Page 67 of Twisted Addiction
Maybe I’d never been anything more than a secret she’d outgrown.
Desperation clawed at me like a living thing. I couldn’t wait any longer—not with the rain turning my clothes into a secondskin, not with the drugs still fogging my veins, making the world sway at the edges.
I had to see her. To know she hadn’t forgotten me. That she hadn’t turned away.
Her father’s estate loomed ahead—a fortress of marble and iron, walled in by wealth and guarded by men who’d kill without hesitation.
Every light in that mansion was a reminder of how unreachable her world was, how far above mine she lived. But I didn’t care. If I had to bleed to reach her, I would.
The night pressed close, thunder rolling like the growl of some unseen beast.
I stuck to the shadows, my soaked shoes silent against the mud, my pulse hammering so loud I was sure the guards could hear it.
The Romano men patrolled in pairs, rifles glinting beneath the porch lights, their voices muffled by the storm.
I moved with them—like prey that had learned to mimic the hunter.
The rain blurred my outline, masking my ragged breathing, my trembling limbs.
I found the section of the wall I’d memorized from weeks of watching, the place where ivy climbed high enough to give me leverage. My fingers slipped against the wet stone, skin tearing, blood mixing with rain, but I kept climbing.
When I dropped into the garden, I landed hard, the breath knocked out of me.
I crouched behind a hedge, muscles burning, eyes darting toward the moving silhouettes of guards.
I waited. Counted their steps.
Their routines were mechanical—five seconds between each turn, a pause at the archway, then the soft scrape of boots against gravel.
I’d studied them for months. The pattern was my only chance.
When the moment came, I ran. Low, fast, my body screaming in protest but my mind locked on one thing—her window.
The second one from the east balcony. The one with the lace curtains she said reminded her of me because they were “soft but never still.”
Lightning flashed, painting the mansion white for an instant. I saw my reflection in the glass—half-soaked, half-mad, eyes too bright.
I barely recognized myself.
Still, I reached up, tapping lightly against the windowpane.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Our signal.
No answer.
I hesitated, the rain whispering against the glass, the world holding its breath with me.
Then, slowly, I slid the window open.
The frame groaned, soft but sharp enough to slice through the night. I froze, listening—no footsteps, no alarm. Only the muffled hush of the storm and my own ragged breathing.
I peered inside.
And everything in me died.
She was there—Penelope. My Penelope. The girl who had once trembled in my arms under this very window, who had whispered that she loved me more than her own breath.
