No longer dancing, she stood at the edge of the small crowd, holding her boots in her hand. Jordy stood beside her, his head bent to hers, whispering something in her ear that was causing a small smile to creep up the corners of her mouth. Jordy’s hand moved to her waist, her silky dress crinkling beneath his fingers.
Like a flame doused in gasoline, I roared back to life, jumping up and storming across the dining hall. Those who saw me approaching paused, some even going as far as to move out of my way. Willow noticed me at the last second, her eyes going wide.
Up until she’d spotted me, I hadn’t any idea of what I’d been planning on doing once I reached them—I’d only known that I’d wanted to tear Jordy to pieces for daring to touch her. For wanting her in the first place. I was angry at Willow, too, for continuing to allow his attention. For having ever smiled at him, and for having the audacity to laugh at his ridiculous jokes. But most of all, for not recognizing what he wanted from her. Or worse, for recognizing it and maybe even wanting it, too.
And then everything ground to a screeching halt once more. I was inches from Willow, close enough to reach out and touch her, when it struck me. This was all wrong. I was all wrong. And I could see just how wrong I was reflected in the fear shining in Willow’s eyes.
Shoving my hands into my hair, I changed course, racing toward the doors and slamming through them. Coming here had been a mistake—I’d known that much from the moment I’d seen Willow standing outside the dining hall, the fairy lights glinting off her golden-brown shoulders, her big brown eyes darkening as they collided with mine. But I was a goddamn masochist, and Willow was the poison I couldn’t seem to quit.
And yes, I was a goddamn motherfucking bomb, too. But no, I wouldn’t be detonating tonight. Or any night. I wasn’t going to become my father—I wouldn’t be burning down the people I cared about just to smother the fires that raged inside of me. Not now, not fucking ever.
But, oh, how the flames raged.
I arrived at our cabin within minutes, flicking the lights on and immediately tearing off the ridiculous shirt Willow had left for me. Buttons popped free, pinging around the room. Hastily dressing in my own clothes—a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt—I pulled Lucas’s pack from beneath the bed and began wrenching open dresser drawers, yanking items from within and stuffing them inside the pack.
“What are you doing?”
I whipped around; Willow stood in the doorway, still holding her boots in her hand. She looked stricken, much like she’d looked when I’d been charging toward her in the dining hall. Turning away, I started packing again, twice as fast.
The soft slap of her feet on the floor echoed around me; I felt the warmth of her behind me. “Logan, what are you doing?” she demanded.
Facing her again, I found our bodies nearly touching. And if she touched me, if I touched her, it was all fucking over. I couldn’t do a repeat of earlier—I wouldn’t let her walk away a second time.
Backing into the dresser, I gritted out, “I’m leaving.”
“What?” Eyes narrowed, Willow shook her head. “Where are you going? Why are you going?”
“Why the fuck do you care?” I said. “You wanted me to leave you the fuck alone, remember, so now I’m leaving you the fuck alone.”
“Logan, no—I already said I didn’t mean that.”
“And you definitely don’t need me here—you’ve got friends, your job, this cabin. You’ve got fucking Jordy and his shitty jokes.”
“Jordy… what?” She blinked rapidly, her expression full of confusion. “Logan, you can’t just leave—nobody gets in or out until the sun comes up.”
“I’ll climb it,” I said, grabbing the pack and slinging it on my back. “I climbed out of that fucking ravine with you dying on my back and a hundred Creepers clawing for me, I’m pretty sure I can manage a damn wall.”
As I moved to leave, Willow stepped in front of me. “Stop it!” she demanded. “Whatever’s going on, we can fix it. You don’t need to leave.”
Tearing my eyes from hers, I growled. “Yeah, I do. I can’t be here with you. Not like this.”
There it was. My confession—part of it, at least—laid bare between us like a sacrificial lamb. Chancing a look, I found Willow’s face a riotous symphony of emotions—her eyes flared wide, her mouth floundering, her trembling hands twisting in the skirt of her dress. Panic rose and fell from her expression like a series of tidal waves plunging toward shore.
“You know what?” she said in a quivering whisper that grew louder and angrier with every word. “You’re right, you should leave.” Still trembling, she turned slowly away only to spin right back around, an accusatory finger pointed at my chest. “You should definitely leave!” she shrieked.
Swiping an article of clothing from the open drawer behind me, she slapped it to my chest. “Here, take your shit and fucking leave.” The clothing fell to the floor as her hands slapped my chest a second time. “Go, Logan—leave! What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of here—get away from me!”
“Stop it!” I yelled, dodging her onslaught.
“Go on then, fucking go!” she continued, tears and fury flowing.
As she slapped her hands to my chest for a third time, I grabbed her wrists, hauling her up against me. Her softness crashed against my hardness. My heaving chest to her heaving breasts. My desperation breathing in perfect synchrony with hers. She lifted her chin and stared at me, the glint in her eyes holding both a challenge and a dare.
“Just go,” she whimpered feebly.
“Fuck you,” I growled, giving myself one last second to change my mind…
And then I kissed her.
My hands went to her face, into her hair, to the back of her head, my tongue delving deep inside her mouth the very instant her lips parted. Willow’s arms went to my neck, squeezing me to her, pulling herself up against me and matching each plunge of my tongue with a frantic parry of her own.
Roughly skimming the sides of her, I squeezed and kneaded her from hips to ass, grabbing each taut cheek in my hands. Her nails scoured my neck before dragging down the front of my shirt and dipping beneath it. One hand went to my back, while the other grabbed for my belt, jerking it open.
We tumbled backward, tripping over the fallen pack on the floor, my back crashing into the same dresser I’d been tearing apart only moments ago. Grunting in pain, I swung Willow around, lifting her up onto the rickety structure, our mouths and bodies never breaking contact.
Her fingers were in my hair, her legs wound around me. My hands were up the skirt of her dress, ripping her underwear down her legs. We broke apart only for a moment; Willow’s eyes were hooded, her lips wet and swollen, parting farther with each panting breath. Yanking my shirt off over my head, I seized her face, my fingertips digging into her cheeks, taking her mouth with mine once again. We kissed faster, harder, our mouths crashing together in sharp, hungry bursts.
“Logan!” Impatient, she rocked herself against me in a desperate, erratic rhythm. Hard to the point of pain, I cursed as I grappled with the zipper on my jeans, shoving them down my legs and shaking them away. My hands returned to her thighs, bunching the liquid material of her dress up around her waist. Gripping her hips, I yanked her to the edge of the dresser.
We locked eyes.
Everything… slowed… down.
Poised at her entrance, wet and ready for me, I pushed slowly inside of her, groaning as her body squeezed mine. Gasping, Willow pitched her hips forward, taking me the rest of the way in. Her fingertips found purchase beneath my shoulder blades; mine dug deep into the fleshy part of her thighs. Her heels bore down into the back of my ass while my feet fought to keep from slipping across the floor.
Everything sped back up again.
The dresser slammed into the wall with each furious thrust, only to teeter forward as Willow swung her hips toward mine. Tearing my mouth from hers, I dropped my face to her neck, biting down. She moaned even as she cried out; her hands foun
d my hair again, clutching fistfuls, and twisting painfully.
I increased my speed, Willow’s frenzied whimpers spurring me on. Fabric tore, something crashed to the floor, the dresser continued to brutally strike the wall. My muscles tensed, my orgasm building too soon, leaving me struggling to keep pace. Heaving growls erupted from low in my throat. Once… twice more, I thrust inside her and then I was shoving her away and pulling free from her body. Gripping the edge of the dresser, I groaned through my release.
Breathing hard, I looked up to find Willow with her cheek pressed to the wall and her mouth hanging open, red lipstick smeared across her face. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead and chest. Her dress straps were broken and hanging, the top half of her dress sagging below one perfect teardrop breast. With every ragged intake of air, her chest noticeably rose, forcing the slinky material to slip even lower. Her skirt remained gathered at her waist, her legs were still splayed apart, quivering ever so slightly.
Fucking hell—if I hadn’t just finished fucking her, one look at her like this would have had me ready to go.
“Are you… okay?” I asked, hoarsely.
Willow rolled her head along the wall toward me, her eyes glassy.
“Hey,” I said, placing my hand on her thigh. “You okay?”
She blinked, the clouds in her gaze clearing. She sat up suddenly, pushing my hand away and wrenching her dress up over her breasts. “I’m fine,” she whispered, sliding down from the dresser. Her knees buckled as her feet hit the floor and I hurried to grab her. Again, she pushed me away.
“I said, I’m fine,” she bit out.
“Willow,” I growled. “What the fuck—”
“No, don’t. Please don’t,” she rushed to say, her voice cracking. “I’m fine.” Throat bobbing, her eyes filled with tears. Her hand moved to her mouth, crushing a cross between a gasp and sob, and then she was racing across the room and slamming the bathroom door shut behind her.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling my jeans up. Kicking a pathway through the mess we’d made, I twisted the bathroom doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. Willow, who’d been sitting on the toilet with her face buried in her hands, jumped up in surprise. “What are you doing—get out!”
I flinched at her tone, my back stiffening. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. I just need a minute. Can I have a fucking minute, please?”
“Bullshit. You think I don’t know you well enough to know when something’s wrong?”
“Know me?” Willow let out a hollow laugh. “Most days you can barely look at me, and now you think you know me?”
She was dead wrong. I knew her—I knew everything there was to know about her. I knew that when she was staring up at the clouds, she was picking out the ones that most resembled her beloved Alice in Wonderland characters. I knew that whenever she was mad, she almost always swung first and asked questions later. That she was klutzy and accident prone and that her attitude was infuriating, and yet, despite everything, I’d wanted her for longer than I would ever admit to. But instead of saying any of those things, my thick-witted mouth chose to blurt, “I know you well enough to know that you’ve never hid in a bathroom after fucking my brother.”
Willow’s mouth fell open and she staggered back as if I’d struck her. Freezing as I realized the extent of my own stupidity, I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could eat my words.
Willow recovered first, charging at me. “Move!” she screamed, shoving me. “Let me out of here!”
“I didn’t mean that,” I gritted out, ducking as her hand came flying at my face. “Willow—do you fucking hear me—I didn’t mean that!”
Dodging her hands, I caught her around her middle, pinning her arms to her sides. Pushing her up against the wall, I caged her body with mine. “Stop,” I rasped. “Willow, I didn’t mean it—please stop.”
It was minutes before she calmed, though it felt infinitely longer as she continued twisting and thrashing and calling me a colorful variety of names before eventually slumping in my arms. I folded with her, bringing us both to the floor, keeping her close.
“Oh my fucking god…” Her voice was strangled. “Logan, how could we do that to him… again?”
Again.
Again.
She finally admitted it.
She finally admitted it.
After all these years, without Willow ever having acknowledged what had happened between us, without her even alluding to it happening, I’d begun to doubt my own mind, wondering if it had been only a dream, or a hallucination brought on by stress or hunger, or both. Or that maybe, out of sheer fucking loneliness, I’d simply imagined it.
But, no, I hadn’t imagined it.
It had happened.
We had happened.
Logan
One, two, three, four… I counted the snow-covered bodies from my upstairs vantage point inside the Bed & Breakfast, clearly discerning each neatly wrapped form. One body, however, was quite a ways away from the rest, unwrapped, and not so neatly placed. As if he’d just been dumped there… like the heap of garbage he was.
It was snowing again; it had snowed every day for countless days. I’d lost all sense of time; day and night had become one and the same. Both were a prison I couldn’t escape from… much like this fucking house.
Pushing away from the windowsill, I wandered into the hallway, taking great care not to look to my left, not to look at the room where it had happened. Not that I could forget it, not when I laid awake each night replaying every horrible moment over and over again.
Willow stepped into the hall, her eyes bloodshot, her expression haunted.
“How is he?” I asked, glancing behind her into mine and Lucas’s room.
“He won’t talk to me. He won’t even look at me—he keeps… he just keeps rolling away from me.” Her mouth wobbled, tears filling her eyes. “He blames me, I know he does.”
“Has he eaten anything?” I couldn’t deal with her tears right now—I already had enough garbage to contend with without having to deal with everyone’s personal bullshit as well.
Willow shook her head.
“Have you eaten anything?”
Again, she shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
Dragging a hand roughly down my face, I pointed to the stairs. “Go fucking eat something before you get sick,” I said, shoving past her into the room.
Lucas remained in the same state he’d been since it happened—he lay in his bed, the covers pulled up over his head, the entire space stinking of unwashed bodies and piss. Tossing the last of the log pile onto the dwindling fire, I bent down beside him.
“Luke.” I tugged the blankets down and shook his shoulder. “Luke, you need to eat something.”
He snatched the covers back from me, pulling them tightly to his neck. “I’m not hungry,” he rasped, his voice dry and grating. “Leave me alone.”
“Fine,” I sighed.
Pulling the door shut behind me, I resumed wandering aimlessly throughout the house, in search of something I couldn’t name.
Passing the kitchen window, I glimpsed a splash of red in the white world beyond. Spinning back, I pressed my fist to the glass, rubbing the frozen condensation away.
Willow was sitting in the snow beside her mother’s body, her arms wrapped around her knees, her breath leaving her in visible wisps of white. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a torn red T-shirt. Cursing, I raced to the back door, flinging it open and shouting her name. She didn’t acknowledge me as I reached for her, didn’t even flinch when I grabbed her arms and yanked her up onto her feet.
“Are you trying to die?” I demanded, dragging her inside the house and dropping her into a lounge chair. Rushing to the fireplace, I looked over our nearly depleted wood supply in dismay. We’d have to start burning the furniture soon.
Returning to Willow, I wrapped my arm around her waist and walked her to the fireplace, depositing her on a nearby sof
a. Realizing her clothes were wet, I ran back upstairs, grabbing several warm articles of clothing, along with the blankets from the bed.
Downstairs again, I dumped everything on the floor beside the sofa. “Willow? Can you change your clothes? You need to get out of the wet stuff.” Running my hands through my hair, I continued, “Jesus, it’s twenty fucking degrees out—what were you thinking?”
Her eyes found mine, bloodshot and framed in clumps of frozen eyelashes. Her body was listless, as if every bit of energy had been leached from her. “I w-w-wanted my mom,” she slurred, as she continued to shiver and shake. “I just wanted my mo-m-m.”
I swallowed back the pain that swelled inside me, the heartbreak I felt for her, for Lucas, and even for myself. It was just the three of us now, and if I didn’t keep us going, no one else would.
“Alright.” I sighed angrily. “Alright, I’ll help you—can I help you?” Slowly, sluggishly, she nodded.
After wrangling her wet shirt off her frozen body and replacing it with a long-sleeved flannel, I dragged her sweatpants down her legs, exchanging them for a pair of fleece pajama pants. Tugging thick woolen socks onto each of her feet, I wrapped her tightly in blankets and tossed the last of the wood into the fire.
Leaving Willow to get warm, I took the stairs two at a time back to Lucas. Finding his fire dwindling again, I scanned the room for something to burn. An antique desk sat against one wall, heavy and nearly immobile, but large enough to keep both fires burning until tomorrow. Another trip downstairs and I’d returned with an ax. The first collision of steel against wood and Lucas jolted awake—he blinked sluggishly across the dimly lit room, before eventually rolling away.
Gritting my teeth, I resumed chopping, stopping only once the desk lay in pieces. Tossing some wood onto Lucas’s fire, I gathered up as much as I could carry and hurried back to Willow.
She remained as I’d left her—wrapped in blankets in front of the dying fire, still shivering. Dropping the wood, I shoved the sofa closer, then headed to the kitchen to scour the cupboards. Mackenzie’s family, along with the Gleasons, had taken almost everything of value with them, leaving the three of us with only a kitchen full of perishables, most of which were already rotten and beginning to stink. Scanning the putrid contents of the pantry, I found half a box of crackers that appeared edible—taking them, I snagged a ceramic mug from the countertop and a pot from the stove. Holding the box of crackers between my teeth, I pushed the sliding doors open, scooping a pot of snow off the porch. That’s when I noticed it—the silhouette of a fast-approaching person. Not a person, I realized, taking note of its stiff, jerky movements. An infected.
The Blood that Binds (Thicker than Blood Book 3) Page 21