Chapter 16 Shadowed Interruptions #2
The short length of stairs protested beneath his weight, but no one was around to hear the noises.
Instead, he backtracked and walked up the steps again, memorizing which ones gave him feedback and which ones didn’t.
Sweat began prickling along the nape of his neck while he worked, the fabric of his balaclava and hoodie trapping his body heat in.
Satisfied with his findings, Mikko’s boot planted itself onto the tile floor at the top of the steps. Excitement buzzed in his veins; the scent of her was everywhere. It brought back the memories of her fingertips grazing across his forearm.
This is definitely an unhealthy way of thinking.
A dimly lit kitchen unfolded before him. She’d left the light on over the stove, it’s spotlight drawing his attention to the pots and pans left on the stovetop. His head tilted in curiosity. If she was going out to eat, why cook food beforehand?
Walking closer across the black and white mosaic tile floor, the aroma of herbs in the air told him it may not be food she’d prepped.
Sure enough, as he peered into one of the pots, he saw it contained bits of apples, oranges, and cinnamon sticks.
It looked inedible, but it made her home smell delicious.
A small dining table was pushed against the far wall underneath a window.
There were only two chairs and two placemats, and a vase full of fresh flowers arranged neatly in the middle.
More plants were clustered on either side of the table, ready to soak up the sunlight during the day.
Creeping closer, he traced a gloved finger over the nearest leaf.
How cute, she’s a plant enthusiast. A small smile graced his hidden mouth.
Dried flowers and herbs hung in bundles along her walls, the scent of them cloying. Opening a few cabinets, he noticed a collection of deep brown plates and cups. Her pantry was filled with Mason jars holding pickled vegetables, jams, and other preserved fruits he had no idea the names of.
Pulling one out, he read the date on top, confirming his suspicions of her canning hobby. His brow raised; another piece of information about her to store away in his mind. Mikko took more photos as he went along, ensuring they’d be added to her personal file once he returned home.
Moving on, Mikko slipped into the main hall leading to the front door.
Each boot fall soothed his adrenalized muscles, a single thought comforting him along the way: this must be done to lay my own demons to rest. Besides, he’d done this before.
Anika’s house wasn’t the first or the last house he’d gotten access to.
The only reason he’d been nervous this time was because of the damn emotions swirling in his gut.
After this, I’m going out, he thought, being this desperate and touch-starved is way too embarrassing.
Once he blew off some steam and tracked down the true events of Ivan’s death, he could let Anika go.
Lies, a soft voice whispered, but Mikko ignored it. He was determined to find the rat and deal with them, no matter the cost. He might hate his father’s company, but he also couldn’t stand to be outdone when it came to dismantling everything Alek had meticulously built.
Rugs overlapped one another, their patterns dizzying in the soft light streaming in from the porch light outside the front door ahead of him.
Pictures lined the walls of the corridor along with filigree wall paper, the pattern barely distinguishable.
Stopping to look at the photos, he was careful not to brush against the frames.
Their mismatched outlines varied in proportions and detail.
Many of the pictures behind the glass held art prints instead of photos of people.
Only a few contained friends and family.
Anika stood out to him as always. A darkness glittered in her eyes, evident in a few of the photos. The ones where her carefree smiles failed to reach the honey hazel depths of her piercing gaze.
His gloved fingers itched to capture the essence he saw within her, his own love of photography a way for him to express his creativity.
Mikko was forever an artist no matter how hard his father tried to rend it from his head.
Currently, his day job sucked most of his energy, but when he was at his lowest, photography, painting, and design were always there for him.
An older couple, likely her parents, were also in some photos, but they were from long ago. Anika was smaller, younger, in these. The mature bone structure defining her exquisite face now was softer and disguised by childhood.
But her caramel eyes were the same.
There were more pictures of Anika with her parents, but they never changed, never grew older.
An eerie feeling settled into Mikko’s gut.
And the longer he looked, the more uneasy he became.
He couldn’t determine if her parents looked familiar because he had studied Anika’s features so closely—ones they’d passed down to their daughter—or if it was because he’d met them before.
It wasn’t unlikely, his business allowing him connections all over the city of Portland, but if Anika and him were almost the same age, then he would’ve been too young to be running the business.
But it wasn’t impossible. Alek’s own persistence back then could’ve landed a young Mikko in the vicinity of them years ago…
The scent of her simmer pot faded as he stepped into her living room, the same one he’d seen multiple times through the open window, but actually being inside the space was different.
Exhilarating. The sheer curtains and botanical wall paper greeted him as always.
Again, he could smell the addicting undertones of bergamot and a sugary musk—sweet and innocent with sultry notes to ground. It was explicitly Anika.
And damn him if his mouth didn’t water.
He’d smelled it on her outside of the gym and at Bubblegum.
Suddenly, a wave of lust washed over him as the memory of her warm fingers tracing his skin assaulted him. The fire in her eyes outside of her gym as he leaned on her car like he owned it lit a simmering desire deep within his chest.
And now, inside her personal space, he lost himself in a fantasy.
Her soft body pressed against his—against the nearby door, its cool surface making her gasp.
Rain pitting against the roof of her house, drowning out the world outside.
Her skin flushed with the same inexplicable emotions building in his chest as he trailed a fingertip over her tattoos leisurely. Anika’s breath quickened, her chest heaving. He was simply repaying the favor from the club.
His mind deviously wondered about all the other ways he could elicit lovely little sounds from her mouth—
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Knuckles rapping on the front door mere feet away halted his thoughts.
His heart dropped into the darkest pits of his stomach. While his identity was hidden by his outfit, his eyes still scanned for a place to hide. Mikko was confident Anika wouldn’t knock at her own house, but it didn’t prevent a cold sweat from breaking out along his skin.
Frozen, he waited for the person to either knock again or go away. The time indicated it was too late for it to be a delivery or a solicitor, but Mikko didn’t like the idea of it being someone more personal.
Someone with a key, perhaps…
As if reading his mind, a female voice called out through the door.
“Anika?” Her words were unworried, casual. That made Mikko relax slightly. “Anika, are you in there? I couldn’t remember if it was tonight or tomorrow that you’re free.”
Slipping deeper into the shadows of Anika’s living room, Mikko tried to get close enough to see the woman while simultaneously remaining silent. Anika’s old house made it more challenging than he’d like to admit.
“Why am I talking through the door”—the woman continued, unaware of the man inside her friend’s house—“I have your number.”
Her shuffling could be heard on the wood planks as she presumably dialed Anika and waited for her to answer. All the while, Mikko’s posture was ramrod straight, his adrenaline flowing freely. His simple night of snooping was hindered.
“Hey, where are you?” the woman asked from outside once Anika picked up. A couple beats later, “Ahh, I should’ve guessed.” A faint laugh filled the space while Anika said something Mikko couldn’t hear.
“Well, I came by your house to drop off the huge Monstera I found.”
Just my fuckin’ luck, he thought. If Anika came back now, Mikko would have to slip out the side door and loop around the block to avoid being spotted by the women. It was a feasible plan, but he hated to be interrupted.
Anika had her routines, he had his.
“Oh, shit,” the female voice stated, “of course I mixed up the dates. Do you want me to leave it on your porch or bring it with me tomorrow? It’s in my car, and I don’t think it’s too cold out–oh no, goodness, no need to come back here for my sake. You know I don’t live far.”
A slow exhale from Mikko.
Farther away now, the woman responded again, shoes clunking on the porch steps. “I’ll bring it tomorrow. Be safe, and call me when you’re back home…”
The rest of the conversation trailed off as she walked away. The telltale squeak of the iron gate opening and closing was the last piece of confirmation Mikko needed.
He was in the clear.
Exiting the living room, pulse racing from the close call, Mikko started up the steps leading up to the rest of the house.
The old stairs groaned under his weight, echoing all the years the house had endured—all the people.
He trailed his gloved hand along the sturdy railing, imagining her doing the same, retracing her movements.
An image of her walking up the steps ahead of him, grazing her fingers along the rail like he was and beckoning for him to follow almost sent him to his knees.
Fuck.