Page 74 of Horror and Chill
Someone laid out clothes on the couch. A soft black T-shirt that looks like it will fall off one shoulder. A pair of cotton underwear with the tag on. My fingers pause over them.
“They aren’t yours,” I say.
“No,” Evander answers. “We did some shopping before we grabbed you.”
The underwear is simple. The shirt smells like cedar and detergent and a ghost of smoke. I dress with my back turned because I can and because it makes Corwin swear under his breath. When I face them again, my skin feels scraped clean, thin and too new.
I sit back on the couch and pick up the notebook. The pencil moves on its own. The shot list grows. I make little boxes next to each item and check them as I talk through the angles. They listen. They interrupt. They argue over where to stand even when I tell them they don't get to be seen.
And then I do the thing I never thought I was going to do. I plan them in.
Corwin closes his eyes like a prayer just went answered. Garron’s jaw ticks, but he nods once. Evander looks at me like a kid in a candy shop.
They split for supplies with a speed that makes me wonder how many times they have put a night together in less than a day. Garron takes the keys and a list. Corwin takes my pencil and tucks it behind his ear like he is going to pretend to be helpful. Evander stays.
“You’re not worried I’ll run,” I ask.
“I’m worried you’ll try,” he answers. “Then I’ll have to send Garron after you, and you’ll not like that lesson.”
“What happens if I pass all your tests?” I ask. “What prize do I get then?”
He studies my face as if the prize is already there. “You don't want a prize. You want a place to stand and choose.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I'm sure of you,” he says.
It should make me want to scream. It doesn’t. It makes me want to pick up the camera and see what I look like when a man says it and means it.
“Tomorrow,” I stand again because my body can't hold still now that my head has decided. “We film.”
“After you sleep,” he says.
“I’m wired.”
He nods toward the stairs. “Bed.”
My pulse jumps. “So what, I just trot upstairs like a good little captive?”
“You’ll walk,” he says, calm as if he already knows the answer.
I hate that he’s right. My legs carry me up the stairs, anyway. Each creak of the wood sounds too loud in the empty cabin. The hallway stretches long, the same family photos I didn’t bother to look at earlier watching me pass. The door to the bedroom waits open, the cuffs still hanging from the frame like proof.
I stop just inside, folding my arms tight. “You want me here?”
“I want you where you’ll sleep.” He shuts the door behind us.
I glance at the cuffs, expecting him to grab them, to buckle me down again. But he doesn’t. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back; slow, deliberate. His arm reaches across the space between us.
“Come here.”
“Fuck you.”
“Already did,” he says, voice steady. “Come here anyway.”
I stand frozen, the air thick with everything unsaid. Then my body betrays me again. My bare feet move, my knees hit the mattress, and I lower myself down stiff as stone. His arms wrap around my waist before I can think. Not crushing. Not choking. Just there. A weight I can’t shake.
“Hey—” My protest dies as his chest presses into my back, heat seeping into me. His breath brushes my hair.
