21. Sanctuary Lost

CHAPTER 21

Sanctuary Lost

ILEANA

My bedroom window comes into view, a dark square in the brick wall of my first-floor apartment. I've never snuck out before, never needed to sneak back in. The thought of climbing through makes my stomach twist with fresh anxiety.

"Don't forget to check for monsters under your bed."

Wren’s voice carries easily. I glance back, and there he is, leaning against the side of the car, arms folded. There’s something taunting in his stance, like he knows I’ll be thinking about him long after he’s gone.

"Though I suppose the real monster knows exactly where you sleep now, doesn't it?"

My fingers fumble at the window frame. I’ve opened it from the inside countless times, but never like this. Tonight, it feels like I’m sneaking into someone else's life.

One leg first? Both hands on the sill?

I must look ridiculous, frozen here trying to break into my own room. His soft laugh confirms it, the sound burrowing into my bones like a promise … or a threat.

I stumble as I climb through, catching my knee on the frame. The desk breaks my fall, sending a muffled thud through the room. I freeze, holding my breath, waiting for footsteps from the other side of the door.

Nothing.

I straighten, brushing my palms against my legs to steady myself. I’m aware of every breath, every move I make. It's like the darkness is amplifying everything. He's still out there somewhere. A thin curtain and pane of glass are all that separate us. What used to feel like a retreat feels different now. Thin walls, weak locks, and nothing that can stop him from coming in if he wants to.

He knows where I sleep.

The thought is loud in my head as I cross to my door and press my ear against the wood, listening for any signs that Dad might have heard me.

No footsteps. No voices. Nothing to suggest anyone has discovered my absence. My knees nearly buckle, the tension draining so quickly I have to grab the doorframe to stay upright. My relief is fleeting, though, chased away by the flood of memories.

The ballroom. The trees. His hands on my body. His lips on mine.

My fingers touch the bruise on my neck.

Oh god. How visible is it?

I grab my pajamas and walk out of my room. The bathroom light reveals the mess I’m in. My hair is tangled, twigs and leaves caught in its strands. Angry scratches streak across my arms, and my shirt hangs limp, torn in places where branches have ripped it.

But it's my face that makes my stomach clench. There’s a dark bruise on my throat. It’s impossible to ignore. My stomach knots at the thought of what my dad will say if he sees it.

I peel off my clothes, wincing as the fabric drags over broken skin. The ballet flats Wren gave me are shredded, dark with blood and dirty. I untie them with shaking fingers, and let them fall to the floor.

The hot water burns as it hits the cuts, and I grit my teeth. Dirt and blood wash away, spiraling down the drain, but no amount of scrubbing can erase the memory of his hands on me. I scrub harder, ignoring the sting, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Eventually, the water runs cold and I step out, dry and pull on my pajamas. When I return to my room, the space feels smaller, the air heavier. My fingers move to my throat again, tracing the bruise.

Why didn’t I call out to my dad? Why am I here, sitting in silence, instead of screaming for help?

Before I get into bed, I crouch, checking beneath it.

Stupid. Childish.

But his words echo in my head— I’m always watching— and I need to be sure. Nothing but dust and old magazines. Still, the act of looking makes me feel like a little girl afraid of shadows. Except now I know the real monsters don't hide under beds. They stand outside windows with dark eyes and smiles that promise both danger and deliverance.

The windowpane seems paper-thin, its surface a poor shield against Wren should he wish to return. One quick movement and he could be back, tapping on the glass, demanding I let him in.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a strange thrill through my nerves, like the moment before a grand jeté, when gravity loosens its hold and anything feels possible.

I curl up on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep remains a distant dream. The familiar shapes of my room shift in the darkness, creating patterns that remind me of trees in moonlight.

Of being chased. Of being caught.

How can I go to school tomorrow? Face him across classrooms and hallways?

My alarm clock counts down the minutes until morning, when I'll have to step back into my invisible girl routine— eyes cast down and shoulders curved inward, becoming nothing more than a shadow against the wall. Only now there are scratches on my arms, a bruise on my neck, and the memory of his kiss on my lips.

But the worst part isn’t what happened tonight. It’s that someone finally noticed me, and instead of hating it, I’m lying here, replaying every moment, waiting for next time.