Page 83 of Fragmented Illusions
I grit my teeth, still annoyed I didn’t think about gloves. Or the clothes situation.
It’s not like me to not be five, or even ten, steps ahead on absolutely everything, but this girl jumbles everything in my mind. She’s changing everything.
Chilled down to the bone, we finally make it to her apartment building. Spencer steps through the door first, then Fallon, followed by me. Spencer then hits the up arrow, and we all step into the elevator together.
Fallon stands in between Spencer and I on the way up and it feels stifling in here. My hands twitch at my side, desperate to touch her, to be sure she’s real—thatthisis real.
I can’t believe she killed with us—willingly. She fuckingwanted it.She tasted her blood and loved it.
Fuck.
My cock throbs at the fresh memory and when I shift to readjust, Fallon’s fingers weave through mine. I can’t feel the heat of her skin through two layers of leather, but my heart thuds, nonetheless. I peer down my shoulder at her to find her staring forward at the elevator doors, but a small smile plays at the corners of her lips.
I then notice her other hand is holding Spencer’s and I just know he has a shit-eating grin plastered across his face even though we can’t see it.
He’s such a needy boy.
We come to a halt and the elevator dings as the doors slide open. We stand hand in hand, not moving, not wanting to break our touch, but the doors start to slide close, so I gently pull my hand from Fallon’s and dart my arm out to keep the door from closing.
I hear her subtle sigh and then her and Spencer are shuffling out, still holding each other. Contentment settles warm in my gut as they walk in front of me, their hands swinging slightly. They look good together and I want to eat them both alive.
Fallon reluctantly drops Spencer’s hand and spins to face us once we reach her front door. It’s late—though I’m not sure of the time. The exhaustion from her exertion earlier has settled in and I know once she steps in, she’s going to pass out.
“You need to shower and throw those clothes in the wash immediately. The hottest water setting with bleach. It will ruin them, but you will be throwing them out when they’re done anyway, so it doesn’t really matter,” I tell her in my monotonous voice.
“Okay…” she whispers, peering up at me for a moment before she turns back around. She wraps her small, gloved hand around the handle, but before she can open the door, Spencer darts his arm out and wraps his fingers around her wrist.
Fallon’s eyes dart up to him in question, but Spencer doesn’t say anything and after a few moments of silence, I start to question him before he whispers, so quietly I almost don’t hear him. “Please be who we need you to be—who we think you truly are. Be our pretty girl.”
Fallon’s eyes widen briefly before they begin to water. Tears well up as she stares at Spencer’s bloodied mask. She steps forward and presses her hand against the side of his mask. My throat tightens as I watch their exchange.
Spencer is vulnerable right now—a vulnerability he has only ever shown me—but right now, he’s allowing Fallon to see it as well.
“I am your pretty girl,” she tells him. Her voice is small, quiet, but unwavering and my heart clenches in my chest at her confession.
She turns her head to peer at me. “I am yours too. And I don’t care if you never take your masks off in front of me. I am simply happy being free.” Her tears fall down her face and I suck in a harsh breath at the pain which lances through my chest at the sight.
Before I can reach for her, she drops her hand and straightens her back. “I’m going to shower, throw these in the wash, then get some sleep. I will call you tomorrow?” she asks, glancing back and forth between us in question.
“That’s fine, pretty girl,” Spencer tells her. She smiles then walks inside. The door shuts behind her with a small click before silence echoes around us. We wait for a few moments before leaving to take care of the mutilated body that will be a bitch to bury in the storm, but necessary.
Chapter Seventeen
Fallon
Awareness slowly seeps in when the itchy material scratching my shoulders doesn’t let up. I reach my arm across my chest and dig my nails into my skin, trying to alleviate the itch. I scratch until I’m satisfied and then drop my heavy arm back onto the bed. It thuds against the mattress, jarring me.
I shift a couple times, trying to get comfortable, but an ache has settled deeply in my lower back, making it impossible for me to lose myself to sleep once more. I groan as I turn to my back. My elbows dig into the mattress below me as I shift around.
Apprehension heavily creeps in the longer I lie here. I still can’t manage to peel my eyelids open. They are much too heavy, but it doesn’t stop my body from recognizing things I should not be recognizing.
The mattress is rock-hard below me. My back and shoulders are itching like crazy as the seams in my shirt aggravate my skin—except I didn’t wear a shirt to bed last night.
I wasn’t wearing any clothes.
I wiggle my toes and my breath hitches when I feel material covering my feet trapping the movement.
What the hell?
