"She isn't hurting herself," Anders’ voice. Sharp, but frayed at the edges. "She's processing. Leave her alone."
"I left my bag," Simon whispered. "Anders, my sketchbook is in there. If she opens it…"
"If she opens it, she opens it," Daniel’s rumble cut through the anxiety. "Maybe it’s better she sees it."
"She'll think I'm a creep," Simon sounded devastated. "She'll think I've been stalking her."
"Youhavebeen stalking her," Anders pointed out dryly. "digitally, at least."
"Shut up," Simon hissed.
I backed away from the door, clutching the book tighter.
He thought I would think he was a creep. He thought I would be repulsed.
I looked down at the drawing of my own climax one more time. The lines were so dark, so heavy with emotion. It wasn't the work of a creep. It was the work of someone who had been starving for years.
Just like me.
I closed the book. The snap was loud in the quiet room.
I walked to the dresser and shoved the sketchbook into the top drawer, burying it under a stack of grey wool socks. I couldn't look at it anymore. If I kept looking at it, I was going to do something stupid. I was going to unlock the door.
I was going to beg.
And I had sworn I wouldn't.
I turned off the overhead light, plunging the room into the grey gloom of the storm’s aftermath. I crawled back into the bed, pulling the duvet over my head, creating a cave.
It smelled like them in here. The pillow smelled like Anders, while the sheets smelled like Daniel, and the air smelled like Simon’s fear and desire.
I curled my knees to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut.
The narrative had changed. They weren't the villains who laughed. They were the wolves who waited.
And I was trapped in the den with them.
My hand drifted down, unbidden, to the ache between my legs. I gritted my teeth, refusing to touch. Refusing to give them that satisfaction, even in secret.
I won't beg,I told myself again.
But as I lay there in the dark, breathing in their scents, I wondered how long I could hold out against the hunger in the hallway, when the same hunger was already eating me alive from the inside out.
TWELVE
Daniel
The wall was cool against my back, a solid reality in a house made mostly of glass and shadows. I sat on the hardwood floor of the hallway, my legs stretched out in front of me as much as I was able, staring at the empty space where a painting should have been.
One hour.
It had been one hour since the heavy brass deadbolt had slid home, sealing Tessa Kane inside her fortress and leaving us outside in the ruins of our own guilt.
Down the hall, the living room was quiet. Anders was pacing, I didn't need to see him to know it. I could hear the rhythmicclick-clackof his shoes turning at the end of every lap, a pendulum measuring anxiety in Italian leather. Simon was silent, likely curled up on the couch staring at the rain, or scrubbing his hands for the twentieth time.
But I stayed here.
I was the guard dog. I was the heavy furniture guarding the door to keep the world out.
