20. Oakley

20

OAKLEY

I recognize Loren's voice easily enough. I've heard it a lot, both while awake and in my dreams. It's difficult to tell if I'm dreaming right now or not. My body and neck ache. My head hurts like I ran into a wall. There's this dull throbbing that I can't quite place.

The second voice is a little more difficult to identify. I think it's Myro, but that's more from process of elimination than it is confidence. It's not any of my friends. There's not a tone they could speak in that I'd not recognize. It's not Loren's father, Jalon. While I haven't heard him talk a lot, I think the fact that this voice is far more familiar than his confirms that it's not Jalon.

It's not one of the triplets. I'm not sure why I'm convinced of that, but I am. I'm also pretty confident it's not Voss, either. There's something almost melodic about Voss' voice and this one doesn't have that tone.

Myro, then.

"I'm not leaving," Loren says. I'd say that it sounds stubborn and maybe a little petulant, but there's a hard edge to it, too.

"Dad needs?—"

"Then Dad can come here. I'm not leaving."

"He's perfectly safe now, Loren."

"You tried to convince me of that earlier today and he was nearly killed," Loren hissed. "No."

"He's in our house. In your room."

"No."

He chuckles. "Let us know when he wakes up, okay?"

"Maybe."

He chuckles again. I don't hear footsteps, but the quiet click of the door tells me that the second voice, most likely Myro, has left.

The room is silent. I don't hear anything, even breathing. I think it's the silence that puts me to sleep again. When I'm next coherent, there's a light pressure on my wrist. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but at least three-quarters of my concentration is trying to figure it out. The rest is taking an inventory of how much I ache.

I haven't felt this achy since I used to train with my brother's football team. That was… far too long ago.

When I open my eyes, Loren is sitting there and my breath catches. He's watching me. Like all those times he's just stared. It's just as intense, but there's something else there too. Concern?

"Hi," I whisper.

His lips quirk up. "Hi," he answers and the pressure on my wrist tightens slightly. He's not just holding my wrist but feeling my pulse. "Are you in pain? Do you need a drink?"

Definitely concern. Worry. Loren Van Doren is worried about me.

I shake my head, but I think I need both. "What happened?" Bits and pieces touch my memory. There's a strange phantom sensation of pain around my neck and not being able to breathe.

Loren tilts his head slightly as he studies me. He doesn't answer, but I think he's trying to determine what he wants to say.

"The truth, okay?" I ask.

He sighs. "I need you to tell me what you need," he counters. "Even on my best days, I don't understand people. Most of the time, it's because I've never cared to try, which is really coming back to bite me right now when I need to know what you need."

"I want to know what happened?"

Loren nods. "I'll tell you, and I understand your need to know, but that's not what I'm talking about. I need you to tell me all your needs—physical, emotional, mental, sexual—everything."

My cheeks heat slightly and I nod.

"I will tell you, but you tell me first. What do you need, Oakley?"

Taking a breath, I take inventory of, well, everything. I'm scared. The little glimpses of something that feels like a nightmare are getting stronger. More pronounced. I shiver. Fear and anxiety make me tense.

"I need a hug," I whisper. "I, umm, want to be held."

When I peek at him, he looks slightly surprised. Apparently, he wasn't expecting that.

"Just so I'm clear, is this a physical need or an emotional need?" he asks as he gets to his feet. He's wearing something different than what he'd had on this morning. Now he's in gym shorts and a long-sleeved shirt.

"Both, probably."

He climbs on the bed and pulls me to his chest. I press my face into his neck and take a deep breath, inhaling everything that is Loren Van Doren. He smells like body wash, laundry detergent, and something that is distinctly him.

His arms are tight around me, holding me as if he's scared too.

"Will you tell me what happened now?" I ask.

There's no indication that he heard me. His grip on me doesn't change. His heartbeat remains steady. His breathing is consistent.

"I saw your backpack in an alley and went to investigate," Loren starts, his voice quiet.

That seems to be a trigger because it all comes rushing back to me. The man that burst out of the door, turning on me with a knife. Dropping my backpack and running. The rope around my neck. Not being able to breathe. I don't remember passing out, but I must have.

Tears sting my eyes. I could have died.

"I found your phone. Then I found you."

"The man who…"

"He's dead."

My breath catches. "How?" I whisper.

Loren doesn't answer. His grip tightens around me. Minutes pass. I can hear them as if there's a clock in the room ticking.

"Let's start somewhere else," he says. I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I don't have to ask before he continues, "When I was younger, I was diagnosed with an antisocial personality disorder. There's some confusion about whether a child can be diagnosed as such, but I promise you, I had it then just as much as I do now. Back then, it was just an umbrella. When I was seventeen, I was finally given the much more accurate label."

I'm not sure what an antisocial personality disorder is. "I'm following, but not."

He huffs quiet laughter. Almost absent. Just a whisper of humor. I smile, further burying my nose in his neck.

"I'm a sociopath," he says quietly.

It takes a tremendous amount of effort not to stiffen entirely. "I… Uh, what?—"

"I have… quirks, tendencies that can be offputting to most people. But the thing you need to truly understand is what I told you a few minutes ago. I don't know how to read people. Part of that is self-inflicted. It doesn't come naturally to me, but the self-inflicted part is that I never tried to learn. I didn't care. Obviously, I'm now a little frustrated with past me because I can't decipher what you need unless you tell me."

"Okay," I say. "I'll tell you."

"Are you afraid of me now, Oakley?"

His voice is quiet and I think it's to be gentler. But coming from a sociopath who may or may not have just killed a man to save me, I'm not sure it's comforting.

"I won't hurt you," he promises, arms somehow tightening once more. It's almost painful how tightly he's holding. "I'll never hurt you, Oakley. I'll never let anyone else hurt you either."

"Did you kill that man?" I whisper.

"Yes. He was going to kill you and I lost my shit when I saw him dragging you like that. I'm not sorry."

I shouldn't smile. But fuck, the grin that covers my face is almost manic. I take another deep inhale, my fingers digging into his back. "Tell me more, please."

He nods. I feel his lips press to my head and I grin again.

"The most important thing you should know right now is that I'm very different from everyone else around you. I don't feel empathy. I don't experience remorse. I can have violent tendencies, but they're in a controlled environment, so to speak. My idea of right and wrong is likely different from yours. I tend to be reckless and disregard my personal safety or that of others. I don't always control my impulses. But where I differ from the black and white definition of a sociopath is that I definitely attempt to find reason and logic before I act, but again, my right and wrong isn't the same as everyone else's so my reasoning might be wrong to some people. Another place where I differ is that I am able to form close bonds and relationships. My brothers and father, my friend Noah, you—they're the most important people in my life and I'll do anything to protect them."

Warmth floods me and I close my eyes. "Why me?"

"This might not be the answer you want, but I don't know why. I saw you for the first time the day you met Daniel Rollins-Alabaster. I can't explain what overcame me, but I knew as soon as you walked in the door to the café that you were mine. However, I'm shit at communicating and even shittier at talking to people, so I wasn't sure what to do about it. Then Daniel became a threat, so I had to eliminate him, which he already had coming. I still didn't know how to talk to you, so I spent the next month just observing you."

My heart nearly stops and I'm not sure which question to ask first. "Did you kill him too?"

"I did," he admits.

"Oh my god," I whisper.

"He had a very long list of reasons he needed to die," Loren says, shrugging.

I'm not sure how to feel right now.

"He was going to hurt you." There's no defensiveness in his voice, but I recognize that he's trying to explain the reason why he murdered a man. Gruesomely, if the news was anything to go by. "He'd already gotten far too close to you. I don't need to know how to understand people to have read your body language that he was already making you uncomfortable."

"You were following me," I say.

"Yes."

I laugh because it's so matter of fact and unapologetic. This can't be real right now.

"Jessica figured it out. Actually, Levis did first. Levis truly figured it out, while Jessica thought I was following all of you. Instead of being mad at me, Levis told me some things you liked and gave me a few ideas of what to talk to you about."

Now I'm just smiling like a fucking idiot. This man has just admitted to killing two people and to stalking me, but I feel ridiculously giddy.

"I didn't know that," I admit.

"Yes, you did. You saw me everywhere. In hindsight, I definitely wanted you to see me because I wanted you to be comfortable with my presence while I worked up the courage to talk to you."

This is such a surreal conversation right now. Loren is the epitome of confidence, while I am the poster boy for insecurity. And he didn't know how to talk to me.

I lean back so I can look at him. Still smiling, mind you, because apparently murdering people to keep me safe is now a thing I'm totally into. Never mind it's the biggest red flag in existence.

"You could have just said hi," I tease.

"Yes. well." Loren shrugs. His hand raises and his fingers gently touch my neck. "There's a few more things I need you to know right now."

"Okay," I say.

"I have an aversion to touch…" I immediately try to pull away, but his arms tighten and he grins. "Not right this second, but I just need you to understand that if I need to put some distance between us physically, it has nothing to do with you at all. I enjoy being close to you. I like you in my arms. But this is very new to me, and I anticipate there's going to be times when I'm going to need some space. Please, don't take it personally."

I nod. Even though he just emphasized like three times that it doesn't have anything to do with me, I innately try to pull away a little. Am I making him uncomfortable now? How will I know when he doesn't want to be touched?

"Look at me," he instructs, and I raise my eyes to his. "I'm not going to ever lie to you. I will tell you if I don't want to be touched. So believe me right now when I tell you that I don't want you to move away."

I take a breath and nod again. "Okay," I say on an exhale.

His lips touch mine and it's like a shot to my muscles. I immediately go limp, allowing him to bring my body back flush to his again.

"I like this," he promises against my lips. "Even when I need space, it's not ever going to be because I don't like touching you. For me, touch aversion can be tactile or sensation or for personal space. I'm not always clear as to why or what might trigger it. It could be something as stupid as it's a Tuesday and the birds singing irritates me."

I laugh. His smile is small, but pleased.

"I'm going to emphasize again that this is very new to me. I'm probably going to be the least easy person to be with."

My heart races at his words. "You want to be with me?" I whisper.

His grin says he thinks I'm cute right now. "I wanted you the moment I saw you, Oakley. When I tell you that Imry had to forcefully keep me in my seat, I mean it. He'll tell you. Because I make it a habit to understand myself as much as I can—and I have exactly zero experience with relationships outside of my siblings and one friend—I didn't know what I felt. I thought it was just… possession? Quite quickly I realized it was definitely an obsession. But I was still under the impression that it was…" Loren bites his lip and then shakes his head a little. "I'm inclined to say ownership, but that's not it. I wanted your smile. Your laughter. Your time. I didn't think it was—romantic?—or physical or anything. Just… possessive. I'm not sure that makes sense outside of my own head."

"It's different now?" I ask.

His smile makes my insides flip. "It's all the things now. It has been since the moment I touched you when we were playing with the bow. But there's one other thing that you need to know right now, which I think might be the most difficult to accept."

"What?" Honestly, I'm not sure what he could add to this list of things I've just learned.

"There's a lot of ways to say this, but I think the easiest way for you to understand is to say that I don't have the same emotional range as most people. I'm black and white with a lack of emotional depth."

"You already said you have a lack of empathy," I point out.

"Yes, but more than that, one of the classic symptoms of antisocial personality disorders is the lack of the ability to create bonds. The experts say that we aren't able to love."

His expression is… blank. For the first time, the clear expression registers what it actually is. Loren's lack of emotion. Not because he's a jerk or whatever. But because he simply doesn't feel it.