Do I know what I’m going to say to him? No. Not really. But he sure as shit is going to know that I think he’s a damn coward for hiding away like he has. I’ve been growing more and more desperate the longer he’s missing.
A sour taste forms at the back of my throat when I get to the room the magic happened—the sex, not the literal magic. What if he’s avoiding me because he regrets it? Because it was a heat-of-the-moment thing and he’s back to being repulsed by me?
That can’t all be true. I could practically feel the tension in my dead soul all the other times nothing more than a couple layers of fabric separated us. He’s attracted to me, and he hates it.
I understand the feeling.
“Lynx, you fucking cunt. Get out here,” I growl, throwing open the door to a cupboard.
I highly doubt he’s hiding in here, but I’m pissed off enough to look anywhere—especially when my core still aches every time I move.
“I swear on my goddamn corpse that if you don’t show yourself in the next ten seconds, I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass, you’re going to be tasting ghost rubber for the rest of your pathetic existence.”
Nothing.
As I expected.
I grit my teeth and storm into the study near the end of the hall. What remains of Mother’s favorite place in the house is ripped wallpaper, broken white bookcases, and cobwebs strewn across every corner and creating a second layer of fabric over the mold-dotted curtains.
Even as the dead, I don’t feel welcome in here. There’s always been some kind of aura about the room that repelled me.
Ella loved coming in here in the mornings when Mother graced us with her departure. My sister would sit in the alcove against the window, overlooking the marble fountain, down the long driveway and into the forest, soaking up the brisk early sun as she studied or read.
I never joined her. I’d only ever watch from the doorway, as if there was an invisible force field keeping me out.
It feels no different now, yet it’s something else entirely. Cathartic, almost, to see the remains of my mother’s godlike life reduced to trash and decay.
My attention drifts to the dent in the dirty rug where an antique executive desk once stood in front of a Goya painting. Then to the spot in front of the table where the events of my first childhood memory occurred—Mother striking me across the face for failing my second spelling test in first grade.
This entire building is a haunted house of memories, and Lynx has taken it upon himself to make it worse.
My hands curl into fists. I’m going to figure out how to push him out of the window. And if not the window, off the roof will suffice.
“Jackass,” I grumble under my breath.
Not only did he chase me. Notonlydid he shove his demon semen in me—he let me fall through a motherfucking window and didn’t even check on me. He could’ve kissed my booboo or at the very least pulled my dress up so my tits weren’t out in the open for any other ghost to see.
That’s why I’m mad.
It’s the only reason.
Not because I let go of my inhibitions and foolishly thought my life would miraculously improve and I’d finally get to feel all warm and gooey inside like in all those bullshit romance movies Ella would watch.
I stomp up to the window seat my sister was always so fond of. I still remember the feeling of the morning sun—like honey on my skin—the rare few times I dared venture this far into the room. Now, in the darkness of the afternoon, all I feel is cold. Always so goddamn cold.
My gaze follows the shadows cast by the trees into the forest, down the path where my body is laid to rest.
Blowing out a breath, I stare at my feet.
I’m lying to myself. I mainly want to find Lynx because I’m… It’s so quiet. The groans of the house and the birdsong have become deafening, and when he’s around, it’s… I can hear clearly again.
He doesn’t feel the same as I do, and I need to get over myself. I’ve had a year to practice living in silence. I need to learn to be content with keeping my own company. Dead, alone, and empty. That’s how I was before I became a corpse; that’s how it’ll always be after.
With that thought, suddenly the room is just a room. This house is just a house.
It’s always cold no matter how many layers of material I conjure onto my body. It’s always quiet even if I scream until my throat tears. This is it. This is what remains of my existence. Locked in a place where the only person I can speak to wants nothing to do with me.
There’s Tony—or Tidus, I should say—but it isn’t the same. He’s not around much, and talking to him feels more like abalm than a cure. Whereas arguing with Lynx sparks something I thought was dead.
