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“Thanks for the life lesson,” she says, a lilt of humor in her tone.
We’re ascending the last flight of steps up to Alexander’s room now. The corridor is dimly lit, save for the flickering sconces at odd intervals.
I click my tongue. “You seemed perplexed by who you were. Forgive me for trying to make you realize that you’re not as strange as you think you are.”
Lengthening my strides, I get to the door before she does, just to put a little distance between us. A deep breath settles my mind, that by the time she’s caught up with me the tinge of anger is gone. Her countenance is guarded again.
She steps into the apartment reticently, almost as if she would turn and run away if she had anywhere else she could go. Alize is trapped. I know the look of it well.
I can’t wait for Alexander to be back so this can behisproblem again.
It’s going to be a long night for me.
* * *
Writer’s block is odd.
It’s the one part of my brain I haven’t fully conquered. I can force myself to study, wrangle my emotions before my body even realizes what’s going wrong, but if I have writer’s block, I can’t fucking force myself to write.
I’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for an hour now.
I’m supposed to be writing the pivotal scene—the moment where the hero in my fantasy novel realizes that the power to defeat the curse that has been keeping him apart from his love has been within him all this time.
It’s the scene that inspired this whole book.
And somehow, I can’t seem to put the words down.
With a frustrated groan, I slam the computer shut. My back aches from sitting up in the dining room chair for the past few hours—it’s around three in the morning, last I checked—but the couch won’t help my posture either.
I stalk to the kitchen, intent on making myself another cup of coffee. This will be the last cup from the pot I brewed a few hours ago. Just as I’m fiddling with the ancient contraption, a shrill shriek pierces the air.
The cup falls from my hand, clattering to the marble countertop.
Alize.
I sprint toward her room. Her voice is unmistakable—she’s screaming, for sure—but nothing I can think of is adding up. Why would she be screaming at three in the morning? Is she having a nightmare? Maybe she sleepwalks—Alexander never mentioned it, but it happens sometimes if your brain can’t process whatever is causing you stress.
Should I have pressed her more about what she spoke about with her father?
I hesitate by the door.
Should I even be barging into her room like this? I would hate to see something I’m not supposed to—it would be physically impossible for me to forget it, photographic memory and all. My hand pauses by the handle.
Another scream rips through the air, this time I’m close enough to hear what she’s saying.
“Get off me, you fucking bastard!”
Fuck, she’s not alone.
The door isn’t locked, so I fling it open just in time to see the strangest thing. I actually can’t fucking believe my eyes. And I’ve seen a lot of strange shit.
Alize’s bedroom window is open—the one that overlooks the manicured lawns of the House and drops off almost forty feet below—letting in the thick, frosty night-time air. Liam fucking Keller is the room too, wrestling with Alize by the window.
There’s no fucking way, right?
It takes him a split second to realize I’ve entered the room. There’s a moment of disbelief in his eyes, like he’s surprised to see me—strange, consideringheis the one who’s somewhere he isn’t supposed to be.
There’s a knife in my boot, I’ve barely retrieved it when Alize clocks him in the face with her elbow. He’s taller than her by a long shot, but he’s having a hard time overpowering her because her silky pajama set makes her a bit too slippery to keep hold of for long.
