Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THEA
I’m only mildly ashamed when I wake up drooling onto Slade’s silk pillowcase. I’m sprawled out, facedown and spread like a smooshed stick bug. My legs are every which way with zero regard for whose bed I’m in.
It’s a relief, waking up with room to spare on either side of me as opposed to my limbs askew and hanging off the twin-sized bed I normally sleep on. Slowly, I peel myself away from the pillow suffocating me and eye the wet spots. Gross.
I slept like the dead.
I barely remember dragging myself to the bed and passing out after getting out of the congressman’s lavish shower—after being beaten by seventeen different sprayer heads.
The whole room was shrouded in darkness when Edmond showed me to the upstairs suite, guided me to the attached bathroom, shoved clothes in my hand, and noted my Frosted Flakes would arrive soon.
Oh … crap. My Frosted Flakes.
I scramble up, glancing around the room. My goal is to find the soggy bowl of cereal more than likely set up somewhere in here for me, but I can’t seem to skip past what I’m seeing.
This is not what I’d have pictured Slade’s suite to look like. Not that I spent much time imagining his room upstairs, but in my mind’s eye it was like his bathroom: lavish, refined, affluent.
Except there’s no gleaming marble or staged hotel quality here. It’s … colorful. Lived in and charming. The walls match the linen—cotton-colored walls like the rest of the lake house—but I’m stunned by the vintage movie posters framed in several locations. Is that Star Wars?
Color weaves throughout. Slate blue and moody golden accents flow through the throw pillows, oversized Persian rug, and scattered yet worn décor.
I sit up straighter, my back hitting the unpretentious upholstered headboard of the king bed lodged front and center along the wall. Then, when I decide I need a better vantage point, I shove the covers off, crawling down the center of the bed.
My eyes scramble to keep up. Across the room, tall maple-stained bookshelves fill most of the room.
They house one of the most mind-blowing comic book collections I’ve ever seen.
The top half is filled edge-to-edge with comics in pristine plastic sleeves, each one angled to read the titles and see the covers like some sort of sacred gallery.
Mindlessly, I wander off the bed, sucked in by the vivid colors and iconic casings—some decades old, I imagine.
Sleek pull-out drawers take up the bottom half. I glance around, reaching to pull one out. They’re deep, custom, and meticulously organized. The comics are arranged in tight rows with obsessive precision. This is … wow. Every issue appears cataloged and untouched.
I move on from the first shelf to the next, an identical replica of the last. Shelf after shelf, I comb over them, smelling the faint cedar and inky tang of polished comics. Does he read these? Surely not, but he protects them with reverence.
X-Men, Spider-Man, Thor, Superman—the list is extensive. I wouldn’t recognize most of the names if Tristan hadn’t made me watch the Marvel movies one weekend. Though the most popular comic in Slade’s collection is Batman. There are even framed prints of Bruce Wayne scattered around his displays.
Back in high school, a friend of mine and I watched MTV Cribs. The show highlighted famous people’s mansions and multimillion-dollar homes, and they always had killer recreational rooms. That’s what this reminds me of—a room that screams playtime, but for adults.
Finally, I make the circle back around to the sleek and modern bed, and I run a finger over the single nightstand, holding a minimalist brass lamp, a smartwatch charger, and—I fight the twitch at the corner of my mouth—a well-loved copy of The Dark Knight Returns.
Spinning, I take it all in again, then again. I’m baffled, unable to move as I try to reconcile the rest of the house with his bedroom suite, or better yet, the quiet congressman with this splash of nerd.
It takes another several seconds of pondering, of standing there slack-jawed before the rumble of my empty stomach reminds me I missed my coveted Frosted Flakes.
I pad into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and finger-brush my hair.
I don’t have an abundance of products like I did in the other room downstairs, but Edmond gave me a toothbrush last night, and I brush out the sour graveyard in my mouth.
The silence is deafening, and I recall the week’s worth of mornings I brushed my teeth with chattering girls in the communal bathroom at EV.
My heart pinches—I hope they are okay. I was one of the first auctioned off last night, so I’m unsure how many were bid on, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I want to go back.
To know if they’re okay, or as okay as they can be.
Edmond mentioned the guest room was taken, so Slade had to have bid on someone else. Is she okay?
It tortures me. Why me? Why did Slade come last night?
He didn’t have to, and he doesn’t owe me anything.
But if he hadn’t—if Bishop had his way—there wouldn’t be much of me left to save.
The thought makes me nauseous. I’m not sure what’s worse: what almost happened, or that a man like Slade DuPont is the reason it didn’t.
My stomach twists, then rumbles a second later, loud enough to make me wince at myself in the mirror.
I lift my T-shirt. My ribs jut with every breath, the skin stretched thin and ghost-pale—lighter than it’s ever been.
I run a hand down my side, fingertips grazing bone, and try to remember the last time I ate something and felt full.
Surely the congressman doesn’t want me wandering around, but Edmond seems accommodating enough for both of them.
So, after exiting the bathroom, I ease the bedroom door open, gently turning and then wincing at the soft click of the latch.
The house is still and quiet. There isn’t a clock in Slade’s room, and I have no idea what time it is, but I slink down the hallway.
It’s like a mezzanine-type ledge between the second-floor suite and the stairway leading down into the rest of the lake house.
Dawn spills over the lake, and I pause midway down the steps to appreciate the pale light seeping in through the window wall. Long streams of early morning light paint the steps as I break them apart with each creep of my bare feet.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, I glance down the hallway—nothing.
The same goes for the living room and dining room.
I don’t normally wander where I’m not supposed to, but I tiptoe down the hallway I know houses the first guest room I stayed in.
With the door shut, I stand there a moment contemplating whether I should barge in or let her sleep—which is probably what she’d appreciate, and what I should be doing.
There’s a cracked door at the end of the hall, and I drag my feet over the smooth wood to peek through the crack.
I can’t see much, and I don’t dare open the door, but it looks like an office.
Bookshelves, cold and bland compared to the ones upstairs, encase the one wall I can see, and on the floor is a tiny cot, blankets crumpled up in a pile. This must be his home office, then?
I blink, pulling my head back to refocus.
Why would he give me his room and sleep on a cot in his office when he’s got a king bed upstairs more comfortable than fluffy sun-warmed sand?
He already saved me from Bishop’s house, though I’m still unsure why.
The couch would’ve been fine, and I’d even psyched myself up for it.
I’d have slept on a cold bench outside to get out of the Bishop situation.
The faint murmur of words, low enough to blur into more like a hum, floats down the hall, and I dart away from the door to hunt the sounds coming from the kitchen. As I get closer, I realize it’s the sound of a TV switched on, but push through the door anyway.
Stefan stands at the island, prepping and chopping like I’d never left. If it weren’t for the purple bandana shoved into his hairline instead of the red from last night, I’d assume he stayed over. He looks up and rolls his eyes but continues chopping. “Oh, hell … Morning.”
“Uh, good morning.” He’s rude.
“Need something?”
Ha. Yes. To go home. Leave this house. EV. Probably the state of Illinois at the rate they’d send people after me. “Do you know the time?”
He snorts. “The time?” He gestures to an iron clock on the wall above the built-in banquette, which wraps around a round table with cozy bay windows surrounding either side.
It’s 6:15 a.m. I really wish I’d slept longer.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” I pad farther into the kitchen, hovering on the other side of the island. Stefan slices an onion. “What are you making?”
I jolt at the clatter of the knife as he smacks it down and sighs. “Slade wants French onion soup for dinner tonight.”
I’m not sure why the knowledge of Slade requesting soup for dinner makes me smile, but it does. Perhaps it humanizes him, like his collection of comics softens him, because the man clearly still believes in heroes, right?
Stefan spreads his arms out, resting a hand on either side of the cutting board, and studies me. His gaze roams the plain T-shirt hanging down over my thighs, and I cringe thinking about wandering the house in Slade’s shirt like I own the place. It’s better than that gaudy gold outfit, though.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
Good question. I’d like the answer, too.
I muster a shrug instead. “Kind of hungry.”
He harrumphs but moves to the sink to wash his hands. “How about I make something?”
“Frosted Flakes are fine. I never did get to eat them.”
He blinks and shakes his head. “I know. Edmond returned them to the kitchen last night saying you’d fallen asleep. And when I’m here in the mornings, you eat a real breakfast. How about an omelet?”
An omelet—
“Cheddar cheese and bacon sound good?”