It began to get worse the other day, after I ran from what I’m pretty sure now was nobody.
Nobody chasing me. Nobody trying to hurt me.
That’s another whole worry, though luckily, I’m seeing Dr. Caruso tomorrow to reevaluate my dosages.
It’s almost comforting in a weird way to know that I’m not “going” crazy.
I'm alreadythere.
Being crazy, I suppose, is sort of like being an addict. You’ll always be one, and there’s nothing that’ll change it. But sobriety is about being an addict who doesn't use. And being on psych meds is about keeping the crazy in check. Imaginary villains chasing me through the night? Yeah, that's not in check.
But that's not what I’m talking about with “things getting worse” after that night.
I’m talking aboutBane.
He held me that night. He didn’t chase me, or roughly throw me to the ground and fuck me to within an inch of my life. He didn’t wring the orgasms from me until I was shuddering and blubbering and dripping all over the place.
He just held me. He pulled me out of the dark hole my head had fallen into, held me in his arms, and brought me to bed.
I truly don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep so peacefully or felt as safe as I did the night I crashed out with my breath against his skin.
But later that same night, I woke to emptiness.
No warm chest beneath my cheek. Just cool sheets.
We sleep together all the time. By which I mean, wefuck. A lot. But there’s no actual sleeping together.
We haven’t actually ever fucked in a bed. It’s always against a wall, on the floor, bent over his desk, on a couch, one knee up on the bathroom vanity and my breath and makeup fogging and smudging the mirror… You get the idea.
I’m not getting all emo about it andpiningfor him to take me to literal bed.
He’s not that kind of guy. And I don’t think I’m that kind of girl.
But the memory of how I felt falling asleep in his arms has me in its grip. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it away.
Bane nods at the book closed in front of me. “A little light reading?”
I glance down at the dust jacket masking Lark’s diary and then back up at him, grinning. “Totally. Casual, fun stuff, you know?”
His mouth twists in what I’ve come to realize is Bane’s version of a smirk.
“What’s up?” I ask.
His dark eyes lift to mine. “Come with me.”
He’s already walking away out of the kitchen. I slip the diary into my bag slung over the back of the kitchen stool before I quickly follow. He leads us up to the second floor, into one of the guest rooms that I've never had need to enter.
I’m confused when Bane opens another door, one that you'd think led to a closet. I follow him into the darkness, then he flips on a light switch.
Whoa.
It’s not a closet. It's an art studio, complete with easels, shelves of supplies, and a stack of blank, stretched canvases, including some extra-huge ones. I’ve never had a chance to paint on those, but have always wanted to try.
Slowly, I drag my eyes back to the easel in front of me.
Myeasel from home, with my name painted in dark pink on one of the legs.
“Your stepmother is…” Bane’s brow furrows deeply.
