Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I step back out into the hallway. “Let’s get all of your things from here,” I say. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here.” I gesture to her bag. “Especially with that.”
“And go where?”
“We can talk about the details in the car, but right now, we need to get your things and get you somewhere else,” I say.
Her eyes widen at the urgency in my voice, and she follows me inside. I keep watch while she quickly stuffs her belongings back into her bag. After what she told me about her previous stalker, I can’t help but wonder if he’s found her. But why would he come here? Why not her apartment? Even then, the hotel room isn’t even in her name, so how did he find her to begin with?
“I’m ready,” she says, breaking my train of thought.
We take the elevator to the ground floor and don’t stop moving until we’re back in my car. “So where are we going?” she asks when I pull away from the hotel.
“My place,” I answer. “At this point, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone. Whoever broke into your room won’t be stupid enough to break into my house.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah…yeah, okay. That’s a good idea.”
I drive us to our house, parking in the garage. She doesn’t seem so tense anymore, which is a promising sign that she may trust me a little bit more. She follows me into my house without a word, opting to continue standing by the door as I move toward the couch.
“You’re more than welcome to stand there all night if you want, but you can make yourself at home when you’re ready.” When she doesn’t move, I sigh deeply. “You’re fine here, Cleo.”
She hesitates, but then slowly closes the space between us and sits on the couch. Her hand still clutches the bag close to her, as if she’s expecting me to swoop in and steal it from under her nose. That awkward energy surrounds us once again as silence wraps around us. Things were so much easier when I wanted to torture her, but now everything is uncomfortable and odd.
I watch the way she observes the space around her, a million and one things passing over her pretty face. She swallows hard when she notices the pocketknife I’d left on the coffee table from earlier.
“I see your knife obsession carried on into adulthood,” she mentions. I can’t tell if it’s disdain or disappointment that’s hiding in her voice, but I’m not surprised considering how I’ve treated her the last few times I’ve been around her, before knowing who she is.
“Yeah,” I say. The awkward energy settles around us once more.
“I guess I’m not surprised. I figured that you’d either have a knife shrine somewhere in your house or become a serial killer.” She grins at me, which breaks the uncomfortable pit that tries to take root in my gut. “I hope it’s the former and not the latter.”
I chuckle in response. “Definitely the former.”
“Well? Where’s the shrine?” She scans the living room as if she’s expecting to see a shit ton of knives on a dedicated wall or something.
I push myself up to my feet and immediately feel her on my heels. We navigate through the house and head down to the basement, only for her to hesitate at the top of the stairs. I glance at her over my shoulder and smirk.
“Rethinking that serial killer position?” I tease.
“Maybe. You are a loose cannon these days,” she says with a faint grin on her lips. I continue down the stairs and stand in the middle of the room, waiting until she finally makes her way down.
I fight the urge to laugh when she freezes. “These…are a lot of knives,” she says slowly.
“Right?” I fold my arms across my chest. “Years in the making.”
After our mom died, I had to find something else to put my energy and focus on. I always gravitated toward knives for some reason. They remind me a little of myself. They’re beautiful to look at but can be dangerous if you don’t know how to handle them. Sharp around the edges, but useful and a good thing to have on your side when things get tough. It’s the way most people view me in life these days, everyone feeling just a little bit safer to have me on their side.
I guess everyone except Cleo, since she ran from us.
“What’s that one?” she asks.
“A katana.” I move over to it and take it off the wall. She swallows hard when I take it out of its sheath. “One of the sharpest I own.”
She nervously tracks every move I make while holding the sword. “I-I see.”