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Knuckles tap on my door so abruptly, I flinch from the sofa. Salt meows moodily and then retreats into the cave at the top of his cat post. I hold my breath and stare at the door, waiting for the knock to sound again.
It does, the knuckles tapping incessantly. Whoever it is they’re not going away.
Oh God, it is him. My attacker. His criminal friends. He’s really not giving up. He’ll probably force his way inside next...
I rise up off the sofa and approach the door with cautious footsteps. Panic clogs my throat the closer I get. Even the prospect of checking the peephole almost sends me into a spiral.
But before I’m close enough to do so, the voice on the other side of the door speaks. It startles me, familiar from the very first syllable. From the other side comes Salvatore's smooth, measured voice.
“Open up, Phi. I know you’re standing on the other side of that door.”
6. salvatore
“Salvatore?”Delphine’s voice wavers from her end of the door.
She’sfrightened.
That in itself is enough to ignite my bloodlust. I clench my jaw to hold back the urge to break the face of the asshole who made her this way.
She’s holed herself up in her apartment all day. Stitches’ ploy to get her to open up as a delivery guy failed. Impatient to know what’s wrong, I decided no more games. I’d show up on her doorstep myself.
“Phi, open up.” I tap my knuckles against the door again. “I’m alone. Nobody has to know I’m here.”
Except my security, who will now watch her building around-the-clock for safety reasons.
If she understood the lengths I go to in order to look out for her…
“Phi, I’m not going away. Open the door.”
Or I’ll bust it down just to make sure you’re okay.
There’s another pause before the locks click and the door cracks open. Only a little. Just enough for her to peek through.
“What do you want?”
“Let me in. We’ll talk.”
She gives a shake of her head and then moves to slam shut the door. I’m quicker and stronger, flattening a hand against it, and sticking a foot inside the opening. The push I give is forceful, enough to overpower her attempt to shut it.
A growl emits from her throat, but she doesn’t fight it. She steps back and lets the door fall the rest of the way open. I glide inside, snapping the door shut. I don’t get a good look at her before she’s turning her back to me, folding her arms around herself.
Space.
Just like the other night when I visited her office. She’d run and I’d chase. I’d catch her, and she’d develop this look about her—a flustered sort of uncertainty that’s amusing even after all these years. Some things never change.
The first night we’d met, she’d looked the same way as I invaded her space and made her squirm. A cat-and-mouse game where she evades and I hunt.
“Well? What do you want?” she asks without looking at me.
“I came to check how things are. You didn’t go to work today.”
“Are you spying on me? It’s none of your business if I take personal time.”
She tries to keep up her defiant act with her arms crossed and her tone sharp, but she slips by accident. The same waver sounds again in her voice. Her stance itself, while at first glance seems certain, is too stiff and unnatural. The hoodie she wears is two sizes too big and her curls lay limp and flattened, like she hasn’t cared for them all day.
None of this is like her.
She’s acting, putting up a front.
