Page 45 of Bonding Beasts (Bonding: The Ultimate Guide #3)

How in the Void does he know that? I look back and watch him as I approach. His eyes aren’t on me, staring at the wall as if he’s seeing something else. Once I’m past the door’s threshold, it slams shut behind me.

Beatrice

It takes convincing to get Mike to stay in the room. I’m not in the mood to hold his hand right now, and as long as Ben is out of sight, his presence won’t affect him, I hope.

I resort to the sit-and-stay you would use with a dog, hand motions included. He pouts and stays in place like a good boy.

I’d laugh, but I can’t find the energy right now. I’m a foot away from the closed door, staring at the doorknob while procrastinating.

I need a toothbrush and a shower to wash away the feeling of violation and filth.

Which means I can’t hide in this room forever.

There’s no soap or towels in there, and I’ve gotten spoiled rotten by the scent of Ben’s shampoo and body wash.

To get to his room, I have to face the gauntlet of the dining room, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it.

“I could always go get you some stuff,” Mike offers helpfully. This guy is ready to commit, but he has no thought process about it. He and I could be twins.

“My stuff is in Ben’s room.”

The full body shudder that follows that announcement, along with the heavy dry swallow sound he makes answers that. Poor guy, I feel bad that Ben affects him like this. I feel sad that Ben has seen it all his life.

I need that shower.

I bite the bullet and open the door. I don’t look up to see if there’s any damage or anyone left by the table.

If I look, that means I’ll have to deal with it, and I just can’t at the moment.

I’m overloaded and on a form of autopilot.

Close to the passenger seat but not quite in it yet.

I don’t know if that’s better than the see-saw or not.

I calmly walk, head down, to Ben’s room and slip inside.

I can hear the shower running, but I don’t stop to think. I walk into the bathroom, instantly surrounded by steam, and go to the sink and my toothbrush. I brush over and over. Rinsing the bristles off to swish with mouthwash and beginning the cycle all over again.

The shower cuts off, and I don’t look up from the sink as the curtain opens. I hear the towel being pulled from the rack and the slap of wet feet coming up behind me.

Ben’s hand comes up by my face. I recognize it from the black fingernails. I meant to ask him if he paints them or if it’s all-natural. He grasps my wrist and pulls the brush away from my teeth gently.

“That’s enough of that,” his voice is guttural and hesitant.

I’ve caused that hesitation with my behavior. He isn’t sure if I’m two seconds from cracking like a delicate piece of crystal and doesn’t know how to handle it. It makes me feel weak and cowardly for running, even if I did have to throw up.

“I’m fine,” I snap at him, tossing the toothbrush into the sink.

His hand doesn’t leave my wrist as I grip the counter’s edge. I rinse my mouth out, and when I spit, it feels like what little energy I had ejects with it .

I sag a little, and Ben steps closer to me, pressing his chest against my back and caging me with his arms on either side of mine.

“I don’t want to be weak,” I whisper and shut my eyes tightly.

“You aren’t weak ,” Ben growls, lowering his head to my shoulder. He doesn’t wrap his mouth around it, just nuzzles there. His wet hair is dripping down my neck in a trickle that quickly chills due to the air conditioning. I swear he sets the thing to 50 degrees at all times.

“Ugh, don’t sniff me,” I cringe. He could probably smell how foul I am from the hallway, and he’s pressing his face into me.

“Okay,” he says, turning off the water in the sink before putting his arms around me to pick me up.

I make a surprised squeak as he manhandles me into the shower and turns the water on so I get a spray in the face of cold water. He always adjusts the shower head for his height, and if I’m not paying attention, I’m woken abruptly.

I’m not ashamed to say some whining ensues. The water shifts to hit my chest and begins to warm. His water heater is my hero.

“Shampoo,” he announces right before washing my shorn locks gently.

Great, not only am I an adopted pet, but now I’m getting a bath without notice. I mean, I did want a shower. However, I wanted to be alone and minus every layer of clothing. I also wanted to stay here for as long as possible to vent. Again, alone . I guess that isn’t going to be allowed.

My irritation peaks as he tilts my head forward and adjusts the shower head again to rinse my hair. I can’t comment as soap runs down my face and into my mouth. I slap his hands away and grumble, “I’ve got this.”

His body slowly disappears from my back as he steps away. I notice that the shower curtain doesn’t open again, signaling his departure, and sigh in aggravation.

“I thought monitored showering ended with prison,” I snap over my shoulder.

I know my anger is irrational. I know taking it out on him is wrong. I can’t stop it. Everyone feels like an enemy right now.

He doesn’t reply, and I huff. If the asshole wants a show, fine.

I yank off the shirt and bra to toss them on the floor outside the shower. My soaked shoes and socks come next, followed by my pants, before I look over my shoulder, “Is that enough? Do I have contraband?”

Ben whines forlornly behind me and surges forward, knocking into me hard enough that I’m out of the spray of water entirely. My hands snap up to brace before I can hit the wall as he presses against me, burying his face in my shoulder and holding me around my waist tight enough to hurt.

“I’m being selfish. I know that, but I can’t stop. I’m afraid, and I’m never afraid. If I let you out of my sight, you’re going to leave me.”

Fuck.

Damn it.

It sucks when two people with emotional damage collide. What one person needs as comfort isn’t always what the other party needs, and it isn’t easy to set emotion aside. To be what someone else needs when you’re trying to keep your own shit together.

I need to be alone to process. He needs to be held and comforted. How the fuck did we end up together?

“Compromise,” I grit my teeth as I force the word out.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. Nods.

“I shower alone. You go brush your teeth or something. Keep yourself busy. When I’m done in here, we can… cuddle or whatever. We can both be selfish, but I need a minute, okay?”

“No leaving,” he says in a growling tone that’s more demand than a question.

“Not unless you’re behind me.” As the words pass my lips, I’m hit by how different I feel about them. I have never trusted anyone as much as I trust Ben. Even the Old Man I kept at a distance. I didn’t want to give him an opportunity to hurt me.

Meanwhile, I let Ben run roughshod over every line in the sand with barely a shrug.

I have never flat-out stated that someone was mine, my person, until now.

My feelings for Ben are in a whole new realm of discomfort and anxiety, and I’m not running away?

Even my dumb ass can see that it means something.

Something worth fighting for. Something worth compromising for.

“I mean it,” I say with more conviction. “Wherever I go, you go. And vice versa. End of story.”

He inhales sharply, arms tightening briefly before he lets me go. His hands smooth over my stomach and sides in a caress, and he nips my ear sharply as he withdraws. “Deal.”

His deep tone makes my knees tremble with a different type of weakness. He takes his time stepping back and exiting, lingering over touching me for as long as possible. I don’t move as he pauses outside the shower stall. When he finally opens the door and leaves, I let out a shaky breath.

Ben is interested in having sex, duly noted. Mental note highlighted with sparkly star stickers. Seriously okay with that. It’s the emotional shit I need to grapple with on top of the trauma and psychos, and it’s time. I need therapy with someone other than Ben as a dog.

I’m burying my head in the sand. Again .

Okay, think Beatrice. Think without the anxiety and bullshit. The Old Man taught you this. Just breathe and focus on tangible things.

The feel of the water, the smell of Ben’s shampoo, the fact that I still have my underwear on. Little mundane stuff like how soaked is the floor after I threw out my clothes? Are my worn-out tennis shoes finally biting the dust?

Alright, I’m back in the present.

Now, the hard part. The strategic part.

He is alive. Suck it up, deal with it, and make a plan. I’m not as concerned with the little fish like the nurses as I am with him .

I don’t even know his name. He never had a name tag, not that I could have read it if he had. No one ever called him by name. The other scientists gave him a wide berth. He seemed important, untouchable. Maybe a boss with a hands-on approach to the workplace.

Two, was what I saw happen that night what really happened? I know it’s common for people to have false memories instead of real ones in cases of trauma. Your service gaggle, and the internet in general. The mind can shield you from horrors in any way it sees fit.

Did I make up that he was there and died? Or is he an Other hiding in plain sight like so many people? This only matters because he needs to be taken care of.

He has more than earned his bullet in the head. I don’t even care who does it. It needs to happen. The guilt over GV is still present. Even though King claimed that she wasn’t being controlled, it doesn’t change the fact that I will never know for sure if she was a bad guy.

This guy? Is all bad and then some. No doubts.

I finally fully undress and scrub my body roughly, trying to get the imaginary feel of hands, needles, and various instruments off.

Mitri.