Page 4 of Awakening the Beast
He slips his palm along the side of my neck, his fingers rough but warm, his thumb tracing a soft line along my jaw as if wanting to reach the part of me that once trusted him, that once melted under his touch. But nothing stirs inside me. I’m cold, empty—like a hollowed-out fucking shell. All I feel now is frustration and confusion, the remnants of the woman I used to be buried under layers of grief.
I pull away from him, shaking off his touch like a reflex, and face aside, my stare locked onto some distant point in the hallway.
“I'm not the person you once knew and loved, Arlo,” I declare. “You’re looking into the eyes of someone different. I died that fucking day. But on the inside.”
Silence stretches between us, but I can feel his gaze heavy on me, searching for a way back into my heart.
“I know,” he finally says. “And I understand this will take time, but you'll always be the person I fucking love. No matter who you have become in my absence. Nothing can change what the fuck you mean to me.”
He suddenly takes a step back, looking down at my bump before reaching out and slowly peeking through my towel, revealing my entire bump. He rests his warm palms against the tight skin, brushing them over the curve of my swollen belly and the sensation overwhelms me causing me to flinch slightly.
His warmth radiates through my skin, and for a second, I feel the bond we once shared. It feels too much all at once—his touch, his closeness, after so long thinking I’d never feel it again. I never thought I would feel his hands on our baby, yet here he is, standing before me. A-fucking-live.
“Can you tell me what it is?” he asks, his dark eyes flicking up to mine.
“A girl.” I whisper with a tremble on my lips, looking away.
He’s silent, taking in the gender of our baby for a moment before he crouches in front of me. His lips brush tenderly against it and a single tear escapes, sliding down my face. I peek down at him and there he is, his forehead resting gently against me as if grounding himself to this little life we created together.
I hesitate, my hand hovering just above his head, wanting so badly to run my fingers through his soft hair like I used to, but something inside holds me back—fear, maybe, or the anger that still lingers deep inside.
“Daddy’s home, baby girl,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin.
A sob breaks free from my chest, I can't hold it back and I move quickly, passing him without another glance, my feet carrying me down the corridor towards the bedroom.
“Wren!” he calls out, but I don’t stop.
I slam the door shut behind me when I enter, and head straight for my arms room. My hands shake as I press in the code, my breath coming in jagged bursts. I hear the door open behind me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I pull thehandle and step through, desperate to escape whatever this is—whatever he’s trying to make me feel.
As I try to close the door behind me, his foot wedges in, stopping the heavy metal from moving. I let go of the handle and step back, retreating into the small, dimly lit room. He pushes the door open wider and steps inside, his gaze sweeping over the area with a detached, almost clinical scrutiny.
His eyes finally settle on the wall of knives—gleaming, sharp, and carefully arranged. I watch as he approaches the wall. His fingertips graze down each knife, lingering for a moment on the cold steel. He selects one, its weight and design clearly pleasing him. He flicks the blade open, the sound slicing through the quiet and he examines the edge, running his finger along the sharp surface with admiration and fascination.
“They called you The Skinner,” I say, folding my arms tightly across my chest.
His eyes flick up to mine as he pauses, then when he stands tall, and he responds with an edge of calmness. “And now you’re apparently the Queen of Darkness.”
I narrow my gaze, taken aback by his response. “How in the hell do you know that?”
My body tenses as he closes the blade and slips it into his pocket before approaching me. When he's within reach, I raise my palm instinctively, trying to keep him away, but he continues until he's completely in my space, and my hand rests against his chest. My upper body rises and falls as I keep mygaze cast downward. Despite my attempt to stay composed, he firmly takes my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
Staring into his eyes—eyes that have haunted my nightmares for the past six months—feels surreal. I expected this reunion to heal me, to revive the light I once had, but instead, it has only deepened my confusion. In my darkness, I feel emptier and more lost than ever before.
I can feel his heart racing, mirroring my own, beneath my palm. He tilts his head down until his lips hover just above mine, the air between us charged with tension.
“I can see in your pretty eyes that you hate me right now,” he murmurs. “But I want nothing more than to feel your lips on mine again. I’m fucking desperate for it, Wren. Let me kiss you. Let me touch you.”
My eyes flutter shut as his whiskey-infused breath warms my breathless lips. And without realizing, he closes the distance, pressing his mouth forcefully against mine, igniting me. His movements are rough as he thrusts his pierced tongue between my lips, wasting no time at all, sending a jolt of pleasure through me. Our tongues clash and move with an intense, almost primal rhythm. His hand tightens around my throat, his growl echoing through me, and I can feel him teetering on the edge of losing control.
With one hand gripping my jaw, forcing me to stay in place, his other grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling it back just like he used to. His mouth dominates mine with an urgency that speaks volumes of his desperation. I can feel the heat and arousalpooling in my core with each flick of his tongue, making me instinctively press my thighs together. Yet, a wall of resistance rises inside me, and I push firmly against his chest.
His lips tear away from mine, his darkened, feral eyes locking onto me, but I shake my head, feeling the lingering tingle of his kiss and the roughness of his touch still burning on my skin.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I say through shallow breaths. “I can’t go through all that pain again. I need to focus on the baby and Cree.”
His brows furrow as he gently brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek, but I turn away, stepping out of his reach.
“I’m not playing these games anymore, Arlo,” I state coldly. “I want you to leave.”
