So, I do, drifting off to the murmur of voices I trust, safe in the arms of one of my loves.
Chapter 82
Clara
Idon’t know what wakes me, but I jolt up in bed, my heart racing.
I guess this will be another night with almost no sleep. It’s not like it matters how tired I am. Frustrated, I wiggle free of a pile of warm men, but when I make it to the door, I pause, unable to keep from smiling at what I see.
All four of them are sprawled out on the floor—Walker, Jansen, and RJ crowded on the two mattresses, while Trips is curled around a pillow right beside them.
The four of them, together, asleep. Jansen rolls, taking over the space I just left, and I chuckle as Walker swings an arm over him, tugging him closer.
I don’t want to leave them, but staring for too long makes me feel like a creep, so I grab one of the suit jackets from the pile, the acrid smoke still deep in the fabric, and close thedoor quietly behind me. Then I head downstairs to see if any of the food we got looks edible.
Someone left on a lamp in the kitchen, a warm glow that does almost nothing to light up the space. It feels strange not to have Fluffington winding between my legs as I dig through the bags on the counter, and fury builds in my chest at what could have been. He could have died. I can’t even imagine what that would have done to Jansen. As it was, he was pale and shaking, unable to wind down when he came into the room, finally stilling like he fell off a cliff, RJ saying something about his meds kicking in. He and Walker had found a 24-hour pharmacy that was willing to give him a week’s worth of meds until a new prescription can be called in, now that everything he needed was ash.
RJ had called ahead so Jansen didn’t have to stress about not getting them, and Walker joined him to verify his story with a police report RJ had forwarded. The conversation about it had woken me up for a minute, but it also eased my mind, seeing how they all pitched in without question or prodding. How well they care for each other.
I end up opening a box of crackers, the peanut butter, and pouring myself a glass of water, glad that we at least have the smattering of dishes from Jansen and Emma staying here.
The house creaks, and I glance out the window, expecting to see flurries pummeling the panes like they were earlier, but an eerie stillness waits outside, not a single flake drifting from the trees in the streetlights. It’s the kind of night where the temperature plummets past what anyone can survive, and I’m glad we didn’t go to pick up the cars once the police said the guys could doso.
Another creak echoes in the space, the silence making it sound closer than the other one, and I shiver, not used to this new, empty house. A ring of keys sits at the end of the island, and I idly flick through it, recognizing Trips’ handwriting on the top of each key, the label with ‘home’ on it making my heart pang.
It’s all gone.
No more breakfasts crowded around the island or spread out on the couches in the living room. No long baths in a clawfoot tub or finding Jansen sprawled across a pile of pillows like a prince, working to find his center. No more room hopping or discovering pieces of each of my guys in their personal spaces.
Walker’s horrifically gorgeous mural, burned to the ground.
My pink chairs, Jansen’s practice locks, RJ’s technology, and Trips’ first step toward freedom, the house itself, all gone, eaten by hungry flames and a man unwilling to give me up. Not that he wants me. He wants the idea of me I pretended to be to keep him happy, to protect myself from his anger.
That girl is gone. Burned to a crisp and blown away by stormy winds long before he burned our home hoping to steal what we have.
What we have is bigger than any house. Than things we cared about but have already left once before. We have each other. He took my house.
He could never take my home.
It’s safe, cradled within the strong chests of the four men asleep above me.
A muffled footstep pulls my focus from another cracker, peanut butter heavy on the end of my butter knife. But when I turn, there’s no one in the hallway. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I’ve learned enough over the last few months to trust the tingling in my fingers, the itch of worry down my spine. Setting down my cracker, I lick the knife clean, head dropped while I frantically search for something I can see a reflection in. Because I’m no longer sure I’m here alone.
There’s no strategically placed mirror or reflection in the window. I wiggle the knife around, but it doesn’t catch whatever has my ears straining in the silence.
Why isn’t life like the movies?
I slide from the folding chair and set down the useless butter knife, wishing I knew if there was anything sharper around. With no better option, I pick up the key ring, jiggling the metal in my hand, arranging the teeth between my knuckles as I stroll back to the stairs, primed to run or scream, trying not to make it look like I’m hurrying back upstairs to the guys, even if that’s exactly what I’m doing. I need to be closer. Not because I can’t fight, but because I know the best fight is one I’m guaranteed to win.
The slight scuff of a shoe against the wood right behind me tells me I’m out of time.
“Wake up!” I shout a second before a heavy weight slams into my back, sending me sprawling forward, my only weapon, the keys, skittering out of reach.
I try my best to roll, but I’m taken down at a strange angle, my knee slamming into the floor and the doorknob of thefront door digging into my shoulder, before I smack my head against the frame.
But I’m not who I used to be. Not anymore.
