Page 105 of Our Little Monster
Riding that edge of despair, teetering on this bar stool like it was the only thing keeping me out of an abyss that threatened to swallow me whole.
The cabin around me felt too still, the only sounds being the distant murmurs and sobs from the bedroom where Thorne and Nox were sitting with Serina. I hadn’t gone in there yet.
To see her clean but dead…
No, I wasn’t ready.
Then, a sharp gasp cut through the heavy air like a clap of thunder.
My head snapped toward the couch where Sam had been lying motionless since we arrived. She sprung up, her breaths ragged and desperate, eyes wild with the remnants of a nightmare.
I pushed off the bar stool, drink in hand.
“Hey, it's okay. You're safe,” I assured her, approaching her slowly, hands raised as if I could somehow push away the terrors that haunted her like sinister wisps.
Sam's chest heaved as she searched my face for reassurance, for any sliver of hope that might anchor her back to reality.
“Serina?” she finally managed to choke out between breaths.
I couldn't bring myself to answer, the truth almost too much to bear. Instead, I sat beside her, offering my presence.
“Sam,” I started, my throat tight, words faltering as if language itself had become a foreign concept under the weight of grief. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision blurred by tears. I looked at her then.
“Please… no,” she whispered, the desperation in her tone clawing at the already frayed edges of my composure.
I took a shaky breath, the air feeling too thin, too sharp against my lungs.
“No… No!” Sam's cry shattered the fragile quiet, her anguish pouring out in those two syllables, raw and unfiltered. It reverberated against the walls, making a fresh wave of sorrow flow through my veins.
“Fuck,” I spat out as I stood, the curse tasting bitter on my tongue.
In a swift motion, I threw back the rest of my drink and hurled the glass at the wall. It exploded into a million shards, a glittering burst that mirrored the splintering of whatever semblance of control I thought I had.
Sam flinched back, a small noise escaping her.
I closed my eyes briefly, inhaling a deep breath that did little to steady my racing heart. When I opened them again, she was on her feet, moving toward the kitchen.
Tears continued to stream down her cheeks, carving clean lines through the ash and grime of the day’s horrors.
“Sam,” I started, but what could I say? That everything would be okay?
She didn't respond, just kept walking toward the kitchen, each step heavy with grief. I followed, my own feet dragging.
“Hey,” I tried, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I'm sorry, I—” The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.
She lunged toward the kitchen drawer like a woman possessed, yanking it open with a force that made the contents rattle. Her hand was trembling as she clasped the longest, most wicked-looking kitchen knife I'd ever seen.
“What the fuck,” I breathed, the words slipping out as her breathing turned ragged.
She spun to face me. Her eyes were glazed over with tears, thick streams falling down her face. But the haze that clouded her eyes—it was one I recognized.
Compulsion.
“Sam, no!” I shouted, launching myself across the space between us. My body moved on instinct. Victor was still playing his sick fucking games, even now, using Sam as a pawn to hurt Serina. It all made sense now.
We struggled a moment. My fingers wrapped around her wrist just as the tip of the knife touched the fabric over her chest.
Her eyes—so filled with fear and determination—met mine, and it felt like she was seeing right through me. Sam fought like a wild thing, desperation giving her strength that belied her human fragility.
