He raises a brow in surprise but says nothing. In fact, he hasn’t uttered a word since day one. He just…stares.
“I didn’t mean to make such a mess. I was upset.” I climb to my feet. “Being locked up does that to a person.” Hesitating, Ifix my eyes on him. “You must be new here. I haven’t seen you before.”
He makes a grunting sound, then disappears out the door again. I deflate, thinking I lost before I even tried, but then he’s back with a sweeping brush and a bucket of soapy water.
He won’t let me help, ordering me with silent puffs to sit on the bed after he puts the mattress back in place and starts to sweep. I watch him for a moment, trying and failing to ignore the guilt swirling in my gut. This guy seems nice, unlike Lauren. He’s shy, keeping his eyes averted as much as possible, though every now and then I catch him watching me.
I can’t do it.
I can’t use this man for my own selfish reasons, but then I remember what Lauren said about my husband’s cock, and a burst of anger rushes through me again. Leaning back on my elbows, I spread my legs, feeling the nightdress ride up my bare thighs.
The man pauses, growing as still and silent as the night. His throat jumps, and he averts his gaze just as quickly. Then he continues sweeping, a crimson hue coloring his cheeks.
I can’t steal the key if he’s over there. Somehow, I need to coax him closer.
“You’re handsome,” I say, the skirt shifting higher as I reach down to drag my fingers up my thighs. “You seem shy. I don’t bite.”
He’s blushing even harder now. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
My brows fly up at the sound of his low, raspy voice, and he quickly averts his gaze before he turns around, but I jump off the bed. “Wait!”
Pausing with his back to me, he stays still. I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not.
“What’s your name?”
“Thomas.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Thomas.”
Turning over his shoulder, his eyes lock on mine for the briefest of seconds before he walks out, leaving me strangely affected by the encounter. I frown, about to sit back down, when something occurs to me. I never heard the lock click.
I run to the door and sneak into the quiet hallway with my back pressed to the wall. As I peek around the nearest corner, my bare feet padding on the floor, it dawns on me that I have no clue what I’m doing, and no plan. But it doesn’t matter. I need to find Darian.
It’s the strangest feeling tiptoeing through the hallways of my previous home. I lived with these people for years. They were my family and this used to be my safe space. Though perhaps my only true family was Lauren, Keith, and Carlo. We were the closest. Keith was like a father figure to me, maybe even a better father in many ways than my real one. Greta is a different story. She has her own agenda. We all know it. While she’s at the helm of this rebel group, she’s a mystery in many ways, and I need to keep my distance until I can trust her again.
I dart past the living room, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards. Laughter spills from within as grown men curse like sailors. A group of rebels watches a football game on the TV with their socked feet on the coffee table, which is littered with pizza boxes and empty beer bottles.
I recognize some of them by their boisterous voices alone. Antonio, a brute-looking man in his late thirties, sits in one of the two armchairs with his arm behind his head and a beer bottle balanced on his stomach. He was the member who taught me how to drive a stick.
Aria, a short-haired woman in her mid-twenties, with a fierce lion tattoo on her back, sits perched on the armrest, hollering at the TV as loudly as the guys.
She joined the Antichrist after members of the Exodus drove up beside her and her boyfriend in a flashy, top-of-the-range car. They hauled him into the trunk before driving away into the foggy night, leaving her behind, alone and scared, while their fading laughter drifted through the open windows. We all have a story with heartbreak at its center. It’s what bonded us over many moonless nights.
I escape upstairs, my bare feet sinking into the red carpet. Voices drift through one of the closed doors, so I quickly run past, my heart thudding hard as I glance at the surveillance camera in the corner. I didn’t exactly plan this impromptu escape, and it won’t be long until they discover I’m gone. This might be my only chance to find him.
Call it intuition, but as I near the next bedroom in line, my chest tightens, and a strange pull urges me forward. Darian is in there. I know it even before I inch the door open to peek inside. There’s no sign of anyone in the empty room. Why would there be? They’ve left him alone, for god only knows how long, in a wardrobe, just like that night when he listened to his mother’s screams and cries for help.
Once I enter the room and close the door softly behind me, careful not to make a sound, I glance around at the sparse furniture and the potted herbs on the windowsill. As I walk deeper into the room, I almost trip on the curled corner of the plush rug on the floor.
“Shit,” I curse, stumbling forward.
This is the primary bedroom. It used to be Keith’s when he was alive, but I don’t recall ever entering it until now. The walls are painted a dark gray shade, giving the space a modern feel. A large bed with crisp white bedding stands out against the walls,while simple IKEA nightstands on either side hold farmhouse-style bedside lamps.
A muffled sound comes from behind the closed wardrobe doors, and I rush forward to slide them open, gasping at the sight that greets me.
Darian’s bloodshot eyes blink against the light as I enter the small space and fall to my knees before him. Sweat is beading on his brow and upper lip, his skin clammy beneath my touch.
A rush of relief spears through me as I palm his face. “Are you okay, baby? It’s me, Cecilia.”
