She looks at my tattoo again. “Your tattoo... it has the hearts in the eyes, too. Just like his drawing.” Her eyes flutter shut. The exhaustion wins the battle; her breathing settles into a deep, rhythmic pace. She falls asleep, her hand still resting near the open handcuff and the knotted-dildo still inside her.
I wait for three minutes before I cut the connection.
I pull off the skull mask and drop it on the floor. I lean back in the chair, my chest heaving as I stare at the dark monitor. I look down at the tattoo on my ribs. I got the ink because of those memories. I loved playing pirates, too. She always drew our pirate flag with hearts for the eyes, and I made sure my tattoo had the same. I wanted the hearts. I wanted the reminder of the only time in my life when I felt truly happy and wanted.
“I’m still your captain, Sunflower,” I whisper into the empty room.
Thephantomheatofthe Cross-Sterling fire hits my skin, pulling me from a heavy sleep. I gasp for air. My lungs burn as if I still stand in that smoke-filled hallway fifteen years ago. My chest heaves under the weight of the blanket. A sharp, sour scent hits my nose. It cuts through the faint floral smell of the building’s air system. I sit up. My heart thuds against my ribs. The room stays dark, except for the orange light of the city skyline shining through the gaps in the curtains. The smell of burnt cedar and wood-smoke fills the nesting room.
I reach for the remote on the headboard. My fingers shake as I find the button for the lights. The fairy lights flicker on. They cast long shadows across thebed. My eyes scan the room. I look for the source of the smell. I expect to see flames on the curtains or smoke under the door, but neither is here.
The smell grows stronger with every breath. It tastes like ash and old wood. My stomach turns as the memory of the shelter fire claws at my mind. I remember the way the floorboards groaned and the way the air turned into poison. I stay still, my ears straining for any sound beyond the hum of the airconditioner.
I look toward the door of my nesting room. My pulse quickens as I notice the position of the heavy wood. It stands ajar, a gap of two inches showing the dark living area beyond. I remember going to bed with it closed. I distinctly recall the click of the latch and the feeling of the handle under my palm. The realization sends a cold jolt through my stomach.
I get out of bed to investigate. My bare feet hover just above the floor. The stone feels like ice against my soles. I reach for the silk robe at the foot of the bed, but my hand stops mid-air.
A shadow moves across the gap in the door. It blocks the dim light from the hallway for a split second. A tall, dark shape passes by, silent as a ghost. My heart rate spikes; the thumping sounds loud in my ears. The black band on my wrist pulses a frantic red, reacting to the sudden surge of terror.
Without thinking, I slam my hand down onto the band on my wrist. I hit the panic button with everything I have.
The room reacts instantly. A heavy mechanical thud echoes through the walls. The door to my nesting room slams shut and locks with a series of loud clicks. A hidden metal plate slides down behind the wood, sealing me inside. The display on the wall flashes to life, glowing a bright, clinical white.
A robot voice fills the small space. “Panic room function implemented. Help is on the way. Please remain in the room.”
I collapse back onto the bed. My lungs feel too small for the air I need. I stare at the sealed door. Someone stood out there. Someone watched me sleep. The thought makes my skin crawl. I pull the weighted blanket around my shoulders, but it offers no comfort now. I feel trapped in a box of my own making.
The minutes feel like hours. I listen to the silence of the sealed room. I keep my eyes on the wall display. The timer counts down the seconds until the security team reaches my floor.
The shadow didn’t move like a staff member. It moved with a quiet, slinking grace that felt wrong. My mind flashes back to the shelter. I remember the way the shadows danced on the walls right before the first alarm.
I look at my hands. They won’t stop shaking. I try to focus on my breathing, but every intake of air still carries that ghost of wood-smoke. I imagine the person on the other side of the door.
Do they have a key? Do they know the codes?
The security here cost millions, yet a shadow walked right past the sensors. The display changes to a live feed of the foyer. I see the elevator doors slide open. Two massive shapes burst into the room. Sawyer Morgan leads them. He moves with a predatory speed, his flashlight cutting through the shadows. Urie Oliver follows him, his white coat a bright spot in the dim light.
I watch them on the screen. Sawyer doesn’t go to the kitchen first. He heads straight for my door. He looks focused and dangerous. He taps a code into the wall panel outside the room. I hear the mechanical whir of the safety plate retracting.
The metal plate slides back up with a hiss. The locks click open. The door swings wide. Sawyer stands there, his chest heaving, his green eyes scanning every corner of the room. He looks ready for a fight. He holds a heavy-duty flashlight in his left hand, the beam bouncing off the velvet headboard and blinding me for a second.
I squint against the glare, my fingers clutching the fabric of my blanket. Sawyer remains in the threshold, his frame blocking most of the light from the living room. His presence fills the space with a sudden, aggressive energy that clashes with the sterile safety of the panic room. I see the cords of muscle in his neck tighten as he checks the room for a threat.
Behind him, Urie Oliver pushes through the doorway. He carries his tablet like a shield, his focus entirely on the datastreaming from my wristband. He moves toward the bed, his footsteps muffled by the thick rug.
Sawyer doesn’t move. He stands like a wall between me and the hallway. He doesn’t offer a greeting or a comfort. He just watches the room, his jaw set in a hard line. He looks less like a guard and more like a hunter who just missed his mark.
I look between the two of them, my heart still racing in my chest. I wait for someone to speak. I wait for an explanation for the breach. But the silence stretches out, filled only by the sound of our breathing and the distant hum of the city outside the glass. The shadow made it inside. I look at the door Sawyer just opened and wonder what else they let through the walls.
The scent of wood-smoke still lingers in the air; it can't just be my imagination. I edge past them. Sawyer growls at me. "We haven't secured the apartment yet."
If someone were here, they would've run into them, right? The place is big, but the majority is open-concept. It's easy to scan it. Following my nose, I walk to the kitchen with the two of them flanking me.
I stop at the edge of the kitchen island. The recessed lights shine down onto a ceramic bowl burning incense that smells like a fire. Under the bowl lies a note. I reach out to take it and Urie places his hand over mine. Before he picks it up for me.
My vision narrows as I read the messy ink scrawled across the surface.
How does it feel, Sunflower, knowing you left someone behind to burn?
