He does. Stands there with soup cooling in his hands, shoulders shaking, looking everywhere but at me.
"Okay," Nash whispers. "Okay, Rex. I'll stop."
Something's wrong with his voice.
It's too… wet.
I watch a bead of red slide from his nostril.
Then another.
Then his right eyelid begins to droop, the skin softening like wax held too close to flame as the corner of his mouth rips open until his entire cheek is torn into a demonic grin. His tongue and his teeth are visible through his torn mouth as he tries to speak and can only gurgle on his own blood.
Death eats him alive until his face mirrors mine exactly.
I jerk awake with a snarling gasp.
The penthouse ceiling stares back at me. Industrial beams. Exposed ductwork. Not my bedroom. Not Nash's decomposing face sloughing off in front of me.
Just the living room.
Just another fucking nightmare.
My hand flies to my face automatically—checking,alwaysfucking checking—and finds the mask still in place.
Of course it is.
I don't take it off. Ever. Not even to sleep, which I apparently did at some point despite my best intentions to stay awake.
The cushions are damp with sweat. My shirt clings to my chest, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my temples, my wrists, the hollow of my throat. The phantom smell of smoke and cooking flesh lingers in my nostrils, and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging.
Nash.
FuckingNash.
The nightmares still haven't stopped. If anything, they've gotten worse. More vivid. More detailed. Like my subconscious hasdecided to torture me with increasingly creative renditions of everything I've lost.
I scrub my hand over the left side of my face and force myself to sit up. The penthouse is dark except for the ambient glow of Seattle's skyline through the massive windows. Rain streaks the glass in silver rivulets, blurring the city lights into abstract smears.
That's when I notice I'm not alone.
Rafael is sprawled across the sectional, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open in sleep.
What the fuck.
I gave up my room—myfortress, my only safe space in this entire godforsaken building—so Bells could feel secure.
Bells is inmyroom.
I'min Rafael's room.
Rafael is supposed to be inPhoenix'sroom. With Phoenix, who he has been mostly avoiding since they came back from their jaunt with Bells after the industry party.
Other than the coffee shop.
And the grocery store, apparently. They cleared out the meal replacement shakes I drink, and Phoenix even cooked tonight. Pasta. I didn't eat with them. The shakes are enough.
I'd thought—hoped, even—that Phoenix and Raf had gotten over whatever weird energy they have going on if they all went out again together today.