NERO: Chapter 3

I can sense her eyes closing.

Sense her muscles loosening as sleep pulls her consciousness away from me and the situation I’ve put her in.

And it makes me furious.

This soft creature shouldn’t let her guard down. Not around a stranger.

Not around me.

My fists start to clench, but I stop the urge. I’m in control.

I’m always in fucking control.

My fingers curl around another handful of popcorn and I shove it into my mouth.

I know my anger is misplaced. I told her to relax. Told her I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s done nothing wrong. Except trust me.

She should absolutely not trust me.

Her body finally gives up the fight, and her head lulls to the side. Her lips nearly brushing the backs of my fingers. Her breath a warm caress on my skin.

For too long I watch her.

Stare at her.

Observe her.

Her lashes flutter in her sleep, dreams affecting her although her body remains unmoving.

She’s a temptation; even with her body hidden under the blanket, I can tell I’ll like the rest of her. The softness of her cheeks surely continues down her frame.

The women I’m often seen with, the ones I’m expected to be with, don’t look like her. Don’t look innocent. Or sweet. Or fed. They usually look exactly like the vipers they are. That they need to be. Because my world isn’t a place for sweet innocence. My world is the dark pit that sucks all the light and goodness out of everything it touches.

A small sound crawls out of her dream. One that’s too close to distress. Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching out.

The pad of my thumb ghosts over her bottom lip. The flesh feeling as delicate as it looks.

Get a fucking grip.

Snatching my hand away, I stand. My movements silent.

I need to leave.

I should’ve left the second the cop cars drove past.

Popcorn bowl in hand, I walk to the small kitchen.

The counters are clean. Everything is in its rightful place, just like the living room.

Setting the bowl down, I unplug her phone and pick it up. Tapping on the screen, it scans my face, before displaying a number pad.

Figures she keeps this locked.

“Who are you, Sweet Girl?”

I trail the fingers of my free hand across the fronts of her cupboards. I know better than to leave fingerprints, but can’t fight the compulsion to leave a mark. To leave some sort of trace behind. Even if she can’t see it.

Then my eyes snag on a small stack of mail tucked between an unplugged toaster and the wall.

“Got you.”

I pick the envelopes up, reading the name and address on the unopened ones.

Hello, Payton Vawdrey.

Pretty name, for a pretty girl.

Carrying on with my inspection, I step up to a tiny table hosting an ancient laptop, and—I reach out and touch the leaves—a fake plant.

I grit my teeth.

Why does her fake plant make me so goddamn angry?

Because I’ve lost my fucking mind.

It’s time to leave.

My feet turn away from the table, and I walk deeper into the apartment.

The dark hallway—you can barely call it that—is only long enough to have one doorway on either side.

Stepping into the bathroom, I flip on the light.

It’s small and clean, as expected, the visible dinginess inherent to the age of the building and not to her cleaning skills.

The room is filled with the same lingering scent I thought I smelled earlier.

What is that? Flowers?

I open the medicine cabinet, finding a few items. It’s mostly makeup and some over-the-counter medications, but no perfume. Nothing to tie the smell to.

The shower curtain is pulled closed. It’s a vibrant yellow, matching the floor mat in front of the sink. An attempt at cheeriness in a windowless room.

I drag the curtain back, revealing a variety of bottles lining the edge of the tub. My eyes catch on a clear bottle with a black top, half full of a dark pink liquid.

I press the back of the lid, popping it open, and inhale the rich scent of roses.

It’s her.

Exiting the bathroom, I cross into the one and only bedroom.

More yellow. More clean sparseness.

I’m not surprised by the fact that her bed is made. There’s something about this woman that compels her to keep everything in its place. Something I respect.

The closed closet door beckons me. And I’m not one to deny myself, so I pull it open.

This is not like the wardrobes I’m used to seeing. I’m used to walk-in closets, clothes worn once, some never worn. Abundance.

This is not abundance.

That place long-dead inside of me gives a beat.

I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to live without.

I’ll never forget.

Just like I’ll never go back.

Leaving everything as I found it, I make my way back to the living room.

Years of practice lets me get close to her without making a sound.

She looks so calm.

I should walk out now, leave her be.

Leaning in closer, I hold out her phone and wait for the facial ID software to allow me in.