While I stare at him in shock from nearly being run over by an angry six-foot-too-many-inches man, he glares back with a thunderous expression.
Slowly, he rakes his eyes over my half-naked form, then proceeds to curl his upper lip into a snarl. He looks… disgusted, and he might as well have shoved that shotgun into my chest and pulled the trigger.
My mouth parts, hurt and confused, when he resumes his path toward the stairs.
“Get fucking dressed, Sawyer. That’s not what I want to see.”
My eyes bug, and I gasp in utter disbelief.
He did not just say that to me.
Before I can process how to respond, he’s already gone.
That. Fucking. Asshole!
Overcome with my freshly bruised ego and fury that he would say something so shitty, I barely remember storming into Sylvester’s room and ripping a shirt off a hanger in his closet. There’s barely any left, most of them being used for our makeshift rope now.
But before I pull it on, I stop and stand in front of the full-length mirror in his room. It takes a second to realize I can’t get a good look at myself because my vision is blurred from burning tears.
I rub at them, forcing them away, and then for what feels like the first time in years, I study my reflection, though I still avoid my eyes. Kev is the last thing I want to see right now.
My roots are starting to come back in again. I’ve lost a little more weight, but I don’t look much different than I did before. What did he see that made him suddenly look at me like he got a whiff of spoiled milk?
Frowning, I finally meet my own stare. I have dark circles underlining my eyes, and I’m definitely wearing my exhaustion, but I can’t look that bad.
Right?
Kev is there, shaking his head at me.
When did you get so fragile, pipsqueak? You’re so easy to break.
The very thing Enzo had said to me before.
Whatever. Fuck him, fuck Kev, and fuck them both for making me question myself.
Just as I go to storm away, I notice something odd stacked on the floor next to the mirror.
It’s a pile of clear plastic bags with a thin, long white hose coiled on top of them.
I blink. I’ve no idea what the hell their purpose is, but they are so out of place that I can only stare.
Finally, my body moves, pulling the shirt over my head and then approaching the stack of bags like a snake curled on top of them rather than a harmless tube.
There’s nothing written on them to indicate what it could be for, but upon closer inspection, I realize they’re are sewed shut save for a tiny hole, where I assume the tube is supposed to be inserted.
I flip through the rest to discover that every bag looks the same. They’re definitely handmade, and the stitches are a little wonky, but they’re all airtight save for the pocket left untouched for the tube.
I shake my head, confounded by what the hell they are, but decide they could be useful for emergencies. If we ever need to vacate the lighthouse, I can fill them with water and use them as makeshift canteens.
I grab the bags and hose and put them in our bedroom, under the bed.
I’m fully prepared to spend the rest of the night in here, but my stomach growls, and I can smell food cooking downstairs.
It wouldn’t kill me if I skipped one meal in place of enduring Enzo’s presence for even a second, but I realize that it’s not very smart. My safety isn’t guaranteed, and I will need all the energy I can get. Especially if being kept awake by a spirit throwing a very loud temper tantrum outside the door is going to become a common occurrence.
Sighing, I trudge down the steps, replaying Enzo’s nasty words in my head on repeat.
That’s not what I want to see.
Sure, we both had an extremely eventful, shitty night and are sleep-deprived, but how could he suddenly switch up on me? After he got down on his fucking knees and asked for my forgiveness for that very thing?
Even when he openly hated me, he never made me feel so… ugly. So undesirable.
If he were Kev, I would kill for him to look at me that way. To be treated like I’m no more desirable than enduring a vasectomy without anesthesia.
Anger renewed, I refuse to look at Enzo and take a seat at the dinner table, glaring at the wood like it’s the culprit for the deep ache in my chest.
After a few moments, I see Enzo approach me from my peripheral, and my muscles return to survival mode, tensing as he nears.
“Eat,” he orders sharply, nearly tossing the bowl of soup on the table. It slides and knocks against my chest, the burning liquid sloshing onto my skin.
I grimace from the sting and push it away from me, not sure I can eat anymore. My eyes gravitate toward my body, the insecurity rising and singeing my throat.