And maybe then, Story will stay.
“Hey,” I say, taking the towel from her hands, tucking it around her chest. “I’ll keep being like this, so long as you keep being like that.”
She peers up at me, head tilting curiously. “Like what?”
Bending down, I rumble into her ear, “Mine.”
She gives a soft, silent laugh, palms warm as they land on my chest. “Okay.” She accepts my kiss while battling a smile. “Can I be yours while I’m wearing underwear?”
I let out my best put-upon sigh as she slips away. “Can I take them off later?”
She raises an eyebrow, stopping at the bathroom door to say, “If Dimitri doesn’t get to them first.”
Story laughs, leaving my room and crossing the hall to her bedroom, the light from the open door casting a glow into the hall. I get dressed with little ambition, figuring it’s going to all come off soon, anyway, slipping into a hooded sweatshirt and sweats. I imagine warming her against me when we climb into bed again. That’s when I hear her door snick closed across the hall.
I look over my shoulder, through my doorway, a sourness settling on the back of my tongue at the sight of her closed door. I’m not sure what propels me to it. An old, lingering hurt, perhaps. A scab I can’t help but pick at. But it’s more likely that, when I reach out, touching the knob, it’s more of a test. I just can’t tell who it’s for; her or me?
Both of us fail.
Locked.
My hand balls into a tight fist, but I rap it softly against the door, listening carefully for a response. When all I hear is the grandfather clock down the hall, I swallow down the growl building in my throat. “Come on. Seriously?” I give the knob another try, irritation flaring through me when it doesn’t budge. “Story? We’re doing this shit again?”
I grab either side of the door frame, propping myself up there, because I just don’t get it. She loves me. She’s said it. She’s shown it. But this fucking door still feels like a rejection. Locking me out is the single worst thing she can do to me. Actions speak louder than words and all that shit.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, knowing I’m probably overreacting. Maybe the lock slipped. Maybe she just needs a minute to compose herself after hours of getting fucked repeatedly by three horny guys. Space, I think. She just needs a little space. She needs to feel in control for a few. That’s what Tristian would say.
Of course, then he’d go check the camera after saying it.
All of these thoughts buzz through my head, and I find myself staring daggers into the door, fighting the urge to force it open. But then what? She spends the rest of the night, week, month pissed off and avoidant?
Not worth it.
That’s why I step away—because I’m growing. As a person. Possibly.
The stair behind me creaks, and I turn. “Finally. Story’s in there—”
The sucker punch comes from out of nowhere, snapping my head to the side. I stagger back, falling into the wall so hard that it feels like my bones rattle. It’s not enough to knock me out, but it’s enough to steal my footing and knock me off balance for the second hit. This one is a hot jolt of electricity that detonates through my chest and neck. That growl I’d swallowed back earlier tears its way up my windpipe. The pained yell explodes through my clenched teeth before my vocal cords seize, muscles cramping. It’s like being struck by a NFL linebacker who’s harnessed lightning. I fall to the floor in a breathless, rigid heap, not even getting a look at the attacker.
But I still feel him. Hear him.
First, his footsteps, heavy and solid against the hardwood floor. Then his hands grabbing my wrists and yanking them high. I hear his low, soft grunt as he plants his feet and begins dragging me down the hall. The muscle in my right shoulder pinches and twinges—and old injury from varsity—as it takes all my weight, sliding me in wrenched tugs down the hall.
I try to get my jaw to work around a warning for Story, to get my ankles to move my feet, to flex my arms, to propel this motherfucker forward—anything. But it’s all I can do to suck in these small, ragged breaths, because my pulse is jerky and my vision is a blur of black and red, and my muscles just won’t fucking work. It’s even worse than when Ray strapped me down to that bed after being shot, a powerlessness that’s wound so tightly around a precise hurt.
And that’s before we reach the stairs.
This piece of shit, whoever he is, rests for a moment at the landing. I can hear his hard breaths, my wrists loose in his grip, which is when my body begins slowly coming to life. My fingers twitch and I can almost get my knee to bend, and I’m feeling pretty good about it, because this guy’s almost out of stamina, and I’m going to break his fucking neck.