7. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Creed
D arkness is nothing. Darkness is baseline.
The city welcomes me as I drive. At three in the morning, it is dead, save for the few organisms that thrive in necrosis.
I am one of them. The Lillicent’s security system is a joke, but I admire its self-confidence.
Redundant cameras, keyless entries, pressure sensors on the stairwell landings.
All to keep anyone without a keycard out.
None of it is designed for someone like me.
I bypass the ground floor entirely, scaling the service wall to the sixth-floor garage, no line-of-sight to the front desk, no sensors on the emergency stairwell.
Over-confidence at it’s best. I move up, step by step, the sound of my footfalls absorbed by years of dust and corporate mediocrity.
Julianna’s door remembers my prints as I unlock it.
Inside, I let the door close without a click and breathe deep. It smells like her and all I want is to inhale that scent, to devour it.
There’s soft snores coming from her bedroom, but I take my time, taking in the peace of her space.
It’s much like mine, only a bit more colorful.
I wonder what she’s going to do when she wakes up in the cabin.
The air in the condo is three degrees colder than last night, she likes it cold, and that information is filed away in case it’s of use later.
The fridge contains three mineral waters, one yogurt, half a lemon, and nothing else.
I watch the second hand of the wall clock rotate in silence.
At last, I move toward her bedroom. Normally women have pictures all over… of themselves, their friends. Family. But not her. She has removed every trace of herself from the walls, no photos, just the same institutional white. A deliberate gesture. She wants her life to be proof against memory.
Her door is half-closed. The creak in the hinge was there last week and remains. I know this because I haven’t seen her attempt to grease it. Avoiding it, I ease through the opening in absolute silence.
She lies on her right side, knees drawn in a slight arc, one hand balled under the pillow, the other loose at her chest. The sheets are white, the comforter gray, and her body a slash of shadow between them.
Her hair is down, spread over the pillow, no trace of the tight bun she wears by day.
She breathes deeply. I count the interval: four seconds in, five out.
Moonlight spills through the blinds, banding the bed in strips of pale silver.
I stand in the doorway and watch. She is vulnerable here, softer than in the operating room or gym, the usual armor stripped away by exhaustion.
She murmurs once, a flutter of sound at the edge of consciousness, then resettles.
I catalog each vulnerability, her left leg twitches in sleep, a habit of the overworked. She is exquisite.
For a long time, I do nothing but watch.
Hours, maybe. I lose sense of it. The only evidence of time is the shifting pattern of moonlight as it slips along her body, outlining first her shoulder, then her jaw, then the delicate bones of her hand.
The apartment grows colder, and the sweat at the base of my spine dries to nothing.
I could touch her. Take her the way she took me, but I have other plans for my sweet girl.
At five-thirty, the first color enters the sky.
The blue edge of morning forces a change in the room.
Julianna stirs. Her face is toward me now, mouth half-open, eyes fluttering under the lids.
I watch as her brain moves from delta to alpha, as she takes in the silence and the presence of another body.
Her eyes flicker as they open and land on me.
She does not scream. That would be too ordinary. Instead, she looks at me, then at the clock, then at my hand where it rests on the comforter.
She sits up, drawing the sheet around her chest. Her hair is wild, her pupils wide. For a second, we are perfectly still.
She says, “Breaking and entering is a crime.”
Her voice is steady. Not even a tremor.
I let my mouth curve. “Go shower. We have plans today.”
She doesn’t move. I watch her weigh the options. Her right hand flexes under the sheet, probably searching for the knife she keeps in the drawer. It won’t matter if she tries to grab it. Might even make for some fun sex.
She says, “And if I don’t agree?”
I keep my gaze on her. “You will.”
For a moment, I see the old animal in her eyes, fight, then calculation, then something darker. She stands, the sheet clinging to her body, and walks to the bathroom. She closes the door behind her, but not all the way.
The water starts. I half expect her to scream in frustration, but those sounds will have to wait until I’ve got her writhing under me.
I turn, and head to the kitchen to make her breakfast.
A while later, she comes out in a t-shirt and leggings, hair wet and wild, eyes clear and sharp behind the exhaustion she must feel.
Two surgeries yesterday is a lot for most, but she isn’t just ordinary now is she?
She walks straight to the bedroom, ignoring me entirely.
I watch her from the kitchen, noting the tension in her shoulders, the measured steps.
She is still in control, or thinks she is.
After a minute, she returns, this time in a different shirt, long sleeves, darker, less vulnerable. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed. “You are still here.”
“I am.”
She tilts her head, surveying me. “We don’t have plans.”
“We do now.” I gesture to the counter, the coffee, the unspoken invitation. She ignores it.
“What are you doing in my apartment?” she asks.
“Making breakfast.”
She glances at the pan, at the eggs I’ve already cracked, the measured amount of salt and pepper waiting beside them. Her face registers nothing, but I can see the micro-expressions: disgust, intrigue, a trace of something close to fear.
“Leave,” she says. “We had a good fuck, but playtime is over.”
A dark chuckle rises from deep in my chest. Leave?
I don’t think so, kitten . I finish whisking the eggs and pour them into the pan, watching as they solidify on the heat, stirring occasionally.
An omelet. The smell is immediate, overpowering the cold sterility of the apartment.
She’s hungry, even if she pretends otherwise.
Her stomach growling gives her away and she has the decency to blush before straightening her back and glaring at me.
It’s so cute, I almost want to grab her and cover her mouth with mine.
I plate the eggs, two perfect portions, and set them at the breakfast bar. She hesitates, then sits, keeping the counter between us.
Sitting on the stool opposite, my hands folded in front of me. “Eat.”
She does, carefully, as if the food might be poisoned.
She studies me as she chews. “Why are you here?” she asks again.
“Because you want me to be.”
She laughs, short and brittle. “I do not.”
I nod. “You do. You would have tried to stab me, otherwise.”
She sets the fork down, leans back. “You are insane.”
“Not insane. Intentional.” I sip my coffee. “There is a difference.”
She glances at the phone on the counter, then at me. Her fingers inch toward it, slow and deliberate. I move it away before she can touch it, placing it beside me. “No.”
Her jaw tightens. “I have work today.”
I smile. “No you don’t.”
She stands, pushes the stool back, and walks to the window. She stares out at the city, arms wrapped tight around herself. I wait.
After a minute, she turns. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quiet. Safe. Private.”
She considers this, weighing her options. “I am not going anywhere with you.”
I shrug. “It’s not up for debate, Julianna.”
She laughs again, but there is no humor in it. “You can’t just… break in, make breakfast, and expect me to go along with whatever sick game this is.”
“I can. And I have.”
She returns to the counter, sits, but doesn’t touch the eggs again. “You should go.”
I pour her a cup of tea, add the exact amount of milk she prefers, and set it in front of her. “Drink.”
She looks at the cup, then at me. “I am not thirsty.”
I incline my head. “You are. It’s chamomile and it will relax you. You’re getting uppity.”
She picks up the cup, holds it, but does not drink. “If you don’t leave, I will call the police.”
I nod to the phone, still beside me. “Go ahead. Just know if you touch that phone, my hands will be around your neck faster than you can dial.”
She glares, but makes no move. Instead, she sips the tea. The tension in her jaw eases, just a fraction.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but I don’t belong to you,” she says.
“Of course you do,” I reply.
She sets the cup down with force, the ceramic clattering against the counter. “I know what you are. You’re a fucking psychopath.”
“Perhaps.” I finish my coffee, stand, and collect the dishes. I wash them in the sink, methodical, precise. She watches me, arms still crossed, but the energy has shifted. She’s no longer sure of her next move.
I dry my hands, turn to face her. “We leave in ten minutes.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
I wait.
She’s still sitting at the island, cradling her mug in both hands. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Take you somewhere. Show you something.”
She looks at me, wary but curious. “You really think that’s going to work?”
“Yes.”
She laughs, the sound hollow but not entirely empty. “You’re insane.”
“Intentional,” I remind her.
We sit in silence. After a while, she finishes the tea. I watch her, measuring the subtle changes, her posture loosens, the tension in her face slackens, her eyelids droop, just a fraction.
She notices. “What did you, ”
But it is too late.
I rise, catch her before she hits the floor. The mug slips from her fingers and shatters, a spray of ceramic shards across the tile. Her body is light in my arms and she looks so small and fragile like this. I lay her gently on the couch, brush the hair from her face, and wrap her in a blanket.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s necessary.”
I move quickly, efficient. In under three minutes, I have her bundled and ready, a packed bag slung over my forearm.
I carry her to the elevator, then down to the garage.
No one sees us and if they did, it would just look like I’m carrying her gently.
No alarm bells. No screams. Just a guy and his girl after a rough night of drinking.
Making it back onto the street, I unlock the car, opening the door carefully. Setting her gently in the passenger seat of my car, buckle her in, arrange her head so it rests comfortably against the window. She breathes slow and steady.
I drive.
Out of the city, through the gray vein of freeway, then north, toward the mountains. I take the back roads, the ones that wind through empty woods and empty towns. I drive for hours, never once checking the rearview. This part of her life is over.
And the next is just about to begin.
She’ll wake soon. When she does, I’ll explain. Make her see that this isn’t a kidnapping. This is rescue. This is the only way I know how to love.
I glance at her, asleep in the seat beside me. She is perfect, even now.
She will understand.
She has to.
Stepping on the gas, I push my car faster.