Page 53 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

“You were always going to end up here,” he said, stepping closer. “You can run from the house. But you can’t run from what you are.”

“I’m not like you.”

“You areexactlylike me.”

He dropped the axe with a thud. It didn’t make a sound when it hit the floor. Just a hush.

He walked toward me.

I backed up. Hit the wall.

There was no escape.

“You’re insane,” I said. My voice broke. “You need help.”

His hand came to my throat—but he didn’t squeeze. Just held it. His thumb pressed under my jaw. He tilted my head up.

“I needyou,“ he said.

The words slithered through me, dark and warm.

My heart beat so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

“I hate you,” I breathed.

“You love me.”

His lips were on mine before I could lie again.

Rough. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tastes like blood and grief and hunger. I clawed at him. Hit him. Held him. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head.

My breath caught. My knees buckled.

He didn’t let me fall.

“I want to leave,” I whispered, but it was a prayer with no god.

“You never will,” he said against my skin. “This house doesn’t let go. And neither do I.”

He pushed his forehead against mine.

I closed my eyes. And saw the dolls. The teeth. The words are carved into the walls.

Maybe I was dreaming.

Maybe I was still in the basement. Still tied up.

Or maybe this, him, me, the house; was the only thing that had ever been real.

“I’m scared of you,” I whispered.

“Good,” he murmured, kissing the words away. “You should be.”

And still, I kissed him back.

He is going to ruin me. He was my ruin. But even ruins have beauty, and I mistook his wreckage for romance.

FIFTEEN

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