Page 136 of Anathema Codex

“Get out of bed, Sleeping Junkie!” I holler before taking a sip of the brew.

I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. It’s almost like he doesn’t care what I went through to bring his bestie back. Especially since I put myself through all that bullshit for him, I think irritably as I smack my lips together and then set the mug down on the counter.

I could walk into the bedroom and drag him out by his hair—that’s always a nice way to wake him up. Granted, his dick wouldn’t get hard for a few hours and that means I’d have to take care of myself. Obviously, no one can do anything to me like I can, but I’ve kept this hole around for a reason and he needs to learn to perform when his master calls.

“Ichabod!” I call out in a sing-song tone. “Do you want me to come help you?” I chuckle when I hear the sound of the bed creak, then wait for a few more seconds before I tap my fingers impatiently along the countertop.

His skinny ass feet haven’t started flopping against my floor yet, which means he’s still in bed.

I reach for my cup and take another sip as I lean against the counter. Another possibility to get him out of bed is to toss Trixie at him. The con to that, though, would be that he’d more than likely never get hard again.

Or he might. I don’t know what those goat fuckers did to him when he stayed behind with that Jizz Ball girl.I can’t believe it’s been twenty years since we ended up back at that clusterfuck of a place.It was kind of cute seeing someone trying to be the new Trixie and then getting her ass handed to her by the one and only.

I roll my eyes as I set the cup down again and let my gaze wander toward the ceiling.

The reason I want him to get out of the damn bed is because I’m sick of sleeping in sweaty-ass sheets. He hasn’t showered since I brought Trixie back as some kind of bestie protest of solidarity, but enough is enough.

This is my house and I want to fuck.

And I can’t do that when he smells like he did when I first met him at her majesty’s place.

With a shrug, I dump the rest of the coffee into the sink, clean out my cup and place it in the dish strainer as I head to the living room. Before I sit down, I open the window halfway to get some of the overnight junkie smell out, then plop down on the couch to give him a little time to be a good boy instead of a sissy.

One hour,I decide as I cross my hands behind my neck.And then I’m going to fucking drag you out of there.

FOUR

Pull my Strings

ICHABOD

"I'm not a junkie," I mumble into the empty air above me, knowing that Lakyn can't hear me over the loud music, and part of me wants to just shout things like that at his face. But standing up from myself seems to just amuse him, and I don't feel like being his entertainment this morning.

Not that he's technically wrong.

I was a junkie for a long time, and I did some fucked up things to get me to the next high, but Bea helped me escape that life. She killed the man that got me hooked on that shit. Of course, Lakyn likes to take credit for getting me clean. As if keeping me prisoner is the same as caring about me or conducting some kind of intervention.

It isn't.

If he cared at all, I might be inclined to give him more credit, but Lakyn Meyer doesn't love anyone but himself.

“Ichabod!” he calls out in a sing-song tone. “Do you want me to come help you?”

No, no, no.

I realize I'm holding my breath when the need for oxygen makes the spaces between my ribs pinch. The gasp that drags air back into my lungs should be more than enough to prove to Lakyn that I'm awake, and I flinch in preparation for his assault... but he isn't there.

There's no loud laugh or grunt of frustration as he drags me to the floor, or slaps my ass, or bends me over.

In fact, I can't hear anything other than the music blaring from the radio in the kitchen.

Usually, when I've pushed his buttons in the past, he hasn't waited to strike. Lakyn has always been the type to teach lessons quickly, and I know that's why I've been so tense since I woke up. It's not a fear of death—because death would be mercy at this point—it's just a fear of more pain. More suffering. I was foolish enough to believe he had no more ways to hurt me... but he'd found one when he killed Bea.

Who knows what else he could be hiding up his sleeves?

The sound of birds singing mixes in with the transition between two songs on the radio, and I'm confused for a second as to where the sounds are coming from, but as the next song gets louder the hint of nature fades into the background. I don't think he's left the house. If he had, he probably would have slammed the door just to let me know how pissed he was, to make sure I was nice and scared when he decided to come home.

But what if he just left the door open?

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