Page 60 of Last Man Standing

I peek at the foot of the bed and the extra blanket laid across the end. With a runny nose that makes it hard to breathe, I carefully tug the blanket out from beneath Sebastion’s long legs, then I shuffle across to a desk tucked into the cabinetry, set my things on top, and snag the chair instead.

My legs feel like jelly. My feet torment me with pins and needles. My entire face feels swollen and hot, too many tears, not enough strength. But I do what I should’ve done the instant Sebastion walked out an hour ago: I set the chair in front of the door, wedging the high back beneath the handle and angling the feet to stop anyone else who might like to come in.

I lock myself in a room with another man. A large, terrifying, cruelly unkind man whose body is more than twice the size of mine. If he wanted to hurt me, it would be easy. If he wanted to have sex… my consent hardly matters.

Sweat trickles along my spine in spite of the chill in the air. My pulse thunders in my throat, and my tears make it almost impossible to see. Still, I step away from the barricaded door and sweep up my blanket and pillow. I switch out the light and make my way into the bathroom, where a massive tub creates a stark white beacon amongst midnight black tiles.

I swallow a fresh sob when my phone buzzes again. And again, and again, and again. Ignoring it, I toss the pillow into the tub, then I shake the blanket out and wrap it around my body the way I would wrap a towel. I pull the hood of Sebastion’s hoodie up to cover my head, then climbing in, I slide down again and pray for sunlight.

Everything is so much scarier at night. The shadows are deeper, the loneliness, lonelier, and a woman’s insistent texts, louder.

My hands shake as I search desperately for comfort, twisting and turning until my pillow wedges itself in the gap between my shoulder and head, then I unlock Sebastion’s phone, the one that accepts calls and texts from Lincoln too. But it’s not Linc’s name I study through tear-filled eyes.

It’s not him, or Nova, wishing me sweet dreams.

Serena:

I heard you were back.

Swing by my room after you’re done with your uncle.

I’ve missed you, Bas.

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I don’t know who Serena is, but I know what her breasts look like. Her ass. Her bed. And I know that even though Sebastion has only been home for an hour, she would really like to see him.

I think I fell asleep around three. Maybe four. When Sebastion’s phone finally turned silent and my throbbing headache eased just enough to allow me rest, I think that’s when my brain mercifully stopped. But now I wake with a start, crusty-eyed, aching stomach, and most terrifying of all, not in the bathtub.

My heart races as I open my eyes and find Sebastion’s face a mere few inches from mine. Adrenaline pounds in my veins and turns my palms sweaty, because his warm breath bathes my cheek and his thick lips settle forward into a pout. We share a pillow and blanket; we share a bed I never crawled into, but not one single part of his body, not a limb, not a finger, nor a toe, touches me.

Even unconscious, he respects my space, though he certainly carried me in here.

Miraculously, I slept through it.

My pulse thunders against the side of my throat, beating like a drum until I turn dizzy. It’s still dark in here, though it doesn’t feel like middle-of-the-night dark. Shadows still encroach, but early morning shadows are not nearly as terrifying as those that taunt a woman at two a.m.

Heavy, synchronized footsteps move outside. Not just men marching, but men jogging. A whole freakin’ platoon of them.

Sebastion said this part of the property is for family only… right? He said the soldiers eat together in that big room, where bench seats create rows and food is served at six, twelve, six, and twelve.

Shaking and sick in my stomach, I palm the mattress on my side of the bed, along the smooth sheets and up, under my pillow, until I stop on the hard exterior of the phone I held onto even in sleep… or Sebastion cared enough to bring it with us when he stole me from the bathtub.

I bring it out from under the pillow and scrunch my eyes most of the way shut to combat the backlight and the clock that reads 05:34.

Exhaling a weary sigh, I lower my hand again and peek to my left. To Sebastion’s sleeping face. To the long, dark lashes kissing his cheeks, and the thin scar marking the front of his stubbled chin. Another scar sits just half an inch above it. Another on his jaw.

I’ve never taken the time to look before, but for this moment, while he’s unconscious and not nearly as intimidating to be near, I study the scar lining the side of his neck, and another just below his ear.

Pulling back, I find more, so many more, settled along the bridge of his nose. On his cheekbone. On his brow. On his forehead.

Some are barely more than a thin line. Others, thicker and probably needed stitches or glue to close. Dark hair sits short almost all over his head, but the top is just a little longer than the sides. Barely, but still.

His brows are dark and angled, a shape many women would kill for. And the stubble around his chin and lips creates a shadow he hasn’t, in my experience knowing him, allowed to grow beyond a single day.