“Peter Pan.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to think I was Wendy when I was a kid. She was a free fairy and could fly away any time she wanted.”
“Is that what you want?”
Her lashes flutter against her cheeks as she lets out a low, “Maybe.”
“Even now?”
She lifts her head and her fake eyes meet mine, but the emotions in them are guttural and so fucking real, they stab me in the chest.
The moment she opens her mouth to speak, her phone vibrates on the counter beside her and she startles. I’m about to throw the fucking thing away, but the moment she sees “Sandra” flashing on the screen, Anastasia grabs the phone and wiggles away from me.
She hops down from the counter and escapes to the living area. “Hey, Sandra. Is everything okay…？ No, yes, I mean, of course I can talk…”
I tilt my head to the side, watching as she flops onto the sofa, her complete attention on what Sandra is telling her.
Ever since that time in my office, they often talk on the phone and it’s had a positive impact on Sandra’s mental state. I’m a bit annoyed at my client for interrupting me, but at the same time, I admire how selfless Anastasia is when it comes to Sandra. She went out of her way and waited outside during the pretrial hearings of the civil case, despite having a form of social anxiety that makes her antsy in public places.
When I told her she didn’t need to come anymore, she vehemently shook her head and said, “What I feel is nothing compared to what Sandra is going through. She needs as many friendly faces as possible in there.”
Still, Sandra has the worst timing.
She cut Anastasia off when she was about to say something monumental. I release a breath and go to salvage the mess she made of the potatoes.
All I keep thinking about is why the hell I don’t want to ask her what her reply would have been.
Why the hell am I fucking frustrated that she might’ve said yes?
That if given the chance, Anastasia would become her favorite fucking Wendy again and fly away from this world.
Me included.
21
ANASTASIA
A rustling startles me awake.
For a moment, I think I’m back in my house and there’s an emergency and everyone needs to evacuate the property.
But before I can stumble from the bed, the ceiling with stars that glow in the dark comes into view.
A breath whooshes out of me, but it gets stuck in my throat when I make out the reason behind the rustling.
Knox.
I’m lying partially on top of him like we’ve done every night for the two weeks since he started living here. Because I’m usually a deep sleeper, I only wake up when the alarms go off. Plural. This is the first time I’ve been hauled out of sleep in the middle of the night; it’s because of the Red Bull I had with Gwen and Chris yesterday afternoon. I told them caffeine messes with my system, but they called me weird for never trying an energy drink in my twenty-year-old life, and my pride was kind of wounded, so I drank it.
I’m glad I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen the scene beneath me.
Knox’s eyes are slammed shut and sweat covers his naked chest and glistens against his tattoos. The samurai looks gruesome in the darkness, haunted even. I click on the flashlight of my phone, bathing the room in soft white light, then slowly shake his shoulder.
He seems to be having a nightmare, a really bad one, judging by how his lips are pursed and the way his beautiful face appears to be in agony.
It hurts. Seeing him so deep in torment is similar to being slashed open and bleeding out.
“Knox…” I whisper. “Wake up.”
My free hand strokes his cheek and I try to smooth the lines between his brows, but they get deeper with each passing second.
“Knox…please wake up—”
My words turn into a yelp when he grabs me by the shoulder and hauls me off him. I think I’m about to fly off the sofa and land on the floor headfirst, but my back hits the cushion and a large body hovers over me.
Knox.
He stares down at me with a glassy look, the hazel in his eyes muted and his shoulder and chest muscles flexing. One hand grabs my shoulder and the other shoots to my throat. But he doesn’t grab the sides of it, where I get a bit lightheaded but absolutely delirious with pleasure, like he usually does.
This time, he chokes my windpipe.
As if his sole purpose is to suffocate the hell out of me.
My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and I try to thrash beneath him, my nails digging into his arm, but it’s like an ant is wrestling a buffalo. I’m unable to move him even an inch.