Page 55 of No, You Hang Up

“She doesn’t need to.” He strides to my room, with me following like a loyal puppy. “Not consciously, anyway. Some people can just tell without really knowing why or understanding. It’s that animal part of our brain that never evolved past survival.”

“Oh.” Silently, I try to think back, try to wonder if I would’ve been able to tell just by meeting him.

“Little bunny.” He seems to know what I’m thinking, because once he has his shoes on, he comes back and tips my chin up so I meet his eyes. “Don’t think so hard,” Huxley coos with an affectionate edge to his voice. “It wouldn’t have mattered if you could tell or not withoutreallyknowing first.”

“Why?” I ask, watching as his gaze darkens.

It must be the right question, because his grin turns wolfish at the word. “Because you’re mine. And I like to believe you were always going tobemine. Whether it was going to be like this, or chained up in my basement until I could convince you to like me.”

I swallow hard, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t break eye contact while I fumble for words. “That’s maybe not as romantic as you think it is,” I finally manage to whisper.

But his grin only widens, and he tilts his head to one side. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, just before dropping his hand and brushing past me to go move his truck up about two inches.

I don’t follow this time, because to my surprise, I can’t immediately deny him.

I can’t say that I’m sure, or that he’s not right.

Maybe itisone of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard. And maybe, no matter the circumstances, we always would’ve ended up right here.

twenty-five

The second I close the front door behind me, I know something is wrong. The bloody shoe prints on my faux hardwood are enough to tell me that much. I lean back against the door, locking it with a sigh. At least Patrice likes Huxley enough not to question his random appearances or weird hours. Especially now that she knows he’s an EMT.

But he’d better have a damn good reason to have gotten blood on my floor.

“Huxley…” I call with a warning in my voice as I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. His are there as well, so I know he at least had enough time to drop them there before leaving blood in my living room. “You’d better be dead, dying, or about to clean up my floor.” My voice is loud enough to carry, and it echoes off the walls as I look around.

The footsteps lead down the hallway, and his shoes are at least placed outside of my bedroom door instead of inside on the carpet, thankfully. But the string lights are on, keeping my bedroom dim and leading me further inside until I get to my bathroom.

“Well aren’t you something?” I say dryly, leaning on the doorframe as I gaze inside. Huxley is there in my large, comfortable tub with the water steaming. He’s leaning back against the wall, and there are smears of blood on his face.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it took for him to come here like this. I noticed he’d been getting itchy. Strange and restless.

Now my suspicions ofwhyare confirmed.

“You can’t live without it, can you?” I ask, just watching as he barely reacts in the tub. He looks exhausted, and doesn’t even seem to notice the blood on his skin. My stomach turns, but only a little. Only enough to last a second before I push off of the doorframe to walk to the tub.

“It bothers you.” He sighs, still not opening his eyes. Because of the soapy water I can only see his chest and one arm resting on the side of the tub, but I still find myself kneeling beside it. “This,” he goes on. “I bother you right now.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and he moves slightly, almost like he’s surprised and nervous about the answer. “I’m bothered you got blood on my hardwood floors and that you’re too lazy to get the blood off your face.” I grab the already bloody rag and lean over the tub, reaching out to stroke my fingers along his skin just under his cheekbone.

“Fake hardwood,” he retorts, opening his eyes. He turns to look at me, watching as I clean the streaks of blood from his jaw. In the low light from my bedroom, he’s mysterious and looks a little bit dangerous.

And he definitely is. Just not to me in the same way he is to others.

“You’re cleaning it.” When he moves to turn away, I reach out to grip his hair and yank his face right back to me. “You’resocleaning it. On your knees. In a maid outfit.”

“Oh, only if you hold my leash, pretty girl.” He clicks his teeth together inches from my fingers, and I snort at the little show of attitude. “While I’m on the floor and scrubbing.” When I move to pull away, his hand moves as quick as a cobra to grip my arm. “Don’t you want to ask me about it?”

My eyes hold his, and I cycle through all the possible responses in my head. Absently, I chew on my lower lip, and I can’t help noticing how my chest clenches around my organs, constricting and protective all at once.

“No,” I say finally. “I don’t know if I can ask. I don’t know if I canlistento the story of you killing someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Huxley shrugs, and sits up in the tub to touch my face with his other hand. “You don’t have to hear about it. But pretty girl, everybody dies. If not by my hand or because of some other killer, then by any of the other things in this world.”

“But they could’ve lived longer.” This is an argument I’ve fought not to have. “They could’ve?—”

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