Page 2 of Awakening the Beast
I raise my head, keeping the figure in the corner of my eye, but before I can make a move, they disappear into the shadows. My heart pounds in my chest, and doubt creeps in. Is this all in my head? Could this be my trauma playing tricks on me? Am I losing my fucking mind?
I draw a deep breath, trying to steady myself, then rise from the whirlpool. I move calmly up the steps, and I grab a fluffy black towel from the rack, wrapping it tightly around my body. With my nerves on edge, I try to stride confidently toward the kitchen to get my gun.
As soon as I step inside, I stop at the doorway. My bag is gone, and irritation flares up, quickly morphing into anger.
This motherfucker has no idea who he’s messing with.
Without hesitation, I spin around, rushing into the foyer and the space is empty with no sign of anyone. My pulse quickens as I dash up the stairs, glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting someone to be right behind me.
I burst into my bedroom and head straight for the armoury room. My fingers tremble as I punch in the code and yank the door open the second it clicks. Inside, I grab a pistol on the wall, swiftly checking the clip.
Full mag. Good.
I shove it back in, cock the gun, and let out a tense breath. I turn and walk out of the room, heading back downstairs to end this.
With my gun aimed forward, my steps are light as I descend the stairs barefoot. I try to hear anything—any clue as to where this intruder might be hiding, but when I reach the bottom step, there’s nothing. No movement, no sound. My frustration grows as I realize whoever it was might have fled, leaving me with nothing but the echoes of my own heavy breathing.
I continue into the living room, my gun still aimed, but as soon as I reach the doorway, I come to an quick stop and my breath hitches in my throat.
Standing in the middle of the huge space, with his back to me, facing the burning fireplace, is a man in a tailored, black suit. His hands rest casually in his pants pockets, but his presence feels suffocating causing my heart rate to skyrocket while my expanded eyes fixate on him.
For a split second, it looks like Arlo.
My heart clenches painfully when reality crashes back and I force myself to take a shaky inhale, lowering my gun just slightly.What that the hell is Jasper doing here, sneaking in to watch me naked?
“What the fuck are you doing in here, Jasper? And why are you staring at me naked? What if I told Lil...” I hiss with accusation.
But then he moves, turning his head just enough for me to see his side profile, and my heart stops dead in my chest, my words trailing off. My hands tremble uncontrollably as the gun lowers further, disbelief crashing over me, my vision blurring with tears and my lips part, but no sound escapes.
Then, he looks forward again, “As expected, you're still mine.” He says calmly, his deep New York accent sinking into me like daggers.
My heart crumbles, the world around me spinning as Arlo's words reverberate through me, the same voice I cannot get out of my mind daily. Tears start to spillover, rushing down my cheeks, and I’m left frozen.
I convince myself this must be another hallucination, another cruel nightmare and my senses scream for me to wake up, but my body refuses to move. The silence between us grows deafening, stretching on until he finally turns to face me fully.
The moment his black eyes lock onto mine, my stomach coils into knots. My mind fights to make sense of what the fuck I'm seeing. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that I’ve never seen before, but his dark hair is longer. I have to stop myself from pinching my skin or slapping my face.
His gaze gradually drifts from my face, shifting down the length of me, before settling on my bump. His stare is unbearable, and I just stand there, a sob swelling in my throat. My body shudders, stuck between wanting to rush into his arms and the overwhelming fear that this isn’t real. It can’t be.
After taking in the sight of me, his eyes swing back to mine, his jaw muscles tense, and he lifts his chin slightly.
“You’re still looking as beautiful as ever,” he compliments.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I start shaking my head frantically. My throat clenches as I take a careful step back, “You need to stay out of my nightmares, Arlo,” I croak, the desperation clear in my words. “I can’t keep doing this. It’s killing me.”
I watched this man be lowered into the fucking dirt, but the intensity in his eyes, the tone of in his voice—it’s all too much, too real, too achingly familiar.
For a moment, he seems to contemplate his next move, his next words, then stands taller, giving a slight head gesture as if beckoning me closer, “I'm still waiting for my fucking kiss, Wren.” He says with that unmistakable arrogance he always carried.
“Please let me be,” I murmur, desperation drenching my words.
He takes a small step forward, his hands sliding out of his pockets. Panic surges inside me, and on pure instinct, I move back, raising my gun to level it squarely at him. He halts, his eyes locking onto mine, frustration, and something deeper flickering within them.
One perfect brow arches as he studies me, “This isn't some fucking nightmare, Wren. Lower the gun.” he warns.
Tears blur my vision, cascading as I stare down the barrel, “I have to let you go, baby!” I scream, my voice cracking.
In a flash, I pull the trigger.
