Page 50 of Creatures Like Us

I’ll settle for anything, as long as I can gaze upon him. As long as he stays.

“Don’t you want to?” he asks with a frown.

“I do. But I want you here with me more.”

It seems like the wrong thing to say; his expression darkens, and he tugs even harder on the handcuff, until redness blooms underneath.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Goldilocks.”

“Or what?” he snaps. “What are you going to do?”

“I can’t let you hurt yourself.”

“Butyou’llhurt yourself if I leave.”

Whenyou leave, I want to correct him.When I let you go.

The realization thunders into me like an unmovable weight, staggering in its clarity.

It won’t be long now. I’ve had my run at happiness, but I belong in the forest, not with you.

“You have no idea,” Asher says, shaking his head. “No idea.”

“No idea about what?” I ask, but he just keeps mumbling unintelligibly and keeps tugging at his handcuff.

Later that day, I give him another bath and another set of clothes. When the time comes to sleep, I ask him for permission before I crawl into bed beside him, and he gives it to me with a nod and an outstretched hand.

“I don’t think I can sleep here without you,” he mumbles into my ear, spooning me from behind, with the familiar weight of his hand around my throat. “It’s too cold in here, and you’re warm.”

He tilts my face toward him forcibly, twisting my neck so he can plant a kiss on my lips. It’s possessive, that kiss—full of unspoken words and underlying spite, but it doesn’t lead to anything more heated, like it did this morning. I’m fine with that; I have to be.

It doesn’t take much for my body to react; only his lips to mine for a fraction of a second is enough.

“Good night, Noah.”

“Good night.”

I take a deep breath—as deep as I can with the weight of his hand on my throat—and try to push the thoughts of him away, try to get that heat between my legs to relent. Eventually, I succeed and fall into a restless sleep.

The next day, I bring him a radio. It used to be Auntie’s, and now it’s collecting dust upstairs, so it might as well be used. Asher complained about not having a TV, and I thought he’d appreciate a substitute, but when he sees it in my hands, his face scrunches up in suspicion.

“What’s that?”

“A radio.”

“Great,” he scoffs, eyeing its outdated, bulky exterior.

I set it on the floor by the bed. “I’m going hunting today. I’ll be leaving you water and food.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he mutters, turning his back on me.

I’m not gone for long. My traps turn out empty, and the wind is so biting I fear I’ll become one with the trees—frozen in place—if I linger. I can’t die yet. Asher needs me. He’s completely dependent on my care to survive; I’ve made it so, and in my own twisted way, I’m dependent on him.

When I come back, there’s a song playing from the radio, the volume so obnoxiously loud I can hear it from the kitchen, and when I come downstairs, Asher is dancing. He sways his hips to the beat of the music, his back turned from me. He looks incredible, even from afar, even though I can’t see his face.

I don’t know much about music or how to move to it, but Asher seems to come alive to the beats: his feet moving freely, his head bobbing from side to side, and his arms?…?not so free. When he tries to move his right hand across his body, the chain catches on his ankle, and he stumbles with a curse. He braces his hands on the bed, shoulders heaving, still unaware of my presence.

The heave of his shoulders turns to more than a catching of his breath, and he sobs out a curse: a “fuck you” directed at me, himself, or the world at large. He slams his fists down on the bed, chain rattling, once, twice, before he sinks to the floor, face buried in the bed, the mattress muffling his sobs and his suffering.