It was only polite society that kept them from responding to that base fear in a way that would spell destruction for our quiet lives.
Sometimes, I wished they would react. Come to our door with pitchforks raised. Chase us out of this bayou—out of the whole damn state—and let that be the end to Barbeaux bayou.
But they never would. And we would never leave.
My eyes burned brighter, flecks of gold dancing in my irises as the beast flooded me with his fury. He would kill anyone that tried to take what was his. Every last person in Port O’Henry, if they threatened him.
Except one.
I took the bottle of hair gel off the counter, snapping open the lid and hovering it over my palm.
Did Tara notice? Did she sense that I was a monster under it all?
Most women didn’t. Not at first. Only at the end of the night, as the beast grew restless. He didn’t like it when I lingered. I never got more than a few minutes of freedom before he was tearing at my insides.
I closed the bottle of gel, ruffling my wet hair and letting it fall where it wanted. A pit formed in my stomach as I tried to remember that violent feeling after my time on the beach with Tara.
But I couldn’t recall it because the beast was quiet.
I tossed my towel into the hamper, storming into the closet of my office, where spare clothes hung beside my filing cabinet.
There was nothing special about her.
I shoved my legs into a pair of running shorts, sliding on a T-shirt I stole from Eli’s scattered collection. It was suitably worn, and had just the right amount of stains to make me look the part—normal, like my brother pulled off so naturally.
I needed control back.
Then I would walk away.
Milesstretchedbetweenmyoffice and the little rental on the edge of town. It was one of my firstpurchases, and it wasn’t much to look at—even after the fresh coat of paint and kitchen renovation—but I was proud to see it appear on the corner of Jefferson Street.
The house sat on stilts, high above the rugged grass, offering a teasing view of the bay from the far corner of the porch. Too far from the beach to matter to the weekenders who sped through town every Friday night with a truck loaded with more beer than fishing gear.
That was the appeal for the other kind of out-of-towner. The duck hunters. The widower snowbirds.
I slowed my pace as I neared the steps, raking my hands through my still-damp hair and forcing my breath to shorten. The run from my office was long, but not long enough for the beast to have fully settled.
Pushing myself used to help. Grueling runs, punishing weight routines, hour-long walks out on the island with Eli—none of it was working anymore.
I paused at the base of the steps, a frisson of doubt winding into my pounding pulse. Was I safe to be around Tara?
Was I safe to be around anyone?
The beast was suddenly frozen inside me, so still that I could almost imagine he wasn’t there. That I wasn’t pretending anymore.
I didn’t know what it meant, except that he was clearly making a point.
Tara would be safe with me—as long as she wasn’t the type to get overly attached.
I scoffed, remembering the way she slammed the door on my backside. Apparently, she was even more attachment averse than me.
My legs climbed the stairs two at a time. Silence answered on the other side of the door when I knocked. After a long stretch,I heard her tiptoeing toward the door. When she opened it a crack, her eyes were round and her pulse was racing.
Confusion had her opening it wider, standing with a hand on her hip and scowling. “Isaac?”
I wasn’t the one she was afraid would be on the other side of that door. Who was she expecting?
Her blonde hair was tied back, and she was wearing a simple set of leggings and a sweater today. There was no makeup highlighting her features, and somehow that made her more beautiful.