Page 12 of Devious Secrets

Nothing.

I haven’t heard from her in over a month; the possibility that she’s shown up in the middle of the night is pretty damn slim.

Once at the end of the hall, I lean toward the living room, trying to take a peek around the space. It’s quiet. The oscillating fan in the corner of the room blows the papers on the coffee table, rustling them. Could that be what I was hearing?

I step into the room.

Empty.

The kitchen is just off the living room. It only takes a few steps into the room to be able to see it’s empty as well.

I drop my hand to my side with a sigh. The stress is going to send me to an early grave if this keeps up.

Checking the front door once more to make sure it’s locked, I head back to my bed. There’s still time. Marco wouldn’t send anyone yet. He gave me another week.

If I don’t make this trade, though, then I’ll be having more than nightmares about what will happen to me.

Shoving my bedroom door open, a dark figure comes into view.

“Megan.” His voice rattles me. He’s standing in front of the window, shrouding his face in shadow.

I’m frozen again.

The knife!

With jerky movements, I raise my right hand with the knife, like I’m in a slasher movie and I’m going to end the monster terrifying the village.

“You’re going to hurt yourself with that.” He leans down and flicks on the little lamp on my nightstand.

Yellow lighting hits Alexander’s face as he stands to his full height.

“Put it down.” He nudges his chin toward the dresser next to me.

I look behind me, then at the bathroom door; it’s still closed.

“Where did you come from?” The living room had been empty. He would have had to pass me if he came from that direction to get into my bedroom.

“The knife, Megan.” He points a leather-covered finger at me. He’s covered in black from shoulder to toe.

No fingerprints left behind.

My throat swells.

“How did you get in here?” I ask, waving the knife again.

He sighs.

“I got lucky and came across your door.” The snark and the annoyance mingle together perfectly in his tone as he throws my own bullshit back at me.

He gives a pointed look at my hand. “Put it down or I’ll take it. And if I have to do that, it gets added to the list.”

“What list? Why are you here?” I ask, instead of doing what he says. He’s in my house uninvited, and I’m the one holding the knife. I don’t think he understands who has the upper hand here.

“Stubborn girl.” He’s at me in two long strides and before I can even blink, my wrist twists, pain shoots up my forearm, and the knife is gone.

“Ow!” I grab hold of my wrist and cradle it against me.

He has my knife and is inspecting it while frowning.

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