Page 43 of Cryptic Dreams
So I discreetly shake off his hand and move up the stairs. “All of my stuff is in the attic.”
The males follow, but as we walk down the hall toward the hidden staircase, I know without having to look who is slowing down as we pass my parents room and my old bedroom.
“You don’t want... ” Orion swallows hard, his anger barely restrained. “Don’t want anything from—”
“I took what I wanted a long time ago,” I say as I hear a doorknob turn. “Don’t.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” my cousin spits. “I cannot believe he did this.”
I close my eyes as I stop in front of the attic door.
I know what he’s seeing and it isn’t pretty.
When Ian’s parents died in that car accident, that’s when he turned into the drunk and angry man that only got worse with age. And he took it out on everything and everyone he possibly could. He destroyed my parents bedroom first, broke every single thing he could get his hands on and then he filled it with so much garbage that you can barely get the door open. That’s when I moved to the attic and it’s a good thing too, because he inevitably did the same to my room shortly after that and now all I have left are the few things I managed to save and lock away before he did it.
So while Orion cusses a blue streak, Aries trying to calm him, I walk up to my room and brace myself once again.
I half expect to see it trashed, completely destroyed the way I’ve found it so many times before, but because Ian is dead and gone, nothing has been touched since I left it almost two weeks ago.
The curtained off corner where there’s only a small sink, toilet, and shower head, all three sharing a space hardly big enough for one of them alone. The tiny mirror above the sink cracked from when my face was shoved against it in another terrible encounter with him. The simple shelf next to it holds the few toiletries I had, but thanks to Wraith, I don’t need them, so I just grab my small makeup bag. I set it on top of the three drawer dresser, most of my clothes hanging on a freestanding rack next to it. Should only take maybe two boxes to get all of them because I don’t have much, just what I needed to get by.
With a sigh, I turn to my bed, the sheets and blankets rumpled and twisted, the evidence of that same nightmare so clear it makes me sick. My backpack is on the floor next to the bed and one of my textbooks sits on the milk crate I was using as a nightstand. The mini fridge is already empty. I remember placing an order that night just before I went to the kitchen, and aside from my backpack and clothes, I don’t really need anything. Nothing but my lockbox and the few paintings Ian didn’t ruin the last time he came through my room like a tornado.
“Bloody hell.”
A harsh whisper has my eyes lifting to the door momentarily but when I see the look of horror on Wraith’s face, I go back to packing my bag.
“Christ,” he hisses. “This is—“
“I don’t really need help up here.”
His gaze swings in my direction. “Pardon?”
I swallow hard then clear my throat. “There isn’t much, not really. I don’t really need any help packing and... ” And it doesn’t matter because Wraith looks rooted to the spot.
I don’t know why it has me feeling so vulnerable to have him up here, but it does, and when I’m just about to ask him to wait downstairs, the most feral growl I have ever heard comes from his general direction and I jump.
“Is thisblood?”
I just nod.
My blood, the blood from the bags Ian crushed. Years of it is all over the floor because that shit doesn’t come out of old and worn wood no matter how hard you scrub.
“You don’t have to stay up here.” I set my backpack on the bed then go under it for my lockbox. “I can manage this on my own. When Orion brings the boxes I’m sure—” I scream when I go vertical and find Wraith standing at the end of the bed. “Jesus Christ.” I clutch my chest. “I didn’t even hear—”
“I. Am not. Leaving.”
My eyes widen to dinner plates as they ping back and forth between his gorgeous ebony ones. “Ok.”
He gives me a curt nod, folds his hands behind his back and stands tall before he turns in a slow circle. “You painted these?”
“Yes...” Small talk? Really? I’d rather we not talk at all because asking about my paintings may seem innocent enough, but it’s not. It’s really, really not. Especially as Wraith moves silently around the room and stops in front of my rickety easel.
“This... ” His head tilts as he examines the largest painting I have, the one I’ve painted the same thing on over and over again. “This is rather—”
“Terrifying,” I mumble as I shove my makeup bag into my backpack.
“Familiar.”
