Page 20 of Drawn to Death
“Quell.” His name seems different now, heavy with things I can’t say. “The drawings. Both of them. I need to think.”
“I know.” He tries for a smile, a sad, understanding thing. “Good night, Talon.”
I nod, then close the door behind me. In the hallway, I lean back against the wall and let out a breath I don’t know I’ve been holding. Two futures. Two impossible choices. And in the middle of it, a man I barely recognize, wanting things I’ve never dared to want.
The house is quiet, but the silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s full. Full of possibility. Full of risk. Full of something that feels dangerously close to hope. Tomorrow, I need to give him more freedom, even if it's only a test to see if he will choose to stay.
Chapter ten
Quell
This is my life now. Waking up in the spare room of the hitman who hasn’t killed me yet. Or kissed me. I only dreamed about one of those last night, but the idea that my dreams have any say in the future is laughable. Not that dreaming about death in the present is any less absurd. Still, the drawings brought me here. To this new life.
The safe house. Talon. The drawings. Me, asking a question I never thought I’ll ask; “And if I decide I want the second drawing to happen?” And Talon, his voice like gravel, replying, “Then it will.”
What was I thinking?
I stretch, arms overhead, a blush crawling up my neck. When did I stop being afraid?
Ten days. That’s how long I’ve been here. Ten days of waking up refreshed, of showering with warm water and always having clean clothes waiting. Ten days of eating proper meals, at reasonable times. Ten days of sleeping without screamingmyself awake. Well. Most nights. I could get used to this kind of treatment.
My bare feet hit the floor. I curl my toes against the cold concrete. I don’t bother with socks anymore. Don’t need the armor of shoes in this place. Usually breakfast arrives while I’m in the shower, but today, the door is open a crack. I pull it wider and peer out into a nicely decorated hallway. My instinct to explore is overruled by the smell of bacon coming from another room. I pad into the kitchen, where Talon is cooking for us. A small table is set for two.
“Good morning, Quell.”
“Good morning…um…Talon.” Somehow the name seems wrong in such a domesticated situation.
“The kettle just boiled if you want tea.”
I reach for the kettle. Little flickers of last night’s dream blink behind my eyes. The kiss again, the memory making me flush.
His mouth on mine. Careful at first. Then not. His hand, rough and warm, cupping my jaw like I might shatter if he squeezes. The way his breath catches when I push in closer.
I pour water over the tea bag and watch the color swirl out, slow and reddish-brown. Steam curls up, fogging my glasses. I slide them off to wipe them clean, and the world goes fuzzy. Softer. Maybe that’s why the world feels different now. I’m not seeing it all the way through to the edges.
“You’re up early.”
Even now, after all this time, Talon’s voice still makes me jump. I shove my glasses up my nose and turn. He’s already in the doorway, crisp white shirt, dark slacks. No jacket, no tie. Just a hint of the man he turns into once he steps out of here.
“The drawback of a good night’s sleep,” I confess. My voice is rough, still thick with morning. “Tea?”
He nods once, and I reach for a second mug. This feels so normal, too natural for our relationship of killer and victim. This feels like a life where we could kiss, not kill.
“Any dreams?” he asks.
The real question hangs there, heavy. Any deaths? Any visions? Is he going to have to kill Mickey after all?
“No,” I lie. My cheeks go hot. “Just… normal dreams.”
He looks at me, and I wonder if he can see it; the lie, the truth, what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, what I’ve wanted in that place where wanting doesn’t matter.
He takes the mug from me, our fingers almost touching. “Good.”
Just that word. It feels like it carries more than it should. Like he’s glad I’m not seeing death anymore. Maybe glad I’m seeing something else. Maybe I'm a good boy for him.
Maybe I'm an idiot for thinking this is more than it is.
He plates up the bacon and eggs, moving to the small table and setting them down. I slide into the seat and wait as he brings over the ketchup for me. I like this feeling where he knows me well enough not to need words.
