Page 47 of Daddy's Muse
Still being hunted.
And the only person who made me feel like I could breathe was the same man who scared me in ways I didn’t dare name.
* * *
I was still nervous by the time I made it back to my dorm that night. I stood in the hall for a long moment, just staring at my door, wondering if something horrible was behind it, waiting for me.
I unlocked it slowly, holding my breath, and eased the door open. Flicking the light on, I went methodically around the room: closets—clear, desks—clear. I even slid open the bottom drawers of my desk, just in case—still clear.
Finally, I crouched down, pressing my cheek nearly to the floor, and peered under both of the beds—nothing.
A shaky laugh slipped out as I released the breath I’d been holding. I was fine.
Fine, fine, fine.
Totally not falling apart.
But as I straightened, my mind betrayed me, wandering somewhere it shouldn’t—somewhere warmer. I imagined Pappa closing my door behind me, locking it with that heavy, purposeful sound it made. His big, strong hands guiding me to bed, tucking me in, sitting on the edge of the mattress so close his thigh brushed mine.
I could almost hear his voice, low and certain, telling me I didn’t have to think anymore, didn’t have to be brave. I could just be small, safe,his.
The fantasy sank into my bones, making me dizzy.
I thought of what it would be like to take him up on his offer while I stripped the day’s clothes off and wiggled into my soft pajamas.
I curled up in bed and let myself pretend, just for a little while, that it was him keeping watch instead of the useless campus security man.
Pappa would never dismiss my fears or tell me that he couldn’t help unless someone hurt me first. No, Pappa would be my shield. I bet he had good locks on his doors. Evidently, I didn’t.
Sleep dragged me under as I thought of all the ways my Pappa could protect me.
* * *
When I woke, it was to a suffocating stillness. Not just the usual quiet of night, but something heavier.
Something was wrong.
My skin prickled before my brain could catch up.
I wasn’t alone.
I sat up slowly, phone in my shaking hand, my thumb hovering over 9-1-1. My ears strained for any sound—breathing, a shift of weight, the whisper of movement,anything—but all I heard was the thud of my own rapid heartbeat.
I flicked on the desk lamp, relaxing a bit when nothing appeared out of the darkness. On unsteady legs, I got out of bed and ran to the switch by the door. The overhead light clicked on, and again, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Everything was how I’d left it when I drifted off a few hours ago.
But then—because the itch between my shoulder blades wouldn’t let me stop searching until every blind spot had been cleared—I crouched and looked under the bed.
A dead crow stared back at me.
Its feathers were matted, its wings twisted unnaturally, one glassy black eye catching the light.
The sound that tore from my throat was somewhere between a gasp and a sob. My chest squeezed so hard I couldn’t get enough air, and my fingers had gone numb around my phone. I scrambled backward, hit the wall, then bolted for the door without thinking.
The hallway was too bright, too open, but I needed it to be that way.
I needed out. I needed out. I needed out. I needed out.
