Page 77 of Playing With Danger

No. No. No.

“Jesus. Don’t move.”

Valentine stalked out of the room with none of his normal predatory grace. It looked like his legs were wooden, his steps heavy, his strides purposeful—if that purpose was to escape the trappings of the living room.

I moved to the window. After fiddling with the lock I finally got it to open. The windowsill was green and full of years’ worth of grime, laying testament to the idea that the last time the window had been opened was probably the last time Mrs. Malone had opened it.

Gross.

“Don’t bother, Sophie, we’re not staying.”

I turned to see him with a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and small first aid kit in the other.

“Fuck,” he clipped. “I need paper towels. Don’t move.”

“I’ll get them,” I said and rushed into the kitchen.

Then I wished I hadn’t.

Honest to God, there was nothing to clean the mess. It wasn’t the dishes or the broken bottle of liquor that was on the floor, glass shards everywhere, which might explain the cut on Mr. Malone’s hand. It wasn’t even the trash and years’ worth of debris on the counters. It was the filth. The mold. The stench that was so bad I gagged.

“Told you to wait in the fucking Rover,” Valentine growled as he stomped by me.

“Valentine—”

“Not now, Sophie.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

He nabbed a roll of paper towels from somewhere. I didn’t dare tell him they were probably contaminated with a flesh-eating virus along with the rest of the kitchen, which should’ve been condemned as a health risk.

Valentine paused next to me. His mood was palpable, I could feel it choking me. His frightening, menacing, ominous energy slammed into me like a thousand needles puncturing my skin, plunging venom into my blood.

Venom I knew lived in him.

This was his father.

His reality.

I was an intruder.

He never meant for me to see this.

And suddenly I was pissed. Irrationally, insanely angry. If I hadn’t been with him when his father’s call of distress had come he never, ever, would’ve given this to me.

“Take a good fucking look around, Sophie. This is me. This is where I come from. You still wanna tell me I’m worth it, baby? You wanna tell me you don’t deserve better than this fucking filth?”

“This isn’t you,” I chanced.

“This is where I grew up. This is my house.”

I was right. He was going to keep this big, huge gaping wound hidden.

“This is your father’s house. I spent the last two nights at your house.”

He jerked back, his lips curled.

“Go out to the Rover and wait for me.”

---