Page 31 of Devil's Tulip

I stop breathing. My eyes flutter shut as I tilt my face up, anticipation buzzing under my skin. I wait.

And wait.

And—

Nothing.

I crack one eye open, only to find him already walking away. That fucking?—

Heat rushes to my face, and I stomp after him, equal parts fury and humiliation warring in my chest. I feel his gaze flick to me as I push past him, but I ignore him, yanking the door open and storming up the stairs to my room where I make sure to slam the door shut. The sound echoes through the room while I glare at it, breathing hard, fingers twitching at my sides. And then it hits me.

I just threw the biggest bratty tantrum of my life.

Damn it.

Sighing, I drag myself to the bathroom. My clothes are soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second, colder layer, and the chill is starting to seep into my bones.

I strip out of them, towel off quickly, then pull on Michael’s clothes—the same ones still waiting for me on the bed. After that, I gather the cans of food from my backpack and stash them in the bedside drawer along with the ziplock bag of money. Finally, I take my backpack and wet clothes to the laundry room where I toss both into the dryer.

And then I wait. Again.

Once everything is dry, I fold my clothes back into the bag and return to my room. But instead of lying down, I pace.

Ishouldprobably go talk to Michael.

But embarrassment keeps my feet glued to the floor. Not just because I tried sneaking away without telling him—but because I was sopainfully, stupidlyeager for his kiss.

A kiss he purposely withheld from me.

I groan and sink onto the bed, dropping my head into my hands. How the hell do I face him after that?

A soft knock on the door makes me freeze. My head snaps up, my heart stuttering, but he doesn’t try to open it.

“You must be cold, I made some hot chocolate for you, and I heated up your dinner. Come downstairs.”

My heart melts even as my lips turn down in confusion.There he goes again. Toying with my emotions. Why does he keep doing this—acting like he cares, like he knows me? I run a hand through my damp hair and pull it back into a ponytail so it doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

When I open the door, he’s already gone. I sigh as I close it behind me and trudge down the stairs through the living room to the dining area—where a steaming mug is waiting for me.

Hot chocolate.

With mini marshmallows and pirouette cookies floating on top. And what looks like chocolate syrup drizzled over them.

What’s left of my heart practically plops into his hands as I sink into the chair, my gaze locked on the mug, deliberately avoiding his.

Something about him making hot chocolate for me exactly the way I like it does things to me. But what really gets me is the plate of food next to the mug. I swallow hard. “How do you know exactly how I like my hot chocolate? And the foods I eat?”

What is he, a stalker? Was he stalking me even before I ran away? Or did he dig into my past, study every little thing I did, every meal I ever ordered? That second thought makes more sense than the first. And yet… it doesn’t weird me out like it should.

If anything, it makes me feel closer to him.Safe. Cared for.

My aunt, uncle, cousin—my so-calledfamily—never bothered to learn the things I liked, let alone provide them for me. And I never let myself make friends, too afraid they’d get hurt by my family. So maybe that’s why his kindness affects me so deeply.

“It was just a lucky guess.” He shrugs carelessly, but deep down, I know it wasn’t. And I think he realizes that I know, because he shifts on his feet, the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“Just whoareyou?” I ask, finally meeting those electric eyes.

10

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