Those are stolen secrets. Things he won’t talk to me about. Much like whatever happened to his brother, he even keeps his appetite for books under wraps.
He doesn’t want to open up.
I stare at him for a long moment. His brow isn’t creased, like it was the first night I watched him sleep. He looks…relaxed. But something is wrong. The man at the bar, the guy with the baseball bat. He’s keeping secrets that concern me. The man knew my name. But he won’t tell me anything.
We’ve fought over it.
He thinks he can keep me in the dark, because at the end of the day, this, between us, is nothing.
He likes using me. I like using him. But neither of us are willing to cross that line. To submit to the other, dig out the glass in our soul and offer up the glittering, bleeding pieces that make us who we are. I let him do anything he wants to me. He does anything I ask.
But bodies are easy.
It seems hearts are far more complicated.
I slip out of bed silently, tiptoe out of his bedroom and down the stairs. I don’t want to wake him with my tossing and turning, but I feel restless. Like I need to move. To think. I have no idea when I’m going to go home, but Tuesday I want to go to The Ark. I missed it last week, but I can’t just hide away in this house for the rest of my life.
He’ll grow bored of me soon.
I’ll need something more soon.
The first floor is warm, and still smells like sugar cookies. I think about heading into the kitchen, popping open the plastic container of them on the counter. But I’m not nearly as hungry anymore as I was just a month ago and to be honest, I’ve gained a few pounds since we’ve been seeing one another.
I put my hands on my belly as I stand at the bottom of the stairs, close my eyes. I like how soft my skin is, how full it feels. How no one screams at me for being hungry. How he doesn’t leave me for hours on end, never mind days. He would never.
Would he?
I think about Sid and Natalie. About Lucifer and Sid’s marriage, about how the man at the bar taunted her. Who was he? A jilted ex-lover? Maybe Sid was married before. The man, Jeremiah, was possessive and hungry and…he used me to get to her.
I don’t know if it worked. I don’t know if it hurt Sid.
I don’t know why I let him kiss me, except I do.
I do know that.
It’s the same reason I let Shane touch me. The same reason I opened up to him.
I open my eyes, let them adjust once more to the dark. Outside this house, it’s pitch-black through the etched glass in the front door. I turn, my feet cold on the wood floors. I’m wearing Maverick’s t-shirt and my underwear, and I’ve got my hands wrapped up in his shirt.
I head toward the living room, then take a right down a hall with a bathroom, and another door that I haven’t opened yet, but I think it leads to the basement.
Why not scope it out now?
There’s a keypad outside of it and I wonder if it’s an alarm system of some sort. It’s lit green, but it doesn’t have any words. Just numbers, and a smooth, black square beside the numbers.
I have no idea what that’s for.
I reach for the silver handle of the door. It’s locked, and I feel a chill slide down my spine. I shouldn’t be doing this, sneaking around his house this way.
I should go back upstairs.
But as I let my fingers hang on the lever, the door creaks open.
It wasn’t shut all the way.
Warm air rushes out from beneath the door and I suck in a breath, my scalp prickling, stomach quivering. It’s warm in there.
Why?
Slowly, I pull the door open all the way and stare out into nothing but darkness. I blink a few times, glancing over my shoulder. Listening. Waiting for him to wake up, realize I’m not in bed and come find me.
To ask me what the fuck I’m doing.
The house is silent.
I turn back toward the open door, one hand still on the handle as I peer down into the darkness and realize what I’m looking at.
Steps.
It is the basement.
I blow out a breath, almost amused with myself. But something doesn’t seem right. It’s so damn warm. Shouldn’t basements be cold? Maybe this is a rich boy thing; heated basements. I’ve never lived in a house with a basement.
Maybe they’re always warm.
Stop being ridiculous, my brain says. Shut the door and go back upstairs.
But he doesn’t want to share secrets. He killed his brother and won’t tell me a damn thing about it. He’s always so angry. Always so…anxious. On edge. He has enemies and his friends have enemies and I saved him from getting hit with a damn baseball bat and he saved me from being attacked by a grown-ass man but he won’t tell me anything.
Basements always have secrets in the movies, right? And girls that go down in them alone in the dark always die.
I take a breath.
And I go down anyway.
When I wake up, she’s gone.
I sit up, flinging the sheets back as if she might be hidden in the covers. The sun is up, I can see from the small amount of light that trickles in from the blackout curtains. That used to drive me nuts. Blackout should mean no light comes in, but apparently, unless you suction the curtains to the damn window, some light will always find its way in.
And the light is telling me Ella isn’t in our room.
Our room.
I need to get a hold of myself.
The bathroom door is wide open, and she’s not in there either. The closet is closed, but there’s no light from underneath it.
I get out of bed, scrub a hand over my face.
She’s probably downstairs sneaking cookies. The thought makes me smile despite myself. Despite the warnings from the 6. From my brothers.
Fuck them.
I brush my teeth, pull on a black t-shirt and grey basketball shorts and then I head down the stairs, calling her name.
She doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t take me long to find her.
She’s sitting in the living room, perfectly still, her hair up in a bun, feet on the floor, a faraway look on her face. She’s got her hands clasped together, elbows on her knees.
“Ella?” My mouth feels dry when she doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all. I come into the living room, my feet sinking a little into the plush carpet. “Ella? You okay?” She’s clearly not okay.
Panic surges through me. Is she having some kind of…episode?
“Ella?”
“Who was she?” Her voice sounds distant, and she still doesn’t look at me.
My skin crawls and I slip my hands into the pockets of my shorts to keep from rubbing them over my arms. “Who was who, baby? What are you talking—”
“In the basement,” she interrupts me in that same quiet voice. “Who was the girl in the basement?”
As soon as the words enter my brain and I make the connection, adrenaline shoots through me and I have to move. I turn away from her, forcing myself to walk and not run down the hall, toward the door to the basement. I clench and unclench my fists, try to swallow down past the dryness in my throat.
She wouldn’t have. There’s no way she could have. The door was locked. The basement is soundproof. Ria doesn’t know when people are here, and she hasn’t tried pounding on the door since the first week.
But when I get to the end of the hall, I see it isn’t.