The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 22

And since then, I had waited. And slept. And waited.

I knew he would come back.

The problem was that I wasn't quite sure which Brandon it would be.

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The dress hung on the hanger, hooked over the top of the wardrobe door and looking like the blackest of wraiths dancing in mid-air.

 I would have recognised that dress anywhere. How could I possibly forget it? It was the dress I had worn to the Walter and Noble Christmas charity gala. The dress that Brandon had insisted I wore. A rich silk floor length gown, the fabric draping all the way down to the small of my back, revealing a wide expanse of flesh. I remembered that night for a number of reasons. Most noticeably for the number of times that some of Brandon's colleagues had taken advantage of the backless gown, putting their arms around my waist under pretence of an innocent welcome, but their fingers finding my bare skin all too often, lingering on the small of my back. And more significantly, for Brandon's post-party confession that he had enjoyed all the gluttonous stares and the fastidious efforts of his cohorts to get close to me, to covet what only he could taste. And taste he did that night, over and over again.

And here it was, like the ghost of Christmas past risen from the dead and now haunting me in my new life.

The lights had been dimmed to nothing but the large lamp that sat on the dresser, casting its soft hue across the room and illuminating the corner where Brandon now sat.

He was slouched with his hands resting on the arms of the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, pressed black trousers and polished black brogues, his curls slightly wet and slicked back, he stared at me under heavy lids. The air was weighty with something dark and oppressive and I sat up immediately when I realised he was there, feeling as if many hands were holding me down, pressing on my limbs and body. My slumber was proving hard to shake and I cursed myself for falling under so deep that I could barely fight my way out again.

"Put the dress on." His voice, although soft, cut through the silence, making me flinch.

My breath hitched in my throat. "W-what?"

"Put the dress on, Megan." It was the Megan that threw me. This was officious, demanding Brandon and I was plunged right back into that dark hole of uncertainty and tension, desperately trying to second guess his intentions.

Climbing off the bed and walking over to the wardrobe, I grabbed the hanger and headed for the bathroom.

"No. Not in there. In here." He motioned for me to remain where I was and I stared at him for a few painfully panicked seconds, feeling trapped in the blankness of his gaze. His mask was unreadable but I felt the heat building up around him, the way you do before a big storm is about to break - that suffocating, claustrophobic bind that tightens before the thunder roars overhead and the clouds release their torment upon the ground.

As I dropped the sheet, feeling my cheeks burning as I did do, he shifted in the chair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he brazenly let his dark eyes touch every part of my body. I turned away slightly as I slipped into the dress, pulling the gathered straps up over my shoulders, the softness of the silk feeling alien on my skin. Fixing the hidden zip at the side, I stood awkwardly, wrapping my arms around myself as if I were still naked.

He stood up slowly, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out his iPhone. Tapping the screen a few times, soft soulful music suddenly streamed out of the speaker.