In Fury Lies Mischief (Midnight Mayhem 2)

After docking and organizing our vehicles the next day, we settle into a parking spot close to the port. We’re lucky our crew numbers are large, but we still need at least a day to unload the ship.

I’m making my way back to our RV when I pull open the door, finding Callan and Kenan playing cards at the table. They’re both wearing no shirts—with Callan wearing a small camisole bra and leggings.

She gawks at me briefly before going back to the game at hand.

“Hey, Baby G.” Kenan nods his head, eyeing me up and down. If it was done by anyone but Kenan, I would have had an issue with the way he openly gawked at me. “Tired?”

“Yeah.” I move through the kitchen and begin heading for my bedroom. When Perse moved out and she and King got their own bus, I took what would have been her room, much to Callan’s disgust, I’m thinking. She and I used to be okay, but I feel like the more that time goes on, the issues she has with me intensify. I’m pretty sure that Kenan can pick up the tension too, but we can’t change someone else’s opinion of us. All we can do is let them brew over whatever they have stewing in their head, knowing that we won’t be at the table when they decide to serve up their dish.

I open up the fridge and take out a cold water. “I’ll see you both in the morning. ’Night!” I move past them both and head for the stairs, eager to get away from Callan.

“’Night!” Kenan calls out as I hit my bedroom door. I close it gently behind me and flop down onto the soft mattress. I’m relieved that we’re off the ship and back in our own buses, and I’m really relieved that I didn’t bump into Killian once.

Not. Once.

Dried leaves crunched beneath my feet, the aching only beginning to pulse through my veins further. “Sweet Dreams” by Marilyn Manson is playing softly in the background as trees line a dirt path that leads into the forest.

“Hello?” I called out, only my voice never came. My hand flew to my throat, where I clenched hard. “Hello?” I repeated, without success.

I peered down at the gown that I was wearing and flinched at the splatters of bright red blood. I tilted my head up, just as I felt something drip down the side of my throat, my hands swiping it away.

More blood.

“What?” I whispered, confused. The bright full moon sat angrily in the backdrop.

“Tell me more,” a voice boomed from near the back of my neck.

I screamed, jumping away from the unfamiliar voice. “What do you want from me?”

A hand slammed over my mouth, shoving me backward until my back was against his chest. “Everything.”

I shoot up from the bed, sweat sticking my pajamas to my flesh and my heartbeat thrashing around erratically.

“Nightmare?” I instantly recognize the voice as Kyrin’s. We haven’t spoken much, which apparently that isn’t unheard of with Kyrin, but I recognize his voice. I turn toward the dark corner of my room, unable to see his body that’s buried in the shadows.

“What are you doing in here?” My elbows sink into the mattress as I push myself up.

“Interesting question…” another voice mumbles, and I freeze. I usually feel his presence before I hear it, and that’s saying something because Killian isn’t exactly docile.

I swing my legs off my bed and run my fingers through my hair, swiping it out of my face. I begin to mentally prepare myself for the energy that I’m about to exude through this encounter.

“I’ve got a question too,” Killian adds, and he must have stood from wherever he was in the room because now his boots are in my view.

They were in here while I was sleeping, and while that should be creepy—and is creepy—it’s not the worst thing that they’ve ever done.

“What is it, Killian?” I tilt my head up to face him. From this angle, he looks feral. It’s not even about the clothes that he’s wearing, or the way his features hit every single angle at the right moment, but it’s how he holds himself. How his shoulders are always back, his muscles tense and the expression on his face completely void from emotion. His personality shifts depending on who he is with, which means he may have bigger walls than mine. You can’t treat everyone the same because not everyone deserves all of you.

“Why do I get the feeling that I know you?” he asks, cocking his head.

I divert my eyes. “I don’t know why this conversation couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Answer the question.”

I chew on my bottom lip.

“Tell me more!”

I flinch at the hoarse voice that haunted my sleep just seconds ago. Sometimes, I don’t know if the nightmare is just that—a nightmare—or are memories. It gets confusing when you have to differentiate what is real and what is fake. What are the parts that are a product of my own subconscious? Attempting to either raise issues or bury them, and what parts are imaginary?