Page 5 of Claimed By Her Monsters
A Live One
Iwake slowly, tangled in the claw-tipped grip of nightmares like I always am. Images tear through me, sharp and senseless. The pyramids half-formed, rising out of endless sand. The clang of swords colliding in battle. The bitter reek of burning flesh. Someone is screaming.
I jolt upright, heart hammering, breath ragged like I’ve been running for miles. “Ugh. Fucking nightmares again.” My hand shakes as I drag it through my hair, trying to shove the images back where they came from.
I crashed a little after six. Now the bedside clock says just past eight. I rub the grit from my eyes, yawn, and tell myself they’re just dreams. Just stupid, violent dreams I can never seem to shake.
A quick look shows the room is unchanged. Velvet drapes drawn tight. My empty soup bowl sits on the table, with a half-drunk glass of water next to it. I crawl out of bed and gulp down the rest to quench my parched throat.
Hmm. Now what?
There’s no TV in the room. No books. I left my group home in such a rush that my cell phone didn’t even make it into my bag. Not that I have anyone to call, even if it did.
I sit in the chair and drum my finger restlessly on the table. I use the bathroom, turn all the faucets on and off. Bounce on the bed a few times like a kid testing a trampoline.
Then I’m back in the chair. Staring at nothing. Silence presses down, smothering. I sigh, long and dramatic. Bored out of my skull. Alister told me to stay put but fuck that. I’m not a prisoner. I can at least carry my dirty dishes to the kitchen and refill my glass.
It’s not until I’m creeping down the stairs, bowl and cup clutched tight to my chest like contraband, that I admit the truth. This isn’t about dishes. Or water.
I want to know what’s going on downstairs.
I want to see Alister.
There’s this pull, a tug like a string is tied from my chest to his, dragging me toward him whether I want it or not. I know it’s wrong. Messed up. I only met him hours ago, but I can’t seem to help it.
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
Emily Dickinson said that too. Mine wants trouble, apparently.
I’ve just rounded the corner into the kitchen when I slam into a brick wall. I gasp. My dishes go flying. They shatter across the tile with a loud crash.
The “wall” yelps.
I stumble back and get a good look at him, six and a half feet of solid muscle stuffed into a red-and-black flannel shirt with sleeves rolled back to display meaty forearms like he just clocked out from chopping down redwoods. Red hair, ginger stubble, a jaw carved from stone. Basically the dictionary definition of manly man.
He clutches his chest like a Victorian maiden, green eyes bugging out.
“Alister,” he squeaks, high and shrill, in a thick Scottish accent. “There’s a girl in your house. A live one!”
Live one?What else would I be?
I blink at him, deadpan. “Chill, Paul Bunyan. I’m not here to steal your axe.”
His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again like he’s not sure if he should argue or apologize. Which is hilarious, considering he’s built like he could bench-press a truck.
Alister comes flying into the kitchen, more ruffled than I’ve seen him so far. He spots me and skids to a stop, eyes sharp, voice clipped. “Madison! What’re you doing?”
“I was thirsty. Geez. Can’t a girl get a drink around here?” I shoot back, sinking to the floor before he can answer. I start sweeping shards of porcelain into a pile with my hands like that’ll fix anything.
“Ouch! Shit.” A jagged edge bites into my fingertip, and a bead of blood wells bright red. I’m looking down so I’m not sure exactly what happens, but suddenly Alister is by my side. He leans over me, closer than he’s ever been before. A smell hits me then, clean, a bit metallic, rain in the summer when it hits the sun-warmed concrete. So intoxicating, it makes my mouth water, and I swear it’s coming from him. I lock up, lift my eyes and see how he stares at my finger, pupils so dilated that there’s no blue left. Only black. He wets his lips and something sharp glints in his mouth. A distant part of my brain screams in warning, but the sound is dull, too low for me to comprehend.
“Alister!”
The redhead, Paul Bunyan, my lumberjack nightmare, slams into him from the side, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, shoving him back so hard Alister’s shoes slide and scramble across the floor.
“Out. Now.” Lumberjack’s voice is low and rough, full of authority.
Alister snarls, an animalistic, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. Then he jerks his head away, spine stiff, and stalks toward the door like aman dragged on a leash he doesn’t want to follow. The lumberjack follows him out of the room.
