The smell of freshly brewed coffee wakes me. I feel around the bed, but my fingers do not find Zayn. Instead, the sheets are cold. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, it dawns on me that my nightmares have stopped. Like, completely stopped. Every night that I sleep beside Zayn, I sleep soundly and without disruption. No memories, no Demon, no terror.Just… peace.
I rise and stretch my arms above my head. When I stand and reach for my phone, I am acutely aware of a delicious soreness from deep in my core. A blush spreads across my chest, remembering every inch of pleasure that Zayn wrenched from my body last night.
Three times, I think.Three fucking times.
A quick check of my phone shows that Zayn has gone into Seattle for the day on business. He says I can stay here as long as I’d like, and to help myself to coffee and breakfast.
I tie the long belt of Zayn’s navy-blue robe around myself. Walking through the small cottage, I grasp a large mug of thecoffee that Zayn had brewed. I gaze out the window over the kitchen sink that overlooks his mother’s garden.
I ponder his words from last night and wonder what it had been like to grow up in this house. Zayn had alluded to the tyranny and violence of his father. Had referenced the chaos and cruelty fueled by untreated substance abuse that reigned over this place when he was a child. My heart constricts in my chest as I imagine it. Having to defend your own mother like that. Killing him, even if by accident. It was self-defense, really.
I had grown up without my mother, yes. But Dad had always taken good care of Rae and me. He made childhood as normal and as happy as possible for us. I have a feeling that what Zayn endured was far worse.I make a mental note to ask him more about his brother tonight over dinner. Will, I think, is his name?
I walk along the built-in wall bookshelf, hand crafted by Zayn and professionally lit. It is a thing of beauty, truly. As I admire his handiwork, I trail a finger along the spines of his impressive collection. They were organized neatly in perfect rows: first by genre, and then by author surname. My eyes take in the city of stories that Zayn built for himself here, full of buried worlds, secret thoughts, and forgotten promises. Classics and modern tales alike. A true library.
It feels like home.
My fingers graze the spine of a well-worn book by Bram Stoker.Dracula. Of course. I stop my perusal, feeling drawn to it. Smiling to myself, I wonder: Did Zayn keep this in his library purely because it was a classic? Or did he relate to the characters, perhaps the story itself? I pull the book toward me.
Opening the black leather cover, I flip through the pages absentmindedly. Countless notes and highly detailed annotations greet me. And as I read Stoker’s words, I find myself wondering if Zayn would identify more with Van Helsing? Or Count Dracula himself?
My eyes catch on a hand-written annotation, half-hidden in the margin of a page towards the middle of the book. A tiny little scribble, barely noticeable unless you were really looking for it.
“The wild rose possibly meant to ward off evil, and to symbolize purity, innocence.”
My stomach drops. The words weren’t significant on their own, though he had certainly gotten the symbolism right. But the handwriting... I had seen it before.
The perfectly formed letters. The hard point of the dots and periods—like the writer was angry at the paper.
It was unmistakable: This was the exact same handwriting as the note I found with the tox report in Dad’s closet.
I take a shaky breath, tracing the letters with my fingers. Then I snap the book closed and slip it back onto its spot on the shelf.
I am going to be sick.And running to the bathroom, I flip open the lid of the toilet. I heave, choking on the thick surge of acid in my throat.It burns.I move to the basin sink and splash some cold water on my face and rinse out my mouth.
Could Zayn have had something to do with my father’s death? No. No way. He had killed his father in self-defense. To save his mother. He wasn’t a true killer.
Right?
My fingers tingle as I grab my phone on the nightstand and type out a message to Zayn.
Me
Hey. When will you be back from Seattle?
Zayn
Hey baby. Should be back around 6 or so. I can meet you at PH at 6:30. I’ll cook dinner for us?
Me
OK.
Zayn
You all good, Doc?
I close my lock screen without replying. I switch my phone to DND and get ready for work.
