Red Moon Rising

47. guests

Chapter Song: Stalker's Tango - Autoheart

XX

Jackson Courtland.

I stare at him as he stares back, each of us more surprised than the other. I want to disappear into the shadows of the kitchen, but I am rooted to the spot until Max's voice breaks my trance.

"Layla," he snaps. "Where is Isaac?"

I fumble for words, forgetting my own voice with the weight of Jackson's stare on me. "The bedroom."

"Find him."

I don't want to go back there. I don't know what will be waiting for me, or if his anger has subsided or grown even larger.

"Layla! Go get Isaac!" Max's voice is tight with anger and something like stress. Jackson isn't supposed to be here. He's still staring at me, and I'm glad that he's speechless for now. It won't help me any for the others to know what we mean to each other.

Stepping from the kitchen, I try to swallow the ache of shame in my throat for how I must look right now. I wish their eyes would burn just from looking. I was supposed to collect myself and hide in the room for the rest of the day, not be stared at by strange and angry wolves.

And the worst is Jackson, whose jaw is tight as he looks after me with the worst kind of pity in his eye. I don't need your pity, and I don't want it. Maybe he knows exactly who Isaac is, and maybe he thinks it serves me right that I should end up here after what I did.

The walk through the hall feels like running to my own execution. I want desperately to turn back, but I am trapped between Isaac and the angry wolves I left behind. When I reach the door, I draw in a breath before I touch the handle. Last time, I didn't know what to expect when I stepped across the threshold. I am careful, guarded, when I step inside this time.

My foot bumps into something hard, which skitters across the floor with a hollow scraping. Around the room are bits of splintered wood that I am guessing used to be Isaac's desk chair. The brick wall beneath my bloodstain is scraped but otherwise undented. That could have been me. On the bed, Isaac is sitting with this fingers laced behind his neck, head bent forward until its nearly touching his knees. He sits up quickly when I close the door behind me.

"Layla," he breathes, and there's a tremble in his voice I don't expect. "I'm so sorry. I don't...I didn't know what I was doing. I'm so sorry."

I fight for words, but there is nothing to say to him, no way to communicate exactly what is running through my brain. Instead, I tuck my arms across my stomach and summon my voice. "Jackson Courtland is here."

Isaac closes his eyes and runs his hands back and forth over his head. "Fuck," he hisses, and I can see how his anger hasn't really disappeared just yet, how it's waiting beneath the surface to strike again. "What does he want?"

"I don't know."

Rising slowly from the bed, Isaac moves toward me, not minding that I bump into the wall as I instinctively step away. The hands that slip over my shoulders are gentle, but I know what those hands can and will do. "Just wait for me here, okay? I'll be back soon and we'll talk."

"Okay," I whisper as he pulls me to him. So few minutes ago...just a little while ago he intended to teach me some kind of horrible lesson. I don't believe in talking anymore; it won't mean anything to him in the future, and it won't protect me from an anger that sees beyond logic. But still, I let him kiss me, and I try to kiss him back. He's going to kill you someday. Am I just waiting here until it happens?

When Isaac has left, I run the shower and inspect my face in the mirror. The cut on my forehead is ugly and jagged, split wide to the backdrop of a blackening bruise. The bruise on my cheek is less violent looking, but it's still swollen and pink. And then, around my neck, are the collar of fingerprints. So I wasn't just imagining Isaac trying to wring the life out of me. Would he have killed me then if I hadn't been able to stop him? Does he understand how close he came?