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1
Eden
What the hell were you thinking, renting a fourth-floor walk-up?
I trudged up the first flight of steps. Turned the corner. Started up the next flight.
Because this is Williamsburg and all you can afford is a freaking breadbox.
I paused on the landing to take a breath. My backpack and canvas shopping bag felt like they were stuffed with rocks instead of groceries. And had the steps gotten steeper?
I switched the canvas bag to my left hand and kept going, using the rail to haul my tired body up the stairs. By the time I reached the top floor, I was lightheaded and overheated. Putting the bag on the floor, I leaned against the white plaster wall, sucking oxygen like a beached whale.
Mrs. Ortiz was cooking burritos again; the mouthwatering scent of chicken and beans filled the tiny hall. My stomach growled. These days, pretty much anything smelled good, a big improvement on those first months when I hadn’t been able to keep down much besides yogurt, apple juice and Cheerios.
Straightening from the wall, I staggered as another wave of dizziness hit me. I’d skipped dinner to pick up a couple of extra hours at BVE, the vintage clothing shop where I worked. Not a good idea when you’re five-and-half months pregnant.
I slapped a hand on the wall, breathing through my nostrils until the dizziness receded, then picked up the shopping bag and headed across the hall. I had my key out, ready to insert it in the lock, when I realized my door was unlocked.
I sighed and pushed the door open. I’d told Rio to keep the deadbolts locked even when he was home. Williamsburg was fairly safe, but it was still New York City.
I nudged the door closed with my hip. The lock didn’t catch but I kept going. I’d get the door after I put the groceries down.
I sniffed, grinned. “Is that green tofu soup I smell? I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
Rio was a runaway from Ohio who’d moved in with me a few weeks ago. Well, technically he hadn’t been a runaway since he was eighteen years old, but he’d dropped out of high school and had been living in a closed-off subway tunnel when we’d met.
He slept in an alcove behind a curtain we’d rigged up in the living room, and in exchange paid half the utilities and groceries—and cooked dinner. He was a prodigy in the kitchen. I could forgive an occasional unlocked door when he produced meals that good.
The apartment door shut with a soft click. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was there. No one I could see, anyway.
A splinter of apprehension worked its way under my skin.
He’s here. They found you.
But I’d been careful, using cash and a fake ID, changing cities every few days before sneaking across the Canadian/US border six weeks ago and making my way to New York. A big city seemed like the best place to lose myself in.
I shrugged off my uneasiness, telling myself the door had just been stuck, until I realized Rio still hadn’t answered me.
My heart bumped against my ribcage. “Rio? You here?”
The apartment was laid out so the kitchenette wasn’t visible from our front door. I skirted the striped Ikea couch—the only thing I’d bought for my new place other than a comfortable bed—and turned left into the kitchenette.
“Becky.” Rio stood at one end of the kitchen island, his expression pinched. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—” His bony shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug.
All the spit left my mouth. My gaze swung to the other side of the marbled-laminate island to where Talon slouched on a bar stool in an unzipped leather jacket.
His sensual mouth curved in a nasty half-smile. “Hello, Eden,” he said in his deep, growly voice. A voice I used to find sexy.
“Eden?” Rio echoed.
Neither of us looked at him.
The canvas bag slipped from my fingers, thudding to the floor. Apples rolled across the fake wood planks. I ignored them, my gaze locked on the uninvited—and pissed-off—vampire in my kitchenette.
“I wouldn’t let him contact you,” Talon told me.
My lungs filled my throat. For a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe…or even move.
