Page 129 of Shadowface

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

MIKAEL

Breath is truly a precious thing, often taken for granted—the simple act of inhaling and exhaling. It represents motion, fleeting moments of life itself. I repeatedly open and close my hand, still trying to adapt to my body. Still trying to adapt to the simple act of taking a breath. It’s like skin that isn’t fully mine yet, a glove that requires breaking in. The way my body moves now differs from what I remember.

Years of stolen moments that are slowly becoming mine.

He’s still inside me like a dull ball of energy. Like a computer that’s shut off, but is still connected to the hard drive. I found a box and put him in it, mirroring what he’s done to me for the past few years, taking only the best parts of him.

The push and pull between us is still happening; we are not yet unified. What I’m experiencing is not yet fusion, because fusion requires acceptance on both parties, and while we are undoubtedly stronger together, I’ve not yet accepted all parts of him—just the parts that serve me and to fuse you must accept all of the alter.

And he’s clearly not accepted me in my entirety, given the pulse of anger fleeting around my brain untethered.

I sense him, though, in every corner of my mind, alien and foreign and devoid of a soul.

Right now, the thesis demands my full attention, so I sit in front of my computer working. His thoughts are becoming mine, every psychological theory he’s memorized, analyzed, and practiced. Every experience of his blurs into my psyche as if I’m downloading it. As each idea comes alive within me, my mind grows more connected to the material. Every new word, and it’s as if I’ve been studying this forever. Every minute, every tiny memory, no matter the significance, dulls him.

The god I created is dying.

I grit my teeth and slam the computer shut, and lean back and turn the music up, trying to drown out Xander and Bianca squabbling upstairs.

Hard metal music is blaring from my speakers because I can’t fucking stand that classical shit Lincoln likes, and this was the last band I listened to before I shut myself off. The heavy metal with screaming because I can’t let Lincoln define my adult existence entirely.

Bianca, I’ve decided, will be the first one I kill when the time presents itself, since Xander seems incapable of controlling his woman. Either that, or I’ll silence her to submission like I did that blonde bitch I mistook for Summer.

Xander will thank me…eventually.

I stare at my phone and grind my jaw together as I seem to do a lot. It’s been a week since I saw Summer in my office. And beyond the confines of the classroom, where she’s not glanced up at me even once.

Every day she talks to that fucker who’s had his grubby paws on her all semester after I warned her, repeatedly, not to go near him. She twirls her hair and gives him flirty gestures as if daring me to do something about it.

I’ve texted her multiple times, and she hasn’t answered. And if it wasn’t for this damn thesis deadline, I’d crawl into her bedroom, fuck her senseless, and end this nonsense.

I’m spiraling, I realize—chasing an unwilling prey. I shoot off a text and run my hands through my hair.

SF: I miss you, baby. I’m sorry if I scared you.

My heart is scattered when I see that she’s read it and appears to be responding, only for the phone to go silent. Maybe I was too rough with her the other day, but the way she succumbed to me. I know she liked it.

I text her again—the angry split flickering to the surface.

SF: Silence isn’t an option, Summer. Do you have to learn the hard way again?

Finally, a response.

Summer: You’re such a liar. You’re incapable of being sorry. I will never forgive you for taking him away from me. You are nothing but pain.

A pit turns in my stomach as I reflect on her words. She’s not wrong, but that hurt and anger aren’t a part of me now, allowing me to envision a life beyond my past trauma. Why can’t she understand that? Why can’t she comprehend she’s the finite part of why I’m whole again?

SF: I’m learning to control my urges, baby. I promise you. I need to see you again.

Another drawn out pause.

I dial her number; it rings three times, each adding to my growing fury every time it rings. I turn down the music and walk to my bed and she finally answers.

“Mikael,” she snips, “why won’t you leave me alone?”