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“Did you leave me any hot water?”
“Maybe some.”
He gets out of bed, planting a chaste kiss to my lips.
“Well, I better be quick then.” He smirks, and as he turns in the direction of the bathroom, I can’t help myself and slap him on the ass.
I decide to take a seat on the chaise under the windowsill and wait for Quinn, and as I look out at my surroundings, a sense of peace overwhelms me.
I don’t know where this newfound tranquility has come from, but I welcome it with open arms.
Deep down, I’m hoping that today just may be the day when Tabitha tells us the news I so long to hear.
Fixated with the greenness in the distance, I fail to see a glimpse of black until it emerges into my full line of sight. It takes a second for me to realize that the black belongs to a van, which has come to a stop on the front lawn, just near the gravel driveway.
I wonder if maybe they’ve made a wrong turn, but I doubt that’s the case since this house is hidden away from the desolate road.
My skin instantly prickles in fear, and suddenly, my fight-or-flight instinct takes over.
I charge over to the bedside dresser, frantically searching for my gun.
Ensuring it’s fully loaded, I reach for my knife and shove it securely into my boot, not wanting to be caught unarmed.
I don’t know why I need my weapons; I just know that I do.
Brushing my hair off my face, I see the comb I wore to the ball sitting on the dresser, so I reach for it and quickly twist my hair into a bun, as I need my vision totally unimpaired for what I’m about to face.
Just as I’m about to charge back over to the window to see if the van is still there, Quinn comes out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel. The moment he sees me, he freezes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, rushing to my side.
Taking a deep breath, I gesture with my head toward the window, wanting Quinn to witness what I did for himself. I need to know if it’s real.
He wastes no time charging over to the glass and curses the moment he stands in front of it.
“Shit. How long have they been there?” he asks, dropping his towel and reaching for whatever clothes he can find.
“Not long.”
“Stay here,” Quinn says, rushing over to his bedside table and pulling out his gun.
“There is no way in hell I’m staying here,” I argue, and just as he’s about to rebuke, our bedroom door crashes open, and Tristan runs in.
“Someone’s here,” he pants, eyeing Quinn and me as we look like we’re about to square off.
“I know,” I reply, panic soon replacing my calm.
“Here,” Quinn says, handing Tristan his gun as he storms toward him. “You know how to use it?”
Tristan looks down at the piece, and then back up at Quinn with a firm nod.
When Quinn darts over to his backpack, producing a revolver, I hate that it’s come to this.
“Stay with Polly and Cynthia,” I order Tristan, and he only laughs, proving to be just as stubborn as Quinn.
“I need you to protect them, Tristan. We need the upper hand just in case this goes south really, really quickly,” I plead, hoping to influence his reasonable side.
Thankfully, it works, but he’s not happy.
