Page 12 of Antihero
She bites her lip. It makes her look younger, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know if you should be asking about this… but he’s the nephew of Nicolas Pastryachi.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What, the family that owns this place?” Maybe that’s something I should’ve known before I stabbed the guy. I really am out of practice.
“Yes. Declan has always gotten away with… a lot.” Seems like Beth was right to be scared to talk, then.
“Is he away visiting his uncle?”
Charlotte shrugs. “Nicolas himself spends most of his time in Tregam, though he has a place here. But I don’t know where Declan has gone.” There seems to be a notion left unsaid that no one is missing him. But I consider. If the Wraith was interested in Declan, could she also be targeting Nicolas, the asylum owner? What’s her vendetta?
Not for the first time this session, Charlotte looks down at her notebook and rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn.
“Long day?” I ask.
With a slight smile, her eyes narrow on me. “I’m supposed to ask the questions.” Because that’s worked out so well, so far.
“Are you worried about the Wraith? They stirred some things up, taking out the deputy.”
At this, Charlotte seems to pale. “It’s tragic, and a waste, of course. But why would I be worried?”
“Well,” I say, spreading my hands, “You’re a similar age to the ones being targeted.”
Charlotte nods slowly. “It’s an ageing island. Many people are of that age.”
She’s right, of course. Declan withstanding, the Wraith’s targets have been middle-aged and older—as are most of the population of this island. Which will make figuring out who is next difficult.
Difficult, but not impossible. Not since I know who the Wraith is.
***
I see Beth smile for the first time three days on—as I’m passing her in the corridor, on the way back to my room after reading on the moors. Paige had been right. It is a good book. She slips into my mind too frequently this way. Even when I’ve barred myself from thoughts of her. Everything is too jumbled; impossible and certain at once. I’m still undecided on what to do, whether I should get involved in stopping the Wraith, or if I should just to bury my head in the sand. So, I’ve avoided everywhere I know she might be, and it’s worked.
Until now. I step into my room and spot the bucket before I spot Paige.
She turns at the sound of my door, and a small crease appears between her brows as she blinks down at the ground. "John, hello."
The message I left on her machine those days ago was short, curt, offering no explanation.
"Paige," I say.
She bites her lip, toying with her wet blue gloves, taking them off and getting ready to replace them. "I’m just running late on the rooms. I thought you'd be out for longer."
My chest constricts. I'm not the ghosting type. I hate doing that, leaving people to wonder what they did wrong, wondering if you simply got what you wanted from them and lost interest. Seeing her now, the feeling, the pull towards her hasn’t faded. She distracts me more than I thought possible.
Maybe she’s not the Wraith. Maybe I'm just a dickhead. “About the other day,” I've started speaking before I can stop myself. “I'm sorry. I’ve been sleeping poorly. That’s all.”
Paige manages a small, unconvinced smile. Can’t blame her, I’m damn unconvincing. "I'm done in here now, so…"
I thought I could let this go. Let her go. But seeing her now… I can’t. She could be the Wraith. She could’ve been faking her interest and everything else in me in some disillusioned attempt to save her own skin. I need to know.
Paige goes to pull my door open, and I catch her arm. When I pull her to face me, her breath catches. Not quite a gasp, not yet. Then I see, if I’m going to base all of this on a gasp, I should hear it again. Never mind the fact I’vewantedto hear it again since that first time she stumbled into this very room. I knock the door closed with my heel, and her eyes lock on mine, grey pools of wonder and suspicion at once.
I kiss her, hands on her waist to pull her flush against me. Her hands grip my shoulders, halfway between pulling me closer and pushing me away. I give her a chance to decide, and when her fingers grip my shirt, her tongue skimming my bottom lip, I push her back against the wall, my hand snaking behind her to keep her flush. Her nails dig into me through my shirt. She’sarching against me, her sweet tongue finding mine. My hand grazes the side of her throat, fingers working into her braid as I tug her head back, opening her mouth to me. Her breathing is heavy, and she moans softly as I bite her lip. She gasps, then presses closer, harder. As though she can’t get enough. Neither can I. But I need to rein myself in.
Which proves difficult when, now on her toes, Paige hitches her knee over my hip. I’m already rock hard, and given that I’m wearing only my workout sweats and singlet, there’s no disguising that. Which is fine, because I’m not going to. Paige drags her tongue against mine, biting my lip, drawing a noise out of me that muffles against her mouth. I jolt hard against her, crushing her back against the wall, almost a thrust. Fuck me, what was I doing again?
Right. The gasp.
I tighten my grip on her hair, pulling her head back, her mouth away from mine. I grab onto her thigh where she’s hooked her leg over my hip and turn slightly, jamming hard against her exposed centre, the hardness of my cock through my thin pants right where she’s most sensitive, most attuned to at this moment. Her breath catches before I grind against her.
