Page 54 of Promise of Destruction
Carrying her to her room is easy. I’ve been able to nail down the layout of her home between the first night of looking through her windows and the angles of the cameras I had placed.
Her breath goes ragged when I walk through the threshold of her bedroom, as if she’s suddenly realized the implications of being here with me. Alone.
I can feel her stiffen in my arms.
“Hold tight.” I command her as I peel back the comforter on her bed.
She obliges, clinging to me like I can keep her afloat, only letting go when I lower her into the middle of her mattress.
Her hand slipping from my neck is oddly disappointing.
I turn to go without another word, but her voice stops me. “Wait!”
She’s got her knees drawn up to her chest, squinting at me like she’s having a hard time seeing straight. She’s probably trying to decide which one of the Declan’s she’s looking at is the real one.
“Soren?” I prompt.
Her name on my lips makes her shiver. I don’t know what it is born from—fear, excitement, shock. Maybe just the realization of the situation that days ago I was watching her through the window and tonight I’m in her room.
“You’renot leaving?”
It’s a question, poorly phrased though it is. I take her in, so small in her big room. She isn’t that way because of her stature, I realize, though it certainly doesn’t help. She makes herself small on purpose for some reason.
“Do you want me to?”
Her answer is irrelevant, but I have to turn to hide the grin she brings to my lips when she says “no”.
thirty-five
Declan
Ishutherdoorsoftly and pause on the other side, considering the opportunity that has just fallen into my lap.
Soren Palmer wanted to ruin my public image. She put herself in my path because something about me is so despicable that she’d go to new lows to try and bring me down with her. I promised myself that I’d ruin this girl, and now that I’m in her house, there are a thousand ways I could do it. She’s weak even in her cognizant state, let alone on the verge of darkness in her bed. I could do anything I wanted to her and there would be nothing she could do about it.
But even I have boundaries, and the thought of trying to take advantage of her mental or physical inebriation doesn’t entice me in the slightest. My vendetta against her wasn’t forged so that I could strangle her in her sleep or cop a feel when she can’t push me away.
I crave her fight. I crave her hand snapping across my face, the hatred that simmers in her eyes before she realizes resisting me is futile. I want her passion, her rage, her hatred. I want to takeher ugly, her good, her bad, her beautiful. And I want her to give them all to me grudgingly—every last piece.
While I won’t bother her, I’m not feeling as principled when it comes to her house. She’s defenseless in her room, and now I have the perfect opportunity to get to know her through what I find.
I slip my shoes back on and start by opening cupboards until I find the broom. The first thing I learned about my beautiful little disaster tonight is that she absolutely has a problem with food. I noticed the way she eyed the plate I fixed her in the office with disgust. Soren didn’t take even a single bite from it, but I’d assumed that she was repulsed by me, not the takeout.
But when I’d caught Marissa pointing out the plates that had gathered dust and heard her excuse of ordering takeout, I recognized the lie.
In the days I’ve watched her, she hasn’t ordered anything other than coffee at the cafe. She hasn’t stopped anywhere to pick up something, and the only people who have come to her house are Tony, the officer, and her friends.
Only the latter brought food with them.
Her cupboards are neatly organized—a stark contrast to the chaos on her floor. The finishes of her kitchen are nice—shiny gold handles on stark white cabinets, a tile backsplash so bright I can see my reflection in it, dark stainless-steel appliances. It looks like the kind of kitchen you’d find in a homes magazine, and the inside of her cabinets reflect the same thing.
Her spices are organized in little glass jars and labeled uniformly. The pantry—much to my surprise—isn’t bare, like I’d expect from someone who has an eating disorder. It’s actually full to bursting with all the normal things—cereal and oatmeal, rice and pasta, chips and cookies and crackers. It’s all put away in some order I don’t bother trying to understand, but the dust that gathers on the top of the boxes is evident. When I lift oneof the boxes of crackers, it’s nearly a year past its expiration. A spindly spider sits in the center of its web near the top of the pantry, confused by my intrusion.
It only takes one look at her to see that Soren is a well-composed women. She fixes her hair into the perfect arrangement and dresses to the nines, she’s neat and tidy. Her workspace is just like her home, with everything tucked away out of sight. But it’s cold—hollow. She keeps everything organized, but she hasn’t even bothered to clear out her pantry of expired food. It makes me nervous to open the refrigerator, but I do it anyway.
The light is almost blinding, reflecting off the bare shelves. She’s got random condiments in the door trays, and an assortment of coffee creamers that appear to be the only things that get used. There’s a bowl with some soggy looking salad in it, a handful of eggs in a clear acrylic organizer, a bottle of wine. The freezer is full of frozen fruit in bags, boxed dinners that claim to be ‘healthy’, and low-carb bread.
I decide I’ve seen enough of her kitchen and have my work cut out for me. Her broom is nowhere to be found in the cupboards, so I make my way to the garage, where it becomes immediately obvious why she doesn’t park in there.
