Jane now has Tristan rolling up napkins.
“I thought asking for help was a weakness. It’s not. And sometimes it doesn’t even mean you’re looking for a superhero to save you. Just talking it out can help.”
I think of all the shifting, entangled weights on my chest. If I could just sort them out, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad. But how can I voice all the things in my head when I can hardly make sense of them myself.
CHAPTER 9
Isolde
My racing heart wakes me up. I’m cocooned in blankets, my cheek pressed against my pillow, my body unmoving.
My bedroom is silent. The apartment still in the night. Yet, I am a livewire. My pulse races. The thoughts rush in my head, one of which circles around and around, dictating I give it valid consideration.
I have sixteen guns situated throughout my flat. Eight of which are in the bedrooms; I wonder if Tristan noticed the four in his room yet. That leaves a remaining eight spread out throughout the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.
Cade likes to fuck with people. It makes complete sense if he somehow found his way inside my apartment and stripped me of these valuable weapons.
If he attacked me in my own apartment, I’d be grasping for a weapon already taken away. Laughter echoes in my head, my heart hammering, as I picture it. I’d dive toward my coffee table, my fingers scraping the wood.
In response to this nightmare, my fingers spasm, feeling the brush of cold gunmetal.
It makes complete sense, this idea that he somehow got into my apartment and removed my guns.
A current of truth runs down the coursing nerves. There’s no way this actually occurred. But the intrusive thought has already wormed its way in.
I must check.
Flinging the covers off, my bare feet first meet the rug before padding over the hardwood floor. The four guns strategically placed in my room are all there.
My bedroom door opens with a slight crack. Nothing stirs behind Tristan’s closed door. Creeping into the bathroom, I don’t bother turning on the light.
My fingers touch the two guns stashed there—one in the ceiling and the other underneath the cabinet, tucked in between towels.
Silently, I climb off the toilet I’ve used as a step stool. I go to the kitchen first, working my way back to the living room.
The gun strapped under my coffee table—the one I’d seen in my vision—is indeed still there. Just like I knew it would be.
I remain crouched in between the sofa and table, my toes digging into the rug as I try to calm my breathing.
You’re being so stupid.
I can’t shake my nerves, though.
You knew this would happen, Hadrian had said to me tonight. Just hours ago when we got dinner at Fujimori’s.
There’s a reason you’re keeping sixteen guns in your flat.
Ren’s advice haunts me. How I should open up more. Perhaps I should tell somebody I have so many firearms in my flat. That the reason I have them isn’t just for professional use.
I’ve staged my flat in a particular manner, knowing this whole time the threat of Cade wasn’t empty.
Pushing hair off my face, I stand up on shaky, tired legs. The wall of windows illuminates my living room in shades of gray shadows, the place never pitch black.
I thought Hadrian was taking the piss when he offered me this place. It’s way too fucking grand for me. I’d never thought myself boho, or whatever interior style this is, but I like the natural light, the green potted plants I’ve collected, and the one exposed brick wall in my living room.
The hour is late, the residential neighborhood quiet by the city’s standards.
A man looks up at me from the street outside. Blonde hair, classically handsome. Dressed just like I saw him last. A button-down and black trousers.
