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My anxiety makes my legs itch. I’ll never be able to go back to bed if I don’t check, even if fear licks at my spine, telling me to lock the door and hide under my covers.
I take another step down.
You’re being ridiculous, Charlotte.
Screw it. I march down the steps with a mission, my whole body shaking and shivering. At the bottom is another light switch, but as I reach for it, my eyes find the partial window opposite the steps, and the damn thing is open.
The window leads to our small backyard, and there’s only one.
My eyes scan the dark basement, sweeping from the front to the back, but all I see are shadows and dark corners.
My heart slams against my rib cage, and my fingers shake. I need to flip the light switch on. I need the light to cast the shadows out and tell me that that open window is a fluke.
But deep down inside, I know it isn’t.
IknowI’m not alone.
Shivering uncontrollably, I reach for the light switch. My breath turns to a pant as my fingers flip it up.
The light buzz hits my ears just as a gloved hand wraps around my mouth and yanks me back into a warm, hard body.
Shock ripples through me, stealing any logical course of action as the body lifts me up and twirls me around to face the basement.
All my fight leaves me as my eyes land on a body lying in the middle of the floor.
Oh my god.
Blinking against the fluorescent buzz, I forget that someone is holding me as my brain registers the body on the floor. For one small microsecond, I worry that it’s the hitman, but when I see that the man on the floor is wearing jeans, not the same dark steampunk outfit as the hitman, I relax a little.
I’m almost positive he is the one holding me tightly against his chest. I want to tell him we need to stop meeting like this, but his hand currently covers my mouth.
But who is lying on my basement floor?
Lifting me up, the man holding me carries me over to the body, and with one black boot, he kicks the man over until his face stares up at me. As he’s rolling him over, I realize that he cuffed his hands, and a needle sticks out of his neck.
He’s disabled and no longer a threat.
With his eyes closed, the man looks peaceful. His chest still rises and falls, telling me at least no one died in my home tonight. A lock of light blond hair brushes across his forehead, where blood seeps out of an ear.
“Do you know him?” the man holding a gloved hand to my mouth asks.
I don’t offer an immediate response. His voice, a deep rumble that matches the cadence of his breath against my neck, mingles with the shiver running down my spine. It’s not fear that courses through me, but rather a strange mixture of curiosity and something else—something I dare not define.
“Charlotte,” he insists, the firmness in his tone compelling me to answer.
Straining against his grip, I manage to move my head slightly, enough to convey my response.
No.
He utters no words, his response a low grumble as he lifts me effortlessly. His embrace sends warmth and a strange sense of security through my body. His hand, still gloved, covers my mouth as we ascend the steps. Our journey halts in the kitchen, and for a moment, I think he’ll release me, but that’s not his intention. He continues onward, bearing my weight as he carries me through the house and deposits me on my bed.
I bounce slightly on impact, struggling to regain my balance as he steps away. My heart races, and a whirlwind of questions swirls in my mind, yet he doesn’t grant me reprieve. He continues to move, leaning against my closed bedroom door, his figure only faintly illuminated by the soft night-light.
Caught in a mixture of surprise, confusion, and yes, that troublesome curiosity, I find myself kneeling on the bed, locked in place with this enigmatic man who’s stirred something within me. The room seems charged, heavy with tension, as my eyes roam over him—from the darkness of his pants to the casual shirt he wears. A knit hat conceals his hair, and his glasses veil his eyes, leaving only a vague impression of his features. A bandanna obscures his nose and mouth, further cloaking his identity.
An inexplicable urge grips me—a desire to rip away that mask and uncover the mysteries he hides.
Swallowing, I whisper, “Safe,” the most critical aspect of the night. One word is all I can get out of my emotion-clogged throat. I want to ask him if we are safe, if he will hurt us, or if that man planned to hurt us.
