Levi still isn’t saying anything, but Rory holds up his hands. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Your Highness,” he says, in that same kind of half-joking, half-serious way he’s been talking since I met him. He does a little bow that makes me want to kick him in the balls, but even that comes off as kind of charming, the asshole.
“Why were you in my room in the first place?” I press my lips together, folding my arms and glaring at him.
“I just came up to ask what kind of stuff you want for the kitchen,” he answers. “Since you’ll probably be here for a while, I figured I’d make sure you have some things you like. You know, snacks, coffee, tea, that sort of stuff?”
I open my mouth and then close it, taken aback by that explanation. He’s actually trying to do something nice for me? What the hell?
It throws me off balance because I wasn’t expecting it. Last night, I would have said for sure that they intended to make me eat whatever they wanted me to eat, holding over my head that I was lucky they hadn’t killed me and my dad or whatever, basically like Sloan did just a few minutes ago.
But Rory’s standing there looking honest and earnest, as if he actually wants to know what kind of food I’d like in the house. I’m not sure what to do with that, so I fall back on old habits and give him a flippant answer.
“Sure. Let me give you a list.”
He gestures me to the white board that’s stuck to one of the doors of the double sided fridge, and
I take the marker and start to write whatever comes to mind. Random shit that I’ve seen in weird stores or heard about from watching cooking shows when nothing else is on.
Matcha, goat jerky, gochujang, finger limes, frogs legs, pickled peppers, spam, frozen calamari.
I add more random condiments and then step back to look at Rory, almost daring him to complain about the list.
He just laughs like he always does, his green eyes glittering. “You’re so weird,” he says, but he’s grinning even as he speaks.
I don’t like it. I especially don’t like the way his expression warms a little as he looks at me.
Even with me throwing shit at him and giving him a hard time, he still looks at me like he wants to devour me, and I don’t know how to deal with that.
I hate living here. I hate this whole situation.
I hate him.
It would be so much easier to do that if he hated me back.
6
Later that day, I’m in my room with the door closed. I’d never admit that I’m hiding, but well… I’m kind of hiding.
I don’t know what to do with these guys or how to act around them, so I figure it’s better if I keep some distance between me and them until I can figure out a plan or something.
I dig around in the pocket of my jeans from last night and find my phone, pulling it out so I can text my dad and make sure he’s okay. I should have done it earlier, but the stand-off in the kitchen distracted me. I’m also not entirely sure I’m allowed to be in contact with him while he does whatever “favor” the Black Roses are demanding of him. But no one has explicitly told me not to, so I figure I’ll just do what I want to until someone tells me otherwise.
I fire off a quick text asking how he’s doing and if there’s anything I can do to help him, then sit cross legged on the bed, waiting for a reply. It comes back after a few minutes, short and to the point.
DAD: I’m fine. I’ll get this done as fast as I can and get you out of there, but I’ll probably be unreachable for a while. Love you, kiddo. I’m so fucking sorry.
My lips curl into a grimace as I read his message several times. I wish I could do more for him, but I’m glad to know he’s still alive. The Black Roses have kept their word about that so far. It’s something, at least.
Fuck, I wish I could hear Dad’s voice and have him hug me and tell me everything’s going to be all right. But since there’s no way that’s gonna happen, I do the next best thing and call Scarlett.
She answers on the second ring, her voice shockingly light and happy. “Hey! How’s it going?”
She doesn’t know any of what went down last night, so she has no idea how dramatically my life has changed in the past twenty-four hours. She probably thinks I’m calling to see if she wants to go get a burger or something.
I fucking wish.
“Not good.” I don’t bother sugar coating things or beating around the bush. We’ve known each other too long and have seen each other through too much bullshit for that. “I’ve got a story for you. Are you sitting down?”
“Oh, shit. Let me go to my room.” I can hear her moving through her apartment and then settling on her bed. “Okay, I’m sitting. Go.”