Grounded (Up in the Air #3)(16)

He did his kinky doctor routine, examining every inch of me, and then massaging my body slowly and carefully. I was well-sated from the afternoon's vigorous activities, but I still wanted him again by the time he finished.



       
         
       
        

He studied my back for a very long time, but said nothing, just softly kissing the marks he had left there with the black and blue roses.

I felt like I'd slept the day away, but somehow I felt myself drifting off even as he tended to me. He didn't try to stop me.





I was in that house again. I sat up as though pulled by a string. My father was shouting somewhere in the house, an indecipherable string of Swedish that my ears picked up but that my brain couldn't translate. Knowing it was a bad idea, I got out of bed.

I glanced down at my cold bare feet, and they were bigger, more grown up, not at all like I remembered. Something was wrong, even more wrong than normal. Still, I padded silently down that long hallway.

The kitchen was where it was supposed to be, but everything else was wrong. A thick red pool was soaking the light blue carpet of the hallway, visible before I'd even made it to the kitchen. I glanced down at my hands. They were already covered in blood. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Still, I approached that kitchen, unable to stay away.

My mother's body lay on the floor, and it was all I could see for long moments as I stood in the doorway. Her head was gone-just so many pieces on the floor, and in my hair, and on my nightgown. I recognized her only by the hunks of long golden hair scattered around her body. I knelt at her side, clutching one of her delicate hands. It was the only part of her still unmarred by gore.

The moment I touched her, more of the room came into focus.

Hers wasn't the only body on the ground. Another woman lay scant feet away, and I saw by her garish red hair that it was Sharon. I stared at her, confused and horrified, as my mind refused to see the other horror in the room. Only my father's yelling made me finally look over, and only because his words changed, a heavily accented sentence in English getting my attention.

"Look, sotnos, look."

I looked. I stood, a scream building in my throat. My father stood facing me, but it wasn't him I looked at-wasn't him I saw. A large figure stood in front of him, his back facing me. Perfect golden brown hair just brushed the white collar of a crisp dress shirt, a strong back showing tensed muscles that were painfully familiar.

"James," I said brokenly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He didn't turn, didn't so much as twitch at my presence.

I stepped closer, unable to look away. "James," I said again, drawing even with the horrifying tableau in front of me. My heart stopped in my chest as all of the pieces of the picture snapped into place with a terrifying clarity.

My father stood almost propped against that still as death James, a gun already shoved inside his mouth, pushed far into his throat. 

James's eyes were open, but they were glassy, as though the trigger had already been pulled. His arms were limp at his sides. I grabbed an arm, but the feel of his slack muscles made me recoil.

"Watch, sotnos, watch," my father said coldly. I began to sob as my father pulled the trigger, unable to stop him-unable to look away.

James crumpled in a heap to the floor, the back of his head disappearing in a gory splash of red.





I sat up with a scream, my eyes wide in the dark.

I began to move, needing action, though I couldn't see where I was, or where I was going. I was sobbing brokenly when strong, hard arms wrapped around me from behind, lifting and turning me gently into a heart-achingly familiar chest. I gasped and clutched at James even as he lifted me.

I shut my eyes as James carried me into the bathroom, turning on the blindingly bright lights. He didn't let me go as he got into the bath, still clutching me tightly with one strong arm. I gripped him with both arms, clinging as tightly as I could. I wouldn't even let go when he tried to strip off my nightgown.

"No," I protested, gripping him.

"Okay, shh, that's fine, Love, I won't let go."

He sank to the bottom of the tub, keeping me tightly against him, rubbing a soothing hand against my back and keeping me close, murmuring soothing words as I slowly calmed. Eventually he pulled back far enough to lift off my nightgown and then worked slowly out of his boxers. He pulled me flush against him when he'd finished, until we were flesh to flesh.

He washed me, scrubbing me gently but thoroughly, as though he knew about my bloody dream, and knew exactly what I needed.

He didn't ask me about the nightmare-didn't ask me for anything at all, but instead gave comfort, anticipating my needs better than I could have communicated, if I'd been able to communicate.