Page 11 of Ladybirds

“Thank you!?” she repeats, temper rising. The sarcasm is thick, dripping from each syllable like tar. It is impossible for him to misunderstand her.

He tips his chin, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he gives a mocking bow. “You’re most welcome.”

“He doesn’t remember me!” she hisses, fury overriding the fear.

His eyes darken, lips twisting into something teetering the impossible line between feral and composed. “Well, I certainly didn’t hear you making any specific requests for otherwise.”

She gapes at him. There is something strange about the way he moves, the way he speaks. Goosebumps dot her flesh, a warning ringing in her skull that something isn’t right. Sara sucks in a breath, drawing courage into her lungs and willing her voice not to tremble. “I don’t know why you’re here, but get out.”

He tilts his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. “Tell me, is it that you didn’t understand the terms or that you’ve forgotten them?”

“Terms? What are you—”

“A life for a soul. A soul for a life.” His eyes are feral. “You’re mine, Sara.”

Her stomach drops, the blood draining from her face as she remembers her last words to him.

Fine. It’s a deal.

Her vision swims, her hand reaching out to steady herself against one of the boxes. The air she’s dragging into her lungs in rapid gasps feels thin. “I, wait, no. I didn’t—I thought you were just a crazy person!”

“Again, terribly rude. Also, not at all my problem.” He pushes himself away from the counter’s edge, stalking closer. Sara backs away, pulse hammering so loudly in her ears it’s a small miracle she can hear his words. “A deal is a deal, after all.”

She takes a step back, then another, and another. He matches each and every one. A glance shows only one escape—the narrow pathway between the countertops and her boxes—but she doesn’t dare waste it. She turns on the ball of her foot with every intention of getting the hell away, but she doesn’t make it out of the kitchen.

Her slippered heel catches pieces of broken ceramic, sliding her foot from underneath her with a screech against the tile. She throws her weight, tries to regain her balance, but it’s too late. She’s falling, the ceiling staring up at her in mocking indifference. A crack, a burst of pain, and things go black.

When she wakes, the first thing she notices is the throbbing pain in the back of her skull. She groans, shifting, and finds that her spine doesn’t feel much better. Opening her eyes, her ceiling stares back at her—pristine white with the beginnings of a cobweb in the corner.

“Ah, sleeping beauty awakens.”

It takes her pain-fogged brain a second to recognize there’s someone else in her apartment, and another two before remembering there shouldn’t be. She scrambles up, vision swimming and hands grasping at the counter for support. It doesn’t take her long to find him. He’s lounging in Oma’s floral wingback, his long legs draped over the arm and her traitor of a cat purring in his lap.

His fingers scratch behind Ansel’s ear—his eyes dark and fixed entirely on her. “We were wondering when you’d join us.”

Ansel gives a trilling meow before jumping from the stranger’s lap and padding over to his rightful owner. He gives a mewled grunt as Sara hastily scoops him up, cradling him protectively against her chest. “Get out.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I do believe we’ve already danced that dance. Now, why don’t you get that distracting bit of cereal out of your hair and we can have ourselves a civilized conversation.” His gaze drops, head tilting as he adds, “But first, perhaps take care of that nasty little cut before you bleed all over the carpet.”

Sara chances a glance. The bare skin of her right knee is covered in blood; punctured by one of the ceramic shards littering her floor. Now that she sees the proof of it trailing down her calf, her brain registers the pain. She’s none the happier for it. “Seriously. Get out. I want nothing to do with you. I don’t care about whatever deal you think we made, but—”

He groans, hand dragging down in his face. “You really are the slow sort, aren’t you? Very well. Let’s speed things up, shall we?” He raises his hands, snaps his fingers with a level of exaggerated drama that would make her theatre friends jealous.

And he’s gone.

Blinked out like a bulb.

Her breath comes faster, vision swimming. She grasps for the stack of boxes to her right, her knees weak. It’s impossible. She can’t—no—she couldn’t have imagined him. There’s no way—

She blinks, and in the space between one breath and the next, he appears a mere foot away from her face.

Her heart stops.

He smirks. “Are we beginning to understand now? Or would you like a repeat performance?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

It can’t be.

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