Dark dreams draw me under, again and again, suffocating clutches of nightmares that won’t let me rest. I wake up drenched in cold sweat, my teeth gritting, my legs tangled up in the covers, until I give up on sleep and roll out of bed.

That’s routine. Stumbling into the bathroom to take a piss and splash my face with cold water, trying to chase the clinging cobwebs of the dreams from my mind. Stumbling back out to grab a T-shirt and down the stairs to the kitchen. Deciding if it’s late enough for booze or early enough for coffee.

The sky outside is a deep blue. Over the houses and trees, the sky is lightening, silver and gold shooting through the east.

Damn. Coffee it is.

I start the coffee machine and scratch at my beard. I should trim it.

Or braid it like Viking warriors did.

Or just fucking leave it. Who the hell cares? I’m just so damn tired all the time. I thought moving out here would cure me of it, of this weariness, this constant exhaustion.

But that hasn’t happened. My work is not harder than it was in St. Louis. I’d worked in a garage there, too, once I managed to get out of my funk enough to drag myself out of the house every day. And yet I feel like a truck ran me over.

I open the cupboard, grab a random mug, fill it up with black, bitter coffee and stagger out to the porch.

It’s probably chilly, so early in the morning. I never feel it. I never feel anything after waking up, my brain still struggling to decide what is real and what isn’t.

Emma’s hand in mine. Her cheek cold as she was laid into the ground. Her voice still whispering in my ear.

Hell. I brace one hand on the porch pillar, dizzy. Wait until the ground steadies. Until the urge to howl subsides.

The sea of grass around the house sways, the tips of the weeds silver in the gray light.

I should do something about it. Borrow a lawn mower. Cut it before I get into trouble.

And then a snort escapes me. Get into trouble, really? Who the fuck cares?

The houses down the street are still dark. It’s quiet. My pulse is way too loud in my ears.

I think I feel ghostly hands slip around my hips, faint laughter in the air.

My eyes sting.

Dammit… how can I ever let you go?

* * *

I open the door for Octavia and manage a greeting before retreating upstairs to shower and dress for another long-ass day. I pull on pants and a shirt, shove my feet into my boots and sit on the bed for a few minutes, spaced out.

It’s one of those days, where time seems to have slowed down and I’m sinking down into the mud faster than I can swim. My air is running out.

There’s a tremor in my hand when I lift it to shove my hair out of my face.

I remember Cole’s laughter as he perched on my knee last night. Mary’s giggles.

Octavia’s smile.

Clenching my jaw, I get up and head back downstairs. Thank fuck she hasn’t made good on her promise to make me talk about anything much yet, or do more than eat dinner with the kids last night.

I’m supposed to have breakfast with them, but somehow, despite being up from the ass- crack of dawn, I’m running late.

“Matt!” Octavia calls from the kitchen.

Right on cue.

“Have to run,” I tell her, and get the hell out of the house before she has a chance to reply.

Feeling like a douche, I drive to work.

As mornings go, this one was pretty tough but nothing I can’t deal with. Not the first time I have nightmares so bad they won’t fade away, that I feel so shaken I can only forge ahead hoping I’ll make it through the day in one piece.

So of course things go downhill from there.

First Jasper sends me out to check a broken-down car out of town, and nobody’s there when I arrive, so that I have to return with the bad news.

Then I burn my hand on the engine of a car just brought in. Nothing life-threatening, but Evan makes it sound as if it’s fatal. The guy’s cool and nice and all, but today of all days I’d rather he didn’t fuss.

To be honest, the physical pain kinda grounds me, and I have to resist the urge to press into the burn, make the pain sharper.

My hand all wrapped up, I get to return to the overheated engine and finally get some work done, take my mind off everything that’s been haunting me.

And then Ross turns up.

Obviously fucking hungover, strutting about like a goddamn peacock, looking for a brawl.

You got it, asshole.

Evan sees me and tries to get in my way as I stride across the workshop, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dig into my palms, the sound of blood rushing in my ears deafening. I push him aside and march right up to Ross.

I grab him by the shoulders and slam him into the wall. “Motherfucker. Stop fucking harassing my family.” I slam him again for good measure, and he growls, kicking at me and jerking like a fish on a hook. “Stay away.”

Releasing him, I step back—and he falls on me like a truck, throwing me to the floor. My head hits the concrete and everything goes black for a long moment.

When the blackness clears, his fist connects with my face, snapping it to the side. I taste blood, and I spit it out.

Hands haul him off me, cursing and kicking.

I sit up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, leaving a long red smear.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jasper’s voice booms, and Ross jerks free from the hold of the other mechanics holding him back.

“This son of a bitch attacked me.” He spits at me but misses. “Fucking cunt.”

“Keep away from my house,” I hiss. “If I find one more message stuck to my door, I fucking swear…”

He throws me a look of disbelief. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. Are you on fucking drugs?”

Not the reaction I expected. Then again… what the hell did I expect, that he’d confess? That he’d go on to brag and explain the method behind his madness, like in the movies?

“What are you talking about, Hansen?” Jasper throws me a hostile look, and I return it.

Hell, I know this is his son, but his son is a damn bully, a dickshit and a criminal, and on top of that a fucking pussy for not fessing up to what he did.

“Just keep away from my house,” I say again, jabbing a finger at Ross as I slowly get to my feet, wincing at the drum pounding inside my skull. “You hear me?”

“Just because you’re fucking that bitch, Octavia, you think you run this town?”

“Ross, enough,” Jasper mutters, grabbing his son before he throws himself on me again like a rabid dog, almost foaming at the mouth. “And you, Hansen. You’d better have an explanation and a goddamn apology.”

“The hell I do.” I’m a bit unsteady on my feet but fuck if I let it show. “You don’t own Octavia, you piece of shit.”

“Enough.” Jasper’s face is read, veins bulging in his throat. “Go home, and cool your guns. We’ll talk tomorrow about this.”

“He should apologize to me!” Ross yells, coming at me again.

His father drags him away from me, toward the little office where he holds court, muttering something about stupidity and young age.

Yeah, well. I doubt a douchebag like Ross will grow up to be an upstanding member of the society, much like I don’t believe his dear old daddy is any better.

Avoiding Evan, I drag my sorry self to my truck and head home.

Enough, I tell myself. It’s been a train wreck of a day, but now I’m going home to my kids and I’ll try my damnedest to be who they need. I’ll sit down and eat with them, play with them.

See Octavia smile at me. Her smile is a star in the dark, leading me home, and I don’t try to analyze it, understand it. Understand why she feels so familiar, and so exciting, and why I need to get back home to her.

Enough shit for today. Tonight will be good, I just know it.

And then life goes, LOL, one sec.

* * *

The message flutters a little in the warm breeze, stuck to the door with a huge-ass knife—a goddamn meat cleaver.

Talk about overkill.

Or is it escalation?

I stare at it from where I’m sitting in my truck, my heart thudding heavily. Whatever it’s supposed to mean, it’s nothing good, of that I’m sure.

Then I shake off my daze and climb out of the truck, slam the door behind me and go up the porch steps to my door. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I half-expect the door to be cracked open, and to see crimson and bodies on the floor.

Fuck, these are images pulled right out of my worst nightmares, the ones that have me falling out of bed, choking on a scream.

The door is closed. The message reads, “What is most precious to you?”

Oh fuck, my kids. Ross wouldn’t dare touch my kids, would he? Goddamn sicko.

I reach for the handle of the knife, and hesitate. I think I can hear Cole laughing from inside.

Keep your wits, Matt.

I don’t touch the fucking knife. I don’t touch the fucking piece of paper.

Instead I call the police, tell John what happened, describe the knife, tell him what the message says this time. Tell him to arrest Ross before I get my hands on him.

Predictably John tells me to cool my guns and stay put.

As if.

And then I put my key into the lock, open the door and walk inside, my heart still racing, banging around inside my chest, my mouth dry. I fear the worst, like every time, conditioned to expect it.

But they’re all three of them there, sitting on the thick carpet, playing with a Star Wars Lego set. A set my dad bought the kids before he died.

So much death.

Yet they’re alive. They’re alive and well, and even if the one thing I really wanna do is run to them, grab them and hold them, feeling their heartbeats, their breaths on my face, I swallow down bile and turn away, not trusting my voice, my reaction.

Whiskey sounds good right about now.

A whole goddamn bottle of it. Enough to drown my thoughts.

But now is not the time. They’re okay, and that’s all that matters.

So I stagger out the way I came, coming up short at the edge of the porch. Leaning on the pillar, I fold my arms over my chest and wait for the police to arrive.

Octavia comes outside soon after, calling my name.

She stops and her eyes go wide when she sees the cleaver stuck in the door. “Holy shit.” She stumbles sideways, and I catch her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “When…? How?”

“You didn’t hear anything? See anyone?”

She shakes her head, her face white. “We were upstairs, in the kids’ bedroom.” Then she lifts a hand to my face. “God, what happened to you? Your eye is black and blue.”

I’d forgotten about that, and I say nothing as she leans against me. She’s soft and slight and silky and it would only be natural that I put my arms around her, pull her to me.

Even my hand on her shoulder feels too good. I wanna stroke her collarbone, cup her tits, feel her curves. I wanna bury my nose in her soft hair and inhale her sweet scent.

Fuck. Me.

Reluctantly I let her go.

In silence we wait for the police, standing apart, each leaning on a pillar, as if supporting the dark sky.

When they arrive, it’s John himself who climbs out of the unmarked car, together with another cop, looking tired and unhappy. They greet us and come up the steps to examine the cleaver, while Octavia goes back inside to check on the kids.

The cops put on rubber gloves and pull out the cleaver, bag it, bag the piece of paper, and after asking all the usual questions, go away with the promise to let me know if anything comes up.

Yeah. Right. I won’t be holding my breath, that’s for sure. Whoever this prankster is, they know how to cover their ass.

Invisible. Silent. Leaving no tracks.

The sun has gone down, and the night is pressing in around me. I’m getting a bad feeling about this, so bad it reminds me of a hospital that smelled of death, a white room where my wife lay on a narrow bed and a doctor’s harrowed face when he gave the diagnosis.

The security company is coming tomorrow to install cameras, and knowing that is not enough to settle my heartbeat.

Octavia has taken the kids upstairs for an early night, and the night smells of something bitter, like poison.

I head back inside the house, into the dark kitchen, and locate the whiskey bottle under the kitchen sink. Unscrewing the lid, I take a few long gulps, the booze burning a path down my throat to my chest.

It’s a damn relief, to feel something other than anger and fear. And yet it’s not enough. So I drink more. Slam the bottle into the sink. Scratch at my cheeks. Clench and unclench my hands, rub at my scar.

Punch a dent into a cupboard. And again, until blood smears the wood from my knuckles, already busted from punching Ross earlier.

Needing to feel more.

By the time she comes down the stairs, the sound of her steps ringing too loud through my brain, I’m straining on my tether, my control barely hanging by a thread.

She stops at the kitchen door, a shadow framed by the light, and I lick my lips, leaning back against the counter, taking her figure in.

I’d blame the adrenaline, the frustration, the fucking nightmares for the way my cock’s hardening, but they have nothing to do with this.

This goddamn lust that’s coursing through me every single time I see her, every time she’s near. I just can’t stop it, can’t rein it in.

Not anymore.

“You should go,” I rasp.

“Matt…” She takes a step inside, and I throw a hand up, to stop her.

“Stay away from me,” I say, my voice strained. My pulse thuds in my ears. My body is taut with arousal, my stomach clenched, my dick aching.

“I can’t,” she whispers, stepping closer, lifting a hand to cup my face. “I’ve tried, believe me, but I just can’t.”