CREIGHTON
Annika has been silent ever since I carried her to the house.
She didn’t release a sound when I put her down in front of the shower, but she did close the door in my face.
The chances of me breaking that door and claiming her against the floor like a savage animal were close to one hundred percent, but I repressed the compulsion.
One, I didn’t like the sad look in her eyes.
Two, I’m spiraling out of control.
I feel it, smell it in the air, and can sense it crashing against my rib cage.
When I first came up with this plan, I thought of owning her, making her pay. Taking my vengeance while keeping her.
And while that plan is still up and running, something’s changed.
I didn’t count on seeing her again. Really seeing her.
In her purple dress, dainty shoes, and looking like sunshine and unicorns. I was blindsided by her violet perfume. Always violets.
Violets. Violets. And more bloody violets.
They seep beneath my skin, ripping the tendons apart and settling in the marrow of my bones.
I didn’t count on hearing her soft voice, moaning, begging me to slow down.
To let her go.
That won’t be fucking happening.
I strip and step into the downstairs shower, letting the icy cold water wash over me.
Every nook of my body vibrates with the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her whimpers that might as well be singing lullabies to my beast.
And violets.
Fucking violets permeate the air, clashing with the smell of the sea.
I’ve been imagining her naked and sometimes bound to my bed ever since I woke up in the hospital.
One fantasy turned to a hundred, then a thousand, overlapping and spiraling out of control until I became unhinged.
Which is probably why I acted in pure caveman fashion when I fucked her so mercilessly just now.
But she’s the one who wouldn’t shut up and kept talking about leaving and entertained the thought of another man.
Another. Fucking. Man.
I slam my fist against the wall, the cold water doing nothing to dissipate my blazing libido or simmering rage.
After a few more futile attempts to calm the fuck down, I step out of the shower, put on some shorts, and storm upstairs.
I turn the knob to the bedroom, only to find it locked.
My fist clenches around the damn object, but I force myself to sound neutral. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
I bang on the wooden surface. “I know you can hear me, Annika. Open up.”
No answer.
“If you think a door can stop me…”
“Leave me alone!” she shouts, her voice on the edge before it turns brittle. “Please.”
I don’t like how she sounds.
It’s pulling on that corner in my heart that has her name splashed all over it.
I’ve never heard Annika so broken, but ever since she pointed that gun at me, she’s been slowly but surely losing her spark, her cheerfulness, and what made her who she is.
She doesn’t even post on social media anymore, and when she does, they’re no longer those happy, sunshiny, life-filled photos. They’re more about ballet practice, shelters, and others.
She’s more interested in posting about the homeless and the people who volunteer with her—including an older-looking fucker who’s often super-glued to her side.
And she actually smiles at him.
And she called him her sanctuary in one of her posts.
I contemplated killing him before I flew her out of the US, but that would have hindered this plan, so I went with a priority concept.
The wanker is still at the top of my shit list, though.
“You have until the count of three to open the door before I break it down.” My voice sounds harsh, cold, and nonnegotiable.
The type of voice I had before I let her in, before I allowed her to have a piece of me that she conveniently decimated.
“I just need time alone,” her muffled voice comes from the other side.
“One, two—”
I’m about to ram my shoulder against the door when it opens and she appears at the threshold.
All small and broken. All sad and fucking petite.
She’s wearing a bathrobe, her face makeup-free, which makes her look younger, and her half-damp hair falls over her covered round breasts.
And my necklace.
She’s still wearing the necklace I gave her for her birthday. When I saw it back on the plane, I nearly lost it. For some reason, I thought she’d try to erase every memory of me, but maybe that’s not the case.
I expect rage at worst and annoyance at best, but when her bright blue-gray eyes meet mine, there’s nothing there. They’re aimless, dim, and absolutely muted.
They look creepily similar to my eyes when I first escaped that hellhole as a kid.
Back then, I didn’t look in the mirror for months, because the reflection I saw in there was no different than a monster and it rattled the fuck out of me.
“Shouldn’t you try to not hurt your shoulder…?” Her dispassionate words trail off when her vision zeroes in on the souvenir she gave me.
Her lips part, trembling as she studies the gash on my chest. It’s a red, ugly hole that Mum and my nan suggested I get plastic surgery for.
A suggestion I promptly dismissed.
I’m glad I did, if not for anything else, then for the whirlwind of emotions that dance in Annika’s eyes.
She’s no longer numb, dull, and lifeless now that her feelings pour out in a splash of colors.
Her shaking hand reaches out for the wound, but I grab her wrist, stopping her halfway.
“Who gave you permission to touch me?”
She jerks, lips pushing and falling in an O as she trembles. “I…”
“You’re what? Trying to finish what you started by actually killing me this time?”
“I never wanted to kill you. If I did, you’d be dead already. I told you I don’t miss, but I tried to, even when I wasn’t thinking straight.” A sob tears out of her throat. “I only wanted to stop you.”
Using my hold on her wrist, I push her back, my chest rising and falling in harsh breaths.
Annika stumbles backward and winces, her face scrunching as she lifts her foot off the ground.
I pause, and all the anger I’d planned to unleash on her dissipates into a much more prominent feeling.
The need to protect her.
The fuck is wrong with me? She shot me and all I want is to remove anything that hurts her. All I want is to keep her safe from the world.
But not from myself.
I inspect her foot that she’s resting on her calf. “What is it?”
“N-nothing.”
“Annika, don’t fuck with me. What’s wrong?”
She stares up at me with those round eyes, so big and tormented. “I think I cut my foot earlier, but it’s not a big deal—”
Her words end in a yelp when I carry her bridal style to the bed. The moment I drop her on the mattress, she stands up again.
“I-I’m really fine.”
“Sit the fuck down.”