8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Clara

N o matter how much sleep medicine I took, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned until the early morning when the light started to pour in through the den’s curtains. The tiny loveseat—at least three decades old that had belonged to Hogan’s grandma—wasn’t helping either. I couldn’t stand to sleep in the bedroom or the living room. The den was the only place that didn’t smell like my dead fiancé.

I flipped onto my side, trying to get comfortable even though I knew it was useless. The shallow sleep I did manage to catch, I dreamed of Hogan. But it wasn't just of the bad times. No, I dreamt of when we'd still been in love. When he'd been a completely different person. Back when we were still in school, na?ve enough to think we'd always be together. Graduation. His proposal. Dreaming of our own business, saving together. Then it all turned sour.

Flashes of him choking the life out of me filled my mind, the cleaver coming down over his face, the sensation of his warm blood slipping down the handle and coating my shaking fingers. The hogs feasting on his ravaged corpse. Then the dreams shifted gears, and it was Bastion's face filling my unconscious thoughts.

I probably should have dated in school instead, but all the kids were afraid of him—including me. Not because he was cruel, but there was always a dark, mischievous energy clinging to him that seemed to warn others to stay away.

I wish I hadn't.

His winter-cold eyes followed me in my dreams. Passing by my storefront window, always watching me. But I wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

Not even when he said those words to me after I’d kissed him.

Don’t thank me, Clara. There will be a price for this.

What could he have meant by that?

Maybe it was a good thing he’d said that. It had pulled me out of the bliss that was our first kiss and brought me slamming back into reality. That kiss had been innocent and sweet—literally, his lips tasted like candy cane—but from that simple touch I knew I wanted more of him. Needed more of him. I’d been about to invite him inside on some stupid pretense like getting him to help me with cleaning up the kitchen.

But then he’d said what he said, and I couldn’t help but get sweeping chills that swallowed me whole, sinking down to my marrow. It was that same demeanor he’d had ever since we were kids that scared everyone else off.

To this day, it only intrigued me.

Now that Hogan was gone, I had the ability to figure out the mystery that was Bastion Weber.

Finally, giving up on getting anything close to a decent night’s sleep, I did as Bastion instructed and I called the police to report that Hogan was missing. I was so anxious and scared, my voice shook and Peggy, the dispatcher who I’d been in 4H with in middle school, assured me that we’d find him.

When the two police men arrived, also two people I was on a first name basis, they consoled me and told me we’d find him.

It was a good thing I’d kept mine and Hogan’s problems a secret. Everyone thought we were still madly in love. There was no reason to suspect that I’d murder my high-school sweetheart and love of my life. Not when I’d gone to crazy lengths to ensure my life seemed nothing short of magical. It had been a survival mechanism for me, but now that I’d murdered Hogan Humphries, it had its extra benefits.

The investigation wrapped up after a few hours. No conclusions were drawn but I didn’t miss the looks swapped between the police officers. They knew Hogan had been eaten by the hogs, and by the sympathetic pats on my shoulder and the invites to their houses to have Christmas dinner with their families, they didn’t suspect me in the slightest.

The next few days were quiet. The only people that came into the flower shop were the occasional tourist, but mostly looky-loo neighbors who’d heard the news and came in to give their sympathies.

Bastion had instructed me the night he’d helped me cover up the murder that I needed to lay low and not do anything out of the ordinary for a few days. I tried to read, and I couldn’t focus on the words. I tried to make new arrangements, but they were uninspired and clearly lacked my interest.

I pulled out my phone and flipped to Bastion’s contact. I’d him saved as Tree Vendor since Hogan went through my phone and got angry every time he saw a guy’s name in my contacts. As if being on a first name basis with a guy I’d known since elementary school made me a disloyal partner.

I stared at the number on the screen. Texting him wasn’t out of the ordinary, not if it was about work.

Clara

Hey. Haven’t heard from you in a bit. Got a new delivery for me?

I stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots.

Bastion

No, Clara. You’re well stocked. Checked this morning.

Why didn’t you come in and say hi?

I’m busy. Planning a weekend getaway with someone.

With a heavy swallow, I stared blankly at the screen, reading the short text more times than I could count. A weekend getaway? Since when did Bastion go anywhere? I guess I wasn't involved in his life. I didn't know anything about his personal life other than that he lived alone and didn't socialize much outside of work. I'd just assumed he didn't get out much. The part of his text that stumped me most was the part about him going away with someone else. Who? He didn't have family in the area anymore. As far as I knew, he wasn't seeing anyone.

Fuck. Had I kissed a taken man? No, Bastion couldn't have a girlfriend. He would have mentioned her. Even if he hadn't, I would have heard about it. This was a small town. People talked. A hermit like Bastion Weber having a romantic partner of any kind would be worthy of the front page of the Gazette.

This wasn't any of my business. I should have just put my phone down and got back to work. But I couldn't, not with this burning curiosity eating me alive.

Oh? This weekend?

Yes, Clara.

This weekend was Christmas. So whoever he was taking this weekend getaway with, it had to be someone special. Someone close.

Who is this someone?

I tapped out my response and added a smiley face emoji to emphasize how nonchalant I was about it, even though my thumbs were practically sweating as I waited for his answer. I waited. And waited.

The asshole left me on read.

He didn't want to tell me, which confirmed my fear. This was a romantic getaway, it had to be. Otherwise, he would have told me who he was going with.

It didn't sit right with me how much this crawled under my skin.

I had zero business pining for my Christmas tree vendor when I’d only just got out of a relationship…and I was only single because I’d run over my last man. Why was I rushing to get involved with another? Hogan hadn’t even been officially declared dead yet.

As if by some universal intervention, my phone rang. My heart sank when it wasn’t Bastion's name on the screen, but the Leavenworth Police Department.

Numbness spread through my body as I answered, and they proceeded to tell me that Hogan had been drinking the night of his disappearance and had passed out while feeding the hogs. The coroner offered me their condolences and invited me out to their place for the weekend since they didn't want me to be alone on Christmas. I politely declined their invitation and hung up.

The notion of spending Christmas alone didn't thrill me, but spending it with random townspeople didn't feel right. They didn't know me.

Bastion knew me.

He'd been the only one to notice something was off when Hogan was alive, the only one to check on me. When he'd suspected something was off, he'd followed me home and when he saw me at my lowest moment, he'd helped me through it.

So if I couldn't spend Christmas with the only person who seemed to give two reindeer shits about me these days, I'd spend it alone. But I couldn't go back to Hogan's farmhouse. Fuck that shit. No, it was finally time to go back to my parents' old cabin. Maybe I wouldn't be so alone after all, with the ghosts of Christmases past from my childhood... and whatever else lurked in those mountains.

The rest of the week crawled by on its hands and knees.

I'd been sleeping in the shop since I hadn't been able to force myself to sleep at Hogan's. Luckily, some of the local farmers were helping feed the animals until the place was sold, which was a load off my conscience. I hated that farm but it wasn't the hog's fault what happened.

I went back to the farm one last time to pack my things—It wasn't much, a few bags of clothes, boxes of books, cleaning supplies. When I drove away I cast a glance at the rearview mirror and flipped off the "Hogan's Happy Hogs" sign with a terse smile as it shrunk into the distance.

The property would be Hogan's parent's problem now. They'd sell it, and I wouldn't see a penny since we weren't married, but I didn't care. I didn't need shit from that man, dead or alive.

Finally, the end of the week rolled around and I closed the shop for the holidays, hanging a sign on the front door that read "Closed for the Holidays. Open Jan. 2nd."

I took a trip to the grocery store and then, with so much emotion burning like bile in the back of my throat, made the drive up to my parents’ old cabin in the mountains.

The drive through the pass was dicey since the snowfall was heavy—hank fuck for all-wheel drive—but he driveway was clear thanks to the middle-aged couple who lived a quarter mile down the road. They'd lived there for years and had been friends with my parents back in the day. They even had a spare key and were kind enough to keep the pipes from freezing. When I'd texted them that I was moving back, they'd cleared the driveway with their snowplow.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia hitting me with the scent of old wood and dust.

I set the groceries on the counter beside a bottle of boozy eggnog—fortunately not the brand Hogan liked—and a note that said "Welcome home Clare-Bear" with a little doodle of a bear holding an arrangement of poinsettias.

Tears welled in my eyes. Mrs. Birkmire had written the note, but in a way it felt like it was from my mom. She'd always called me Clare-Bear.

I had a good sob over a glass of eggnog before cleaning the kitchen and putting the groceries away. Then, I pulled out the ingredients I'd brought to make cookies for the Birkmires to thank them for looking after the cabin while I was away.

Once the cookies were in the oven, I gave the cabin a light clean, knocking down cobwebs and sweeping away dust until it felt livable again. When all that was finished, it was time to fetch the Christmas tree I’d ratchet strapped to the roof of the car.

The cabin was surrounded by trees and I probably could have chopped one down myself, but I liked the idea of having one of Bastion’s trees. Luckily there’d been one left, like it was meant just for me. It was a little worse for wear, with sparse branches and a crooked tip, but as I set it up and topped it off with a few of my mom’s old ornaments, I couldn’t help but think it was perfect.

The oven beeped and I pulled out the cookies, setting aside one of the gingerbread men for myself. I poured a glass of eggnog and settled on the couch with my snack and the book Bastion had gifted me.

The spicy retelling of The Nutcracker was quickly becoming one of my favorite dark romances to date. Of course, Clara was a full-grown adult in this version and the rat king was the heart throb.

I’d gotten to a particularly filthy part.

The rat king had used Clara as bait to lure the toy soldier into a trap. With the soldier captured, the rat king told Clara the only way to win his freedom was to make love to him while the toy soldier watched.

I’d always had a thing for monster romance, but this particular author had a way of getting me to question what I thought I knew about myself. A giant rat monster getting Clara off with his tail? It was kind of horrifying, and in a way, that just made it better.

As I read the very detailed sex scene, my breathing picked up and a radiant heat settled between my thighs.

I hadn’t had sex in well over a year. Hogan always got pissy about it, and sometimes he even threw shit when I refused to have sex with him. Eventually he stopped asking. To say I was starved was a bit of an understatement.

Shimming my pants and panties off, my fingers slipped between my folds to find them completely soaked. I was so sensitive, the faintest touch to my clit had my spine arching off the couch cushions and my toes curling.

“Oh fuck…” The book slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. With my newly freed hand, I palmed my breast beneath my shirt, tugged at my nipple, and slipped a finger inside my dripping pussy.

My head fell back on the couch’s armrest and a breathy moan slithered up my throat when I sank a second finger inside me to chase the first. I imagined I was Clara in my book, wrapped up in the rat king’s clutches. Monstrous claws scraping the soft skin as he gripped my thighs, prying them apart only for his tail to slither between them. My thumb flicked my clit, pretending it was the tip of a monster’s tail, teasing me before sliding inside my heat.

Movement in my periphery drew my eye to the window. I froze with my fingers still stuffed inside me, then relaxed again when I realized it was just the snow fall. No one was up here, especially not sneaking around peering through my windows in a blizzard.

Unless of course it was some kind of monster. I giggled at the thought as my fingers picked their pace back up. If it was a monster lurking outside my window, I’d let them have a show.