The Unbound

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MY BODY BEGS for sleep.

I sit on the roof of the Coronado, and it pleads with me, begs me to climb down from my perch on the gargoyle’s broken shoulder, to creep back inside and down the stairs and through the still-dark apartment into my bed—to sleep.

But I can’t.

Because every time I sleep, I dream. And every time I dream, I dream of Owen. Of his silvery hair, his cold eyes, his long fingers curling casually around his favorite knife. I dream of him dragging the jagged side of the blade across my skin as he murmurs that the “real” Mackenzie Bishop must be hidden somewhere under all that flesh.

I’ll find you, M, he whispers as he cuts. I’ll set you free.

Some nights he kills me quickly, and some nights he takes his time; but every night I bolt up in the dark, clutching my arms around my ribs, heart pounding as I search my skin for fresh cuts.

There aren’t any, of course. Because there is no Owen.

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