Page 100 of Horror and Chill
I don’t answer. Words ruin things. I slide closer, press my chest against her back, and loop my arm around her waist. She tenses, just for a second, then exhales slowly.
“Evander.” My name on her lips is a warning and a plea all at once.
I tighten my hold. She doesn’t shove me away. She turns toward me until her hand rests on my chest and she buries her face at the base of my throat. Her hand knots in the hem of my shirt where the fabric meets ribs. I curl an arm under her shoulders and let the other fall into her hair, fingers threading through until it becomes soft rope under my thumb.
Her body settles. The fight drains. She lets me hold her.
“Is this all you want?” she whispers.
It’s not all I want. I want to mark her throat with my teeth. I want to hear her scream my name. I want her so consumed by us she forgets what it means to breathe without our permission. But tonight is not for that. Tonight is for showing her she is ours.
“Yes,” I say, and it is half a lie.
Her breath ghosts against my chest. My thumb moves slowly over the line of her jaw, brushing her skin until her eyes slip shut again. I memorize every detail—the weight of her head against me, the way her body fits into mine, the sound she makes when she exhales, half content, half restless.
I think about the week ahead. The blood that will be spilled for her. Michael Templeton. Her mother. The church that carved her open and left scars no one else can see. Corwin is already vibrating with the need to start. Garron is patient but ruthless. And me? I will be the one who makes sure she survives it all, even if it breaks me in the process.
She shifts in her sleep, mutters something I can’t catch. My hand stills in her hair. She has no idea what she agreed to by getting into our vehicle. No idea what kind of monsters she’s chosen to lie down with. But she will. By the end of this week, she will.
I press my mouth to the top of her head, a kiss so light it might never have happened. She stirs but doesn’t wake.
“You’re ours,” I whisper, the words for me more than her. “After this week, you’ll know.”
The candle sputters, then dies, throwing the room into darkness. There’s a tiny ache in my chest, the kind that comes from holding something precious and knowing you might be the thing that breaks it. I ignore it and close my eyes.
She curls closer, and the heat of her shoulder presses into my ribs. I let my hand slide across the line of her spine andfeel the small rise and fall that keeps time. There is trust in the way her fingers loosen at my shirt. There is trust in the way she stays. Trust is not a word we hand out lightly. It is currency, and it must be earned. Tonight she's spending some of it without asking permission.
Sleep arrives in fits. When it comes, it takes me by the ankles and drags me under until the world smooths and everything else is a slow blur. I dream of fire.
When morning finds us, the house smells of coffee. Agatha is wrapped up like a small animal with eyes half open and a mouth that forms the edges of a smile I almost don’t deserve. I keep my hand in her hair until she stirs and reaches up to hold my wrist like she needs to prove I’m real.
“You stayed in here all night,” she says, voice hoarse with sleep.
“I did,” I answer.
She scoots up and presses her forehead to mine. I think about the week coming and all the hands that we’ll have to hurt and hold to keep this promise. I think about how far I’ll go and how I’ll still keep some part of her safe, even if it wrecks me.
The silence stretches until Garron yells from downstairs and Corwin shouts something filthy from down the hall. The moment cracks. I stand, and something solid settles in my chest. This isn’t just wanting her for myself. It’s an oath. Ugly things are waiting. Blood too. But when it’s done, I want her to know it was for her. So she can wake up and know she’s the hand that steadies our blades.
I leave the room without a word and head back to mine. Stripping off my clothes, I toss them onto a chair and pull on a clean shirt and jeans. I stand at the sink in the connected bath and as I brush my teeth, my mind wanders to Michael.
I think about showing him what it means to touch what belongs to us. I think about Debra too, how she stood by andlet things happen while she looked the other way or played the obedient wife. The whole town flashes through my mind, them watching and knowing but not stopping anything.
The air in the bathroom smells like mint and my Swagger deodorant. I take a piss, then wash my hands. All the while smirking at myself in the mirror, thinking about the wolves our Little Horror brought to her home pasture and how we’re going to devour them.
I head downstairs and find Garron sitting at the table in the kitchen making a list while Corwin is looking at a map. They look up when I come in but don’t say anything. The plan is underway because we don’t wait for permission when something needs to be done.
I reach for the coffeepot and a mug, pouring the morning brew into my cup.
Black. No sugar.
I wrap both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into my hands as I turn and stand next to the table. Garron doesn’t look my way; he slides a paper toward me, and on it are times and places written in his handwriting.
“You good?” Garron asks.
“Good,” I reply, taking a drink. “How did you get all this already?”
“It’s the church’s weekly schedule. As deep as he is in the congregation, no way is he not there for all these events.”
