Page 4 of Behind the Shadows

Her fingernails dug into my shoulders as she came again, her breath hot against my ear, and I felt her tremor.

I grabbed her neck and cut off her air. “Say it,” I demanded, my voice low and commanding. I released her enough for her to gasp air.

“You’re my monster.”

“Again.”

“You’re my monster,” she repeated. Desperate. Like she loved it.

Her head tilted. Something ancient stirred behind her murky blue irises—like a memory fighting its way to the surface. For a flash, her features sharpened—high cheekbones, her full lips trembling, and freckles splattered across her nose. Familiar. Impossible.

I seized her jaw, dragging her up to meet my mouth, and kissed her like I wanted to devour the last bit of her soul.

I was close. So fucking close to the release I so desperately craved.

And then a whisper in the background said my name. “You did this, Kip.”

Higher. Sharper. Twisted.

My rhythm faltered. She was still under me, but her eyes were gone now—glassy, vacant.

“You did this,” the echo in the distance said again. “Run, little girl, before it’s too late.”

Her skin, colder. Crimson fluid seeped up from the cement, soaking my hands.

The words rattled me, too sharp, too familiar. My mother’s voice. For a split second, it almost sounded like she wasn’t condemning me at all, but warning someone else. Protecting her. But that couldn’t be right. My mother never saved anyone.

I blinked and jerked back, chest heaving, cursing.

I didn’t come.

I couldn’t.

Suddenly, she faded. She was gone. Again. Her body slipped through my grasp like smoke.

And I woke up—hard, sweating, and furious. I shook as I glanced at my ragged, chewed-down fingernails. I reached for the cross on my nightstand, clutched it until the sharp points dug into my palm—grounding myself in the present.

The cold steel bit deeper. My stomach twisted. It always did, but I never knew why.

Until the flashes started.

Hands. A voice. My mother’s voice? “You did this, Kip.”

I blinked, but the image smeared across my vision like bad film stock—grainy, cruel, and wrong.

I don’t remember that night. But the needle always came after the screams.

I stared into nothing, my skin prickling with shame.

There was no peace in my head—only the rush of blood and the echoes of her laughter.

The darkness wasn’t done with me.

She was still gone.

And I?

I was still the monster.