Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(23)
They rounded a sharp curve, leaving the forest canopy behind to make room for the behemoth-sized house perched on the side of the hill. But the word house was too miniscule to contain the structure. The word mansion only fit because of the size. The word castle was close, but too harsh and cold to convey the whimsy of all the windows and wood.
Gables overshot the expansive second story, and a wide porch wrapped itself around the place like a hug. Plush wicker chairs and a porch swing invited her to sit and watch the sunset to completion.
“Wow,” Isleen whispered. “This is where I’m going to live?” She stared out the window, straining her neck to take in the entire structure. Everything here seemed so large, so great, so unreal.
Xander parked in front of the massive arched entryway.
“Yep. This is your stop.” Matt’s tone carried a false lightness. “Unless you want to go home with Xander.”
“She’s staying here.” Without a word to her or a glance in her direction, Xander got out of the car, slamming the door so hard it rocked the vehicle. He walked to the drive that went on past the house and farther up the hill. His shoulders strained the fabric of his T-shirt, and his legs consumed the ground in paces so large she would have to run to keep up. That’s exactly what she wanted to do. Run after him.
All her muscles and tendons were poised, ready to chase him down and set a world record in the hundred-yard dash. She grabbed for the door handle, the explanations flooding her mouth: Your touch means everything to me, makes me feel whole and healthy and wanting so much more. You’re my uncle and it’s wrong to feel this way and I don’t know how else to not want you.
No. If she said that, she’d come off sounding like the love child of the demented and the perverted. She wouldn’t go after him. She forced herself to let go of the door.
Restrained, unused energy vibrated through her, triggering a thousand memories. Memories of feeling that exact way inside their prison and the only relief, the only escape, was when Queen had beaten the feeling out of her. Physical pain was a distraction from the mental anguish and so much easier to handle.
Isleen clenched her fists tight, so tight they shook, so tight the slender, barely there muscles in her arms strained. Before her mind could decipher her body’s intent, she punched down onto the fleshy part of her legs. Pain bloomed, a blessed distraction. She hit herself again. The desperate energy, the horrible urge to chase after him, eased. She beat her legs over and over—
Matt captured her wrists, locking them in his grip. “Stop it.”
His voice punched her out of the trance she’d been in. She shrank back from him, but he didn’t let go and didn’t look away from her, refusing her the dignity of denial.
Shame blistered her face with its warmth, and the tip of her nose tingled. How had she not thought about Matt in the backseat? She’d been so absorbed in herself that she’d clean forgotten him. She yanked on her wrists imprisoned by his hands, but it was like fighting a pair of handcuffs.
“You done hurting yourself?” Matt’s words themselves weren’t kind, but the way they were spoken, slowly and deliberately, contained latent compassion.
She bobbed her head up and down, uncertain her voice was functional.
“I’m going to let you go, and if you hit yourself again, I’m taking you back to the hospital for an evaluation and immediate admission to the psych unit. Got it?”
He eased his grip on her wrists little by little, as if hypervigilant about waiting for her to start thumping on herself again. When she remained mostly paralyzed by humiliation, he released her from his hold, but not from his penetrating gaze.
His eyes were the color of a clear summer sky, but they contained none of the carefree happiness of a June day. He assessed her, judged her, challenged her. This she could handle. She’d known hate and intimidation at Queen’s hand, and Matt’s efforts were majorly lacking. She met him glare for glare, locked in a strange staring contest that she wouldn’t lose.
Without warning, he stepped back out of the open car door and whispered, “Pull your shit together and pretend to be normal. Someone wants to meet you.”
She barely had time to digest his words.
A woman stepped up beside Matt, and everything that had just happened vanished out of existence. The woman’s hair was a captivating shade of lavender—the kind of color that could be both happy and sad at the same time. She wore a completely normal pair of shorts and a tank top, but what wasn’t normal was her body covered from the collar down with brilliant, flowing tattoos. And with her face full of crumpled construction-paper wrinkles, the woman had to be pushing mid-seventies, maybe early eighties.
Isleen mouthed the only word that came to mind. “Wow.” It was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t stop looking. This old lady wasn’t a sweet, kindly looking grandma. She was insanely spectacular.
“Isleen! Holy hell balls, girl! You’re looking so much better.” The woman’s tone was that of a long-lost friend, as if they’d already met and known each other for years. “I sneaked some peeks at you while you were in the hospital, but you were always asleep. Christ on the crapper, look at your hair! It’s grown at least three inches. How is that even possible?”
The woman paused to take in some oxygen.
“I need to get caught up on all the Institute work that’s been back burnered since—” Matt moved away from them.