Violet Grenade(58)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Riders on the Storm

It's my last night as a Daisy, and I can't sleep for two reasons. One, I'm afraid the girls will use this chance to confront Poppet and me before we're officially promoted. Second, because it sounds like the freaking apocalypse has descended upon this clapboard house.

The thunder rolls on top of us like a great ogre stomping his feet. Rain pelts the roof, and I watch a brown stain in our ceiling grow wider and then drip onto the hardwood floor. Poppet is completely out, and I don't want to wake her. But I hate storms. Despise them. They remind me of the night my father slipped away and the world crashed into the sun. When storms tap-danced through Detroit, Dizzy used to let me bring a blanket into his room and sleep at the foot of his mattress.

Like a dog, I realize now.

I pace the floor, dip my big toe into the dripping rainwater. My mind is already where it wants to go, and at a certain point, I feel disconnected from it. So I roll my head and then my shoulders and shoot one last glance at Poppet.

Can I trust she'll be okay alone?

I peek into the hallway and don't hear anything above the storm's fury. Glancing over my shoulder, I remember the way Poppet launched herself at those Daisies. I smile and cover my mouth to keep from laughing.

Then I pad down the hallway in hot pursuit of my lost mind.

I find it on the first floor. Dipping my head inside the Carnations' entertainment room, I watch the toy train roll across its tracks near the ceiling. The lights are off in the room. The girls have swept away the balled napkins and soda straws. But that train still chugs around the room unperturbed.

I smile at the sight.

When the thunder crashes again, I startle and make my way to the kitchen. Twice, I start to turn back, to find my bed and chase elusive slumber. But on the third try, I find my courage.

The door to the basement opens easily in my hand, and I tiptoe down the cool stairs. The lavender gown Poppet lent me brushes the floor, and my hair slides over my shoulders and down my back. I bite my lip when I reach the bottom, desperately wishing, above anything else, that I had thought to wear a wig. I'm too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Cain rolls over on his mattress.

His eyes meet mine.

He doesn't move as I inch toward the chain link wall that separates us. My fingers curl over the metal and I cling to it, my legs shaking beneath me. What am I doing here?

Thunder rattles the walls, and Cain rises like the god who summoned it. He strides toward me, one bare foot in front of the other. His eyes are dark in the dim light creeping through the window. They flash with the lightning, shadows thrown across the room, across his face. He stands a breath away, looking down at me. He is enormous.

Large as a storm cloud.

Large as a tornado.

I take in every part of him-his shaved head, his powerful shoulders, the bulge of muscles beneath his white T-shirt. His skin is smooth and tan, his lips full. This close, I can see the slightest sprinkle of freckles beneath his eyes. They seem like a false sense of security. Make him seem harmless, when I know that's a lie. Just look how I'm reacting when a wall separates me from him. He's like a caged animal down here in the dark, and though electricity shoots through my fingertips, I want nothing more than to release this beast and see if I am nuzzled or destroyed.



       
         
       
        

Cain's fingers slip through the links until his hands rest on mine.

He holds my gaze until I can feel him in the very back of my mind.

We stand like that for several moments, my heart beating like a wild, unpredictable thing, and him searching my face like there's salvation to be found there. Finally, he nods toward the door that stands between us and strides toward it. He unlocks the thing and throws it open.

He doesn't invite me inside, but he doesn't need to, either.

I go to him.

He watches as I walk to his bed and sit, folding my leg beneath me. Though his sheets are rough and his pillow hard, goose bumps rise along my arms. He stands across the room, head down, chest rising and falling quickly.

When several seconds pass and he hasn't moved to sit next to me, heat blooms in my cheeks and along my neck. I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have come here. He doesn't want company, and he's too kind to say so.

With my face burning, I start to push myself up. That's when he speaks.

"I don't want to hurt you, Domino."

I freeze. "So don't."

He raises his head. "If you knew the things I've done."

I tug his blanket around my hips. "Tell me."

He lifts his head and lets it fall back, breathes out like he's been holding his breath for three hundred and sixty-five days. And one to grow on. "I killed my brother."