19. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

A hand clamping over my mouth wakes me with a muffled scream. Thighs pin my arms by my sides, the rising panic in my chest burning in the back of my throat. I struggle, despite not daring to open my eyes. Reality merges with the nightmares plagued with forgotten memories. Another hand slips beneath my back and I jolt with a high-pitched scream, crying out for the fingers tracing my scar to get the fuck away from me. They feel the jagged line with intrusive interest. My writhing pays off, freeing me to lash out with my nails desperately. Strong hands grip my wrists, stilling my attack.

"Please…please don't touch me," I whimper as tears gather beneath my closed lids. The fight I so recently found dissipates as my voice cracks. Whiskey coats my face, the heated breath of my attack forcing me to gag. Still, I refuse to look upon the menacing gray eyes on the other side of my eyelids. His thinning dark hair and whitening chest hair. A thin gold chain that wobbles as he pushes me down under his beer-gut. The hands release my wrists, leaving me free to blindly punch out. My knuckles connect with a jaw and I open my eyes in shock I was able to hit him. Holy fuck, I actually hit him. But the person pinning me to the mattress and nursing his jaw in front of me isn't who I expected to see.

"And there I was thinking you weren't going to actually defend yourself," Wyatt's green eyes blaze at me from the light of the moon bathing the room through thin, netted curtains. He's still in his white shirt, although a few more buttons are hanging open and the tail ends are mismatched, as if he rolled out of bed and dressed in a rush. The black ink swirling his chest is visible, plumes of smoke blending into the wrath seeping from his pores.

Gripping the lower half of my face, he remembers himself, snarling that whiskey-infused breath over me once more. For that reason alone, I hate him. I hate how he taunts me, how he'll never let me forget. As long as I'm in Wyatt's vicinity, he'll never leave my past where it belongs. My body begins to tremble beneath him straddling my stomach as his knees painfully dig into my sides .

"I swear," he seethes, leaning over so our foreheads touch. "I'm going to break you."

"What the fuck did I ever do to you?!" I finally find my voice, shoving his head off me. First, he threw me into this room upon returning from Eclipse, locking me in and the others out, and now he wakes me the way he knows would scare me the most. He's read my transcripts, after all.

Returning to the same spot, Wyatt's forehead pushes forcefully against mine. His lips hover against my cheek. I lie still, watching the onslaught of emotions a very drunk-Wyatt is fighting against. His features switch from sympathy to rage and back to misery, conflict shifting his hands to ball in my hair and back out again.

"Why are you so resilient? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Me?! I didn't ask for any of this. I want to go home," my voice trails off. I don't need Wyatt's reply to see it written all over his face. Hughes mansion isn't, and never will be, my home in his eyes. Throwing his fists down into the mattress either side of my head, he shoves himself away. I track Wyatt to where he slumps onto the edge of the bed, his face in his hands. The soft light surrounding his frame is a direct contrast to the darkness radiating from him. It's the first time I've seen true emotion from him, and how much he feels aside from hatred. Despite myself, my chest tugs .

"You win, Wyatt. I'll back off." I whisper, flinching at the cynical chuckle that abruptly fills the room. Sliding myself up the headboard, I conceal myself with the covers.

"It's too late now," Wyatt sighs. His shoulders droop with the movement, a sense of defeat making him go limp. When he speaks again, it's quiet and I'm not even sure his words are meant to be heard. "I thought they loved me. All of them…I thought they genuinely loved me." Running a hand through his dark hair, it flops forward to cover his eyes. I've never seen Wyatt anything close to disheveled. I wish I could enjoy it more. He stands swiftly, his arms lashing out violently.

"Until you came along and proved once again, I've just been a placeholder. Everyone radiates towards you, they all treat you like some precious little flower. What do you have that no one can resist?" My mouth opens and closes again. Nothing I say would help, even if I could find the words. Wyatt needs to vent, and perhaps it's the alcohol in my system or the pity welling inside, but I'm feeling extra charitable tonight. Wyatt turns to look out of the open window, a gentle breeze shifting the curtain aside. "Why do you have to take everyone from me?"

In the boxers and t-shirt, I found to sleep in, I slip from the bed. My feet are silent as I pad closer, cautious that I don't know him well enough to gage his reactions. Regardless, I'm not going to shrink beneath the covers while he prowls around like a wild bear. I'll face him on equal ground .

"I hear you," I breathe, tentatively lifting my hand. Aside from his recent aggression, we've never touched. I'm sure he'll spin and pin me up against the wall, but as my hand lowers onto his shoulder, he doesn't move. Now it's there, I swallow hard, undecided what I figured I would do now. Stroke him? Pat him? Wring his fucking neck for being so thick-headed? I can't decide. Instead, we stand, looking out over the back yard until I lick my lips and break the silence once more.

"I didn't seek them out on purpose. They all came to me." It's a weak excuse, but it's all I have. I don't want Wyatt's entire support system to abandon their years of friendship. I don't want to keep being the villain he perceives me to be. "This is stupid, Wyatt. Let's just call a truce. I'll leave your friends alone if you help me convince Nixon to let me return to my old life. I never wanted any of this."

If Wyatt heard me, he doesn't show any comprehension. Slowly, I withdraw my hand from his shoulder. It was worth a shot, attempting to find common ground. Turning back to the bed, he laughs softly.

"Do what you want, use whoever you want. I'm washing my hands of you," he stalks after me until my thighs hit the mattress. "But when Garrett can't contain his demons, when Axel has another mental breakdown or Dax is in full panic mode and you can't reach Huxley because he's turned in on himself, don't you fucking dare come to me for help." Grabbing the bedside lamp, he hurls it at the wall. I yelp and squeeze my eyes shut as it shatters, anticipating an attack. I don't even try to defend myself, resigned that Wyatt will always look for ways to hurt me.

The door closes with a soft click. I slowly look around, fully expecting Wyatt to linger in the shadows, lulling me into a false sense of security. I'm seemingly alone, but safety evades me. I managed to catch a glimpse of Wyatt's layers beneath the bullshit, but the predator in him is back in full swing, prowling somewhere beyond my door. The sight of the large, empty bed unnerves me. What if he changes his mind? What if he comes back for round two of emotionally berating me in my sleep?

I hate that Wyatt has the power to send me straight back to being the scared, defenseless girl I've tried so hard to leave far behind. My trembling resumes, recent events replaying in my mind. Recent feelings that I haven't expected to surface. For a split second, Wyatt appeared exposed, raw and vulnerable. It's too bad he's so far past the point of redeemable in my mind, I can't find it in myself to feel sorry for him.

Instead of crawling beneath the sheets, I move towards the bathroom, remaining on high alert of the darkly shadowed corners. My breath hitches as I run the last short distance on tiptoes, needing to remove myself from the place he'd expect me to be if he returns.

Unlocking and slipping through the door across the opposite side of the room, I brace myself against the wood. Huxley is stretched out on his back, his long limbs covering most of the king size bed. His blond waves are spread across the pillow like a halo, and in this moment, I need him to be my savior. A white sheet pools at his waist, leaving his muscled abdomen and broad chest on full show. Slowly sinking myself onto the edge of the mattress, I pinch the edge of the sheet and softly tug it upward as I tuck my feet up. Huxley shifts, mumbling in his sleep.

"I don't want to work in a microwave factory."

I lower my head onto his bicep and continue to pull the sheet up to cover my body. Then, I lie perfectly still, pretending to be asleep as I feel Huxley's weight lift and twist over me. Ever so gently, he pulls on my shoulder so I turn onto my back, his arm beneath my head as I look up into his concerned chocolate brown eyes.

"What's happened?" he asks, his voice thick with sleep. My lip quivers and an unexpected tear leaks from my eye. I anticipated three possible outcomes from sneaking into his bed. Either he would remain asleep and I could escape before morning, leaving him none the wiser. He would kick me out for invading his personal space, or he'd try to fuck me. I hadn't been prepared for him to pretend to care. Regardless, I welcome the warm comfort of his embrace to keep nightmares and Wyatt away .

"I don't want to talk about it," I sob, twisting into his chest. Lying back down, Huxley simply holds me, one of his hands smoothing into my hair and the other stroking my arm. My tears soak his sheet until I begin to drift off, vaguely realizing Huxley is actively avoiding touching the scar down my back.