Heart So Hollow (Dire Wolves Book 1), page 57
I pick up my phone and shoot off a text to Bowen.
ME (5:54PM): Please say you’re on your way home.
I wait in the driver’s seat, my elbow on the edge of the open window, listening to the crickets and tree frogs begin their twilight chorus. I breathe in the sweet, dried grass smell and stare at my phone, waiting impatiently. Finally, it vibrates in response.
BOWEN (5:56PM): Why? Excited to see me?
I crack a smile, relieved that Bowen sounds like himself despite the events of last night.
ME (5:56PM): Very much. ETA?
BOWEN (5:57PM): En route. What are you doing?
ME (5:58PM): Finished a bike ride and sitting in the driveway. Probably take a shower. How far away?
BOWEN (5:58PM): Wait for me
ME (5:58PM): Hurryyyyyyyyyyy
My mood adequately improved, I finally work up enough motivation to exit the car and make my way to the house. I leave my bike strapped to the hatch since the weather is supposed to be nice again tomorrow.
As expected, as soon as I flip the light switch inside the door, I hear the jingle of Waylon’s tags. He lumbers over to the foyer and gives a welcoming sniff before returning to his bed in the living room. I slip off my sneakers, drop my work tote next to the door, and carry my duffel bag down the hallway toward the bedroom.
When I step through the bedroom door, I notice it’s darker than usual, especially for the hour. I drop my bag against the wall and take a few steps inside, immediately noticing the blackout curtains are drawn. I stand a few feet from the edge of the bed, staring at the windows. To anyone else, it would be nothing. But in a house with two people who have very specific routines and idiosyncrasies, the drawn curtains mean something.
They should still be open.
A jolt of adrenaline ripples from my chest down to my stomach, radiating in a tingle through my limbs. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Intuition…
I take a step toward the window and reach for the curtain when, suddenly, the bedroom door slams shut. The bang pierces my eardrums like a nail in a coffin, casting me into darkness.
When I spin around, the pitch-black silhouette of a tall figure grows larger and larger as it closes the space between us. Before I can move, the figure slams into my chest. He grabs me around the waist and throws me onto the bed so violently, the frame sounds like it’ll crack in two.
It all happens in an instant, but it feels like time is slowing down. I land on my side, bouncing on the mattress only once before flipping over and trying to leap off the bed. I only get to the edge before he grabs my calf. My fingertips burn as they zip down the comforter as he jerks me back down the bed. Catching my breath, the screams finally explode from my lungs as I swing my arms and try to grab the headboard, but only succeed in sweeping the lamp and books off the nightstand with a crash.
I try to scramble away, but he jerks my leg and I’m flat on my stomach again. He grabs the back of my bicep, fingers digging into my flesh, and violently flips me onto my back. He’s a black shadow filling my entire field of vision, the hood of his sweatshirt obscuring his face until it’s nothing but a black void with no discernable features. It smells of musty cotton, like it’s been wadded up in a garage and forgotten for months.
He plants his knees on either side of my hips, sinking down on top of me and pressing me into the mattress. I thrust my hips into the air, bending my knees and digging my heels in while flexing my back and glutes as hard as I can.
As long as I can move, I still have a chance.
My upper body strength is shit compared to his, but my legs and back are strong. Even though I’m smaller, I’m holding nearly all his body weight on my hips. But it doesn’t last. He wraps his arm around my torso and jerks me up into the air. My feet slip out from under me and I land with a bounce onto my back, the full weight of his body sinking on top of me. He knows how to fight, and I don’t.
I don’t know what I’m screaming—words, obscenities, gibberish? Whatever it is, it comes bursting out of me with every ounce of air I have.
Where is Bowen? He should be arriving at any moment. If I can keep fighting, keep whatever is going to happen from happening just long enough, Bowen will come home and I’ll be OK.
Bowen will kill him.
I manage to flail and twist my body enough to turn over on my stomach, but the bed might as well be quicksand. With nothing to grab onto except a loose blanket and sheets, he grabs my waist and easily drags me back across the mattress, my shirt rolling up to my chest as I go. He plants his knees on either side of my hips again and, this time, pin my legs to the mattress with his shins. He catches one of my wrists as my arms flail and twists it behind my back. It’s not long before he grabs the other one.
I’m stuck. I can’t move.
Everything goes still, and the only sounds are my wheezy shrieks and Waylon barking outside the door. He hasn’t said a word or made a sound the entire time. He’s like a ghost with infinite energy.
After a few eerily quiet moments, he slowly adjusts his grip, squeezing my wrists with one hand to free up the other. His body shifts to one side and then he leans forward and reaches over my head. My eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see him gently lay a black handgun on the bed about a foot from my nose.
My entire body shakes, my head trembling as his arm retracts out of view. A moment later I feel his palm on my sweaty skin, slowly running down the center of my exposed back. He pauses at the waistband of my shorts before he lifts his hand and I hear the familiar jingle of a belt buckle and zip of the leather as he pulls it through his belt loops.
The sound unleashes a torrent of panic in me and I start fighting again and struggling against his iron grip.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no…I would rather die.
All I see is the stark silhouette of the gun laying on the white bedspread, right in front of my face. And, out of nowhere, Colson’s voice pops into my head.
“Stop pretending this wasn’t the inevitable outcome…”
Was all of this a massive trick—an elaborate game? Revenge for something I have nothing to do with? My heart sinks as his words repeat over and over, until I feel his hand on the back of my head as he twists my hair around his fist. Pressing my cheek into the mattress, he releases my wrists and reaches over me for the gun, letting my sore arms fall to my sides.
“Why are you doing this?” If I can’t fight Colson, I can at least talk to him, “You don’t have to do this,” my voice cracks as hot tears begin flowing down my cheeks.
Where is Bowen? He could be anywhere. En route could mean 15 minutes away or an hour and 15 minutes away, depending on the day.
His weight shifts again and he scoots down my legs, keeping them pinned under his shins. Then, slowly, he nudges one of my knees aside with his, and then the other, until he’s kneeling between them spreading them wide, too wide for me to move. Lodged between his fist on my head and his knees against my thighs, my heartrate skyrockets again and I start shaking uncontrollably.
“I never did anything to you,” I sob into the bedspread, “I never hurt you!”
I flinch at the sharp chill of the gun barrel on the back of my knee and freeze when I feel it sliding up my thigh. My words turn to wails of despair and my gasps burn my lungs as I start to hyperventilate. The gun moves higher until I feel the metal against the thin strip of my shorts between my legs.
He slides it up the nylon at a glacial pace, and then back down again as tears and snot run down my face onto the bedspread. I thought him pointing his gun between my eyes and then shoving it down my throat years ago was bad, but I never could’ve imagined him doing this.
Finally, he slips the tip of the barrel beneath my thin cotton underwear and I feel the cold metal against the softest part of me. I let out a scream that burns my chest, but he doesn’t care. He only presses my head harder into the mattress and resumes dragging the barrel up and down through my slit, teasing my entrance but not going any further. My muscles burn and my body is fatigued, running off of pure adrenaline as I cry out to him for any response whatsoever.
Finally, he lifts the gun and his weight shifts again. I don’t know where it is, but it’s not in his hand anymore. He shoves his arm under my stomach and jerks my ass up until I feel it hit his jeans. Then he jerks my head, my scalp burning as he pulls me up on all fours. Once my arms go rigid beneath me, he loosens his grip and I open my eyes.
I’m staring at myself, looking straight ahead into the vanity mirror. In the dim light, I can see his demonic black silhouette kneeling behind me, his face still obscured and unrecognizable. He can’t even show his face. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath and his body sways ever so slightly behind me, looking like a night rider, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse saddling a cursed woman rather than a steed.
A second later, his arm flies up and there’s a smack followed by an intense sting radiating over my ass. He smacks me so hard that it throws my hips to the side, but then I feel another as his arm jerks back and he smacks the other side with even more ferocity. My screams feel like fire emanating from my throat and as I gasp for breath, I feel him rocking back and forth against my ass. When I look in the mirror, he’s gently grinding against me, giving a coy tilt of his head.
He's still toying with me.
“Fuck you, Colson!” I manage to bite out between choked, wet gasps, “Fuck you!”
At that, he stills for a moment and then reaches behind his back. When I hear the click, my heart nearly stops, and then I see a knife clutched in his hand.
I try to move my head, but he holds it firm, jerking my hair upward and straightening my neck. He keeps pulling until my hair is taught and my head is facing forward. I’m forced to look on in horror as he raises the knife and carefully rests it between the hair tie and my scalp.
“No, no, no, no!” I start screaming as he presses the blade to my hair. In between my wails and gasps, I squeeze my eyes shut and manage one more coherent word before he starts carving me up for the last time.
“BOWEN!”
It takes a few moments before I realize he hasn’t moved and my hair is still attached to my scalp. I open my eyes, his fist still clutching my hair, holding my head straight out in front of him. He cocks his head and I hear a familiar, deep voice cut through the silence.
“Yeah, baby girl?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Colson
One Year Ago
“It’s been years, why don’t you just tell her the truth?” Paige plants her boots on the knobby log next to the fire and crosses her ankles, “Since when are you such a scaredy cat?”
“I came this close—” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together, “to shooting Brett through the fucking head.”
“I know, Col,” she says gently, “but it wasn’t your fault. Like, really not your fault. You were literally unconscious. You didn’t choose to have a neurological disorder. She’s an intelligent, educated person, so why wouldn’t she understand?” Paige studies me from across the fire, shadows dancing across her face as she waits patiently for my response. “I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit,” she adds.
Maybe not, but there are other reasons she’s afraid of me. Ones that make what I did even more complicated.
“You’re right, she is intelligent.” When I stare into the flames, I can see Brett’s face right in front of me and my heart feels like it’s in a vice. “She’s the most perfect human to walk this earth, and she makes all of this—” I motion to the snow-capped peaks and mirrored lake behind us, "look like my dad’s front yard in Gunnison with five cars on blocks.”
“Well, I think you’re just being a wimp,” Paige arches a brow, drawing a laugh from me, “people might wish they didn’t say or do certain things, but true regret is getting to the end of your life and realizing you should’ve said or done something. And, of everyone I know, you’re the last person I’d think would be afraid of telling someone how you feel.”
I toss a wad of dry grass into the fire and shoot her a warning look, “There’s more to it, Paige.”
“Bullshit, there is,” she scoffs with a glint in her dark almond eyes, “there’s only now, Col. Saddle up, or get left behind.”
And, by the next morning, Paige was gone, too.
The crack of that pine woke me from a coma, the branches skewering my flesh along with hers, bleeding me out and breaking my heart for the last time. And, on the side of that mountain, as the snow began to pile up, I had to make yet another promise that I wouldn’t leave her—that I’d come back for her and bring her home. I promised her that I’d always remember the last thing she said to me and that her death would have meaning.
I don’t have Paige or my sister anymore, but Brett is still alive. She’s still here, and I won’t leave her behind, either. Even though I tried to let her go, wandering aimlessly through the wilderness, I couldn’t really let her go, even if she wanted me to. So, I didn’t.
Saddle up, or get left behind. Because Paige is right, the only future that exists is with Brett. Everything else is a lukewarm, diluted, fake version of life. And that’s what I tell Sergei when I break the news that I’m going back to the lower 48. He understands, because you need things to talk about while you’re staring into a pure white landscape for weeks on end, searching for predators. In addition to every other fucked up thing that’s happened in my life, I told him about Brett and why I left.
That why, when I found out who’d gotten to her in my absence, I climbed into my Bronco with Pony and started driving. A week later, Sergei was all in, fresh off a flight from Whitehorse, sitting on Dallas and Alex’s balcony with me, making himself at home.
“Why don’t you just—” he raises his arms like he’s holding an imaginary rifle and blows a puff of air through his lips, “done. What’s the problem?”
Sergei also has no chill.
“Because,” I pause to give Pony a scratch behind the ears before he lays back down, “he can’t be a martyr. He has to voluntarily set foot on my property, he has to die with my bullet in his skull, while trying to take what’s mine. And everyone has to know what he did.”
“So much drama,” Sergei mutters in his thick, Russian accent, “Americans have to romanticize everything. If you want romance, just make her a nice Solyanka—I’ll give you my mother’s recipe—serve it to her in his skull, and use the rest of his body to fertilize a rose garden you plant just for her.” He shoots me a smug grin as he takes a drag off his cigarette and blows the smoke out into the night sky.
It’s not a bad idea.
“Look,” I scoff, “I can’t just shove him out a window and call it a day.”
Sergei shakes his head dismissively, “You’re not wealthy enough or high enough in government for that.”
I may not have endless resources or government connections, but Sergei’s connections along with my own favors called in from the past will do just fine. All I know is the next day, he pulls his Lexus LC 500 up to the loading dock of a grey, non-descript warehouse on the west side of the city—where he’s never set foot in his life—gets out, and walks inside. He returns a few minutes later, tosses a cardboard box wrapped in packing tape in the backseat, and flies back out onto the interstate like we were never there.
Back at the apartment, Sergei rips open the tape and begins unboxing the meticulously packed contents, “Chess, not checkers,” he states bluntly, tossing me one of the small boxes on top, “don’t let your emotions overwhelm intelligence.”
Soon, the kitchen table is covered in unbranded cameras and surveillance equipment of questionable legality, likely shipped from places that fall under United States import restrictions.
I don’t know that I’d call it luck, but a few days later, Bowen leaves town for an entire week—with my girl.
Trade-offs...
By the time he returns, I have eyes on both Brett’s condo and Bowen’s property and I can see both exteriors as well as their living rooms through encrypted feeds on my phone. But even though I’m already half dead inside, it still takes every ounce of willpower not to walk into Bowen’s house and shoot him in the goddamn face after the first time I watch him fuck her over the back of his sofa. Instead, I end up with a few new scars.
Again, trade-offs…don’t let your emotions overwhelm intelligence…then call me the fucking Zen master.
Bowen’s lucky I’m not as impulsive as he is, otherwise I would’ve waited until Brett left for Thursday dinner with Barrett and burned his house down with him inside when she moved in with him a couple months later. I’ve heard that’s the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths—impulse control. He and I are a match made in hell. This is also about the time that things start getting really interesting.
The first time I see Hannah Bailey go into Bowen’s empty house, I think it’s pretty weird. And then, when she starts doing it more and more, and she starts poking around back in the bedrooms, I start paying attention.
Hannah’s always been a simp, following Bowen around like a lost puppy, hoping he’ll give her attention that never comes. There were times she’d get distracted, though, and that was usually whenever I’d come around. She’d drift away from Bowen and, as soon as he noticed, he’d reel her back in like a fucking trout. He’d never give her a shred of attention, but hell if she thinks she can ignore him. And after this long, Hannah isn’t going to change. She detests Brett and her intoxicating presence, consuming Bowen’s attention, even living in his house, sleeping in his bed just to spite her.
She hates Brett, and it’ll make her do things—desperate things—just like last time.
Hannah likes to talk, act like she’s more threatening than she is, especially to other women. But as soon as you challenge her, a feather could knock her over. Which is why it gives me so much pleasure to pay her a visit and warn her to leave Brett alone. When she sees me, her face looks just like Hildy’s when she heard my voice behind her in the Starbucks line.
No wonder they’re best friends. They’re the same, and they both probably ran back to Bowen as fast as they could to tell on me. But I knew they would, and I knew it would only add to his anxiety, because every day he has to square with the fact that I have access to Brett when he doesn’t, which drives him crazy.
