Page 45 of Kill for a Kiss

I wake again. At least, I think I do. Fingers trace slow patterns over my wrist, featherlight yet electrifying. My breath shudders. The warmth at my back is steady, unyielding.

Stan. Again. Is this a dream? Is this real?

It feels real. His skin under my fingertips. His weight behind me. The heat of his chest pressed into my spine. A pressure inside me that builds and builds until I feel like crashing. The sounds of our bodies meeting, our breaths mingling.

But it’s all hazy, blurry visions and fragmented parts. Time skips, jumping past me, giving me pieces instead of whole days. What’s become of my life? What’s become ofme?

At this moment, it smells like Stan. That fire-smoke sweetness like marshmallows roasting over flames. Comforting, addictive, and familiar in the way painkillers are when the ache won’t go away.

His breath is a rhythm against my neck. When I shift, he shifts with me. We’re connected, his body wired into mine. His arm tightens around my waist. The heat of him seeps into my skin, dissolving what little resistance I didn’t realize I still had. I should ask. I should question. But then his lips brush against that tender hollow just beneath my ear. And my thoughts scatter with my heartbeat.

When his fingers find the old burns on my legs, they pause there. My breath hitches. The scars tingle under his touch. He presses into one lightly. Somewhere in the haze, Clo’s voice whispers. “Slow down. Stay. With Stanley.” The words curl down my spine. They sink deep inside me. So does Stan.

***

Something is slipping. I feel it in the way my thoughts wander, my memories becoming out of reach. Stan’s warm, sweet breath fills the spaces where my mind used to be. I know I’m with him. I know his presence soothes me. But I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know the last time I felt the certainty of myself.

Stan’s fingers lace through mine. His touch is comforting and reassuring. He leans in and skims my lips like he’s aboutto kiss me.

But something’s at the edge of my vision. I lift my gaze, just past Stan’s shoulder. Clo stands perfectly still. Her expression is composed, calm, and content, as if she’s watching something she’s proud of.

A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not fear. It’s grief. Deep, soul-heavy grief. One that doesn’t scream. One that simply, sadlysinks. Because I understand it now. I couldn’t see before. I haven’t been given a chance, or choice, to see. The pills. The tea. The warmth I’ve confused for safety.It’s her.

I want to run. But to where?

I want to scream. But what would I say?

I want toremember who I was. But I can’t.

The last piece of me—the part that would’ve fought back—starts to fall apart, retreat far and deep into my hazy mind.

Stan’s hand squeezes mine. I hold on to him. The last thought that truly belongs to me is the cruel, splintering truth.I am not my own anymore. And then the fog in my mind takes me.

***

My head is empty. A blank canvas. But it’s…comforting.

The hours have blended into each other, cycles of whispered voices and porcelain cups.

The tea times with Clo and Stan are a ritual. The air smells faintly of flowers and something artificial, something sterile that settles at the back of my throat. But Clo’s voice is a melody, delicate yet commanding, each word seeping into me like a sweet song.

“You are safe here, sweet girl,” she reminds me. “Stay and slow down.”

Stan sits beside me, his presence unwavering. His touch is familiar, his fingers brushing over mine as he lifts his cup to his lips. His gazeis warm, and his voice is so soothing when he speaks. “You seem tired today,” he says. “Maybe I was too rough last night…”

I nod along, though I can’t remember what he’s referring to. Everything is slow and muted. My limbs feel heavy, my mind a haze of white noise and whispered reassurances.

I sip my tea—like a habit that won’t die—and the heat spreads inside me, lulling me deeper. While they talk, I drift and slip into that quiet place in my head. Time blurs, and I’ve stopped counting. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, only that whatever’s outside this haze doesn’t seem real.

Stan’s presence is constant, warm, and reassuring. When he touches me, I sink into it, craving the comfort without questioning why. He feels safe like a dream I have no desire to wake from. But then, there’s another presence…

When everything’s dark, and I’m in my room, I see him. A masked man in the corner. He stands there, unmoving, a figure wreathed in shadows. At first, I tell myself I must be in a dream. But dreams don’t breathe. Dreams don’t watch. Dreams don’t make me feel the way he does.

This man in a mask, hiding in the dark, watches me from that corner. It feels like my heart wants to lurch out of my chest to reach him.

His red mask gleams in the faint slivers of moonlight, the ridges sharp, the grin carved into it twisted in silent amusement. A goblin’s trickster smile. I remember only fragments of where I learned that. Something about home and family, not the Song-Smiths or their house. But my own, a long time ago.

Unlike Stan, this masked man’s presence tightens around me. It’s different, how my skin prickles, how my body is both alert and attuned to him, as if some deep part of me knows him in a way my mind can’t grasp, but my body knows. It wants to be closer to him.