“You were dreaming,” he tells me, trying to close my bedroom door behind him. I stop it with a palm out, pushing my way into the hallway and then following him into his own room. He scowls but doesn’t do much else to stop me.
Hearing Parrish mock my fears like they’re nothing irritates the crap out of me. His patronizing tone just seals the deal: there’s nothing about this that feels like a normal dream. Even if I want it to be, even if I wish it were.
As soon as I set foot in his room and he reaches above my head to slam the door shut with his palm, I realize how strangely intimate this moment is. The house is dark and quiet; everyone else is asleep. It’s just me and Parrish, twisted up in a dream that should probably, by all rights, be a nightmare. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake the bite of the needle in my neck, or the cold chill of the wind as it rustled my hair against my nape.
“If I were dreaming, then where did the mark come from?” I continue as Parrish sighs and pulls away from me. I don’t miss how hard his nipples are, how big the bulge in his pants is, even as he tries to turn and hide himself. One of those reactions could be blamed on the coolness of the night air, but the other? No, that’s all about heat.
“It’s probably a fucking bug bite, I told you,” he breathes with another rush of air, reaching up to rub both hands down his face. He moves over to the window and shoves it open with more force than necessary. It occurs to me then that I’m standing in a stranger’s room, dressed in pj’s and accusations of a strange nightly run through the woods. When did I start feeling like I actually knew Parrish? In reality, we’re no closer than me and Danyella, or me and Lumen. Shit, I’ve had saner conversations with Delphine.
“What about my feet?” I continue, my questions just as much for myself as they are for Parrish. Without asking, I sit down on the edge of his bed and cross my right leg over my knee, examining the sole of my foot in the dim glow of his TV. There’s nothing on, just the home screen for HBO Max, but it’s enough light to see by. “They’re all cut-up and bruised.”
There’s a sudden rush of footsteps and then Parrish is just there, flicking on his bedroom light and making me squint. Without preamble, he reaches down and grabs my foot, examining it with a frown and a heavy dose of skepticism. The bruises, cuts, and scrapes are unmistakable in the harsh glow of the overhead light.
“Have you ever sleepwalked before?” he asks me, looking up suddenly and catching me with those pretty eyes of his. His lashes are long and dark, like they’ve been dipped in chocolate, and his gaze is intense enough that my breath catches and stills until my head swims and I’m forced to suck in a sharp inhale.
“Never.”
“Well, new and stressful events can trigger episodes.” He releases my foot and looks up at me, kneeling on the floor like a slothful prince. “And think about it: your life has been nothing but stress for weeks.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the air thickening and perfuming between us. There’s that scent again, that fresh-laundry-hung-on-a-line scent, and while Parrish smells pleasant enough, I’m reminded of my attacker again, of that strange detail of his aftershave. Could I really have dreamed that? Could I really have sleepwalked and not realized? If so, how did I hurt my feet? What did I step on?
“And whose fault is that?” I retort sharply. Not entirely fair considering Parrish is only one microcosm of stress in the scope of things. Still …
He frowns at me again, rising to his feet and heading back over to the bedroom door.
“Out,” he tells me, flicking off the light and then pointing into the hallway like the gesture will somehow get me to move more quickly. “If you don’t think you were sleepwalking, if you really and truly believe you were kidnapped for all of five seconds and then magicked back into bed through a gate with security cameras and a front door with five locks, then go find Tess. Wake her up. Tell her, let her check the footage. Otherwise, just assume you stepped on some of the twins’ toys and leave it at that.” When I make no move to stand up, Parrish storms over to me and then stops suddenly with his arm extended, like he was thinking of grabbing me and thought better of it.
“You’re really okay with the entire school believing we’re dating?” I ask, and he closes his eyes like he’s in pain. That, or just incredibly frustrated with me. Everything he’s said makes sense. Why the hell would someone kidnap me only to bring me back? And why are my pajamas clean? Like some rando murderer would buy an identical pair of pj’s just to fuck with me?
So I decide to let it go.
Big mistake. Huge. If I hadn’t, if I’d trusted my own instincts, would things have turned out differently? Hindsight. Mm. Fucking twenty-twenty, am I right?
“We are not getting together,” Parrish says instead, gesturing between me and him. He takes a step back and exhales, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. “Stop harping on it.”
“See, here’s the thing,” I tell him, standing up and then putting my palm flat on his tattooed chest, right over the green-blue scales of a dragon. “You are the one who keeps bringing that up, who keeps vehemently denying it. Why is that? Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being into you? Wishful thinking is all I can come up with.” I take my hand away just as Parrish’s eyes open and he slowly—oh so very slowly—lifts his head back up to look at me.
“What kind of pervert do you take me for?” he whispers, almost like the question is more for himself than it is for me. “You’re supposed to be … like a sister or something.” He scrubs his face again and then points at the door. “Respect my boundaries and get the fuck out of my room.”
“Like a sister, but I’m not your sister. You’re not my brother,” I tell him, but he’s got me with the boundary thing. People deserve safe spaces and the right to say no to those trying to breach them. So I leave and he slams the door behind me.
My palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and I can’t seem to grasp the fact that I have a stupid teenage crush on Parrish. For a second there, my mind goes blank trying to remember the name of the guy I was crushing on back home. Ryan. Right, right, it was Ryan. Ryan … something.
“Gah!” I rub at my face for a moment. Maybe if that crush faded so easily, this one will, too?
I retreat into my room, close the door behind me, and lock it.
Before I climb back into bed though, I set my phone up on a mini-tripod atop my dresser. If I do sleepwalk—or if someone comes in—I’ll know.
For now, there’s no point in stressing Tess out anymore than she already is. Her control over me is absolute at this point, and I don’t need to fan that fire without good reason.
My first week at Whitehall isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Frankly, the worst part of the day is the ride to school, stuffed in the backseat with either Kimber or Parrish, or in the front with Paul—the hypocrite who gripes at us for being on our phones too much and yet has his glued to his goddamn ear.
“I’m tired of that DingDong app. It’s owned by the Chinese government, and it’s nothing but a data farm,” Paul continues as Parrish turns a muted scowl in his father’s direction. It’s now Friday and by this point, I’m more than used to their daily bickering. “Turn it off and enjoy the scenery around you.”