20. Chapter 20

Two weeks.

Two weeks trapped in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere with a man-child who knows how to hack into the FBI database but who I suspect can't even tie his own shoes.

He's driving me fucking crazy in more ways than one.

I thought I had a handle on myself.

But, I'm beginning to think all the trauma is catching up with me because one minute, we'll be fighting like cats and dogs, and the next, I'll be imagining squeezing his throat between my hands … which, given the circumstances, wouldn't be unusual, except in that vision, we're both also naked.

It's at moments like this that I start to question my own sanity and just how fucked up my traumatized brain has become.

The timing of these thoughts is wildly inappropriate and usually end up taking the wind right out of the sails on my ship, that I've affectionately dubbed "Perpetual Rage", which I hate .

When these little visions of depravity flash through my brain, causing it to stutter step, he thinks he's won the argument.

He has no idea that I've simply lost the plot of the conversation because I'm drowning in a sea of imaginary moans and sweat.

I shouldn't be having thoughts like that.

It's been two weeks since I escaped Dante's house, and while I know I'm a strong-willed person, I feel like my reaction to everything that happened to me isn't normal.

Either I'm repressing a lot of feelings, or my mind has turned some kind of corner, leaving the majority of the ordeal behind.

Is that even possible? I mean, shouldn't I be a mess? Shouldn't I be unable to function? A normal person would be.

Then again, I've never really been normal.

While everything was happening, I tried my best not to slip back into the pattern of dissociation that I adopted the first time, worried that I might not come back out.

I didn't want to just give up, losing all hope that I'd ever have a life that existed outside of pain.

So I fought and tried to remain present as much as possible because if I was feeling the pain, it meant I was still alive.

I still had a chance to make it out.

And I did, with Deacon's help.

Now, I'm wondering just how frowned upon it is to murder the person who's just saved your life.

I was getting stir-crazy.

Every day for two weeks, Deacon has gotten up from his makeshift bed on the living room couch, annoyed me for about an hour, then disappeared into that mysterious man cave behind the laundry room.

Staying in there for hours, I've been left to my own devices.

Alone but somehow still not feeling … alone.

I only see him when he comes out to use the bathroom or get food … which there isn't much of.

The man must live on take-out because the meager offerings in the cabinets and fridge when I got here haven't somehow magically multiplied.

I've eaten humble before, but this is just plain laziness.

I know the man has money, but it's almost as though he genuinely forgets to eat.

He's so caught up in his "research"

that by the time he exits the cave, he's hangry.

Well, that makes two of us .

I'm sitting cross-legged on the sofa, flipping through the endless streaming services on the flat-screen TV above the fireplace, when I hear him muttering to himself and banging cabinet doors around.

I let out a little snort, knowing what he's looking for and also knowing that he won't find it.

There's nothing to eat in this damn house.

I know I'm slowly finding myself again when I realize that I want snacks: chips, cookies, and ice cream.

Like a cow, I need to graze, and I can't do that here.

I hate not being in control.

Control of where I go, who I see, what I eat.

Whenever I've brought up the idea of leaving, Deacon immediately shuts me down, citing the dangers of the unknown.

We still don't know if Dante made it out of that house alive, or at least I don't know.

Because he doesn't tell me anything.

Being kept in the dark about what's going on is annoying enough, but I don't think I can take much more ramen noodles and baked potatoes.

He's gonna have to get groceries.

I jump up from the couch, tossing the remote down before making my way into the kitchen to tell him just that.

As I walk in, I'm greeted by the sight of Deacon bent at the waist, head buried deep in the fridge.

God, he's got a stellar ass.

Shit! No, focus.

"There's nothing in there.

I've already checked.

We need food.

We're gonna have to go out,"

I say from behind him, arms crossed as I lean against the door jam that separates the kitchen from the dining room.

His body tenses for a few seconds at my words before he resumes rooting around.

From the recesses of the fridge, he says, " We aren't going anywhere.

I told you, it's not safe to go out.

I'll have groceries delivered and left at the gate."

Finally straightening, he turns to face me before adding, "And then I'll go out and get them. "

Not one to be subdued, I plaster on my most obstinate face before saying, "No, we'll go get them.

I can't stay in this fucking house anymore, Deacon.

I need to breathe fresh air! I need sunshine!"

Jaw clenching, he replies, "It's … not … safe."

With that, he walks past me into the living room before starting down the hallway, as if the discussion is over and his word is law.

I'm on his heels in a heartbeat.

Following him into the bedroom, I watch him kick off his basketball shorts, leaving himself in a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs.

His movements are jerky like he's a bowstring that's been pulled too tight and will snap at any moment.

He's reaching for a pair of light jogging pants when I say, "It's just groceries.

A walk to the end of the driveway.

Not the end of the world."

"You're not going."

"You can't stop me."

Eyes narrowing dangerously, he turns and stalks towards me.

Instinctively, I back up one step, then two.

He continues forwards until my ass bumps into the dresser at my back.

He's trying to intimidate me, but it's not going to work.

Placing both palms flat on the dresser on either side of my hips, he leans down until he's about half an inch from my face.

For a normal person who's been through what I've been through, this positioning would be terrifying.

For some reason.

though, I'm not afraid of him.

In fact, he's actually kinda pissing me off.

Face so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath brush across my lips, like the caress of a tongue, he says, "You're pushing it, woman."

As we stand there in tense silence, it takes me a moment to realize that there's a distinct bulge in his boxers.

I don't dare look down because I refuse to let him win this, but I can see it from my periphery.

The longer we stand there, toe-to-toe, the bigger the bulge gets.

The knowledge that he's getting off on being this close to me causes a flush of heat to course through my body.

My breasts tighten and my core clenches.

Without conscious thought, my thighs squeeze together.

He's breathing heavily, and I watch his gaze flick to my mouth for a split second before coming back up.

Wait.

Did he just woman me?? "No,"

I say, pausing briefly before using both hands to shove hard into his chest.

The move is unexpected and causes him to stumble back a step.

" Now , I'm pushing you.

And don't fucking crowd me."

He stares at me like I've lost my mind.

I watch his jaw flex, but again, I'm not scared.

Have I forgone all sense of self-preservation, deemed him as non-threatening, or just gotten tired of men's bullshit in general? Probably a mixture of all three.

Whatever the case, I stand my ground, not backing down.

We continue our stand-off for a minute or two before he finally releases a growl that sounds like it's worked its way up from the depths of his soul before turning around, grabbing the pants, and slipping them on.

Shoving his feet into a pair of work boots, he pushes past me, heading back through the living room toward the kitchen.

Oh, no.

He better not be going back into that damn room.

"You know what, fuck this,"

I say.

He's almost made it to the kitchen when I spin in the opposite direction instead of following him, heading straight for the front door.

Before he can turn around and stop me, I've gotten the many interior locks undone and flung the door wide open.

Ha! Guess for all his security, it works better at keeping people out than in.

Walking out onto the front porch, I leap down the stairs and into the bright sunlight.

Oh, God, I've missed this.

Turning my face up to the sun, I soak in the vitamin D for about 15 seconds before a hand grabs my wrist, spinning me around.

Speaking of vitamin D.

Mood uplifted slightly by the change in scenery; I let out a little chuckle at my own joke.

That is until I see Deacon's murderous face.

"Why the hell are you laughing?"

he demands, and it's clear he's spitting mad.

Despite the warmth from the sun's rays, his irritation is like a match to the powder keg that is mine.

"Because you're so angry, and it brings me so much joy."

He shakes his head slowly before releasing my wrist like it's burned him.

"You're insane.

That's the only excuse for it.

Rational people don't behave like this."

he says, and it's clear from his tone that bewilderment is now fighting for dominance over his previous irritation.

His reaction only brings on more laughter until I'm nearly doubled over.

All the while, he stares at me like he's trying to think of a good tailor to have me fitted for a designer straightjacket.

Finally, the hysteria subsides, and I straighten, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.

Two seconds later, his grip is back on my wrist, and he's attempting to drag me towards the porch.

I dig in my heels, pulling against his hold, all thoughts of humor evaporating.

"I'm not going back in that house, Deacon.

Not until you tell me what you've been doing in that cave of yours for the last two weeks."

Stopping, he turns to stare at me.

"What? I've been working.

Besides, what does it matter?"

"It matters because it's my life.

I have a right to know what you've found.

Or at least help in some way.

I'm tired of sitting by and letting other people make decisions for me.

Now, either you tell me what you know, or I'm gonna plop my ass right here in the grass and refuse to budge."

I know I'm acting like a child, but I can't afford for him to go back into that room right now.

If he does, I'll lose him for another entire day before I get another shot at this.

He's shaking his head before I've even finished my last sentence.

"There's nothing to tell.

I haven't found out anything.

Now, get in the damn house."

I stare at him intently, searching his face for any sign that would tell me, one way or the other, what the truth is.

As I watch, he stands perfectly still, but I don't miss the way his eyes dart from mine to stare at a spot just over my shoulder, giving the illusion that he's looking at me while actually averting his gaze.

He's hiding something.

Lips thinning to a straight line, I cross my arms over my chest before dropping down to the ground.

He stares down at me incredulously.

That incredulity soon turns into blustering sounds and pacing.

Finally, when he's worked himself up into a good state of mad, he says, "Fine.

You wanna be outside, be outside."

With that, he turns around, walks off, and leaves me sitting in the grass.

Instead of going back inside, I watch him use a scrunchie to tie his hair back before he disappears around the side of the house.

Once he's out of my line of sight, I wait a minute, then three, then five, but he doesn't come back.

Where did he go?? Soon, I hear a rhythmic whooshing sound, followed by a series of thumps.

Curiosity gets the better of me, so I get up and follow the path Deacon took around to the back of the house.

As I turn the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.

Holy hell.

Amidst a large pile of split logs, a very sweaty Deacon swings a heavy ax, obliterating each huge chunk of firewood he sits on the giant stump in front of him.

My mouth is suddenly dry, and I feel like I've eaten a bag full of cotton balls.

Deacon's shirt is plastered to his back from perspiration, and his colorful tattoos visible through the thin fabric.

With every swing, I watch the muscles in his shoulders and biceps flex and ripple.

Soon, I notice that my brain must've told my feet to move closer without my consent.

Probably to lay on the ground next to him, in the hopes of catching each drop of sweat in my mouth.

Jesus, what is wrong with me??

As if sensing my approach, he pauses mid-swing, lowering the ax to the ground before saying, "Leave me be, Siren."

He doesn't turn around to face me, and somehow, that only adds to the tone of defeat that laces his words.

Oh, how I wish I could.

I feel like a ship lost at sea; for some reason, he's the beacon lighting the way home.

Blinking at the absurdity of that thought, my next words come out harsher than I intend.

"Deacon, I'm done sitting in that house, twiddling my thumbs while you do God knows what in that locked room.

I wanna see inside."

The demand escapes before I've even thought about it.

I said weeks ago that I didn't want to know what he kept hidden in there because if it turned out to be something bizarre, I'd be better off not knowing.

But now, I realize that my words are underlined with steel.

I've made up my mind.

I won't change it.

"Absolutely not,"

he replies immediately.

"It's better for you not to know."

"Better for me or you? What are you hiding in there, Deacon? It's not a meat locker full of women's body parts, is it?"

I know this isn't the case, but his refusal to entertain even the idea makes me want to needle him.

Letting out an incredulous laugh, he drops the ax entirely before finally turning to face me.

"My answer is no.

Now, I'm going inside to take a shower, then I've got work to do before dinner.

I'll order Chinese.

Make a list of things you want from the grocery store."

He starts to walk away, then pauses, turning his head and pointing a finger at me.

"You can stay in the backyard.

Don't go anywhere else, do you understand?"

Is he crazy? Who does this man think he is? I'm Siren-fucking-Sinclair.

Not some dog that he can banish to the backyard or bark orders at.

So, of course, when he moves back towards the house, I do the opposite of what he said and trail behind him.

"Siren, if you know what's good for you, you won't follow me right now.

You wanted to be outside so fucking badly, I'm giving you what you want."

"Guess I don't know what's good for me,"

I reply, still dogging his heels.

He lets out a roar of frustration, making it to the front door of the house before I do.

The last thing he hears before slamming the front door behind him is the sound of my hysterical laughter.