“So what do we do?” she replied in the same low voice.

“Plan B,” he said.

“What is it?”

He paused one second. “I don’t have a friggin’ clue.”

“Shit,” Della whispered again.

The footsteps thudded closer, down the hall, almost in front of the bedroom door. Nothing but a thin piece of wood stood between them and being caught as intruders.

Never had Della been this envious of Kylie’s gift of turning invisible. But wishing was going to get her nowhere—she needed a plan. She needed one fast.

“The closet.” She latched her hand around his arm and pulled him inside.

They had barely gotten the door closed and sunk down amongst a few shoes and clothes that had fallen on the floor, when the footsteps stopped. Stopped right outside the bedroom door.

Della pulled her knees to her chest. Darkness filled the small space. Her shoulder pressed against Chase’s. Needing more air to attempt to deal with the panic gripping her lungs, she took fast, and hopefully silent, breaths. The smell of perfume and shampoo, obviously Natasha’s, filled the air. Then Chase’s scent, spicy male soap and outdoors, filled Della’s senses. While she could barely see anything, she still shut her eyes. Tight. And prayed.

Don’t let them come in here. Don’t let them come in here.

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The door clicked open and the footsteps entered into the room. Soft footsteps sounding like a woman. What came next? If the person belonging to the footsteps had actually heard them, wouldn’t she check the closet? Oh no. Why had Della chosen the closet?

Della’s insides knotted with the thought of having to explain to her parents why she’d broken into someone’s home.

Damn! Damn! She and Chase were going to get caught and this was going to be bad. Really, really bad.

The footsteps came farther into the room. Eyes still forced shut, she heard the person inhale, deeply. Chase’s lips came against her ear.

“If they open the door, we fly right through the window. Just keep your head down and watch out for glass. If we go fast, they won’t be able to describe us to the cops.”

Della opened her eyes. Light snuck through the small space where the door didn’t meet the wood floor. That, or her vision had adjusted to the dark and she could make out things—the clothes on the floor, the pair of worn tennis shoes in the corner. She shifted her gaze back to the door, preparing herself to run like hell if it opened.

She counted to three, thinking that was about the time a person would need to decide to check the closet.

One.

Two.

Three.

The door didn’t open.

The sound of the bed’s mattress sighing with weight added another layer of sadness to the song playing in the background.

Then came the heartfelt sob. A feminine sob. Not part of the music, but so much more emotional. It sounded like pain. Pure. Raw.

“Why do I keep hearing you?” the woman said. “Are you here, baby? Why can’t I accept that you are gone? Can you hear me? I love you. I miss you. Miss you so much.”

She’s not gone, Della wanted to say. Tears filled her eyes. While she ached for Natasha and her mom, Della couldn’t help but wonder if her own mother missed her.

Did her own mom ever walk into her room and cry?

Della didn’t realize she still held Chase’s hand until his fingers, laced with hers, gave her a light squeeze. Was he hurting for the woman, too? It felt as if he was trying to communicate to her that it would be okay.

But how could it be? The woman’s grief grew thicker, the air, even in the tiny closet, felt heavier. The feeling of injustice, of grief, wiggled its way into Della’s chest and made her insides feel crowded.

The music suddenly stopped and the sound of a phone ringing piped over the intercom.

The ringing became replaced with an electronic voice announcing: Call from Miao Hon.

Della’s breath caught. Surely she’d heard it wrong. But the message repeated. Call from Miao Hon.

Why was her aunt, Chan’s mother, calling Natasha’s mom?

Della let out a shuttered breath. She cut her eyes toward Chase, but he hadn’t seemed to put Chan’s last name together with the person who was calling.

The slight sound of the mattress rising filtered through the door. Then footsteps left the bedroom. The click of the bedroom door shutting reached Della’s ears, but it somehow sounded different. Distant. Too distant. Immediately, the closet seemed to grow darker. Instead of a hiding place, it felt like a prison.

Della turned to tell Chase she wanted to leave—she wanted out of there, away from the pain—but it wasn’t Chase sitting next to her.

Chapter Twenty-four

Fear was her go-to emotion, but when she went there, the fear faded into a whole different kind of feeling. Something that gave her butterflies in her stomach. Good butterflies.

With her shoulder against his, she stared at the guy, trying to understand. He had dark brown, almost black, almond-shaped eyes, smooth skin the color of coffee with lots of cream. His short hair was black and hung in loose curls over his brow. His features were … perfect, except for a scar that was still red over his left brow. Something about him tickled her memory bank, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Yet she had the oddest desire to run her finger over the healing wound.

All of a sudden, another recollection whispered across what little brain power she had. She didn’t see everything, but had vague flashes of a fight, and she knew he had gotten that wound trying to protect her.

He stared at her with warmth and passion. She wanted to close the distance between them, but then she didn’t have to. He leaned closer, his mouth a whisper from hers. His light breath touched her lips.

He was going to kiss her.

Correction. He was kissing her.

No, not her. He was kissing Natasha.

He was Liam. And Natasha was kissing him back.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, pulling back from her mouth, running his finger over her lips, moist from his kiss.

“I am not. My hair’s caked in mud, I need a shower.” She chuckled.

“That’s not what I see,” he said.

“Then good thing it’s dark in here,” she countered.

He kissed her again, and this time the kiss went from soft to hot. His mouth tasted so good. Sweet and tangy like blood. Her blood. His blood.

They must have just fed off each other again. But this time she wasn’t repulsed. She was too into the kiss, too into Liam, to care.

She may be facing death, but right then she wanted to feel alive. To feel passion. To touch. To be touched.




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