Page 65 of Long Pig

The dream scared her, and the thought thrilled him. He could almost see the fear spilling through her mind, powerless to stop it, and trapped inside.

Then she bolted upright.

The piercing scream ripped through the small speaker. His heart seized; the phone slipped in his grip. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Then the sound cut off abruptly. She froze, though her breathing remained ragged.

She rocked forward, arms wrapped around herself, with small whimpers spilling out. The intimate noise filled his head.

Butch was already moving.

He stumbled out of bed. He didn’t notice the nightstand until his thigh slammed into the corner of it. The sharp edge tore through his thin pajama pants. White-hot pain flared, and he hissed through his teeth.

The shock shot down his leg and made his toes curl. But it didn’t matter. The pain only drove him faster.

He reached the basement door and fumbled with the latch. His fingers shook, and it took several tries. Finally, it gave way. The door burst open, and light spilled before him. It stabbed his eyes, but he didn’t care. He had a clear path to her now.

Her scream still echoed in his head. He wanted to see her face.

She turned toward him with wide, glistening eyes, and something inside him went painfully soft.

“Are you okay, Willow?” he asked, his voice gentle.

She flinched at the sound of it, her body jerking backward like he’d struck her.

Her fear was something holy.

“Come upstairs with me, and I’ll make you hot cocoa.”

Though he didn’t want to, he backed up slightly to give her time to calm. The chain attached to her ankle rattled. He removed the keys from his pocket and tossed them on the bed.

“It’s the small one. I’ll wait for you upstairs.”

He had to know what she would do, and as soon as he was at the kitchen table, he looked at the screen again. She hadn’t moved, but he waited.

She turned her head, found the keys, and made quick work of the lock. The shackle released. She stood, and walked to the door. He switched cameras.

He expected her to look around, to take in the walls, the door, the possibilities for escape, but that’s not what happened. There was no flicker of calculation in her eyes, no furtive glance toward the door that led outside. She simply walked straight toward the stairs. Toward him.

He watched the camera until she passed out of view. A strange ache twisted through him. She hadn’t even tried to run. Did she trust him? No, but maybe she had accepted him. There was a difference, but he wouldn’t think too hard on it yet.

He slid the phone into his pocket and moved to the small counter. The kitchen light hummed faintly as he filled the kettle and set it on the burner.

When he turned, she was already there in her usual chair with her shoulders drawn in and her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t look at him at first, only at the table.

“It’s instant coco,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, and he cleared his throat.

She nodded, the smallest movement, but her gaze lifted to his. It was like a warm hand pressed softly against his chest.

He tore open two packets of powder and poured them into mugs. “Marshmallows?”

Another nod. He added more than he usually used. Three minutes later, the kettle whistled softly, and he poured the water. He placed the mug in front of her.

She murmured something he didn’t catch, then lifted the mug. The first sip was cautious, almost childlike. He watched her lips touch the rim, watched the small wrinkle of her brow as the heat met her tongue. He almost reminded her that it was hot, but the words stuck in his throat.

Then her eyes found his.

“You’re the first person in my life who’s made me hot chocolate.”

The sound of her voice hit him harder than he expected. Its soft, melodic tone made something tighten deeper within him.