Page 65 of Behind the Shadows

He shifted just enough to pull me closer, his thumb brushing lazy circles across the sliver of skin exposed where my top had ridden up. His touch was soft, almost absentminded, but it sank deep, quieting the chaos in my mind. I let my body mold to his, every breath syncing with the rise and fall of his chest, until the tension bled out of me.

Sleep came quickly—peaceful, unbroken. For the first time in years, I didn’t dream of my sister or Draco.

Sometime past midnight, a sharp shift in the air jolted me awake. Snapping out of a deep sleep, I patted the bed next to me searching for Kip, but it was empty. The sound of running water reached my ears, and I rubbed my sleep-filled eyes. Was Kip taking a shower at this time of night?

I crept down the hall, bare feet soundless on the wood floor while my heart thudded in a tight, uneasy rhythm. The door was cracked open just enough for the light to spill into the dark.

“Kip?”

No answer.

I pushed it open. And froze.

Kip sat on the closed toilet lid, head bowed, forearms resting on his knees. His fingers were white-knuckled around the crossat his neck, the blade edge pulled free, his hand moving in slow, precise strokes—dragging the sharp tip across the inside of his forearm.

Thin lines. Shallow, careful, precise. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.

His lips moved, breathless, soundless, but I caught the shape of the words.

“… though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow …”

My stomach flip-flopped. Not at the blood, but at the way his body rocked, small, rhythmic, like a boy being scolded.

“Kip,” I said again, soft but firm.

His shoulders flinched. His head jerked up, his stare wild—and empty. The Kip I knew wasn’t behind his eyes right now.

Fear prickled my skin. This wasn’t the man I had slept next to. For a second time, I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life staying here.

I crossed the room anyway. This wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with a fragile situation, and it was important that I help bring him back to the present slowly. I knelt in front of him, then reached up and wrapped my fingers around his.

“It’s Holland. I’m here in the bathroom with you. You cooked for me, and it was the best steak I’ve ever eaten. Death and Ella seemed nice under the circumstances,” I whispered, waiting to see if any of the words about our evening would snap him out of his trance. “Come back.”

His mouth opened on a ragged exhale. His eyes darted to mine, confused, desperate.

“I—I wasn’t?—”

“It’s okay,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t. Even though none of this was okay. But I was here, and so was he, and somehow, that had to count for something.

I pried the cross from his hand and set it gently on the counter. I slid my palm up his scarred arm, feeling the tremor still shivering under his skin.

Confusion and fear twisted his expression. “I don’t … what am I doing here?”

“Stay with me,” I whispered.

He stood, sweat beading his forehead. He grabbed the cross and slipped it around his neck again.

“Where did you go?”

He shook his head, extending a hand to help me up. Even as I posed my question, I noticed the unmistakable signs. PTSD, undoubtedly severe, but there was something else, something elusive. I'd only encountered it twice before, and I needed more insight from him before reaching any conclusions.

I took his arm and guided him to the living room. He collapsed onto the couch, visibly shaken, his eyes lost in a distant world. As I rummaged through the refrigerator for some milk, I hesitated. Should I give him time to gather himself, or should I press for answers right away? I was also eager to examine the marks on his arm, but uncertainty gnawed at me.

I joined him, offering the milk. He accepted it, drinking it all, though I couldn't tell if it was out of thirst or the need for distraction.

“Kip? Can I see your arm?” I asked tentatively.

He frowned, a flicker of reluctance in his features, but eventually extended his left arm. The thin line of dried blood told a story of its own. The cut wasn't deep enough for stitches, only surface cuts, but its presence raised more questions than answers, leaving me torn between concern and the urge to uncover the truth.