Page 656 of Hell Hath No Fury
But Salem loves it.
She loves the misery, the desolation, the silence, the emptiness.
We’ve spent hours and days in that spot. She says it gives her peace, reminds her of our town, St. Mary’s. Her favorite bridge that she loved hanging out at.
And that’s where I find her.
Sitting on the sand, watching the silver water, her curls flying in the salty air.
The sight of her tiny figure slams into my chest like a hurtling train.
It’s relief. It’s euphoria.
It’s what I feel when at the end of the day I come home to find her waiting for me.
But the anger, the sheer trauma of the past couple of hours poisons the sweet relief. And it’s as if she can sense it, she can sense my turmoil even from a distance, she snaps her gaze over to me.
Her mouth falls open and she springs up to her feet.
Her dress flutters around her legs as she takes off toward me. I stop though. I stop walking. I stop breathing.
If I could stop the rush of blood, the roar of it, inside my body, I would do that too.
Because I need to control myself.
I need to control the shaking, the shivering. The way my bones and muscles are shifting under the surface.
As though in preparation for an earthquake, just because she’s okay.
Just because I’ve found her and she’s running toward me.
Panting, she reaches me. “Hey. What… How did you know I was here?”
I watch her face in the dying light of the evening. Count her freckles like I always do. A useless habit of mine, one I can’t break.
One that makes me want to pull her down now and fuck her in the sand as I lick them. As I make her scream and pay for putting me through this.
“I came home and you were gone,” I say somehow through the vicious arousal that’s choking me.
Her eyes widen. “Yes. I’m –”
“I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
She comes closer. “I know. I know. It’s my fault.”
“I called.”
“Oh, my phone.” She frowns. “I think the battery died.”
Such a simple explanation that only fans my aggression. “Your battery died.”
She swallows, her delicate throat shifting as she eyes me with caution. “Yes. And that’s why you always remind me to charge my phone.”
“But you don’t listen.”
She nods. “I know and I’m sorry. I should. I will. Listen to you. I promise.”
“You lied to me.”
