Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 33
“Dallas said you tried to carry her out, but everything went wrong.”
Colson shakes his head, “I couldn’t save her,” he glances out the window, a defeated look in his eyes, “I couldn’t do anything except watch her die. Trees were her life, but she probably never thought she’d get taken out by one.”
“That’s awful. Is that why you left?”
Colson smiles bitterly, “When an indigenous woman goes into the woods with a white man and doesn’t come back alive, people start talking.” He shakes his head, “But she didn’t deserve to be the subject of rumors like that.”
I stare at him in silence, trying to read the expression behind his eyes.
“But I did lie to you about something,” Colson continues, “I didn’t come back from Alaska because I couldn’t handle the stress. I liked being out in the middle of nowhere, staring into the snow and waiting for something terrifying to appear. I loved the tension and the adrenaline, like I was living somewhere between life and death. But when you spend enough time staring at a blank canvas, eventually other things start appearing, whether you want them to or not.”
“It would be difficult to be alone with your thoughts after something like that happened,” I admit.
“When things get quiet and time slows down, it’s easy to start fixating on things you’ve tried to forget.”
“What do you fixate on?” I ask flatly.
Then I realize I probably don’t want to know the answer.
“I can’t do anything about Paige and I can’t do anything about my sister. But you’re not dead,” the way he says it is both endearing and ominous, “so, what good does it do me to stay up there when you’re down here?”
I look down at some random spot on the carpet, wishing he hadn’t said what he just said.
It seems it would do me a lot of good for you to stay up there…
“I’m sorry all of that happened to you, but—”
“Nothing happened to me,” Colson cuts me off, “those things happened to them. I just have to live with the aftermath.”
“Fine,” I purse my lips, “but what’s any of that got to do with me?”
Colson chews his nail for a moment and then lets his arm fall back into the armrest, “Because you did happen to me. And you were the first good thing to happen to me in a long time. Before that, there was just this void with nothing but anger and resentment and alcohol. And after, I didn’t want to do anything except be where you were.”
In a twisted way, part of me feels guilty for blaming him for what he did and how everything ended.
But the other part of me still wants him to pay for it. I had to deal with the aftermath of him and mourn the person I might’ve been.
“Are you going to say I led you out of the darkness—that I brought you happiness?” I taunt, flashing a sardonic smile. “Are you going to tell me that I lit up the room when I walked in, because I’m so pure and wonderful?” My smile disappears, “Because I don’t light up rooms. And it’s because of you.”
“Pure as saltwater,” Colson smiles, totally unfazed, “and you sting just as bad. You don’t light up anything. You wanted to stay with me in the dark, not make me leave. I’m still full of anger and resentment, I’m just sober now.”
“Yeah, well, congratulations,” I snip, “you happened to me, too. And if I’d known what would happen by setting foot in that house, I would’ve listened to my gut the first time you treated me like shit.”
“Is that why you finally decided to give me the time of day,” Colson tips his chin, “because you’re a glutton for punishment?”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I talk to you,” I sigh.
“You don’t?” He says it like he already knows the answer, in a patronizing tone that makes me want to slap him. He’s getting under my skin, and he knows it.
“Brett,” Colson glances at his watch and moves to stand, “you and I are more similar than you’d like to admit.” He strolls around to the front of my desk and plants his hands on the edge of the wood veneer, “You did listen to your gut that night. And I bet you’re still a sucker for some pain.” He grins and looks me up and down, sending a tremor deep through my stomach, “You probably still have the marks to prove it.”
I clench my jaw in shock. How can someone with such bright and vibrant eyes be so diabolical?
Why is he doing this? And why do I feel anything other than blind hatred for him right now? I don’t need him coming in here and wrecking my life—again. But there’s no way I’ll ever let him see that he’s getting to me.
I lower my voice and glare up at him, “You need to stop.”
Colson gives a slight shake of his head, “You know I’ll never stop. I’ve had you out on loan long enough, Sorensen. I’ve come to collect.”
The way he looks at me makes my blood go cold. After a moment, he slowly straightens up and turns toward the door. His footsteps sound so much louder, magnified by the tension stifling the room.
He starts to leave, but pauses and turns around, “Oh, by the way,” he taps the doorframe, “that wasn’t salted caramel in your latte,” he winks before disappearing into the dim hallway.
I stare at the empty space, frozen, listening to my heart pounding. My eyes dart to the paper coffee cup, nearly empty now. A faint ringing gets steadily louder in my ears as I taste the sweet and acidic bite of the coffee on my tongue.
No. He’s a fucking liar.
I fly from my chair and march down the hallway, down the stairs, and all the way to the break room. I stop abruptly in front of the fancy coffee machine in the corner and scan the labels over each button. My stomach drops as I read each one: Espresso, dark roast, decaf, cappuccino, latte macchiato, iced coffee. Just like always.
I whip around and search the countertop catty-corner to the machine, where all the cups and stirrers and extra coffee additives are crowded together in a disorganized jumble. There are a couple of containers of French vanilla and hazelnut powder creamers and four bottles of Torani syrup—vanilla, chocolate, pumpkin spice, and caramel.
I give a hard stare at the caramel, then scrunch up my nose and hard swallow, pushing the bile back down. I can’t prove anything. It could just be the syrup.
It’s probably the syrup.
But now I can’t tell for sure. I can’t tell if it’s Colson getting in my head or if it’s something else that lingers ominously on my palate.
●●●
“Babe,” Bowen calls from the closet, “come here.”
I round the doorway to see Bowen standing at the dresser. He’s holding two folded long-sleeved shirts and staring into one of his drawers. When I peek around his arm, I see my grey Lake George hoodie neatly folded at the bottom of the drawer.
I turn to Bowen, stunned, “Where did that come from?”
He shrugs, “Must’ve gotten mixed in with my stuff.” He pulls the sweatshirt out and hands it to me
before shutting the drawer.
I wait for Bowen to finish dressing and leave the closet before I carefully examine the sweatshirt. I should be happy, but it feels like a cursed relic in my hands. I know I saw it at the bottom of the tote in Hannah’s closet; there’s only one, with Navy blue block letters and a small grease stain near the right cuff. I raise the sweatshirt and press it to my nose, inhaling the cotton. It smells of our detergent and our fabric softener, like it’s been nestled in Bowen’s drawer for months. I can’t explain it. And I can’t ask Bowen about it without admitting to my own indiscretions.
Turning on my heel, I scurry from the closet and whip around the corner to the vanity. As soon as I tug open the third drawer down, my breath catches. My earrings—the gold hoops with the dangling stars—are laying neatly among the others. I jerk my head to the doorway and then back to the vanity. They were gone. Bowen even saw they were gone. And now they’re not.
This doesn’t do anything but destroy the false sense of security I managed to regain over the weekend. Now it’s Monday morning and, in an instant, I’m just as wound up as I was on Thursday afternoon after that creepy conversation with Colson—when he gave me tainted coffee.
I know he did. He admitted it, didn’t he? But that’s what he does, he doesn’t come right out and say things. Instead, he just waits and watches and revels in other people’s blissful ignorance until he picks the right time to strike. Just like he did back in college when he snuck into my room and…
I should’ve just told Barrett about it that night at dinner. But I didn’t, because then I would have to tell her other things that I’ve managed to keep nicely hidden away for three—nearly four years. As much as I want to, I can’t ignore Colson forever, just like I can’t ignore my belongings disappearing and reappearing at will in my closet.
But if Hannah actually brought my stuff back, why would she replace it exactly where she found it? It’s too…polite, especially for her. Bowen should’ve gotten our key back from Hildy, but I don’t put anything past Hannah anymore. Locks and keys don’t always stop people with obsessive tendencies. I should feel secure in this house, with a man who’s extremely protective of his space, but I don’t.
Even though I’m working from home again today, I still get up at the same time as Bowen so we can eat breakfast and drink coffee together. He’s sitting on the sofa with a bowl of cereal in his lap, scrolling through emails on his phone. His full mug is on the coffee table next to mine, but he always leaves my bowl of cereal on the kitchen island with the milk sitting next to it so I can pour it myself.
I’m looking forward to another solitary workday at home. Granted, I’ll probably still end up talking to Abby over Zoom for an inordinate amount of time. After pouring the milk, I open the refrigerator and replace it on the first shelf in the door. And, when I do, I stop short.
Next to the space where the milk always sits is a small, rectangular bottle with a purple cap. I don’t even have to look at the label to know what it is—a Naked Mango Madness smoothie.
But I didn’t put it there. I know I didn’t put it there.
I forget everything I’ve tried to carefully bury to avoid dealing with the low-key sense of doom simmering for months and snatch the bottle from the refrigerator door. Throwing the door shut, I pass the island to the living room.
I hold up the smoothie, “What is this?”
Bowen looks over his shoulder and squints at the bottle, “What is that?” he repeats, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.
“It’s a smoothie,” I sit down on the cushion next to Bowen, “but I didn’t buy it.”
He continues munching his cereal, unconcerned, “Then where’d it come from?”
I stare at the bottle and then quickly set it down on the coffee table like it’s burning my hand, “I don’t know,” I say in a dumbfounded whisper.
“Did you bring it home from work?”
I shake my head and look at the bottle again like I’m expecting it to sprout legs and jump off the table. I don’t just buy smoothies and forget about them.
“How long’s it been in there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “this is the first time I’ve seen it.”
Shit.
Once he sees the look on my face, Bowen stops eating, “Are you OK? Why are you bugging out about a smoothie?”
Because I didn’t do this, but I know who did…
But I’m still afraid to tell him, because then he would ask who, and I don’t want to open that can of worms when I don’t even have any proof. I can’t just say that someone came into our house, deposited an unopened smoothie in the fridge, and then left.
“I just don’t remember,” I say quietly.
Even now, I’m racking my brain, second-guessing myself. I know I didn’t put it there, but it’s easier to think that than the likelihood that something more insidious is happening.
“It happens,” Bowen weaves his fingers through mine and brings my hand up to kiss it, “it’s a smoothie, not a goddamn head in the fridge.”
Yet…
But I nod, accepting Bowen’s explanation out of necessity, because I can’t sit here and think about the alternative. Not when in a half hour, Bowen will leave for work and the sound of the gravel under his tires will fade into the distance. Then I’ll be alone in this house for the rest of the day with the silence and my own thoughts, trying not to fixate on things that appear when I don’t want them to.
Like a polar bear lurking in the snow.
After deciding not to dwell on it further, at least for now, I abandon my soggy cereal on the island and guzzle coffee instead. Trying to focus on my breathing and keeping the adrenaline at bay, I let my eyes wander over the room. Finally, they settle on Waylon, chewing on a deer antler in the middle of the floor.
I wish dogs could talk, because I would only ask Waylon one thing.
Who have you seen walk through this house?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Brett
Present
“I used to love being alone,” I muse, gazing out the window into the vast branches of the maple outside, “even when I was a kid, I never suffered from boredom. Maybe it’s because I always wanted to be a writer, so I constantly had ideas and stories running through my head. There was no time to get bored.”
“But it sounds like now that’s not the case?” Judy leisurely bounces her magenta Chaco sandal.
She looks tanner today, which means she was probably out hiking or boating all weekend. I’m relieved I’ve finally started going out and doing those kinds of things again, especially biking. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I couldn’t.
“Don’t worry,” I remember Barrett saying when I finally spoke to her again, “I kept your bike at my house.”
“No,” I shake my head, “after I got to Jo’s, I didn’t like it at all. The first few days, I was so exhausted that I didn’t care. But, after that, it was like hell, especially after dark. It’s like every single sound was amplified to where the refrigerator kicking on sounded like someone busting down the door.”
“That’s terrifying,” Judy says, “were you afraid that he would find you?”
“Yes…” my eyes wander across the floor as I recall the horror, “but it wasn’t just that. The last time I saw him was when he left me alone in that room. I couldn’t get out and I was just waiting. Every little sound was him following through with his threat. All…night…long…”
“But you did get out,” Judy’s soft voice reminds me.
“I did get out,” I murmur, slowly nodding.
“And after that, when you finally got to a safe place, what were you worried would happen if you found yourself alone again?”
“I worried that I’d turn around and see him standing in the doorway, behind me in the mirror, in the reflection of the TV or the microwave. And, every time, it was the same face, full of pure hate. But I was more afraid of hearing his voice.”
“And what does he say?”
I lower my pitch in a vain attempt to match his, “I have a surprise tonight, just for you…”
●●●
“You don’t want me to go, do you?” he murmurs into my ear, his palms eclipsing mine as he presses them into the deck railing.
He brings one hand up to my throat, tipping my head back against his shoulder so I’m looking at the inky black sky filled with stars, “No,” I breathe, throwing my ass back and driving his cock deeper, “I never like when you leave.”
By now, I know the sound of his smile.
“Fuck,” he groans, squeezing my throat as he rocks back and forth, “maybe I won’t go…”
Kneeling behind me on the deck sofa, he runs his other hand down my belly, slightly rounder and firmer than the week before. He lets it linger there, running his palm back and forth, then further down to the crease of my hips, making me sink back into him as I exhale.
He does this more often, like it’s his favorite place now. Maybe because it’s the epitome of what he’s wanted for so long—for our pulses to collide and the cells to split like a tear in the universe to create another life.
Soon, one hand snakes up my t-shirt to palm my breast while he grabs my hip with the other and starts thrusting harder and faster. As soon as my breaths turn into short, airy moans, he drops his hand and slides his fingers between my legs, making me grab the wood with white knuckles. I’m so wet that I can barely feel the friction on my clit, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as he touches me, I go rigid, arching my back and crying out as I press my ass into his hips.
A deep groan rumbles through his chest as he slams into me so deep that it jars my entire body. I reach down, digging my fingers into his forearm, grinding against his hand as I ride out the orgasm. But I don’t stop even after he finally does.
“Still going?” he breathes into my neck.
“Yesss…” I moan, pushing myself away from the railing.
He rises and gives his jeans a tug before grabbing my legs out from under me and pulling me down onto the seat. Now, there’s only a sea of stars above me, brighter than anything I’d ever seen before I came here. He kneels on the deck planks and throws my legs open, burying his face in my pussy while pushing my t-shirt up past my breasts. The night air hits them and instantly turns my nipples to hard beads as he palms them, pulling my body closer to his mouth. He runs tight circles around my clit with his tongue, quickly bringing me back to the edge until, suddenly, he cocks his wrist and gives me a sharp smack across my breast.
The second orgasm rips through me with the same intensity as the first. My back arches and my thighs clench around his head as I oscillate between long, airy gasps and desperate moans as he pumps three fingers in and out of my pussy, dragging my fucking soul out of my body.
Once my breathing slows again, he lifts his head, “God, baby,” he groans, “I just love hearing you come.”
Fortunately, he gets to hear it twice as much these days. Pregnancy hormones are a funny thing—no one mentions the unintended consequences of increased blood flow that result in multiple orgasms.
