Till Death

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  Okay. I wasn’t trapped. It was by choice that I was hiding in my bedroom. Hiding yet again, and as I lay there, I knew he was doing what he thought was the right thing. He wanted to make sure I was safe, and I could appreciate that even though it annoyed me greatly. I wasn’t a damsel in need of protection. Not that I didn’t recognize what Cole could do if I was threatened. I wasn’t stupid. He had a gun. I didn’t, but I didn’t . . . I didn’t like feeling as if I couldn’t take care of myself. For ten years, I’d been doing just that. I’d beat back that fear and I’d been fine.

  But Cole was here because of what happened to me before. And I didn’t need a PhD in psychology to know that he felt like he hadn’t been there for me before. In a way, he was atoning for what he believed he had failed at.

  Or maybe, just maybe, I was making up a lot of reasons and deciding they were true without even talking to him, because I just couldn’t deal.

  The last thought sounded way too rational to be the truth.

  “I’m a mess,” I said to my ceiling.

  My ceiling had no response.

  And my thoughts drifted to what had happened when I tried to leave Cole’s house, and I shuddered under the covers as the memory of the stench of death and decay nearly swallowed me whole.

  Curling onto my side, I folded my hands under my chin and stared at the small window across from the bed. I closed my eyes, not wanting to think about the deer or my vandalized car. I didn’t want to think about anything, but for the next several hours, I did, and whenever I heard movement outside my bedroom, I would go stiff and hold my breath, ears prickling as I tried to figure out what he was doing. Would he come in here? He had no reason to. Would he still be out in the living room in the morning or would he leave once the sun came up? I didn’t even know if he had to go to work, but I did know that couch was not big enough for someone as long as him.

  I wasn’t sure how long I lay there, and I’d given up tracking how far the moonlight reached across the floor by the time I slipped into that half-awake stage. I was floating there when I felt it, the featherlight brush along the curve of my bare shoulder.

  My heart rate kicked up. What was Cole doing in here? I held my breath as his fingers coasted over my skin, spreading a wave of tiny goosebumps along my flesh. His fingers slipped under the strap of my nightie, slowly dragging it down my arm.

  I needed to stop him. Hell, I needed to be pissed about him sneaking into my room and touching me, but I . . . I liked it. Oh God, I did like it, and I could lie here, pretending I was asleep.

  His hand drifted over my shoulder and danced along the blade until he reached my spine. I let out a shaky breath. He dragged his hand down the center of my back, the pressure heavy and—

  “Sasha . . .”

  Pressure twisted in my chest. The hand at my back. It was too heavy, too rough. Too familiar. Too cold.

  I twisted, flipping onto my back. My eyes widened as I stared into the darkness, knowing I couldn’t see his face. I’d never see his face, but I knew, oh God, I knew this wasn’t Cole. A scream built into my throat, ripping free, and my ears burned from the sound. I heard it then, the high-pitched laugh. The laugh that signaled pain was on its way, because when he touched me like that, when he laughed like that, he wasn’t just the Groom anymore. He was more than a monster.

  “Sasha!” Pressure tightened on my arm, and my scream intensified. “Sasha! Stop. You’re okay. You’re safe. Stop.”

  You’re safe.

  Two words the Groom would never speak.

  Jackknifing up and to the side, my flailing hand hit air and I tumbled to the left, right off the bed. I didn’t hit the floor.

  Cole was fast, wrapping an arm around my waist and hauling me back onto the bed, against him. Chest to chest. Skin against . . . skin? What? The nightmare faded like wisps of smoke as I slowly became aware of everything. Cole was holding me to him, his breath warm against my cheek, and he’d taken his shirt off at some point, and now my heart was racing for a whole different reason.

  “You with me?” he asked.

  I was so with him.

  The room was dark and I couldn’t see anything, but all I could feel was him, and it was at that moment that I realized what I’d thrown on before getting into bed. It was a spaghetti-strapped nightie and had a heart-shaped bodice; the kind of nightie made of soft cotton that only reached the midthigh and was most likely completely see-through in bright light. A very thin nightie that made it feel like there was almost nothing between our bodies.

  And his chest was warm, actually felt hot against mine, and the denim of his jeans was rough against my inner thighs. It was then when I also realized that somehow I wasn’t just in his lap, I was straddling him. I had no idea how that happened, but his shoulders were also smooth and hard under my hands.

  “Sasha.” His voice was deeper as one hand folded around the nape of my neck, bunching up my hair. “Are you with me?”

  My throat was dry as I gasped out, “Yes.”

  “Good.” He didn’t let go, but his hand tightened, as did his arm. “Does this happen often?”

  “Does what happen often? This?”

  His chuckle was throaty. “The nightmares, Sasha. Do they happen often?”

  Oh. I closed my eyes as I gave a little shake of my head. “Not often.”

  “Why do I have a feeling you’re not being exactly honest?” His breath coasted over my forehead.

  “I don’t know why.” I should lift my hands away, but they felt like they were weighted against his skin with lead.

  “There’s something you’re forgetting.” He shifted suddenly, and I gasped as I slid toward him. My legs spread wider, and now my belly was pressed against his much harder stomach. “I know you. I’m not a stranger.”

  “You don’t . . .”

  “I don’t what?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

  Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was the nightmare and the almost-surreal nature of him holding me like this. I don’t know but I answered his question. “You don’t know me anymore.”

  The muscles under my hands tensed. “I still know you, Sasha.”

  Shaking my head, I let my hands drop to his chest. “You don’t. Ten years have passed, Cole. You don’t know me anymore.”

  “The Sasha I know is still in there. I’ve seen glimpses of her tonight while we had dinner. You are still her,” he insisted, his voice rough and firm. “And I still know you.”

  “You—”

  “I know you’re not telling me the truth about the nightmares,” he continued. “You have them often, don’t you? Not every night, but enough that you don’t sleep well.”

  My breath caught. He was dead on.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Cole was right, but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know anything else that would make him feel even sorrier for me. I struggled to keep my voice even. “It was just a nightmare. Not a big deal.” I started to climb off, but he held me in place. “I’m fine now. You can let go.”

  “I’m not fine.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I looked at him, wishing I could see his expression. “Why are you not fine? Did you have a nightmare?”

  “No. But hearing you scream like that was like having a nightmare.” His tone was dead serious. “It woke me out of a dead sleep. I thought . . .”

  I stiffened in his arms. I didn’t want to know what he thought, because I had a pretty good idea already. “I’m okay. You should go back to sleep. Actually, you should leave. I’m—”

  “Why are you shutting me out?”

  His question caused me to jerk. “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Not wanting to have this argument in the middle of the night, in my dark bedroom with me in his lap, on my bed while I was wearing next to nothing, I pushed against his chest.

  Cole didn’t budge.

  “Let me go,” I said.

  “I will.” Cole didn’t. “But I have somethin
g to say first.”

  I pushed again, ignoring how . . . wonderfully smooth and hard his skin felt under my palms, like silk stretched over steel. “You can say what you need to say while not holding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Cole,” I snapped.

  The hand at the nape of my neck slid up and his fingers splayed across the base of my skull. A shiver followed, spreading out over my shoulders and down my front, and it was the good kind of shiver. I felt my nipples harden, and was at once grateful that it was dark.

  “You’ve got walls up. I get it. Can even understand why you would, and I bet that’s why you haven’t had a single damn serious relationship in the last ten years. And I can get that too. I understand.” He guided my head toward him, stopping when I felt his breath against my lips. “But I’m not some random guy you just met. I’m not someone who doesn’t know that what’s at the core of you is worth working at, breaking through those walls for.”

  Oh my God.

  “People don’t get second chances often, Sasha, but we got one, and I’m not going to let that pass us by.”

  “A second chance?” I repeated dumbly. “For us?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Stunned, I was quiet for a moment. “What if I don’t want a second chance?”

  He laughed. “Oh, you want a second chance.”

  My mouth dropped open. “And what makes you think that, Mr. All Knowing?”

  Those lips of his coasted over my cheek, causing me to gasp. “Yeah, that right there tells me you want a second chance, and I’ve seen the way you looked at me today, but you know what else?” He paused. “Those hard little nipples pressed against my chest tell me you want a second chance.”

  Oh my God.

  “And there are no walls I can’t break through. Teflon? Barbed wire? It’s not going to stop me from getting through.”

  All I could do was stare at him in the dark, and I wasn’t even sure I was breathing at that point.

  “I meant what I said earlier, Sasha.” Cole’s lips brushed the curve of my cheek, causing me to shiver. “I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

  Chapter 11

  “Okay. That’s hot.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Miranda. We were sitting in the kitchen the following afternoon. She was on her lunch break and had about ten minutes before she had to get back to the school, which was within walking distance. She looked glorious, as usual, wearing a deep purple sweater dress that was a perfect match for her dark skin. If I wore something like that I’d look like a purple people eater. Now she was scarfing down a salad that smelled like it had overdosed on Italian dressing. “He wouldn’t leave,” I reminded her.

  She pointed her leafy-green-speared fork at me. “He wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “From what?”

  Leaning forward, Miranda whispered, “From crazy people who would leave roadkill in your mother’s truck.”

  I glared at her and then sighed, dropping my chin. “You have a point there.” I’d told Miranda everything. Well, I didn’t tell her about the hard nipples, because seriously, I doubted she wanted to hear about that. Needless to say, she was freaked out about the deer thing. Who wouldn’t be? When it came to everything else, she was of the mind that everything Cole did and said was utterly hot.

  “What did you tell your mother?” she asked as she glanced at the open kitchen door.

  “I told her I drank too much wine last night and Cole drove me home.” I fiddled with the cap on my Diet Coke bottle. “She didn’t question it. She was just happy to assume I had a great time, and I’m pretty sure she’s already thinking of grandbaby names.”

  Miranda laughed—she threw her head back and cackled like a hyena.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Oh yes, yes it is,” she replied with a grin. “None of the other stuff is funny, but that is. I can see your mom doing it too. She’s probably already knitting a genderless onesie.”

  I groaned, because I could totally picture my mom doing that.

  “So what’s happening with the truck?” she asked, stopping in front of the trashcan.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Cole texted about an hour ago.” For some dumb reason, my heart flipped. It did it every time I said his name, and I’d been ignoring the stupid little motion in my chest. Well, I’d been failing at ignoring it, obviously. “He said the car will be ready this afternoon.”

  Miranda dropped her plastic fork into what was left of her salad. “Does she know he stayed the night?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. If she does, she hasn’t said anything.”

  Grabbing her take-out container, she closed the lid and rose. “I want to talk all about everything Cole said to you last night, but the whole deer thing . . .”

  “I know.” I watched her dump the container in the trash. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Have you thought about what Cole asked?” She picked up her purse, slinging it over her shoulder. “A list of people who could be upset with you?”

  Pushing up, I stretched my arms to work out the stiffness in my upper back. After the nightmare and everything Cole had said, I hadn’t fallen back to sleep. He’d left the bedroom and returned to the couch to sleep, I guess, while I stayed awake, my body unnaturally stiff. I’d used that time wisely, thinking of possibly anyone who could be upset with me. I normally didn’t sleep well anyway, but spending the wee hours of the night thinking about people who could potentially be angry with you wasn’t exactly the best bedtime thing to obsess over.

  Lowering my arms, I rocked back on the heels of my flip-flops. “I have thought about it. I just . . .” I trailed off as I heard footsteps.

  Mom drifted in, frowning as she glanced around the kitchen. “Have you seen Angela?”

  I raised a brow. “I haven’t.” Folding my arms, I said, “I figured she was upstairs cleaning.”

  “She hasn’t showed up or called,” Mom said, the skin tightening around her pursed lips. “That is very unlike her.”

  “She might be sick,” Miranda said, heading toward the dining room. We followed. “There’s a nasty bug going around. Mrs. Chase, the tenth-grade history teacher, got it last week and was up all night, and barely was able to call in sick in time for the school to bring in a sub.”

  “Oh no. Maybe I should bring her a bowl of soup,” Mom was saying as we crossed the sitting area.

  I glanced at the phone on the registration desk to see if there was a message that I might’ve missed earlier. There wasn’t. Luckily, we only had one room booked, with two more coming in tomorrow. “I’ll head upstairs and take care of the Mattersons’ room. Tidy up the rest.”

  “And then you’ll call me,” Miranda added as she opened the front door. “Because we still have a lot to—whoa. Oh my God.” She laughed, stepping back to the side. “I almost ran you over.”

  Turning, I saw an unfamiliar man standing in the doorway. He was middle-aged, hair a light brown. He wore a dark brown button-down sweater and his tan khakis were pressed to the point I doubted they ever wrinkled.

  The man smiled at Miranda as his gaze flickered over to me. “Miss Keeton?”

  Unease blossomed in the pit of my stomach. “Yes?”

  The man’s smile became a big one, displaying all his ultra-bright, ultra-straight white teeth. “Hi, I’m David Striker, but most call me Striker. I’m a freelance journalist working with the—”

  “Oh hell no.” Miranda cocked her head to the side as my stomach sunk all the way to my toes. “Whatever you want, she’s not interested.”

  Striker’s smile started to fade. “But you don’t even know what I want.”

  I stiffened.

  “Like I said, whatever you want, she’s not interested.” Miranda glared at the man. “Do I need to spell that out for you?”

  The smile was completely gone now. “No.” His dark brown eyes narrowed. “Miss Keeton, I only need a few minutes of your time.”

  Miranda
opened her mouth, but I stepped forward. “You need to get back to work,” I told her. “I can handle this.”