Page 19 of Welcome Home
The incessant way he lingers nearby, watching me with intense, unblinking eyes. Even more of a stomach-churning reminder thatheisn’t ahebut anit.
But your stomach hasn’t been churning that much has it, Cora?
No… it’s been doing something else entirely. Something that’s put me on edge and dare I say it made me…needy. I'm sharing my home with a creature entirely outside my realm of understanding that’s an alarmingly excellent knockoff version of my dead husband. I shift again, trying to focus on the stack of papers I'm reading in our-
My bedroom. There is no us.
Even I can’t ignore how… dedicated and downright doting he’s been. Giving me everything I ever wanted. Throwing his adoration in my face and shoving words of praise down my throat. His eyes flicker towards me again, and I'm half surprised and, dare I say it…disappointedthey ever left to begin with. His bare foot is hiked up in the chair, his arm dangling off his raised knee as his other fisted hand supports his head. He looks so… relaxed, comfortable as he studies me. My poor neglected body is wrought with tension and my chest constricts when he's near me. My heart is connected to a tightrope, the other end taut to my core. It's constant, and it's driving me mad. “Can you stop?”
“Stop what?” He answers. Even his voice adds an uncomfortable layer of heat to my skin. I’m beginning to realize it's not little to do with how he looks on the outside. It's not the voice so much as it’s the words, the manner they are spoken.
“You’re staring again.”
“I am, and you’re aroused again.” He doesn't so much as blink, a slight smirk on his face as he continues to stare.
I groan, ripping the page from the loosely stapled corner before tossing it to the ground. He’s taunting me, goading me into a reaction the same way he has been for two days now. Teasing remarks while I researchhim. It should be alarming how easy it’s been to slip into a routine. To let him run me baths, bring me coffee I never asked for. He’s learning me in a way Oliver never could, too wrapped up in himself to take notice. Asking random questions about me, my preferences, my favorite things. Questions that I refuse to answer. Not that it stops him from asking.
I’ve been paying attention to him too; he doesn’t need to eat but seems to enjoy it. He only needs to use the bathroom if he eats, which he only bothers to do half the time. His blood is a bizarre shade of blue and he knows an alarming amount about what it was like to live in the 1800s. He can become people… I think by eating part of them.
Gag.
When he does, he gets all their memories; hebecomesthem and it’s… flawless. Whoever. Whatever he was before, he’s keeping under tight wraps. He gestures towards the ground with his head. “Find out anything of value there?”
I scowl at the one hundred pages of bullshit about doppelgangers I printed off in his office earlier. “Nothing fits perfectly.”
The smirk grows on his chiseled face, and I want to punch him in the balls. “So, we can safely cross doppelgänger off the list. Would you agree, Cora dear?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“I'll do no such thing.” He retorts as he reaches over, grabbing my list ofpossibilitiesand proceeds to scratch off doppelgänger. “That only leaves, demon, alien and-he pauses for dramatic effect,Skinwalker. Shall I call the church?”
I roll my eyes, his amusement only growing. I started this useless endeavor at six this morning when I realized he was never going to actually tell me jack shit about what he is and what the fuck kind of hell my life as become. We spent the first day working out a foolproof plan of how to convince Detective Rappert to drop the investigation into his disappearance. Which mostly consists of him speaking to our lawyers and insisting he’s going tohandleit while I paced around the house mid spiral. All I'm supposed to do is sit tight, not freak out, and stick to my story. Seems easy enough, right? Except that the detective has video evidence of me disposing of my missing husband’s personal effects… and the knife I killed him with. I sigh deeply, rubbing my hands over my face and relishing in not being told how gross I am for it.
It can’t be argued that it was me that ditched the stuff, or that I did so in the shadiest way possible. That leaveshonestyor refusing to comment. Can you get DNA off a knife after a dip in the Everglades? They know that according to my husband’s statement; he was in Las Vegas partying for all these months. With no access to his own money, vehicle or cell phone, which admittedly makes no fucking sense. Everyone seems to be accepting of the shady undertones of our story. They’ve moved on to the next exciting thing to gossip about.
Everyone except Detective Rappert. Our lawyers have filed three separate cease and desists in the last day alone, against her and everyone that’s came within spitting distance. So theoretically, as long as absolutely everything goes according to plan, and she drops whatever hard on she has for me… in a few months’ time, I’ll be scot-free. The captain at the precinct seemed to be irritated by her continued pressing on us, according to our lawyers, and the nasty looks he gave her while I was there. Everything will be fine.
If everything goes perfectly.
Which it never does.
I'll live the rest of my life coexisting with a monster that I don’t understand in the slightest. That looks exactly like my dead husband that has threatened to…wear my skin if I leave him.
This is fine.
I'm fine and definitely not losing my goddamn mind.
“Cora breathe.” He orders, shifting in his seat, concern filling those beautiful, dangerous eyes. Eyes I never, ever wanted to look at again.
A frustrated sound, one of many I’ve released today, leaves me as I shove up from the chair stalking down the staircase. Dutifully ignoring the ever-present shadow at my back. Ignoring his warm musky smell and the way it infiltrated every pore in my skin. I spent months ridding this place of that smell. Even then, this is more. There's a… tantalizing spice that lingers underneath all theOliver. He…itoffers me no snide remarks, no comforts as I wrench the double door fridge open, snagging the newly purchased barely chilled bottle of wine from the shelf.
He stays silent when I bypass the wine glasses, heading back for the stairs. The glass of the bottle is as unyielding as my impending sense of doom as I tighten my hand around the neck, ignoring the flashes of gore my brain offers up as I reach the landing.
“Must you follow me?” I snap, spinning on him.
God, he’s beautiful. He’s always been so beautiful.
His strawberry blonde hair is unkempt, his deep-set eyes gazing up to me from several stairs below. “Where else would I go?”
