Page 30 of Antihero
I clutch his thick forearm against my chest, muscles like ropes under my touch. My back arches as he taps my feet just wide enough for my underwear to dig into the outside of my thighs. Tristan uses my own wetness to caress my entrance with the head of his cock, then he coos, “Here’s a reminder of why I’m here.”
“Fuck, fuck,” I’m already chanting, struggling to keep my voice down while he slides inside me, the position, the angle, making me want to scream the words out instead.
“You’re gonna have to be quieter than that if you don’t want Harry to know.” His breath rasps against the back of my earlobe, hips pushing deeper, making me bite my lip to keep the primalsounds in; with varying degrees of success. The asshole’s hand is right under my chin. He could cover my mouth, could make this easier for me. But that’s not what he’s here for. Fingers tracing down over my hips, Tristan seems determined, in fact, to squeeze every last sound from me. As he pulls my skirt even higher, his fingers find me just above the line of the basin, and wasting no time, he circles the spot that makes my knees shake. His hips thrust in long, slow strokes, each time he’s at the deepest point, nudging, jamming me that bit firmer against the sink. My heart stutters. Whatever self-control I’ve got left is unravelling. “If you come, that’ll bereallyloud,” he muses.
“Tristan, please,” I nearly sob, teetering on the edge. With my head tipped back, I can’t do anything to arrest my volume. But I can’t stay on the edge, not for much longer.
He jams himself close, holding there, so that the only movement between us is my panting and his fingers still circling me. “Because you asked nicely,” he finally says, when I’m about to combust. His palm comes across my mouth, our hips rolling as one, faster, and my cries muffle against his hand as I finally let go.
I jolt back against his thrusts, my body somehow going limp and rigid at once, nails biting into his forearm where it braces between my breasts.
By the time I’m coming down from the peak, his hand has slid back down to my throat, and I see myself, dishevelled and flushed in the mirror, then him over my shoulder, green eyes startlingly intense, as they meet mine.
He promises me, "You've got a war now, my murderess, and I might not kill you, but wherever you go, I'll know, and I'll stop you. Every time."
***
I don't stay in the house much longer.
Harry is unimpressed. I may not have screamed the house down, but anyone could guess what I’ve just done wih the ‘plumber’ when I walk back out of the bathroom, too much time later, stockings ripped at the knee and running high under my skirt, hair mussed and eyes glassy, almost feverish. I find an excuse to leave, claiming illness.
Tristan isstillthere anyway, the bastard.
And he’s promised to always be there. But at least he’s not going to murder me.
Chapter eight
For one night a year, and one night only, the people of White Rock don’t bury their heads in the sand when it comes to the history of Eternal Light Asylum.
The vigil continues through midnight, candles struggling to stay lit against the wind that doesn’t stop for the darkness of night. Children complain into the hushed silence, old men grumble, their wives shush them. But like showing your face at church on Sunday, attendance, and staying until the last candle winks out, is something of social proof among the townspeople. As are the bouquets of white flowers laid against the palisade fence of the churchyard. The church, a small, old thing I’ve personally never had occasion to voluntarily enter, faces the east side—the still-mad side—of the asylum from a safe distance on its lone hill, nothing but space and the valley to separate them.
The graveyard beside the church forever expands, even as the island population dwindles—outside of the asylum, anyway. So, the four hundred or so bundled up people linger around the church yard late into the night, a low murmur of voices while the church choir sings mournfully into the night. It makes the hairon my arms stand on end, a chill that’s due to more than the icy breeze tracing my spine.
I stay out of sight of Harry in the crowd. I’m not sure how to re-approach him yet. My failed stint at his house was over a week ago now. I want to spit at him. How dare he be here, among the first to lay flowers down like some high member of society, when he’s responsible for so many of the deaths that happened inside Eternal Light. So many of the lost minds.
I suspect Tristan’s among the crowd, a shadow I can never quite catch for long enough to identify. He’ll be here, watching, calculating, trying to uncover my secrets. I’ll let him, for tonight.
Some others lay small grainy photos against the fence. Dr Goodry is one of these, and as I step up after him and lay down a long-stemmed lily, I see the picture—a black-and-white photo of a young boy. His only son, who went into the asylum for something mundane and never came out. I wonder if he ever wonders whether Harry is responsible, ever wonders if it was by his hand. I suppose he might think it’s best to leave well enough alone. Harry was just doing his job, after all, and didn’t he cure more than he harmed? A shitty defence. He did his job alright, with gusto.
Molly isn’t buried here, but I knew others who were, so my lily is for them.
As my revenge will be. For all of us.
***
Needler
If it was anyone else, I wouldn't have opened the door.
I almost don't let her in, regardless.
I'm not expecting a visitor. In fact, I never get visitors. My steps were silent as I walked up to the peephole. I know which floorboards creak. So does she, if her last visit was anything to go by.
Jaw tightening, half expecting her to bring out a battering ram if I don’t open up, which would be in keeping with the unpredictability of our encounters, I pull the door open.
Paige looks innocent today, in jeans and a loose-knit cardigan. I know she's not innocent, but at least she also hasn't murdered anyone this week. I’d know. Her eyes go straight to my hair, which right now is pasted down with hair-dye. I’ve got a towel over my shoulders, and no shirt, since I don't want to ruin any more clothing for this. Hell, maybe it’s a useless precaution these days. But I came to this island with brown hair, and letting it grow out could raise questions. What most people know about Needler was that he was unusually blond. So I figure one less element for them to recognise in me can't hurt. Even if the fumes tickle my nose. I also need to hide away about fifty boxes of dye, just in case they discontinue the shade and I need to gradually change it to a new one.
"Knocking? How quaint." I say pointedly.
