they’re shadowy figures, not reallytouching the core of the hero. Or maybe he’s an antihero. It’s really hard to tell at this point. That’s a part of what makes Max such a good writer, his characters are fully sketched out and relatable, even if it’s to parts of ourselves we’d rather not acknowledge.

Around two, I stop for lunch when my stomach keeps interrupting my brain and I find myself retyping the same sentence. There is no sign of Max in the kitchen, which makes me frown. The lack of mess isn’t surprising, but there are no additional dishes in the dishwasher either. I fix myself a ham and cheese sandwich and retreat to the front porch to eat it. It’s chilly but I won’t be out here long and the fresh air feels good. There’s a rainstorm beginning to blow in, with thick gray clouds gathering on the horizon and the scent of moisture hangs heavy in the air. But I can’t afford for the power to go out. Not on this kind of schedule. And I’m also worried about Max.

I manage to wrap up three more chapters in the afternoon, but it’s a struggle. My mind keeps shifting to the closed door and the absent author behind it. At half-past five, I give up. It’s beginning to get dark outside and I’m genuinely worried about him. I tour the downstairs but there’s still no sign of Max.

Back in the main hallway, I freeze in place and stare at the closed door. The man clearly values his privacy. But he was also really sick this morning. Without further hesitation, I reach out and twist the doorknob. It turns in my hand, but the door doesn’t open. I can’t believe it. He’s locked me out.

4

Istare at the polished oak of the stairwell door far longer than it warrants. Somewhere along the line, maybe through reading his real manuscript, I’ve lost any traces of fear when it comes to Max. He’s still big and I’m aware his yell is fearsome, but I’m confident he won’t actually hurt me. I move my gaze down to the keyhole. It’s a standard interior doorknob, albeit Victorian in design, so it’s probably not a complicated lock mechanism. And it also (probably) takes the same key as any other door in the house…

Wandering down hallways and checking behind open doors, it takes me twenty minutes to find a key in residence. On the backside of the door leading into the old butler’s pantry, off the kitchen. Which makes me wonder if Max even knew it was there? Did he think I wouldn’t scour the house if the need arose? Or did it never even occur to him that I might? Sighing, I make a beeline back to the most important door in the place at the moment. Holding my breath, I carefully insert the old iron skeleton key and twist.

Nothing.

I frown down at the cold bronze knob. That’s not an acceptable outcome. Then I lift the handle with all my weight and try again. This time, the lock mechanism turns. The door pops open with a soft sigh. The interior stairwell is dark. The storm has stolen the last few hours of daylight. Fumbling around for a light switch, I eventually find one. Is this why Max wanted me tucked away before dark, because the house is hard to navigate between light switches? Even with the illumination, the stairs are dim and I have to tread carefully. A creak elsewhere in the house has me gasping and clutching at the polished railing.

Climbing the stairs with steady determination, my steps slow and almost falter when I notice a blue-white glow coming from farther down the upper hall. Like the kind emitted by electronic screens in a dark room, only different somehow. Max must be fine, simply lost in his own personal doings, and I’m about to interrupt.

“Max?” I call softly, giving him one last chance to protect his precious privacy. There’s no response, and the glow doesn’t fade. It pulses ever so slightly though, as if breathing. Which can’t be possible, so maybe I’m more tired than I realize.

The walk down that hallway is the longest ever of my life. I need to know he’s okay, but at the same time, I’m sure our tentative arrangement is about to be blown to smithereens. He’ll be angry, no doubt accuse me of violating his trust. But if he’s sick, I can’t just leave him to die.

The door with the glow around the edges is shut, but thankfully not locked when I test the handle. I don’t think I have it in me to return to the base of the stairs to retrieve the first key. I slowly push the door open with a shaky hand.

And stand there stock still with my hand clutching the door. The glow isn’t coming from any screen. It’s coming fromMax.

He’s lying on the bed curled into a semi fetal position with his back to the door. The upper half of him is naked and if I wasn’tso worried about him, I would take some time to simply admire the play of muscles under that oddly glowing skin. It’s not super bright or coming from tiny lightbulbs. It seems to be diffused into his flesh somehow.

I tiptoe around the bed and bite back a small smile. He shaved. Or tried to. Scraggly patches of scruff remain, and a spot or two where the razor nicked his skin deep enough to draw blood. Tentatively, I reach out a hand to touch his shoulder. He’s burning up.

Out of nowhere, his other hand grabs mine in a steel grip and he flips me over. And under him.

“Max?” I whisper urgently, but again he makes no reply. Simply burying his face in the crook of my neck. Cautiously, I try to budge him, but he’s like a boulder that’s landed on top of me. I can breathe because his body is angled, pinning me down only with his extremities. I’m more worried for him than afraid. But I can’t help him if I can’t move out of the bed.

“Jenna, my Jenna,” he moans softly, his hands gripping tighter.

I reach one hand up to soothe down his back, surprised to find his skin has cooled several degrees. He’s still warm, but not dangerously hot. I sigh and relax my head back against the pillow. This is different. Not at all what I expected from my evening, but I’m relieved he seems to be feeling slightly better.

Max too seems to relax, his grip loosening slightly but not moving otherwise, so I can’t slide out from under him. A part of me doesn’t want to. There’s a comfort in being this close to him, even if he isn’t conscious.

I jump slightly when his hand moves to palm my breast. He squeezes gently, and my pussy floods with need. Awkward if he was aware of what he was doing. But clearly he’s not.

“Mine. Jenna,” he mumbles, making me reassess that statement. Does he mean it? I mean, deep down. I know he’snot truly coherent right now. I fall asleep trying to puzzle that out with Max draped over me, his lips nuzzling my neck while his hand continues to fondle my breast without direction or urgency.A bit like a toddler with their favorite blankie, I think to myself wryly.

The humor fades quickly from my mind when I open my eyes in the morning to meet the cool blue anger in Max’s.

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