Page 114 of Our Little Monster
“What's wrong, love?” Bastian's voice was tender, and those words, that question? Completely shattered me.
The dam I had meticulously built within myself crumbled, and the tears began to free-fall, fast and relentless. Each drop felt like a piece of my soul escaping, a release of the pain that had been festering since the night everything changed.
I missed my dad with a ferocity that threatened to consume me.
“Shh, Serina,” Thorne murmured, his arm wrapping around me, as if he could shield me against the onslaught of my grief.
It was absurd—a monster hunter who hunted Vampires for vengeance was now turned into a Vampire and was weeping on the kitchen floor, flanked by the three Vampires she had fallen in love with.
How fucked up was that?… But in that moment, none of that mattered.
Thorne's question pulled me back from the edge, his voice a gentle prod that sought to unravel the knot of anguish in my chest. “Was it the hunt? Did something go wrong?” His concern was palpable.
I shook my head, feeling the brush of Bastian's thumb across my cheek, wiping away streaks of tears. I was sure I looked like a raccoon from my mascara running. Nox's grip on my hand was steady and reassuring.
I took a deep breath, letting their silent support anchor me as the words tumbled out. “It's not the hunt. It's just… this place is full of memories. Memories of him, of us, when we were a family.”
In the hushed quiet, Bastian's voice cut through the sorrow with a softness that made my heart flutter. “What's your favorite memory? Would you like to talk about him?”
The invitation cracked open a door I'd kept shut for too long, and I stepped through it gratefully. Words began to flow, halting at first, then with growing warmth.
I spoke of summer days spent fishing with Dad, laughter echoing off the lake's surface. I spoke of Mickeys, hunts with the whole family, Sam, Brielle, our little getaways, how Mom would scold us for tracking mud into the cabin, her eyes dancing with mirth all the while.
As the night wore on, we traded stories, the weight of grief lifting with each shared memory and every burst of laughter.
Time blurred, the darkness outside softening to the gray light of pre-dawn. My eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion and the pleasant fog of too much bourbon.
“Come on, love. Let's get you to bed.” Bastian's arms enveloped me, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. His strength was a balm to my weary bones, and I nestled against his chest, the steady thump of his heart a lullaby.
“Kitchen floor parties are always the best,” I mumbled drunkenly, the words slurred but heartfelt.
Nestled in the cocoon of Bastian's embrace, I allowed myself to be carried away from the kitchen, from the grief of the past, and into a refuge with the three men who had become my unexpected anchors.
38
Serina
Thewoodswerealiving, breathing thing, their shadows dancing like wraiths in the moonlight.
I slipped between the trees, my senses casting out like nets into the darkness. I could hear the rustle of leaves underfoot from creatures scuttling away, the distant hoot of an owl claiming its territory.
But beneath the symphony of the woods, there were other sounds—the soft tread of hunters, my hunters—Bastian, Nox, and Thorne.
They were shadows themselves, coming forme.
Nox, the most unpredictable of the three, was somewhere close. I could feel it. Lost in this heightened awareness, I became the predator, anticipating the strike before it happened.
As if on cue, a twig snapped—a careless footstep, or was it deliberate bait for me? Either way, it was too close for comfort.
Without a moment's hesitation, I lunged, my body moving with preternatural speed. Nox emerged from the underbrush, his dark eyes flashing with challenge. He threw a punch towards me, a blur of motion meant to connect with lethal force. But I was faster, my movements a dance of death learned through countless such encounters.
Ducking under his arm, I spun around him, my hand swiftly locating the wooden stake at my belt.
Before Nox could react, I had him pinned against the tree, the stake impaling him through the stomach and anchoring him to the bark. His face registered shock, then a twisted sort of respect.
“Dead,” I declared, my voice devoid of triumph. In another life, that stake would have pierced his heart, ending him.
“Nice moves,” he grunted, the corners of his mouth lifting in a pained smirk.
