Page 69 of The Monster of Hotel No. 7
The bottle is nearly empty, perched precariously atop the black painted dresser on my side of the bed. There were too many pillows—gold-threaded decorative ones—and I tossed all of those onto the floor. I took off my trench coat, my heels, my sunglasses, pulled back the heavy duvet and slid into the white sheets, my back propped up against the fluffy white pillows along the ornately carved red headboard.
It feels like night in here, despite the day. And although beyond the hum of the minifridge I can hear the traffic of Alexandria down below, all of it is far away in this moment.
Or perhaps that’s just the alcohol zooming through my veins.
I know I need to brush my teeth—ourhosttold us there were both toothbrushes and paste under the sink in the bathroom, and that we could wear any of the clothes in the many drawers of the dresser with a wide, spacious mirror perched atop it across from the bed—and wash my face, but Sullen is still hiding in the bathroom and right now, for this moment only, I do not care what I look like.
In fact, as I meet my reflection in the mirror, displaying the high ceiling overhead and the chandelier—turned off—just above the center of the bed, I think I’m hot.
My hair is a mess, slightly oily, and there is eyeliner smeared beneath my eyes, but I have this sad, dirty look and although it isn’t like Maude’s Goth Queen appearance, it’s sexy, too.
I hiccup, grabbing the wine bottle by the neck and bringing it up to my lips, tipping it backward, swallowing down the rest of the red. My legs are parted and extended in front of me in an unladylike pose—considering I’m wearing a dress—but the sheets are so soft on my skin and I am warm and languid and… I just don’t care.
“What are you doing?” Sullen’s throaty voice makes me flinch.
I drop the bottle down to my lap, clamping my thighs around it and drawing up my knees slightly as I place my hands over my shins, leaning forward and meeting his gaze, alcohol burning down my throat. Everything is hazy, soft, and he looks so beautiful, hood pulled over his head, eyes piercing on mine.
For the first time, this feels like a playground. An adult escape. I am not thinking of Writhe, or running, or what trouble I will be in when I am caught. I’m not even thinking ofMaude,and the way she stared at Sullen like she wanted to drop to her knees and suck his dick right in front of me.
“I am drunk,” I announce, laughing at the end as I hiccup again.
Sullen glances at the bottle between my thighs, then drags his gaze back up. “Karia.” It’s all he says, but there is some sort of warning in the word.
“Why did you keep animals in jars?” It comes tumbling out of me as I stare at him. I scooch down on the pillows, resting my head and letting one knee fall to the side, the wine bottle tilting with it.
Sullen’s gaze drops to my legs, but he is perfectly still.
“I’m not scared of you,” I add, out of nowhere.
“So you keep saying,” he whispers, the words jagged.
“So? Why the jars?”
“You don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“Would you tell Maude, if she asked you?” I smile at my own joke, feeling flushed and entirely too comfortable. Some sober part of my brain reminds me of the hotel. The horror I should have felt.
But all I can think of is what I told him even then:Touch me. I am not afraid.We have spent what feels like twenty-four straight hours running.
I am allowed to have fun.
“No,” Sullen answers me so seriously, his dark eyes on mine again.
“Then tell me.”
“We are not friends.”
“That hurts my feelings.” I mean it when I say it.
“I am sorry.” He doesn’t sound like he means that, at all.
“Tell me anyway. I’m going to die soon, so—”
“You’re not.” His voice is vicious.
“Humor me anyway.”
“We shouldn’t do this.”
