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“Kylo. He… they… they’d tied him to a chair,” she said, lower lip quivering. “And shot him. A lot. I think. I… there was so much blood. He thought he was dying,” she said, struggling with that last word.
“Where was he shot?” I asked, figuring she wanted to talk about it, wanting to get it out.
“His stomach. And his thigh. But the stomach…” she said, looking pale at the memory of the blood.
The stomach was tricky. Lotta organs. Lotta risk for sepsis because of the intestines and gut.
“Were you the only one there?” I asked. This was a nice building. The kind of place where your neighbors would likely give a shit if they thought you’d gotten gunned down in your own apartment.
“The dad down the hall came eventually. But I was… I was the one… pressing—“ she said, then shook her head like she needed to knock that memory loose.
“You did everything that was in your power to do,” I said, reaching out to gently grab her chin, pulling her head up until she was looking at me. “You know that, right?”
“He said that too,” she said.
“Because it’s true. Other people wouldn’t have even gone in there to help. The rest of your neighbors didn’t.”
God, she looked wrecked.
Was this guy more than a neighbor to her?
I wasn’t prepared for the way my stomach went sour at the idea of her having a thing going on with him.
“Is he a good friend?” I found myself asking.
“He… I don’t… he was nice in the hall,” she said. “Frida liked… Frida,” she said, stiffening, then jumping down off of the counter, and rushing away from me.
This wasn’t my place.
So I didn’t follow her.
I did walk around to flick on some lights, though.
I honestly didn’t spend any time imagining what Siana’s apartment might look like. From her content, the background seemed very… plain. White walls. Wood floors. An array of what I assumed were prop rugs. Nothing that showed off any personality at all.
This place, though, was full of personality. Full of color.
Clearly, Siana wasn’t the minimalist sort. She had things, and she liked looking at them. Especially, it seemed, books, judging by her overflowing shelves in her blue bookcases.
There was the pink velvet couch I’d seen in one of our video chats. But it had throw pillows and a blanket, clearly a place she liked to cuddle up. Likely to read.
Behind the couch on the wall were a ton of art prints in mismatched frames.
Even her kitchen was very colorful, very expressive.
As my gaze scanned the room, an unexpected thought crossed my mind.
What a pretty little prison she’d made for herself here.
But before I could analyze that, I heard a tapping sound moving down the hall, something I’d heard enough when Remy was living at the clubhouse with his many pets, so I knew it was the sound of a dog’s nails on hardwood floor.
Then there was Siana again, but in a clean black shirt and a pair of pink sleep pants.
At her side was a fucking gorgeous dog.
I didn’t know breeds, but it was long-haired with black, brown, and white coloring.
As soon as her gaze landed on me, though, she stopped walking.
