Page 25 of Born into Madness
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I admit.
“You don’t have much of a choice. Just remember they were going to do very bad things to you. Some people aren’t worth crying over.”
“It’s still a life,” I say. “Still someone’s son, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen violence like that. I can’t just forget I saw it.” After a few seconds I add, “Or heard it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, but I’m confident you’ll figure out a way to put this behind you.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Is it really so easy for you to just kill someone and then act as if everything is normal?”
He slowly unravels my lock of hair from his finger. As he drags his thumb along my jaw, he says, “It’s not an act. What I did doesn’t bother me, and it never will.”
I must scrunch my brow while I think about what he’s said because he reaches up and presses the pad of his thumb against my skin, gently massaging between my brows in a way that instantly makes me relax.
“Don’t try to figure me out, my Cyn. You’ll only end up disappointed.”
I don’t understand why he keeps calling me his. I don’t understand anything that’s happening, and before I can ask, he drops his hand and stands back up. I’d almost forgotten how tall he is, but with him towering over me, it’s impossible to not be aware of it, to not be aware ofhim.
He snaps his fingers, and Chort instantly lifts his head, ears up, eyes open and alert. I pet his head, and he looks over at me. I can’t help but smile at him.
“Your dog is really sweet,” I say, wondering how on earth this guy ended up with such a sweetheart of a dog.
A deep laugh comes from behind his mask, surprising me by how genuine and carefree it sounds. I don’t understand this guy, and I shouldn’t want to, but a part of me is curious. I want to know who he is. I want to see what’s behind the mask, but all I can do is sit and watch because I’m pretty sure he won’t be answering any of my questions or revealing his identity to me anytime soon.
I still ask him what’s so funny. I’m hoping he’ll at least answer that one.
“No one’s ever called Chort sweet before.”
I lean down and kiss his cute, brown eyebrows. He licks my cheek and gives a soft whine. Keeping my eyes on the Doberman, I say, “I find that very hard to believe. He’s only ever been sweet to me, and he tried to help when he heard me scream tonight.”
“You screamed?”
There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there a few seconds ago, and it surprises me enough to make me lift my eyes to his. “Just for a second when they first jumped out and scared me.”
He watches me for a few seconds before saying something to Chort in Russian. The dog makes a sound that’s very grunt-like, but when his owner snaps his fingers again, he finally lifts up and jumps off my bed to stand beside him. I hurry up and grab one last treat. When I meet his blue eyes, he gives a quick nod to let me know it’s okay, and then I kneel down and give Chort another milk-bone. He eats it while I pet him, and then I give him a quick hug and kiss his head. His owner might make me nervous, but I really wish his dog could stay the night because I could really use something to cuddle with tonight. I think I’d sleep a lot better if I had Chort sleeping next to me.
Standing, I wrap my arms around my chest, feeling awkward for so many different reasons as the masked guy keeps still, watching me with that same intense stare of his. He takes a step so he’s right in front of me. I drag my gaze from his black boots, up his long, jean-clad legs, and then along the lightweight, black hoodie he’s wearing, until I’m finally tilting my head so I can see the mask that I’m pretty confident will star in my nightmares every night for the foreseeable future.
He seems to have a real thing for my hair, so I’m not all that surprised when he reaches up to touch it again. No one’s ever treated my naturally red hair with such reverence, and it makes me uneasy. I keep waiting for a sharp tug or for him to call me something derogatory and hoping it won’t beGinger Bitchor the one I really despised in high school that still makes me cringe when I hear it. I swear to god if he calls meFire Crotch,mask or no mask, I will reach up and smack him.
But he doesn’t make me relive the traumatic events of my teenage years. Instead, he gently strokes my hair, brushing it off my forehead and carefully pushing it behind my ear. He seemsreluctant to let it go, but eventually he does, dropping his hand to his side while he continues to stare at me.
“Be careful, my little Cyn,” he murmurs from behind his mask. “No more late-night walks by yourself.”
“I won’t,” I say, wondering if I’ll ever work up the courage to leave my dorm room again, even when the sun is shining.
He watches me for a few more seconds, and then without a word, he turns and leaves. Chort stays right on his heels, only stopping long enough to give me one last look before trotting after his owner. Once they’re gone, I lock the door and sit on my bed, trying to wrap my head around what in the fuck just happened.
In a daze, I get ready for bed and crawl under the covers. Knowing I’m going to need the extra comfort tonight, I grab the stuffed dog I’ve had since I was little and clutch it to my chest. I’ve replayed the night over and over again, and no matter how many times I run through it, I still don’t get it, and I still don’t know what to do. Even if I call the police, I have nothing to give them. I believe the masked guy when he said there won’t be any bodies to find. I don’t know who he called on the phone, but it was obviously for help. No bodies, no way for me to identify him, no one to corroborate my story, and no proof that any of this even happened means that there’s no point in making the phone call. There’s also the very big detail of him knowing where I live. He didn’t hurt me, but that doesn’t mean he won’t if I start yapping it up to the campus police.
After tossing and turning for what feels like forever, I decide to meet with Sav tomorrow and tell her everything. She’ll know what to do. She’ll be the voice of reason I so desperately need. With at least something of a plan in place, I roll over and eventually fall asleep. My dreams are plagued with nightmares, but it’s not the masked man I’m scared of. It’s the three guys who cornered me on the footpath that haunt my dreams. Theysurround me, taunting me, grabbing at my clothes, and when I scream, nothing comes out. I feel my chest constrict and know I’m about to have an asthma attack, but then there’s a wet nose pressed against my cheek and Chort’s soft whimper in my ear. It feels so real, and I start to wake, start to push through the hazy feel of my dream, but exhaustion pulls me right back in until I’m surrounded by the three men again, terror spiking through every cell in my body.
When the masked man finally does make an appearance, it’s not to scare me—it’s to save me. He takes down my attackers, and when he’s done and slowly turns his face to mine, it isn’t fear I feel. It’s arousal, a deep-seated need that blooms in my core and slowly filters out until I’m consumed by it, burning up with a desire that I know I shouldn’t feel. When he steps closer, I don’t step away, and I don’t try to run. Instead, I wrap my arms around him and press my body against his. Reaching up, I grip the edge of his mask and slowly start to pull it up. I’ve almost gotten it off when everything dissolves around me and I’m yanked from the dream by the sound of my phone’s alarm.
Groaning, I reach over, blindly trying to grab it. My hand finds it in the exact spot it always is, but I don’t remember putting it there last night. Opening my eyes, I sit up and look around the room. I’m alone. Brittney’s bed hasn’t been slept in, but she often doesn’t sleep here on the weekends, so that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Everything else looks the same as it did last night, but my phone is on my nightstand and plugged into my charger.
I didn’t do that. IknowI didn’t do that. As soon as I think it, all the conviction starts to dissolve, and I begin to doubt myself. It’s possible I did. I’d been upset, and last night had been traumatic to say the least. It’s possible I’d just gone through the motions and plugged it in like I do every night and don’t remember because I hadn’t been paying attention. It’s verypossible I’d had my mind on what had happened and did it without thinking or, apparently, remembering.
Just to be sure, I give the room a good look, but I don’t notice anything else that seems off. It isn’t until I’ve showered and eaten a bag of muffins that I had stashed in my room that I see the note. He’d slipped it into my Russian textbook—a single line in Cyrillic, and the only words I recognize aresleepandmy Cyn.
