“I brought it.”He slides the glasses over the table and pours a generous amount into each.
I take the glass.“I didn’t peg you for a whisky drinker.”I’ve never had whisky before.My father drinks it, which has been enough to put me off it, but I’ll gladly drink anything if it’ll thaw the ice coating my bones.
“Sometimes, it’s the only drink that’ll do.”
“And this is one of them?”I raise the glass to my lips.
“Sip it,” he tells me.
It’s hot, like drinking fire, waking up my dormant taste buds as the flavour explodes in my mouth.
“Jesus.”I purse my lips.“People drink this out of choice?”
He almost laughs.Almost.
“Don’t overthink it.Just let it do its job.”He makes his way over to the sink, opens the cupboard, and fishes out a box.He rifles through it and finds a first aid kit.
Wordlessly, he lays the kit out on the table and finds antiseptic wipes.Then he stops and assesses me before speaking.
“Show me your arms.”
I unwrap myself from the blanket whilst trying to keep my chest covered.Not because I feel like he’s watching me, but I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable.
He scans the scratches.
“Did I do this?”I ask, my voice breaking.
“Do you remember doing it?”He pulls a chair out and sits opposite me.As he takes one of my arms in his hand, he says, “This’ll sting.”Gently, he dabs at the wound with the antiseptic wipe.
I wince, and he pauses, the wipe held aloft.He looks at me, waiting.I nod, silently giving him permission to continue.He’s so gentle, so careful, and it amazes me.Because he’s so brutal, so fierce looking.I’ve never seen this side of him, this caring, careful Beast.
He continues to clean the wounds, and I begin to relax at the touch of his enormous hands.
When he’s done, he pulls the blanket over my shoulders before moving around to the other side of the table and sitting down.He shifts in his seat, as if he’s sat on something, then pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and places it on the table, facing the window.He reclines, resting his ankle on the other knee, cradling his drink near his crotch.He’s in his standard black T-shirt and black combats—always the professional, always on the job—and I wonder where the real man is, Fenrir Therion, and whether I’ve met him.
Another gulp of whisky burns my eyes.The liquid trickles down my throat, thawing the frozen fear that’s taken root.
“Can you tell me what happened?”he asks.
I take another sip, hoping it’ll give me the courage to speak, evoke some words to describe the indescribable.
There was the stripping in front of the camera.How could I forget that little stunt?But then I got into bed and fell asleep to thoughts of him touching himself.Not a detail I can share right now.
After that, nothing.
No, that’s a lie.There wasn’t nothing.There was the dread, this god-awful fear that wrapped me in cold arms and squeezed me.
And then screaming.
Someone screaming.
Pain.
Red-hot, searing pain.
New screams.
Myscreams.
