I step into the hallway, heading toward the stairs. My footsteps are soft on the plush carpet runner. I've learned how to move quietly here. How to be invisible.
The shared lounge is between my room and the staircase. The door's open. Warm light spills into the hallway, amber and inviting in a way that makes my chest tight.
I glance inside as I pass.
And stop.
Zero's at the pool table. Bent over, lining up a shot. Black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the fabric molding to the lean muscle of his back. Tattoos dark against pale skin. The overhead light catches the sharp angles of his face, the scar through his eyebrow, the dangerous curve of his mouth.
He sinks the ball. The crack of contact echoes through the room. Straightens. Sees me.
Ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. Predator spotting prey.
"Well, well." He sets down the cue. The wood clicks against the table edge. "The ghost finally emerges."
I'm frozen in the doorway. One hand on the frame. My fingers ache where I'm gripping too hard. I should keep walking. Head downstairs. Ignore him.
But I can't.
Something in his expression holds me there. Something sharp and knowing and wrong.
"Don't run away on my account, Carter." His voice is lazy. Amused. He rolls his shoulders back, loose and confident. "I was just finishing up."
I take a step into the lounge. The carpet is softer here. Thicker. It muffles my footsteps. "Stay out of my room."
"Your room?" He tilts his head. The movement is predatory. Calculated. "That's funny. Pretty sure that was our room first."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
My hands curl into fists. The scars pull. Ache. A sharp reminder of brick and blood and everything I'm trying not to think about.
I move further into the lounge, closer to the bar area. The dark wood gleams under the recessed lighting. Expensive bottles line the shelves behind it, labels I don't recognize. Putting the pool table between us.
"You went through my things."
"Did I?" He leans against the pool table, arms crossed. The tattoos on his left arm shift with the movement—intricate lines and shadows I can't quite make out from here.
"You flushed my pills."
Zero's smile sharpens. White teeth. Dangerous. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Liar.
"Fuck you."
I turn to leave, but he's faster. I hear the movement before I feel it—footsteps, quick and sure. He crosses the space between us in three strides and grabs my arm, spinning me back around.
His grip is iron. His fingers dig into my bicep hard enough to bruise.
"Let go of me."
"Not until you explain what the fuck your problem is." His grip tightens. I feel each individual finger pressing into muscle. "You walk around this house like we're the enemy. Like we did something to you."
"Youdiddo something to me."
"I threw away some mystery pills. Big deal." He leans closer. I can smell him—gunpowder and black coffee and something sharper underneath. Ozone. Like the air before a storm. "What are they, anyway? Xanax? Oxy? You got a little habit you're hiding from Mommy?"
