Page 62 of Boy of Ruin
Still, I can’t resist glancing in the side view mirror as Jeremiah cuts the engine, gets out of the Mercedes. I take in my reflection, knowing the scar is there, but I can’t see it from here, it’s that small.
I reach for it, running my index finger over the soft ridge, thinking of the night it happened.
My stomach twists into knots.
I hear Jeremiah calling my name from the trunk of the car, probably getting out the bags he packed, but I’m not paying attention.
Suddenly, I’m back there.
It’s the type of sound that chills your bones. An inhuman cry followed by heavy gasps, the shift of the mattress and after that...his head buried in my shoulder, tears damp against my skin.
At least, that’s what it had been.
Tonight, though, it’s different.
He’s not in bed and the wailing comes from downstairs, but I still wake up wide-eyed, my heart nearly beating right out of my chest.
The sheets stick to my legs even with the fan overhead and the AC on freeze and I don’t know if I should sweat this much in the night, but since Sacrificium...the bodies...the cage. The knife to my throat on that altar...
I hear another strangled cry and I flinch, kicking the covers off as I swing my legs, bare feet hitting the cold floor. I don’t bother turning on the light as I race down the stairs, his screams turning to sobs.
My throat tightens with that sound, and for some reason, tonight, I place a hand over my belly. Like an instinct. Still not showing, not even close, but it’s the start of what could be our future.
If we don’t rip it apart first.
I glide my hand down the banister, stumbling over the last step in the dark, tightening my hold along the handrail to steady myself.
The scream is louder down here, blood-curdling. He’s in...agony.
Even if it isn’t real.
I learned long ago that horrors of the mind can kill, too. A knife through the back happens once. Haunting memories get stuck and never leave and sometimes you just want to fucking die to end them all.
But the thought of losing him...I couldn’t.
Releasing the rail, I sprint down the hall, toward the living room, dark enough that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face if I’d bothered holding it up.
But I don’t.
Instead, my arms are churning at my sides as fast as my legs are pumping, that scream growing, the gasps for breath—for relief—tearing into my heart with every second I’m not touching him.
Holding him.
Protecting him from his own mind.
I feel the carpeted rug beneath my feet and instinctively dive to the left to avoid the coffee table. I’ve been stuck inside this house for months now; I’ve memorized every square inch.
But just as I get close to the couch, where I think the noise is coming from, something shatters.
I flinch at the splinter of glass, then stumble back a step, my hands held out in front of my face. My pulse skyrockets, and I strain my ears, listening.
Whatever it was smashed against the wall to my right, which means he could still be on the couch but right now, it’s eerily silent.
Unnervingly quiet.
I can only hear my pulse thudding in my ears, feel my chest rising and falling too fast.
Too fucking fast as fear slides down my spine.
