It was real.
He dragged me to hell, and before I fell into the bottom of the flaming pit, he snatched me up and threw me back to the world of the living.
I drop to my knees and stare at my distraught reflection, my face red with anger and slightly burned by hell’s heat. He’s teaching me a lesson, a lesson of critical importance, a reminder that he can take me at any time, for any reason, per our contract.
I’m his. He owns me.
For the last five years, our relationship hasn’t been perfect, but given who he is, what he is, things could be so much worse. He saved my life, and I owe him my unwavering devotion and loyalty. But as my arm throbs and my back stings, all I can think about is Dr. Z.
Mastyx has made it clear to me that I’m not to have contact with or even think about him. But how? My arm is clearly broken and needs to be casted.
I wipe the moisture from my face, rise and pick up my phone. It’s only 9:00 a.m., and I’m broken, burned, and cut, in no condition to go to work. I type a quick message to my boss, letting her know I’m going to Urgent Care for a possible broken arm.
My phone pings a few seconds later. Here comes the barrage of questions.How? Are you okay? Is it your dominant side?
Really?
I’m not answering that question. They want to know if I can still come in and work with one hand. Fucking ridiculous. I could be fresh out of surgery, and my employer would ask if I’m coming in later.
No. Hell no.
I reach over my shoulder, grip the fabric of my shirt and pull it over my head. It drops silently to the ground as I stand back in front of the mirror and turn around. Tears burst from my eyes. Ten distinct puncture marks mar my back and will no doubt scar. Mastyx’s claws dug deep into my flesh, like a cat clinging to a drape. A drop of blood drains from one of the holes, clearly deeper than the rest. This will be hard to explain to a doctor. The only thing I could think to say is that I was practicing body suspension when my equipment failed.
Makes sense. It will explain my back and arm, so that’s what I’ll go with.
The smell of armpit wafts into my nose. I haven’t showered in a few days. I’ve been too preoccupied with projects. Now, my throbbing arm pushes my overwhelming desire to shower to the back burner.
After fumbling into a pair of gray sweats and a black t-shirt, I step into the living room. On the floor by the fireplace is myhospital discharge paperwork. I kneel to pick them up, when the front door flies open, carrying leaves into the room and a draft that blows the papers into the low-burning flames. The fire rises, lighting up my face and heating the room as it burns the papers hotter than it should.
A clawed hand rises from the inferno, landing on the ashes. The remnants slowly disappear as Mastyx brushes them away like dust on a table.
His hand slowly retreats into the flames, leaving fresh claw marks in its wake. My eyes get stuck on the fire as it decreases in intensity, Mastyx returning to his fiery abode.
Dr. Z flashes through my mind, and the fire rises higher. My shin stings at the sudden lash of Mastyx’s tongue. I leap away from the snake-like appendage and stare wide-eyed as it regresses to the fireplace and crimson soaks into the fabric of my sweats before trickling down my leg onto my foot. I peer through the hole in my pants. It’s not a deep lashing, but it’s enough to send a wave of regret over me. My eyes drift to my wall calendar, and an uncontrollable tremor washes over me. The next full moon is brightly marked with a red heart.
He may kill me this time—take what he wants from me before ending my life and consuming my soul. This is what I signed up for when I allowed him to save me from certain death. I love my life most of the time, but I find myself wondering if I made the right choice. Cheating death never ends well for anyone in the movies, and I expect one day I’ll end up in hell, where I belong.
There’s no sense in helping the universe by being reckless and having unclean thoughts. I empty my mind and focus on the task at hand, getting my ass to Urgent Care.
I drop my Ugg boots to the floor in front of me, sit in my armchair and pull them on one at a time. Exhaustion suddenly plagues me, and when I stand, my body sways a little, fighting to stay upright.
Is Mastyx doing this? Trying to keep me from leaving?
My fingers curl around the doorknob, and I swing the front door open, my heart leaping into my throat at the sight of Dr. Z ascending my porch steps.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Fire Inside
I quickly swing the door around, trying to shut it in his face. His foot wedges between the door and the frame, stopping me. “Oh my God,” he says as I release the door and back up into the house. “What the heck happened to your arm?”
My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. I rotate my head to the fireplace, the flames licking into the room as they grow higher. “You have to leave, right now.” I push him out of the open doorway.
Once we reach the porch, he stops moving, refusing to take another step. “No. Not until you tell me how you hurt your arm?” He takes my arm in his hands and applies a gentle pressure, examining it. I can’t stop the tears that come next, not only from the pain but from the fear of what’s to come. Heat floats through the opening in the door, striking me in the face.
Dr. Z feels it too. He lets my arm go, grabs the door handle and slams the partition closed. He gazes at the glowing light beneath the door and takes a step back as my legs give way, collapsing at his feet.
“Please, I’m begging you. You have to leave.” My bottom lip quivers as I stare up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Please.”
