Heartless (The Heartless Series) (3 page)

Kinky thoughts…

Will Hart just shut it! No one wants him here. Nobody asked him here. I'm not asleep. So he needs to disappear to whatever part of my brain he takes a coffee break in during the day and leave me alone.

I shut my eyes and rest my head on my hand. I hope Professor Mitchell doesn't see me and think I'm bored. I'm so not bored. My head, though. It's starting to pound. That's another thing that came back with Hart. The migraines. Except for the past week, they've been getting stronger. As if Hart isn't enough torture at night, these headaches ruin my waking hours.

I need a break.

The girl from last night flashes in my vision. I see her in the room. With Hart. She's not smiling. She's just watching. Long brown hair to her waist. Big brown eyes. Something is different, though. There is a hole in her chest. Blood is spilling down her shirt and dripping on the floor. She opens her mouth and screams.

So do I.

That's when it hits me that I'm not at home. It isn't polite to scream in public. People tend to think you're weird.

When I open my eyes, yeah, I'm pretty sure everyone around me thinks the same thing. Gracen Sullivan has lost her mind.

Professor Mitchell stops talking and stares in my direction. I sink lower in my chair and pray incredibly hard to disappear. My head, though. It's pounding. And that girl's face. I see it like a shadow, like a permanent part of my vision.

Even Blond T.A. Dude is looking at me. His eyes lock with mine, and I swear I know him from somewhere. Maybe? I don't know, he seems familiar. His brows come together as he watches me, watches the crazy girl try not to go crazier. His eyes cut to the right, his nose flares, and he looks away.

What the ever loving…?

"Young lady, are you all right?" Professor Mitchell has his hands behind his back and his gaze fixed directly on me.

I want to hide. Not that there is anywhere in that room to disappear to.

"I'm fine." I lie. In fact, I'm pretty sure I have knives stabbing my eyeballs and a girl's face burned into my retinas.

"But you screamed."

He wasn't going to let this go, was he?

"Just thought I saw something." If I laugh it off, maybe he will too.

Professor Mitchell doesn't look amused. Oh goodie. I figure he'll say something, maybe even dismiss me from class. I'd dismiss me from class. Heck, I'd dismiss me from life. Instead, he shakes his head. I swear I see a little smirk pull on his lips right before he turns his back to the class and starts to pace.

He has to think I'm a nut job. He'd be right.

Professor Mitchell, saintly man that he is, clears his throat and resumes lecturing. I assume he's picking up where he left off, not that I have any idea where that is. I look down at my phone and it's 10:54. Class is almost over, and I didn't take a single note. I missed the entire thing. Fifty-four minutes of time gone. That hasn't happened in years.

I used to miss a lot of time. I still have no idea where I was or what I was doing when those episodes happened. All I know is that when I started taking that medicine, I stopped having blackouts. I stopped having nightmares. And now, it's all coming back again.

I can't go through that anymore. I can't. It nearly killed me the first time.

I don't think I'm strong enough for it not to kill me this time.

I need to call my mom or the therapist. I swore I would when I left home and moved here if it ever got bad again. The nightmares—the headaches from Hell—yeah, I'd say it was bad again. Mom and Dr. Sheldon both been scared that I'll turn into Aunt Willow. I'm scared of that too, truth be told. I need to call them. I need help, but I don't want to do it. I don't want to tell them or admit that things have gotten this bad. I want to fight my demons—for lack of a better word—on my own terms. I want Hart to leave me alone. I want to be sane. I want everything to go back to like it was last week.

Be careful what you wish for,
a voice whispers in my head, and I sit up straighter, which causes my head to pound harder. It's like a heartbeat in my brain, which isn't as pleasant as it sounds. This voice isn't a voice. Not really. It's more like words thrown in my mind to jumble everything up. It isn't Hart. I know that much.

Great, another voice invading my headspace.

That settles it. I'm crazy. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Certifiably crazy. I know what will happen if I call my therapist or even my mom and tell them that not only have I been dreaming about Hart again, but also that I have this cool
other
voice. Oh yeah, I'll be Aunt Willow's roomie in no time.

I squeeze my eyes shut and choke the pencil in my hand within an inch of its miserable life to make the second voice go away. If I don't acknowledge it, if I don't think about it, it'll go away. It'll just fade into the background noise. Fade into Professor Mitchell's voice. Life will be grand. The birds will sing. The bears will dance in tutus around the woods.

"Hey Gracen, you okay?"

Another whisper, but this one is real. I can feel the breath on my neck. It's right next to my left ear. A girl. This isn't embarrassing at all. I realize that to anybody but me it might look like I'm having some sort of anxiety attack or psychotic episode in the middle of history class. And I am, but I don't want them to know that.

"I'm fine." I plaster on a smile and turn to my concerned seatmate.

And I scream.

Ever have those times when you can't stop screaming? You try, and you know you try, but it just keeps coming? You can't stop it? I can't stop this scream. I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it doesn't help. I hit my thigh into the side of my desk and knock all my papers, books, and pencils to on the floor. There are thuds and clanks that echo through the small auditorium. Professor Mitchell yells at me this time. At least, I think he's yelling at me. I hear him, faintly, but I can't make out what he's saying.

All I hear is the sound of my own screaming.

All I see is her.

Because I know her. I
know
her!

"Gracen," the low, soft voice fills my head. Another voice. Oh dear Lord! This voice is strong and firm and, I think, very real. Hands clamp down on my shoulders, and I start to freeze up. Then, the most wonderful calmness covers me. Light is the best way I can describe it. Light. Warmth. Peace.

"Gracen, calm down. It isn't real." His hand squeezes my shoulders, and my body gives up. I fall back against him. His arms catch me before I hit the floor. I don't take my eyes off
her
. I can't. I know her.

She doesn't look like she did in my dream, though. Not exactly. I mean, I know it's her. Same slender face. Dark brown hair. Big brown, terrified eyes. Same girl to the very last detail. This was the girl…

This
is
the girl!

I'd never noticed her before, but she'd made a very special guest appearance in my head last night.

She called me Gracen.

My chest feels like it's going to explode. The entire room has erupted. A few people have pulled out their phones to document the history freak out. Professor Mitchell is yelling. I've stopped screaming. I've stopped everything.

The warmth surrounds me like a blanket. A bright, white light envelops me, and my body relaxes. The last thing I see is the girl's terrified expression.

And then the world turns black.

Chapter Four

I
'M LYING ON MY TABLE IN
the old dingy room as per usual. A mirror hangs over my head. An old dirty mirror that you'd find in an abandoned house and that one black spot. I hate both of them. A lamp is on the far side of the room. "The better to see you with,"
Hart always says. I hear the all too familiar sharpening of his knife and my stomach knots. Why do we always have to do this? It isn't even nighttime. Or I don't think it is. Last I remember, I was in my classroom freaking out over the girl who watched Hart eat my skin last night.

And now I'm with the handsome devil.

His back is to me. His black shirt forming to the muscles of his back and shoulders. The cold steel of the table freezes my bare skin. I don't fight the straps. What's the point?

I stare at the ceiling while I listen to Hart sharpening his blade. Believe it or not, sharp is actually a good thing. Sometimes, he uses a dull blade. Those times are the hardest for me. Sad how I know things like that now. The black dot I've stared at all these years isn't just a dot anymore. It's spreading like mold. It now covers only a quarter of the wall and has invaded the antique mirror over my head. I hate that mirror. I hate watching Hart do what he does. I sure as heck don't like looking at myself. Not anymore. I don't look like myself, either. Never have in dream world. Here I have black hair with gray highlights. Here I have black eyes. Here, I'm not exactly me.

I want to go home.

Hart turns toward me and slides the newly sharpened blade down his arm. Little flecks of hair fly in the air. Wow, pretty sharp today.

"Short session today, sweetheart. That okay with you?" He smiles, and his dimples cut into his cheeks.

Hart is a strange person, I mean besides the obvious. To just look at him, he's a boy-next-door type. Dimples, muscles, and cuteness. Yeah, I admit it. I'm not blind. Spend enough time with a person and you notice things. I notice Hart. In fact, I'd go so far as to call him baby-faced except for the rather long scar that goes down the left side of his cheek. No stubble. No beard. Just a normal looking dude except for his big red eyes and assortment of torture tools.

"Sweetheart? Did you hear me? Shorter today. That okay?" And here I thought he'd just been talking. He actually wants me to answer.

I nod. Short is fine. More than fine. I move my head around until my lips are free from the strap he puts on my mouth every freakin' time to keep me from screaming, which I've always found stupid since he's in my head. Who is going to hear me scream in my head? "We can just call it off today, if you want."

Killer dimples attack. "Eh, what good would that do me? You're already here. Might as well use you. Time is running out, you know?"

"Use me for what?" Because that was the important part of what he'd just said. Not really, but it's what jumped out at me. I don't really want to know the answer. Not really. I have ideas, and none of them are pleasant.

Hart leans closer to my face and runs his fingers through my hair. What in the blue blazes? "I need you, darlin'. I've always needed you, and now it looks like you might be where you're supposed to be. Fate has finally caught up with us."

He unties the strap on the hand closest to him, something he's never done before, and rubs his fingers gently over mine. His eyes meet mine. Soft. Compassionate. Not red.

"You're meant for great things. Great things. And this is the beginning of all that. Everything you've been through. Everything I've done to you, everything I'm
going
to do to you, it's all for a bigger cause. Something you can't even imagine. You, sweetheart, I need you." He rubs his nose lightly over my cheek, down my jawline, and into my hair. My eyes close. I can't stop myself. "Do you believe me?"

I don't say anything because I can't exactly speak at the moment. This is… different. Very different. Hart has never been like this, and I don't exactly know how to act. I blink a few times, focus on the spot above me, which has grown to fill over half of the room, and take a breath. Do I believe him? I don't know. I can't exactly trust someone who does what he does to me every night. So I stay quiet.

Hart sighs and his jaw tightens. I expect his grip on my hand to tighten, too; instead, he keeps rubbing little circles over my knuckles. "I need you to do something for me, sweetheart. It's kind of important actually."

"Okay." My voice cracks. Doesn't matter if I want to do it or not, Hart has the knife. The cold steel under me starts to warm, and for the first time that I've ever been in that room, I feel anything but ice cold.

"Okay." Hart grimaces before he slams the knife through my hand. "Tell Lucien hi for me."

I
DON'T LIKE BEING
held down. It's one of the worst feelings in the world. There are reasons. But, I'm used to it in the dream/nightmare world. I guess because I'm not tied down. Not really. Hart already has me strapped down when I get there. Maybe it's the act of tying I hate. The act of holding me down.

I make no sense.

I don't see the room—our little torture
paradise
—anymore. I don't feel the
breeze on my toes
, but I'm scared. I think I'm more scared than I was before because I feel a hand clamped down on my wrist. I fight with everything I have to get my arm away, to push whatever/whoever has me off.

"Hey, hey, calm down. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

I know that voice. How the heck do I know that voice? Low, deep, and compassionate. Then again, I hear a little fear in it too. Fear. What does he have to be afraid of? I'm the one being held down here.

My head jerks to the side a few times like I'm having a seizure. I can't control it. I'm fighting to open my eyes and keep them open, all the while trying to fight this guy off. I like to think it's instinct, but in reality, it's fear. Pure and simple fear.