White-hot rage burns through me as I run through the woods, following a trail that Henry found. I should’ve fucking killed him. Ripped his throat out and watched as the life drained from his eyes. I knew he was a predator, and I did nothing. If he hurts Ada, it’ll be my fault for not acting. For trying to convince myself not to give in to violence and allow myselfto sink down that dark path.
I’m done pretending I’m decent. Done fighting the urge to hurt him.
Certainty has my heartbeat slowing. My breathing growing steady. My vision sharpening as I spot the cabin at the end of this path.
Henry pauses when we reach the clearing, and I use that opportunity to grab onto his collar and look him in the eyes again. “I’ve got it from here. Go back home,” I whisper.
He lets out a disgruntled huff, licks my mask and stays put by my side.
“Come on, be a good boy. I’ll give you all the treats in the world when Ada and I get home if you listen to me.”
Henry huffs again and moves towards Tom’s cabin rather than back the way we came.
With a curse, I follow, letting myself sink into that scarred pit in my chest that I’ve tried so hard to ignore. My muscles swell and my claws flex as I let the darkness inside flood my veins. I embrace what I’ve become with open arms, no longer afraid of what I am.
A grim smile curves my lips as I pull my hood up and stalk toward the cabin.
Even if I could go back in time and have the chance to walk away from Ada’s dreams while I was still my old self, I know in my soul I wouldn’t. I’d choose every time to stay and give her what she needs.
My princess has grown up. She doesn’t need sweet, gentle Seth now.
She needs her monster.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Tom’s burning the bacon, but there’s no way I am eating it anyway, so I don’t give a fuck. He’s facing me instead of the stove, and I tuned out of his incel-ranting about thirty seconds ago. It started the second I sat down, and I just can’t be bothered. If I listen too closely, I’m going to lose it. And I need him to think I’m compliant so I don’t get hurt before I figure out what is going on.
Maybe I’m trained to be this way by my upbringing, because the second I stop thinking logically about it, everything in my being is saying, “just make the man happy.” Maybe the “strong feminist” thing to do would be to challenge him, but I have exactly zero self-defense training beyond a few videos I’ve been able to watch online.
When push comes to shove, I am not pushing nor shoving, I am keeping my ass safe by keeping sweet until an opportunity presents itself. So, while he’s rambling about how women taking men’s jobs is why our economy is ruined, I’m checking if the kitchen window is barred (it’s not); if I have a straight shot to the front door (no); if he keeps weapons on him around the house (a knife but not a gun).
It’s a miracle I’m not vibrating in my seat at the table, because the amount of adrenaline running through my bodyhas me convinced I should be shaking right out of my seat. Tom waves the spatula around like it’s a pointer, and my eyes follow it, remembering that it’s a weapon in his hands.
“Tom?” I say when he pauses. “Would you like me to finish breakfast? It’s the least I can do.” I look up at him through my lashes, simpering. Having him away from the stove and the spatula will give me the smallest relief, so I hope he takes the bait.
He smiles and stands straighter, as if it’s a wonderful idea that he only just thought of. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’d love it if you made me breakfast.”
Raising my cheeks in the fakest pageant girl smile of my life, I stand and hold my hand out for the spatula. Tom hands it over, beaming as I scurry over to the stove.
“I’m so glad you seem to be feeling better.” He stretches out in the chair as I take the bacon out of the pan and crack some eggs into the grease. I don’t like them that way—too greasy—but I’m not leaving the stove until I absolutely have to. God only knows why he didn’t see the spatula and the heavy cast iron pan as weapons, but I sure as hell do. For that matter, the hot grease is, too.
Feeling somewhat safer, my adrenaline rush subsides, which unfortunately means that my fear and anxiety have come sauntering in its place. My empty stomach clenches, telling me that I’d better not even try to put anything in it. No worries there, you couldn’t pay me to eat that sweaty finger bacon.
“How do you like your eggs?” I ask over my shoulder, hoping Tom won’t start up again.
“Over easy, sweetheart, just like you.”
I shudder, hoping he doesn’t see it. “Great.” What the fuck does that evenmean?
From here, I can see out the window into the woods toward my house. It’s far enough that I have no hope of actually seeing it, but just looking makes me feelmarginally better, more in control. If I can get him to leave me alone in the kitchen, I can climb up on the counter and squeeze my ass through that little thing. Then, I’ll have a straight shot to my house, instead of needing to waste time circling around.
A small part of me still hopes Seth is coming, but it’s fading fast. If he were, he’d be here by now. And who the hell do I even think I am, asking for his help? Sure, we’ve had some good times in dreams, and he made me cookies, but he was just trying to cheer me up. He was doing what hehadto do to keep me happy.
He didn’t need to put me into bed, though. He didn’t need to put frozen broccoli on my head. He didn’t need to make me cocoa.That same small part of me doesn’t want us to give up hope, even though he’s probably my least likely option.
No, more certain is me thinking up some way to get out of here on my own… hopefully before my dad flies across the country to find me. I squeeze my eyes shut, because all of a sudden, I feel like crying.
