I spot the stairs I snuck down during my great escape—before my first, and hopefully only, stint as a car thief. Then I find myself stepping cautiously, hoping not to wake anyone up. I don’t exactly know why I’m sneaking around. Ellery explained that I could treat their home like my home and go wherever, whenever. But as grateful as I am that I’m here and not somewhere else, that’s easier said than done.
Maybe it’s all the times I’ve heard that offer before from foster parents who didn’t really mean it, or maybe this situation is too new for me to feel that level of comfort yet. Either way, I hold my breath and make my way down as though alarms will start blaring and the hounds will be set on me—or in this case, the wolves.
I reach the first floor, and this time instead of ninjaing my way to the garage to hijack a Transformer, I swing left past the double-sided fireplace that faces both the living room and the dining room. Ignoring the long dining table where I ate my weight in pasta earlier this evening, I don’t pay any attention to the wall of windows that lead to a back deck and the woods beyond. Instead, I aim for the insane kitchen, my lips quirking up at seeing it without the distractions of three hot men moving around. It’s obvious that Ruger has indulged his every whim and the guys have let him.
Spoiled. I grin as I glance around the space.
It boasts two long islands that take up the center, a wall of fridges, a few of them with glass fronts displaying wine and colorful produce amongst other things. The back of the kitchen is taken up by a massive range and hood that are matte black with brass trim and knobs. Looking too fancy to touch, this place is, without a doubt, a chef’s wet dream. The large beams that frame the ceiling in the living room carry into this space too, and it’s all light woods, black cabinets, and sleek surfaces.
The first of the matte black fridges holds perfectly organized rows of meats, all labeled and wrapped with care. I see containers of broths and other sauces, but there’s nothing that doesn’t require culinary school to figure out.
Dammit.
The next fridge I open looks a lot more normal: milk and cold brew mixed with Tupperware leftovers. I spot a covered plate on the middle shelf with a note taped to it, my name written in a blocky, masculine script. I reach for the plate and the note.
Noah,
Just in case you get hungry, I made you a sandwich. There’s a fruit salad in the bowl next to this plate, and you can find chips five doors to the right of this one. It leads to a hidden pantry. I left you some homemade chocolate chip cookies on the counter there too.
Ruger
I stare at the note and then peek at the gorgeous gourmet steak sandwich Ruger made. I do a giddy little dance as I pluck the fruit salad from the fridge and then track down all the other goodies he mentioned.
A girl could get used to this.
I inhale everything and then spend fifteen minutes trying to find a garbage can for the empty chip bag and another ten minutes attempting to find the home for the plate and bowl I cleaned and dried. Turning off the lights and strolling over to the wall of windows, I tug at one of the sliders and step outside into the cool night.
Pulling in a deep breath of air scented with freshly fallen rain, I stride across the large deck and lean against the far railing.
The sky is breathtaking. I’ve never seen anything like it. The storm clouds have cleared and, in their absence, I stare up at more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life. They wink down at me, glimmering and glittering in all their glory as dark blues and purples swirl around a deeper, milkier part of space. It’s so quiet out here, quiet and surprisingly peaceful. Even the insects with their little chirps and night song seem hesitant to get too loud.
I run my hands across the cold wood of the banister, the same hands that helped lift a car earlier, that helped me find my balance as I leapt across a river of mud and rocks. I stare down at them, expecting them to look different somehow, but they don’t. Turning them over, examining the soft creases of my palms, I try to picture paws and fur instead of skin and fingers, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around that even though I know, all too soon, I’ll have firsthand experience with not only how that looks but how it feels.
Am I excited about that? Terrified? Definitely both.
I sigh and stare out at the layers upon layers of shadow-draped trees that surround the property. It’s as though the peaks of the pines are standing guard around this little slice of paradise, and I marvel that such a place exists.
I’ve lived in cities or suburbs my whole life. I’ve always enjoyed the hustle and bustle, the constant view of some cityscape or another, the noise, the activity—but really, I didn’t know any better.
Standing out here now, surrounded by mountains and nature, I realize that the twinkle of city lights is nothing compared to a blanket of beaming stars. I used to find the steady thrum of traffic, barking dogs, or passing pedestrian conversation soothing, but this silent serenity is a salve to the abraded soul I didn’t know I had.
So much has happened that I haven’t taken time to breathe this tranquility in, to settle into it and let it settle right back.
A cold wind drags across the back of my neck, and my senses prickle with some innate awareness. The peace I was just experiencing evaporates, and that same edgy sort of distrust I felt when I was running with Perth resurfaces. My hands flip back over and tighten on the railing as I look around for what’s setting me off.
Glancing back at the sliding glass door, I wonder if one of the guys is awake, but the house is cloaked in stillness and silence. There are no lights on. There’s no one prowling in the kitchen in search of their own midnight snack. I catch my reflection in the glass, the burgundy shorts and slouchy sleep top I pulled on earlier reflecting back at me like a garish wound in the windows.
I noticed a running theme in many of the clothes I dug through when I was searching the shopping bags for something to sleep in. Red. Every tone and variation of the color. On clothes, shoes, accessories. It makes me wonder if there is a Little Red Riding Hood fetish going on here I don’t know about or if this is Astrid and Trista’s idea of a joke. Maybe they’re warning me about the big bad wolves?
I laugh at that thought, not sure why I find it so funny. I was attacked here. If there was a big bad wolf, I’ve met it. I just wish I knew who it was. Then again, how big and bad can someone be when they attack you from behind? So maybe I’ve only met the Cowardly Wolf.
Studying my reflection, I look for subtle changes. Do I look stronger? More eerie? I survey my eyes for the same wolfish glint I saw in Ellery’s car, but all I see is the uninteresting color they’ve always been.
I guess I’ve always unknowingly had a wolf staring back at me in my reflection. Maybe that’s why everything outside still looks the same while my insides seem to be fully renovated.
Movement in the glass suddenly catches my attention, and my gaze snaps to the reflection of the trees. I whirl around, heart thumping violently as I search for the source.
Frantically, I scan the spot where I swear, seconds ago, one black shadow dislodged from another.