Page 32 of Under the Bed

Hmm.

I really should get going.

Impossible.

My lungs expand as I suck in a deep breath. Air filters in through the holes in my mask. Same air she’s been breathing since this summer.

At the thought, at the notion, I come alive.

A temporary home for myself can wait.

Every cell of my body demands I go to her.

I’m throbbing in my jeans. My heart slams against my ribs. I relish the thought of inflicting harm. Of hurting her. Taking her.

It’s been that way for the past four years.

This incessant need to have my little sister who hasn’t written to me. Naked. Crying. Coming with my name on her lips.

A pressure builds behind my temples.

Patience.

I really, really should get out of here.

Not before I leave her a gift, though.

Dick’s finger.

Yup.

It’s as good an excuse as any to climb into her apartment.

Guessing her door must be barricaded from the inside—a result of living with a monster, no doubt—I go to her balcony.

I bend my knees and hop.

Easy. My hands cling to the railing. My abs and biceps engage as I lift one foot onto the balcony and then the other.

After some maneuvering, I’m up there, crossing my arms over my chest.

Taking a step closer, I look into her dark apartment.

No shadows dance around in the living room.

She’s asleep, as I suspected.

But I feel her. It’s stronger here. Her emotions. Her hurt and pain and fear. So strong I taste them on my tongue.

That’s how powerful our connection is. The invisible bond that’s tied us to each other since day one.

Of course I fucking feel her.

Not bothering to adjust my painful hard-on, I slide the glass door open and step inside. Silently, I move through the living room and head straight to the open door to my left.

Her bedroom.

Except she isn’t in her bed. The sheets are made. Shiloh isn’t lying beneath them.

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