Chapter 5: Myself and all th’ angelic host that stand in sight of God entrhon’d, our happy state hold, as you yours, while our obedience hold. – V, 535-537

Checking the alarm clock on his nightstand in Nihira’s old room just makes him miserable. So, he stops doing it after four AM. Rhys knows he’ll have to monster-dose on caffeine later to stay awake for work, but right now that’s the least of his worries. 

It’s not that he can’t sleep – it’s just, every time he does, he has that dream again. The one with Rhyleigh  in the hospital, murdering him over and over, slashing at his insides until he can feel the last crumb of life bleed out of him.

As much as he hates to admit it, Sawyer was right to try and keep him away from the body the previous day. What he doesn’t understand, though, is why. 

He’s killed plenty of people before. More than he can actually count. And he hadn’t even killed this one. So, why is it affecting him like this?

He knows some shrink would probably say it’s because he ‘switched sides’: now that he’s part of Nihira’s pack, albeit on a probationary basis, he feels guilty. 

That’s not exactly right. Guilt isn’t a feeling for him anymore. It’s his default. 

He knows he deserves everyone’s scrutiny and mistrust, and maybe even outright hate. He knows they’re all just waiting for him to screw up again. 

Sometimes, when he feels particularly heavy, he entertains the notion that Sawyer is only as good to him as he is to keep him in check. In which case, falling for him as hard as Rhys is, is not only stupid, but bound to backfire.

That’s when he decides he can’t take just lying here anymore. 

Maybe if he goes for a good run, he’ll tire himself out to the point of at least an hour or two’s dreamless sleep. His running sneakers slip on like socks and then he’s out the window and down the street, feet barely skimming the pavement.

Rhys considers running to Sawyer’s house, but despite all the time they’re spending together lately, he’s still extremely unsure if he’s allowed to count on him that way.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Sawyer’s eyes had seemed to ask him when they’d reached the tree-line near the restoration yard.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve seen dead people before. Like you said, I was raised on serial killer documentaries and Slipknot.” Rhys had tried to laugh it off, but the small, concerned crease had not disappeared from between Sawyer’s eyes.

Sawyer comfortably pressed his face into Rhys’s chest, a hug. 

He’d hugged him back, of course, but it’d taken everything in him not to bury his face in the warm, sandy-colored softness of Sawyer’s pelt. Or to press a kiss to Sawyer’s temple.

Rhys finally catches up with himself and comes to a dead stop. How did he get back to the clearing? Something had led him here… A smell... 

Dead center, where the body had been the previous day, is the ridiculously big pool of blood. Somehow still glistening in the moonlight. 

Transfixed, he reaches out to touch it. Glistening or not, there’s something particularly off about it. Something he can’t quite place…

“Rhys McArthur.”

Suffice it to say, he jumps so hard he almost goes sprawling, face-first, into the blood. 

Jerking around, he sees her. It’s like she never moved from the tree they’d left her leaning against yesterday. Scrambling, his brain lands on a name, but he has to try it to be sure.

“Lissie?”

She nods once.

“What are you doing here?” she asks him, like she has some kind of claim on the place. As though being here at all isn’t beyond weird.

“I could ask you the same question.” He squares his shoulders. 

Banshees, Hellhounds, anything to do with death, has always given Rhys the creeps. This girl is no exception.

“I’ve been waiting for the Hellhound, but he hasn’t shown up yet. Holland said… Well, it seems she was wrong.” Instead of miffed, which Rhys would’ve understood, Lissie looks disappointed.

For some reason, the great urge to defend Curtis grips Rhys; as though this complete stranger has zero rights to mistrust the sergeant even if he’s AWOL. 

But he barely has his mouth open when the crunch of forest debris underfoot has both their heads snapping to the side.

“There you are!” Sawyer pants slightly, closing the distance between them. “Charvi got your note, but when she texted to check on you, she found your phone in your room. You can’t do that, dude. You scared the hell out of us.”

Us.

It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to comfort Rhys at all. He sounds genuine and upset and afraid. Rhys backs away from the blood, dropping his head to stare at his shoes.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep. Could you please text her?” 

He doesn’t meet Sawyer’s eyes. He doesn’t want to be a cause for concern anymore.

Sawyer takes out his phone and taps out a message. Rhys chances a sideways glance at Lissie, but it’s like she was never there. The ground, trees, shadows – all look undisturbed.

Weird girl.

His breathing hitches in his throat when Sawyer takes his hand. Rhys loves – yes, loves – how easy it seems to be for Sawyer to be close to him. 

“Are you having nightmares again?”

Rhys grits his teeth against lying. “Just one. Always the same.”

“Rhyleigh?” Sawyer says his sister’s name gently, as though afraid it might tip Rhys over some kind of edge.

Honestly, one of these days, it might.

“Yeah,” Rhys replies tonelessly

Sawyer sighs, but not in hopelessness. More like he’s sad. 

Sad for Rhys. 

Instead of overthinking it this time, Rhys brings them to a halt and then pulls Sawyer to him, initiating the hug this time. He lets himself relax into it, reveling in the way Sawyer rests his head in the space below his ear.

“Whenever my rage gets away from me and I hurt other people on the lacrosse field, I always used to tell myself they deserved it. They started the fights. They provoked me. But then I’d lie awake at night, absolutely hating myself for what I did, promising that it’d never happen again, that I’d get a handle on things. I still get really angry. I still want to hurt people. But now I have friends to support me when it gets bad.” 

Sawyer murmurs all this into Rhys’s chest, but then looks up at him, eyes wide and genuine. 

“We can see you trying. We let you into the pack for a reason. I know there’s good in you. That’s why you’re my anchor. But I can be yours, too. You don’t have to deal with stuff alone.”

Instead of kissing him, like Rhys has so badly wanted to for weeks, he breaks down. 

Letting Sawyer pull him back into a hug, Rhys sobs himself out. A weird feeling settles in his chest as he cries. He wants to call it trust, but he doesn’t really have anything to compare it to to know for real. 

What he does know is that the person in his arms means more to him than anything else and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he’s always there to have Sawyer’s back.