Haunted Rayne

15 | Promise Me Silence (part 1)

Lucas Abbott could not fall asleep. His left arm, however, had already been asleep for more than thirty minutes. As they lay on the sofa, Rayne had her cheek resting on Luke's chest, her head cradled on his bicep. She had done that in her sleep—rolled over, threw her hand on his chest, and cuddled closer. His entire arm was numb though, and it tingled every time Rayne shifted as she dreamt.

Beneath closed eyelids, Rayne's eyes seemed to flicker, and Lucas wondered what she was dreaming about. Wavering candlelight warmed her pallid cheeks, softening the ashen brown hue; long shadows from her lashes fell over her under eyes like flower petals. Lucas gently brushed a strand of her hair from her face, noticing how the dark circles she'd had since enrollment were no longer there. The harsh lines of sleep deprivation, however, remained. Almost like scars . . .

Rayne grumbled a little, stretching. The movement transformed the tingles in Luke's bicep into full-blown pins and needles. When he groaned, her eyes fluttered open. "No, no," he insisted. "Go back to sleep."

"You're still awake?" she asked with a yawn.

He chuckled. "Sort of. My arm fell asleep."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Rayne sat up, and Lucas used the opening to maneuver his body sideways, facing her.

"I don't mind," he said. "Lay back down."

She paused before resting her head on the sofa once more. They had nearly forgotten the presence of shadow people, leaning over them, until Rayne's eyes shifted to gaze through her peripherals. Lucas caught her arm, pulled her vision toward him, and shook his head. From his vantage point, he could see them all. It was why he had not yet fallen asleep. Countless shadows stood over them, the dim candlelight doing little to dissipate their solid black forms.

She reached up for him then, her fingers brushing the bruises along his jaw with a tenderness that almost startled him. He hadn't anticipated the way her touch would stir something inside of him—a gentleness he hadn't felt in so long.

"Did Cole do this?" she asked, her voice as quiet as the flicker of the candle.

Lucas hesitated, searching her eyes. It was challenging—trying to reconcile her concern with the bruises. He had grown so accustomed to his pain being overlooked or dismissed; so much so, that he'd even built a habit of doing it to himself. 

"Some of them," he confessed at last, raising his own hand to confirm the markings she traced, still unsure what to make of her quiet sympathy. His fingers covered hers for only a moment before drifting down to her shoulder. His thumb ghosted the discolored patches on her skin, tracing the path of shadowy tendrils that seemed almost alive, curling into her flesh. "As for the others, well . . . You have them too," he whispered. He nodded toward the darkness, where the shadows seemed to merge with the room's edges. "I think the shadow people leave marks whenever they touch us."

Rayne's eyes widened, as though she hadn't considered that possibility before. She glanced down at her arm, almost like she was seeing it for the first time. For a heartbeat, she seemed distant, alarm darkening the edges of her expression. Then, she blinked, refocusing on him—whatever dangers the shadows posed seemed secondary to something else.

"Still," she murmured, her fingers lingering at the curve of his neck before falling away, "not all of these are from them." Her voice tightened, a thread of concern pulling at the space between them. "Lucas, why do you let him push you around?"

He went still, tension coiling his chest. "You think I let him?" he replied, but his voice lacked the sharpness he intended—it came out too quiet, too resigned.

"I'm pretty sure you're stronger than him. Wealthier, too." She studied him, a faint frown drawing her brows together. "But sometimes it seems like . . . you're punishing yourself for something."