Page 38 of Palingenesis

I rush to the bathroom, my last meal emptying into the toilet, my hands shaking so bad that I can barely support myself.

Vaguely, I’m aware of Henry rubbing my shoulder, cooing in a way that makes my skin crawl. Shrugging him off feels like a dick move, but he’s touching me too softly; too caring. Too much like someone that loves me.

Henry doesn’t love, he uses.

Another dry heave leaves me doubled over and panting, my chest clenching tight. So much so that I clutch at it, gripping my shirt in my fist.

I’ve never been the religious type, but as I bow over the porcelain throne with a racing heart and a spinning head, I start praying to anyone willing to listen. To anything.

If only I’d known it wasn’t the first mistake I’d made since coming to Bearcreek.

Chapter 21

Shannon

“I’m fine,” I sign for the fifth time in as many minutes.

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell Henry, though, because he just keeps fucking hovering, asking what he can do or telling me that it’s probably “stress” and that I should go lay down.

Yeah, it’s fucking stress alright.

Stress from being manipulated by a fucking narcissist turned sweet lover, while also being toyed with by a godsdamn campfire-fairytale monstrosity that I also kind of wanna fuck.

Now that’s a thought I wasn’t expecting to have, godsdamn.

Send help.

I can see what it looks like, telling him I’m okay while I’m on the bathroom floor, bowed over the toilet. With an emptied stomach and so much unrest growing in my heart that it’s leeching from my skin in rivulets of sweat. Regrets staining me on the outside as he watches over me.

My back sticks to the wall I lean against, shirt gone, the shakes vibrating from the tips of my fingers to my hairline.

Even my glasses are fogging up.

“Shannon, do you really believe that?”

The way he asks, his voice thicker than it was a moment ago, draws my gaze up to his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. It’s closer to the Henry I expected, the subtle disdain barely hidden by his effort to care, and I shoot to my feet so fast that my head swims. I push past him into the hallway, my legs lagging behind my brain, and I stumble into the wall opposite the bathroom. The plaster feels too close, too small. Like it’s closing in around me with every intention of burying me alive beneath its rubble.

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

The click of disappointment echoes in my head, trailing me like smoke the entire way to the kitchen. I crash into the counter, gripping onto it for purchase, fingers of my dominant hand grazing something with a texture I can’t name. Focusing on that, the feel of it in my palm, I curse when I realize it’s the feather. Vibrant orange mottled with deep red, bordered by a blackened edge. Burnt. Like it was singed over a flame.

The rich scent fills the room, tickling my nose, and I cough against the assault.

It’s not real.

None of this is. It can't be.

“I’m delusional,” I mutter, crushing the feather in my fist and whirling toward the commanding presence behind me.

But it’s not Henry standing there, eyes tracking my every move.

It’s him.

The man of my nightmares.

With red eyes and fiery hair, and a dark smile curling his lips.

“Oh, my gods.” My pulse thuds and I scramble backwards. “How are you here? How do you know where I live?”