Page 129 of Salvatore

My bad for romanticizing a man with a blood-stained soul.

I shove the traumatic memories back into that box, securing it tighter this time, pushing it to the farthest reaches of my mind.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “See you in the morning.”

I enter the house and lock myself in my room, grabbing my phone to text Liv straight away.

There’s already a message waiting from her.

Liv

Are you okay? Please call as soon as you can.

I don’t call. Instead, I relay a string of messages proclaiming I’m perfectly fine even though it feels far from the truth, and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.

When I have to say goodbye.

I’m going to have to hug her one final time. After that I won’t see her again.

There’s no future that exists where I’d be willing to tell her my location and risk having her tortured for the information. There can’t be ties that bind us. The same goes for Allison.

They’re better off without me. I guess they always have been.

I cry a little, sniffling in the shower, then again against my pillow. It’s over the top. I don’t usually blubber so easily, and I hate it.

I blame the escalation of emotion on the increased amount of trauma boxes. My mental storage shed must be almost full, and the result is this hot mess of too many feels.

I listen to Salvatore’s movements until late in the night.

It’s around eleven when my light is off, and I’ve been quiet for hours that I swear I hear the basement door creak open.

He returns forty minutes later, the gentle clasp of his bedroom door soon followed by the patter of the shower before silence finally takes over the house.

I wait until after midnight to creep down the hall and quickly slink into the basement. I use the flashlight on my cell to illuminate the way down the stairs to the shelves that now sit flush against the wall, hiding the secret passage.

Shit. The fucking PIN code.

I inch the furniture away from the wall, all feminine-goddess energy and hissed profanities as I try not to make a sound while simultaneously wracking my brain for that four-digit number.

There’d been sixes. Two of them.

And a five, maybe.

Nine-five-six-six?

I nibble my bottom lip and stare at the security panel.

Will an incorrect input sound an alarm?

I glance up at the basement door. Will this trigger Lorenzo’s guards to storm the house?

It’s stupid, but I find it hard to give as many shits as I probably should.

Fuck it.I don’t have a lot of people left in my life and I’ll have even less tomorrow, so I tap in the digits and release a tightbreath of relief when the lock disengages with a barely heard click.

“Are you awake?” I whisper into the void.

“Always,” comes the accented reply.

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