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His question throws me off guard. “Would you be jealous if I did?” I tease.
His eyes glower. “Answer the question.”
“No, I don’t.”
I could swear he breathes a sigh of relief. But again, it could just be my imagination.
“Is there anywhere else you can go?”
“Uh, no. What’s going on?!”
He leans against the doorframe, rubbing his big hands over his face. When he looks up, his expression is weary, “I’m staying here tonight.”
My heart rate quickens. “You said I wouldn’t see you again.”
“Things change.”
In three strides, he’s on the other side of my bedroom, strong-arming my mattress. He tosses it back onto my bed like it weighs nothing. “Sleep,” he grunts. As if it would be that easy.
I cross my arms over my chest, a flicker of annoyance smoldering inside of me. “Okay, I know you’ve saved my life and all, but that doesn’t give you the right to break into my apartment, rifle through my things, and then announce that we’re having a sleepover. I’m going to need a little more detail than that.”
He pins me with a hot, heavy glare, a thunderstorm brewing behind his eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders sag and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Drawing in a lungful of air, he says, “One of the Van der Boor’s men tried to kill me tonight.”
My jaw almost hits my tatty carpet. “Tried?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Dread is a feeling I know oh-so-well. It trickles over you, like sticky syrup, weighing you down until you’re about to drown. I can feel it now, dripping onto my shoulders, getting ready to consume me. “I’m guessing you’re not an easy man to find,” I whisper, breathless. “And if they found you…”
“Finding you will be a walk in the park. He’s dead, but there will be others.”
My knees threaten to give way. I squeeze my eyes shut, clinging onto the edge of my dresser. There’s just so much going on, I want to rip my brain out of my head and kick it out of the window like a football.
It’s never going to end, is it?
“I don’t have time for this,” I groan, more to myself than to the mystery man darkening the corner of my bedroom.
“I don’t think anyone has time to be killed, Dahlia.”
I turn to face him, and I know I can’t hide the desperation in my eyes. “So you’re here to save me. Again.”
Nostrils flaring, he mutters something under his breath. “I’m not here tosaveyou,” he spits, like it’s a dirty word. “I’m here to catch the motherfucker that might try to kill you tonight. Then I’ll torture him, find out everything he knows and put an end to the manhunt.” As if concerned he wasn’t convincing enough, he adds, " I’m protecting myself.”
A small smile passes my lips. “And protecting me.”
He groans. I get the impression people don’t joke with him very often. Then he grabs my upturned armchair and stalks down the hall with it, pressing it against the door. “Text your roommate. Tell her she needs to stay with her stoner boyfriend or at a hotel tonight.” Before I can ask how the hell he knows about Billie, he adds, “I’ll be in the living room. It’s closest to the front door.”
He leaves me in limbo, hovering in the middle of my bedroom. Finally, I gather up enough sense to grab the first thing I touch from my pajama drawer—which is conveniently pulled out onto the floor—and scurry to the bathroom. Once inside, I lean against the door, taking deep breaths, until my knees stop shaking and some sort of sanity has returned to my brain.
I tap out a quick text to Billie, knowing she’s probably too stoned to see it anyway. Then I tug on my pajama shorts and oversized nightshirt. Recently, I’ve been sleeping in one of the mystery man’s sweaters, preferring the one he gave me at the diner because his scent is newer, stronger. But I think it might be a bit weird, creepy even, to wear that when he’s just a few doors down.
After brushing my teeth, washing my face, and piling my hair on top of my head in a messy bun, all on autopilot, I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling.
Fuck the South Africans, there isn’t enough capacity in my brain to worry about them right now. They aren’t the reason I’m not going to sleep tonight. No, I won’t sleep because there’s a carved-from-stone-god that I’m slightly—okay, very—obsessed almost within touching distance.
My ears strain to listen to the groan of the living room door opening. Then the creek of the floorboards. I hold my breath as the footsteps grow louder. The oxygen in my lungs goes stale when they stop.
He’s right outside.
