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Headache.
The same headache I had right before the worst threesome of my life.
My heart rate went into overdrive at the memory. Dream? Whatever it was, rage prickled along my skin like needles. All of the blood, or the hot, sticky sensation of it, made me shudder.
Opening my eyes slowly, I expelled a few quick breaths and forced myself to look down.
My torso was bare — nakedandclean.
There was no blood.
No knife.
And certainly no body next to the bed.
I wasn’t even in Leander’s bed. I was in the red guest room, covered with crimson and gold bedding instead of black.
Exhaling a couple of steadying breaths, I turned to my right, still wary of who I’d find in the bed beside me. Or what.
Leander was the only one there, dressed as he had been hours earlier, but fast asleep. A book laid on his stomach, rising and falling with his slow, even breaths. It was after midnight when I called it quits and left him to his insomnia, so there was no telling when he crept in.
Swiping a hand over my face, I eased out of bed and down the hall. A freezing cold shower would have been the better option, so of course I went for theotherrecovery method.
Descending the stairs on shaking legs, I headed straight for the butler’s pantry.
Grabbing a bottle of bourbon out of the cabinet, I didn’t even bother with a glass. I twisted the cap off and drank straight from the bottle until I nearly gagged on the fiery taste and the sudden volume of liquid in my stomach.
What the fuck was wrong with me? It was anxiety. That’s all. Stress-induced anxiety. Nothing a little Xanax couldn’t fix. Hell, I might even have some oxy stashed somewhere if I looked hard enough. I’d do it in the morning, when I wasn’t so jacked up from that dream — no,nightmare. That way I wouldn’t take the whole damn bottle in a desperate attempt to get that blonde bitch out of my head. But Xanax was ok. Especially with a little alcohol chaser. I was an expert when it came to that combo.
Chugging another few gulps from the bourbon, I made my way to the kitchen. Most people tended to keep their drugs in the bathroom, but mine were right next to the kitchen sink. Easier to access at any point in the day and easier to throw down the garbage disposal if the need ever arose, such as the cops showing up unexpectedly.
I tossed back a couple of pills and washed them down with more bourbon. Sighing, I slumped against the counter and cradled the bottle against my chest, though the cool glass did little to relieve the heat radiating out of me.
Without even meaning to, I glanced at the knife block on the island. All of the knives were there. I double-checked the ones hanging on the magnetic strip by the stove. They, too, were all accounted for. The logical part of my brain told me Leander would never risk ruining one of his kitchen knives to murder someone, but the darker side of my brain couldn’t rule out the possibility. He tended to use weapons of opportunity — hence, the crowbar that became something of a signature.
I should have quit drinking while I was ahead, but I couldn’t. Even if it was a dream, I swore I could still taste Lorelei, something sickly sweet and sharply bitter. It overpowered the bourbon no matter how much I drank. Worst of all, I couldfeelher all over me, scratching beneath my skin like a rat trying to chew its way out of a cage.
Rolling my head in slow circles, I grimaced, rubbing the back of my neck again. A shower. Definitely in need of a shower. Maybe two. And some bleach.
Taking one last pull from the bottle, I shoved it in the closest cabinet, making a note to put it back in the pantry later. Leander had a thing about the counters being clear and him coming down in the morning to find evidence of a three a.m. drinking session was going to lead to questions, questions which I didnotwant to answer.
On my way out of the kitchen, I stopped abruptly. My gaze landed on Leander’s cell phone, laying innocently on a silver tray. He left it on the center island next to his keys and a pile of bills. Same as he did most nights. With how shitty he slept, it wasn’t like he needed an alarm clock to wake up.
I picked it up, watching the lock screen light up with the motion. There was no picture. No notifications. Just the time and date, glowing from a black screen. Even if his aesthetic was totally Victorian Gothic, he was a minimalist at heart.
Put the phone down, Bennett… Walk away before you do something stupid.
No.
Ihadto know.
I had to know if my subconscious was telling me something my waking self refused to see. He promised me she meant nothing, that he would end it properly. But… what if? The Devil’s greatest trick was getting people to believe he didn’t exist. What if Leander’s greatest trick was convincing me he wasn’t a liar?
Staring at the lock screen, I tried to figure out what the hell he’d use for a four-digit password. His birthday was too obvious. He definitely wouldn’t use either of his parents’. I tried Poe’s on a hunch.
Nothing.
I tapped out Lorelei’s with a grimace.
