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I turn, and I bolt, pounding across the open space of the loft. For a minute, I almost double back to try and sneak around him into the kitchen area. But then I zag left instead, and an idea hits me.
We’ve never laid out any hard and fast ground rules for these games. But it’s also sort of been accepted that I stay in the main area. I don’t go into the bedrooms or the bathrooms.
Tonight, I do.
I slip into his room, quietly shutting the door just as I hear Deimos growl “…five, here I come…” from way across the loft. I stifle an excited giggle as I retreat into his room, and then slip into the enormous walk-in closet. I move to the very back, pushing clothes on their hangers out of the way and slipping behind them against the wall. I sink down to the floor, adrenaline sizzling in my veins as I lean my head back.
The wall behind my headmoves, and I gasp as part of it swings fully back. A light suddenly clicks on, and my heart climbs into my throat.
Shit shit shit.
I spin around, staring in shock at the small compartment with the automatic light inside that I’ve just accidentally pushed open with the back of my head. I scramble and fumble for a light switch, or a way to close the door again…
When suddenly, my world goes still.
And nothing is real.
Sitting right inside the little compartment, on a shelf next to a stack of cash and a gun, is a little notebook.
A journal.
A diary.
…With a frayed orange leather cover.
The rest of the world slips away as my head starts to throb, a ringing sound filling my ears as I reach for the diary in slow motion. I flinch when I even touch the cover, flashbacks of being curled up on that stone bench in the rose garden reading the book flooding my brain.
My hand shakes as I pull the diary out of the compartment, my throat tightening as I stare at it in disbelief and horror.
Suddenly, it all makes sense.
Thisis how Deimos knows me so well. This is how he’s able to play into every single hidden kink and secret fantasy I’ve ever had. How he’s able to dissect me, and play me: because six years ago, I wrote it all down and poured my heart out on the page for someone else.
Now Deimos has it. And in having it, he hasme.
“What the fuck are you doing in—”
I whirl on him in a fury, tears brimming in my eyes and my emotions raw on my face.
“Why do you have this?!”
He goes still, his chiseled jaw violently clenched and his dark eyes flashing black fire.
“Dahlia—”
“Why do you have this?!” I scream louder, staring pure malice at him as I brandish the diary over my head.
“Dahlia, stop—”
I get to my feet and lurch at him, hitting and smacking him over and over as tears flood my face.
“WHY DO YOU FUCKING HAVE—!”
I jerk as he grabs me by the throat and the wrist holding the diary, snarling as he leers maniacally down into my face.
“I’ll tell you.”
31
