Mania (Fever Dreams Collection #1)

15. Hazel

Chapter 15

Hazel

“What?”

I’ve clearly heard what she said but ask the question anyway, pulling myself up to better look her in the eyes. With the movement, my cock slips out of her, and I already feel the absence of Maeve deep in my bones.

Her expression takes me by surprise, a deep crease having appeared between her brows. It’s as if she’s trying to decipher a riddle, her gaze still fixed on my shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” I respond truthfully, “I woke up this morning and it was there.”

Her brown eyes flick to mine as she begins to murmur my response back to me, “You woke up this morn —”

Terror flashes across her face before she shoves me off her. She skitters to the top of the bed and grabs the duvet, pulling it over her naked body. “Wh — Who are you?” Her voice is shaking, her hand gripping the blanket over her chest as if trying to shield herself from me.

Her question leaves me momentarily stunned.

Why would she ask such a thing?

Clearly, there’s a deeper meaning to her question, some important piece of the puzzle that I’m missing.

Suddenly feeling vulnerable myself, I stand up and shove my cock into my pants, zipping them up but keeping my belt unbuckled. Her nervous gaze tracks my movements, but then her attention shifts behind me, and I see her eyes widen.

I don’t have to turn around to know what she’s finally spotted: The two-way mirror.

“Is that —”

“I can explain,” I blurt out.

I don’t have an explanation but find myself trying to defuse the situation anyhow.

Her eyes turn hard, her fist tightening around the duvet. My gaze falls on her trembling lips, then follows the single tear trailing down her cheek.

“Was this all a sick game to you?” It’s barely a whisper but her words pack so much venom that I stumble backward from their intensity.

“A game?” I repeat incredulously, taking the lost step forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” she snaps.

I freeze.

“Maeve …” I speak her name like an offering, an olive branch to gain back her trust. My first instinct is to continue talking about the two-way mirror. Instead, I say, “What game?”

“It was you,” she mutters, almost to herself. “It was you all along.”

“Maeve, speak to me. You’re not making any sense.”

Her glare softens, evolving into something closer to sadness. “The bathtub … You took the razor out of my hand.”

I’m about to push her to explain herself again, still frozen to the spot near the edge of the bed, when she adds, “Your face was hidden but I should have known … I should have known.”

Every vowel and consonant she utters lifts the invisible veil over my eyes higher and higher until I suddenly see clearly.

I see everything.

The memories now tauntingly vivid.

The bathtub.

My dream girl sinking her teeth into my skin.

Maeve hanging in the closet, choking to death.

My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes widen as I bring my hand to my mouth.

How could this be? It isn’t possible .

But … how do I even dare ask this question?

Nothing is impossible inside the walls of the Ambrose Hotel.

“You have to believe me, Maeve. I didn’t know. Please,” I press, “Let me explain — or at least let me tell you what I know to be true.”

She stays silent, chewing on her inner cheek. She appears to be stewing over my statement, and I hope the genuine shock on my face helps her decide.

Finally, she gives me a small nod and relief washes over me. Wordlessly, I ask if I can sit on the edge of the bed, and she gives another nod.

I sit, sliding my bent knee on the bed and turn my body so I can face her directly. I hate the way she’s looking at me. Guarded. Fearful. I only hope that divulging my story will be enough for her to trust me again. I clear my throat and deliberate on how to start, wishing I could close the gap between us and link her hand with mine. Regardless of how I broach the subject, I don’t think there’s any good way to start. So I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I was born December 29th, 1913.”