Body of the Crime

Chapter Four

"I'm staying the night."

Molly blinked at him and eyed her bedroom. Her room was too tiny for two people and if they both slept on her bed, she'd be sleeping on top of him.

Her cheeks flushed.

"On the couch," he said, tersely, and picked up a discarded striped blue and white pillow. She watched him scan the apartment and he didn't try to hide his scowl. Of course, his apartment was like a penthouse at the Hilton. Hers was quite the opposite. The kitchen hadn't been updated since the 80s, including the gas stove that once caught September's hair on fire. The couches were from a thrift store later closed for selling used undergarments and that pillow he held, well, it wasn't from Ikea. But she wasn't telling him that.

It was a chaotic mess of patterns and textures and it was hers.

Not her parent's immaculate townhouse, each inch of the house designed to showcase their wealth.

She threw her purse onto her bed and glanced at all the large books scattered on her bed. "Really, Tensley, I've been fine the last week on my own."

Because I haven't slept. Because I've been either studying or hunting.

Because I can't sleep.

As soon as he began unbuttoning his white pristine dress shirt, Molly turned back to her bedroom, her breath hitching. "I'll be on the couch; call me if you need something."

And that was the end of the conversation.

Now she sat in her bedroom, eyes dry and itchy as she read A History of Venice for the museum's upcoming exhibit opening. A few more days until it officially opened and she wanted to make sure she had all the answers to any questions she may get.

Not to mention the number of textbooks she needed to devour before school started in three weeks.

At three am, she wondered if she could sneak by Tensley.

Ever since...Abaddon, she couldn't sleep. At night, he was in her head. He was in the shadows. He was in her dreams.

She tapped her fingers on her kneecaps.

Tonight she wouldn't hunt for Cree.

Without the distraction of searching for him, her mind wandered to dark places she'd been trying to escape.

She grabbed another textbook, forcing her finger to trace the words, but it was too much. Her eyes grew heavy and just for a precious second, a moment to rest, she lost.

A THUNDEROUS voice challenged her own cry and she jolted, arms flailing at whatever force held her captive.

"No! No! Stop, please, stop it!"

Whoever spoke back, their words were foreign to her ringing ears.

"Please!" She dug her nails so deep she felt the skin tear.

"Molly, you're fine! It's me! Molly!"

Molly flashed her eyes open to find she wasn't with Abaddon—no—she was in her bed, tangled in sheets and Tensley's tightening arms.

She stared at him, panting, gasping for air.

"You're fine, Molly," he whispered, breathlessly. He combed back her soaked hair and stroked her tear stained cheek.

"He was here. He was back and—" She didn't finish her sentence, instead pressing her mouth to her forearm to hide the pain, the fear, the agony.

Tensley furrowed his brows. "Abaddon?"