Chapter 10

Hazel

Since I found out I wasn't insane—that there was a man living inside my walls—things have been strange. And that's saying the very least. He refuses to remove the mask, and I don't know where he goes for most of the day. But I try to put it all to the back of my mind now that I've less to worry about. Though I do worry about who Mr. Augustine is and why he's been lurking through the walls. He says he's not the kind of man to do that usually. I have an inkling there's so much more to him than he's letting on.

He has a presence to him I can't deny is enthralling. It's like knowing you're the safest you can be, while teetering over the edge of a cliff and looking at the rocks below. It's exhilarating. But I don't know if that's just my dark romantic brain giving me false inclinations. So, I've been in the office, writing until my fingers tingle and my back aches. Only surfacing for food and sleep. Another day has passed, and my stalker has been absent. As I sit at the table and eat my ramen cup, my eyes flutter around the kitchen, searching for any sign he's come out of wherever he's hidden himself again.

There's no visible sign anything has moved. And I never found a watcher's hole in the kitchen walls. That's what I've taken to calling them. A little on the nose, but sometimes that's for the best.

My phone dings, and I jump, barely containing a squeal. It seems I'm a little more on edge than I let myself believe. I look down at a text from Cam.

How's writing? Are you okay? Or did your stalker finally come out and gobble you whole?

She finishes the text with an emoji, and I roll my eyes. It seems I'm always rolling them at her absurdity.

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I work out what the hell to tell her. If I tell her that a man had held me against my will in the bedroom, confirming he was hiding within the walls, she'll send the police right back here. That would only cause more drama for me, and scandal for the enigmatic Mr. Augustine. And I don't want that.

Writing has been amazing. I've gotten so much done in both books. A couple more chapters, and I'll be done with the ten you need.

I settle for the truth about writing, and ignore her stalker redirect. It's for the best. Even though she's my best friend, and I don't recall a time where I'd ever kept something from her.

Great! You won't have to stay the full month, then! Maybe we can plan something for this weekend. And if you'd like, I'll go with you to your mom's for Christmas.

Tomorrow marks the end of the second week here in Honeoye, at the haunted mansion. But thinking about leaving tightens something in my chest.

No, I won't be going, Cam. And I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'll be staying for the full month. If anything, I can get further on both books.

I know she's glaring at the phone. Likely, she's scowling. But it was the truth. I can get much further on both books now that both are flowing.

And it has nothing to do with Mr. Augustine.

Sure, it doesn't.

My inner monologue is getting annoying.

I wish I understood what you were going through. But if you need me, I'm here. Stay safe, okay?

I set the phone down and close my eyes, rubbing stress out of my temples as steam wafts up my nose from the ramen cup below.

"Are you alright?" a gruff voice asks, and this time, I do squeal.

"For fuck's sake! How do you move around without making a sound?"

His frame is every bit of six-foot-two, his shoulders and chest are massive, his thighs could crash a walnut, and yet when he moves through the house, there's not a fucking sound. It has me thinking that when I had heard him, he'd wanted me to.

I can't help but wonder why.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." His ears lift as he smirks.

"You don't? That's rich, coming from you."

I put the juice from the ramen into the sink, leaving the foam container to deal with later and make for the bedroom.

"My intention was never to frighten, Hazel."

And there it is. My name from his lips again. I can only imagine they're sinful. They have to be with that lilt.

I turn around. I had nearly been out of the room. "And what was your intention? When you watched me come in the shower? When you watched me scream out from night terrors? What was the point of it all?"

An audible swallow meets my ears as his hand grips the back of a chair, knuckles turning nearly white. "I don't know. If I had to examine within, I don't know that I could."

The statement takes me aback. Because I know the feeling all too well. The feeling that if I examined or prodded at any of the trauma lying just below the surface, I'd drown in it. And there's no one at the surface to pull me free. It's a terrifying prospect.

"I understand that," I tell him softly, eyes dropping to the floor.

He's in tactical boots, and my brows crunch together once I spy them. Odd, that. They almost look government issued.

"Do you?" he asks, moving forward a few steps, and I'm pulled back to the reality where the stalker has emerged from the walls, face covered in a beautiful mask, and his aura is deadly, and he's standing before me like a lethal threat.

I nod.

A heavy breath expels before he stops right in front of me. His massive hand lifts, the back of his finger gently brushing down the side of my face. "I think you do. In fact, I know you do. I can feel it. You've seen the darkest humanity offers, as I have. Haven't you, little ember?"

My eyes close against his touch. It's the most ignorant I've ever been in my life. When I look back, I'll shake my head at the absurdity of this very moment. Because instead of running, instead of calling the police, I lean into his touch.

"I have."

"There's blood on my hands, Hazel. So much fucking blood. You shouldn't let them touch you like this."

His words settle into my brain, and I open my eyes. But I can't find the will to move.

My eyes lock on his, and it's then that I see what lurks below. What hides in the deep abyss of the cerulean orbs beneath his mask?

Danger.

"I'm not scared of a little blood," I answer, shocking even myself.

There's something in his touch that soothes me. A deep spark that's bringing to life a part of me I thought long dead.

"Pierce?" I ask, clearing my throat when it cracks with nerves.

"Yes, little ember?" His voice is rough and full of heat.

"Why won't you remove the mask?"

His touch drops away, my flesh begging for it to return as he steps backward, nearly knocking into the table. "Because you don't want to see the man below."

I step toward him.

He puts his hands up. "Please, don't."

"Why don't I want to see him?" I'm taunting a monster. And I feel as though I'd written him. Like Death had leaped from the pages of my book and hidden within the walls of this home.

"Because I'm not like the prince in your stories, little ember. I'm a villain. The one so besmirched in death and destruction he can't be saved."

I open my mouth to argue the point with him, and he raises his hands again. "Once the snow recedes and I can find my truck within it, I'll be gone from here. And I won't return."

He moves past me toward the door, and my hands itch to reach for him. It's stupid. Every way I act toward him is ignorant. And it's in direct defiance of how I normally behave. Something within him pacifies something within me that has been screaming out for well over a year now.

I don't want him to take his touch away. I don't want him to go back into hiding. And I no longer want this time alone. I can't figure it out, but a part of me doesn't want to. I want to be the heroine in the story for once, allowing herself to get swept off her feet by the villain. Even if he lets her fall. Even if his intentions are impure. Even if his hands are stained with blood.

"But what if I don't deserve the prince?" I ask before his boots hit the stairs. When I turn around, his masked face is looking towards me, shaking in disbelief.

"You, Hazel, deserve more than the prince. You deserve the world to bow to you. To crawl on bended knee in apology for whatever it's done to you. Those scars you bear, the ones you hide from everyone, someone will pay for them. With their fucking life."

My mouth drops open as he ascends the stairs without another word.

He sees me for who I truly am.

Something no one else has seen because I hide myself. Just as he implied.

A tear escapes my eye, and I capture it and sniffle, eyes finding the ceiling so as not to allow any more to fall.

Fuck.

* * *

It's officially onlyeight days away from Christmas. I haven't seen or heard Pierce in two days. Which is odd because he's in the same house as I am. But he knows it far better. And since our encounter in the kitchen, I haven't gone looking for him.

While sipping my tea and looking over the last lines I wrote yesterday, a crash sounds through the house, causing me to splutter my tea back into the cup.

"What the—" I start, setting my tea down and moving through the attached bedroom to the hall.

"Pierce?" I call out, receiving an answering grunt in reply.

When I get into the living area, I'm stunned.

He's covered in snow, stupid mask still firmly in place, and he's hoisting a massive tree up to standing near the front three windows.

"What are you doing?" I ask hesitantly. The last time I encountered him, he told me someone was going to die for the nightmares I'm subjected to. And thinking of someone dead because of me has plagued me even more than the memories of last Christmas.

Even more than his image.

I shake the thoughts away.

"Give me a hand, will you?" he growls, and I move into action. Getting on the backside of the tree, I help him hoist it up in some kind of tree stand he'd already secured the trunk to, jumping out of the way before he smashes me between the tree and the windows.

"There," he says, lifting his hands to his hips. If his face was uncovered, I'm certain there'd be manly pride welling on it at a job well done.

"What is this for?" I ask.

He eyes me as if confused. "Christmas, of course."

I nod absently. Of course, I'd known that's what it was for, but I don't understand why he'd trudged out in the nasty weather to get it. We're but two strangers, co-existing under one roof until the storm passes. That's a rather odd predicament, too.

"Well, I knew that. I just didn't understand why we needed it."

He eyes me again. "You don't like Christmas?"

If this had been all for me, I'm really ruining his gesture. But I don't think it is because he'd said he was just waiting out the snow. The first chance he gets, he'll be gone. My heart strains under the idea, and I rub my chest.

He follows my hand's path with narrow eyes, and I drop it.

"I don't, no. Nothing about it is magical to me anymore," I admit. And it's the first time I've admitted it aloud to anyone. Maybe it's because he's a stranger and his judgment doesn't feel as harrowing. Maybe that's why I can freely tell him what I've not been able to tell anyone else.

"Why not?" he asks, and I open my mouth and then shut it.

"I can't..." I trail off, eyes finding a branch to fixate on before switching the subject. "Is there a point in having a tree if it's not lit up?"

His blue eyes grow contemplative before he puts up a finger. "I bet there's decor in the attic. Come, let's check it out." Something about the excited lilt in his tone has me putting one foot in front of the other.

We get to the third floor, near the door where I'd first encountered his overwhelming presence, and he reaches up for a string that pulls down a set of stairs from overhead. Had I been paying attention, I'd probably have noticed it before. Though, when do we ever look up?

Most are too consumed with what's fleeting and right in front of them.

Following him up the foldable, rickety stairs, the air grows warmer and staler. Still, there's the scent of him in the air. As fresh as spring flowers.

When my eyes adjust to the room's dim light, I take in what looks to be where he's been hiding all this time. A foldout bed is pulled fully open from within a checkered couch from at least the eighties. There's an old table littered with stolen groceries from downstairs. I hide a smirk, not saying a word to him about them. There's even a television with rabbit ears in front of a chair that matches the couch.

"Sorry, if I'd have known I was having company," he says, motioning toward the right side of the attic, on the other side of the stairs. There are boxes upon boxes stacked up, all labeled and haphazardly tossed everywhere for storage. The smell on this side is mustier, and my nose twitches at the intrusion.

A few boxes get tossed, and I sidestep one he throws that almost brains me. "Here we are," he says, lifting an enormous box and dropping it at my feet.

Christmas, it reads.

I open the flaps that have been crisscrossed closed to keep them shut, spying red and green everything and some tangled Christmas lights. "Yup, definitely Christmas stuff."

I realize that by derailing the conversation earlier, getting him off my back about why I don't like Christmas, I'd gone deeper down the rabbit hole of helping him decorate the house for the very holiday I don't like.

But it had worked, though.

Momentarily.

"Come on, let's get to work." He lifts the box, heading down the stairs like a man on a mission. I linger at the top for a moment, taking one backward glance at where he's been holed up as he's been lurking through the halls of his own home.

It's strange, a man obsessing over someone to this level. Especially because it's over me. I don't hate anything specific about myself. It's just thinking about someone seeing something so intriguing in me to go to this level that makes no earthly sense.

"Hazel, are you coming?" he asks from the bottom of the steps.

"Mhm," I answer, trudging down slowly so as not to fall.

When I'm back firmly on the third floor, he folds the steps back up into the ceiling, picks up the box, and heads down the main stairs toward his Christmas tree.

I don't know why he's doing this, but I don't know how to tell him I want no fucking part of it. No twinkly lights or glittering ornaments are going to make me love Christmas again.

Not when it's been covered in such a dark shadow of hate and trauma.