Page 49 of The Truths We Burn

I can see his body in every mirror. The dark mask with orange LEDs multiplies by what feels like hundreds, and his looming figure seems to block all of my escape routes. What’s worse is while I’m practically jogging in heels, he’s barely moving, as if he knows he doesn’t need to try to catch me.

As if he’s already caught me.

My throat tightens, fear crawling up with sharp claws.

Turning left, I hold my hand out, still moving quickly but making sure I don’t crash into any more dead ends again. Dread twists in my gut as I navigate quicker, the sounds of his feet walking behind me echoing in my mind. I don’t know where I’m going. I have no real plan.

So instead of continuing to panic, I decide to face it.I refuse to admit defeat to this fear, knowing that guys like him probably get off on freaking me out. I whirl around, cutting my gaze at the dude behind the mask.

“Dude, beat it. Following people is fucking cre—” I stop, noticing I’m speaking to myself because it would seem he has once again evaporated.

Had someone drugged me and I just hadn’t been aware of it? Is this all just some LSD trip or a hallucination? Had there ever been a man in a mask?

I run a hand through my hair, laughing at myself as a way to cope with how fucking delusional I’m being.

“You’ve officially gone nuts.” Talking to myself only adds to that fact. I rotate back to my original direction, my bladder squeezing tightly, nudging my memory as to where I was headed.

My blood freezes in my veins, all of my functioning organs seizing up when I feel the abrupt pressure over my mouth. The force behind the hand makes me whimper in pain.I’m almost too frightened to lift my eyes from the person’s chest, but when I do, they widen with horror.My scalp prickles, and my bones rattle.

The orange mask glows into my soul, holding me there for only one still moment before heaving me backwards with an overly aggressive hold. My throat tries to become the home for my screams, but it’s only a haunted house.

Vacant.

Discomfort pinches at my back as it comes into contact with something solid, both of our bodies breaking into an artificially lit room. My eyes scramble to take in my surroundings.

The aged white tiles on the floor, a wall of mirrors above the sinks, and rows of stalls to my right. Dying in a rave house bathroom is the last thing on my bucket list, and after the shock of the attack wears down, my adrenaline kicks in.

Swinging my leg up, I aim straight for his dick in hopes of catching him off guard long enough to scatter away, but he’s smart. Like he knows what I’m going to do before I actually do it.

The hand not suffocating my mouth seizes my thigh, preventing my leg from making contact. With such effortless force, he shoves my leg back to the ground, lifting one finger.

He wiggles it back and forth, like the hands on the clock, insulting me without even using words.

Grabbing my forearm, he practically drags me towards one of the stalls. All the while I’m trying my hardest to fight him like a feral cat. My nails scratch into his chest and arms, but it only seems to make him tug harder.

My short physique is not equipped for this, for someone who can overpower me so easily. He’s barely struggling as he pulls me into the cramped space of the stall.

A barbed, stinging pain develops across my cheek as his large hands drive my front half into the door. I’m plastered against the ugly green wall, terror swelling around the confines of my heart, eating it alive just like the quicksand.

His body leans on mine, pressing into my back.

“I told you not to smell like him.” His voice is molten hot as it pours from the holes in the mask. “Now you reek.”

Relief floods my system; the familiar nature that I’d felt earlier hadn’t been something I’d made up. I had known him. As if I could ever forget what he sounded or felt like.

However, even though I find comfort in knowing it’s Rook and that I’m safe, I’m on the blunt end of his rage right now, and he’s unpredictable when angry.

“Rook,” I breathe. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering me, he just presses into me farther. “You made me watch him touch you.”

“Made you? What are you—”

“You made me. You made it impossible to look anywhere but you. Existing effortlessly in a room full of fucking trash, looking every bit of holy, divine, and angelic, practically forcing me to corrupt you. You made me watch him grind against you, inhale you.” A beastly rumble erupts from inside him as he breathes my scent in, feeling less man and more monster.

“I’m with you,” I whisper, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything before. “I’m always with you. Even when I’m with him, I’m still with you.”

“I can’t not watch you, Sage. But I can’t watch you with him anymore. I’ll end up killing him, branding my name across your ass just before I slit his throat right in front of you. I’m sick of seeing him touch you.”