Page 43 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

“Ishaan,” I calmly instruct. “Would you be so good as to flay the good doctor alive.”

Ishaan’s grin widens and he flexes his claws. The sound of Dr Whyte’s answering screams is like music to my ears, and I savour each agonising moment as I watch. It takes shockingly little time to divest the man of every inch of his skin. After that, I allow Ishaan to get creative.

I’ll give it to Dr Whyte. He survives longer than I thought he would.

The office looks like a slaughterhouse by the time my demon is done, but the scent of blood is eclipsed by the acrid smell of burning. I open the door to a blast of heat and find the corridor awash with flames.

It seems the patients of Crowscroft have decided to burn this place to the ground. Not that I can blame them. I was, after all, planning on doing the same. They’ve just saved me the effort.

“I think it’s time to leave,” I mutter to Ishaan, and I smoke out of the building to rematerialise a safe distance away. Ishaan has shrunk down to his more human form and stands beside me as we watch the asylum burn.

Some of the patients mill around in the street outside, and several police constables have appeared, along with the fire brigade. I watch while they pump water from their horse-drawn carts. It’s pointless. They are well aware that their limited machinery cannot save Crowscroft. Instead, they concentrate on preventing the fire from jumping to nearby buildings.

Losing interest, I turn to Ishaan and see his eyes widen in shock. He folds forward, clutching his chest. Several glowing brands appear on his skin, and he lets loose a howl of fury, his eyes blazing with anger. He reaches for me but is yanked backwards and disappears.

There is only one person who could be responsible for trying to curtail my demon, and as I smoke out in pursuit, his name is a curse upon my lips.

Cornelius.

11

Iwake up coughing, the taste of smoke in my mouth, my heart pounding from the rush of adrenaline, my mind so scrambled that I can’t distinguish between realities.

“Harrison!” A voice calls, and a warm hand grips my chin, forcing me to turn my head. I breathe hard as I slowly focus on familiar dark eyes.

“Sam,” I gasp. As he gathers me up in his arms, my teeth clatter and my whole body is shaking.

Sam tightens his embrace and lays us back on my bed, pulling me into him and rubbing soothing circles on my back.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you,” he croons. “I’ve got you, just breathe.”

Eventually, my heart rate slows and I stop trembling.

“You ready to tell me what these nightmares are about?” he says after a moment, his voice low and filled with concern.

I roll away from him and onto my back. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I suck in a deep breath. My brain’s still filled with the sounds of screaming and the sight of a man’s flesh being flayed from his body, and I bite back the urge to gag. Sam deserves an explanation, but I’m naked and feeling vulnerable.

“Harrison?”

“I can’t,” I choke out. “Not like this.”

Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed, my body protesting every movement. It’s not fair. After our first time together, I should be waking up content in my lover’s arms, not ripped from sleep, traumatised, and fighting the urge to vomit.

I’m really beginning to hate the whole Crawshanks bloodline. My bloodline. No wonder my mother didn’t want me anywhere near our family’s legacy.

Grabbing my bathrobe, I yank it on and head into the kitchen. I pick up the kettle to fill it with water and then stop abruptly, squeezing my eyes closed as I’m hit with more images of what Cordelia’s demon did to Dr Whyte. The man had earned his fate, there’s no question about that, but I could have lived my entire life without seeing a human peeled like a potato. A very gooey, red⁠—

I swallow hard and bite back the dry heave.

Suddenly, the kettle is taken from my hands, and I open my eyes to see Sam, now wearing only his trousers from yesterday, left unbuttoned since he’s obviously thrown them on in a hurry. He sets the kettle down on the kitchen counter and leads me back into the living room, guiding me down onto the sofa.

“Take it easy, Prickles,” he says softly. “You just sit here. I’ll make you some tea.”

I can’t answer, so I don’t. I simply watch him walk back into the kitchen and then hear the water running and the kettle click on.

I don’t deserve him. I feel like I’ve ruined our beautiful night together, and it was beautiful. I’ve never felt so connected to a person or so undone. Then he ends up sleep-deprived and drowning in my drama. How long will it be before Sam realises I’m just too much effort? That he can never have a normal life with me?

He comes back into the room and sets my favourite camomile tea on a coaster on the side table beside me. Taking a seat on the coffee table in front of me, he reaches out and wipes the pad of his thumbs across my cheeks. It’s only then that I realise I’m crying.