[Kendall]
I’m straightening up and vacuuming inside while Camden cleans out the pool, and I think to myself how domestic we are. The hum of the vacuum fills the room, but underneath, there’s a comfortable stillness-a kind of warmth that echoes the quiet intimacy we share.
Camden usually makes dinner because I’m simply not that good of a cook, but sometimes I bake cookies or cakes. The smell of vanilla and sugar often lingers in the kitchen, mingling with whatever dish he’s prepared. We watch reality television every week, a show that we both like, and we usually fall asleep on the couch those nights.
The weight of his arm draped over me, his warmth against my back, is the last thing I feel before I drift off. If we don’t fall asleep there, we fall asleep after making love, curled into each other, his hand resting possessively on my hip.
It’s been three weeks since Camden mentioned taking me to Dante’s, and about six weeks since we went on the run, and I can’t help but wonder what happens after this.
Right now, it’s almost like we’re a married couple-how we interact with each other, how we live our day-to-day lives.
After we go home, will Camden just leave? Go back to his little apartment and start hooking up with three girls a week? The very idea makes me want to retch. A wave of nausea rises in my throat, sour and unsettling. Of course, lots of things make me want to retch these days.
I haven’t been feeling well these last few days. The stress of being on the run, the sleepless nights, and the constant, gnawing fear are all taking a toll on me. I feel this weight pressing down on my chest, growing heavier by the day. I can’t eat most of the time, and I’m even losing weight, which I’m happy about, but Camden finds concerning.
He mentioned it the last time we made love, his hands gripping my hips as he looked down at where we were joined, his gaze intense and penetrating. He mentioned how I was getting thinner, and I teased him, asked him if he liked me better this way. He just frowned and shook his head. I guess Camden’s the kind of guy that likes curves. Lucky me.
Camden’s been obsessed with finding Marco lately, on the phone all hours of the night. His voice, low and intense, drifts through the walls like an unsettling hum, a reminder that we’re not safe yet. I know that this situation can’t last forever, but god, I wish at least our little bubble would.
I…I’m in love with him, wholly and irrevocably, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m falling deeper each and every day, and I can’t help myself, I know it’s kinda impossiblewrong even but I don’t care anymore.
Camden walks inside, stripping out of his trunks with a grimace. “Full of algae,” he says, wiping a streak of green from his arm. “I need to get some more of that chlorine. It’s time for a supply run, anyway.”
I look him up and down as he stands there naked, droplets of water clinging to his skin, the sun from the window casting shadows across the muscles of his chest. “I’ll join you in the shower,” I tell him happily, but Camden shakes his head, chuckling.
“Not now, baby. I’m covered in gross pool gunk. I’ll get the supplies, just make me a list.”
I pout, crossing my arms. “I’m not going with you?”
“Not this time. I’m meeting up with someone who might have some info about Marco, and I don’t want him to know you’re with me.”
I nod slowly, still pouting but realizing that it’s important. It’s not that I don’t want Marco to be found and taken care of. The thought of him finding us, of his cold, empty eyes locking onto mine, makes my skin prickle and my heart pound. I want him gone as much as Camden does.
I just know that when he is, all this will be over. Every wonderful day that I have with Camden now will just be a passing memory, and that scares me.
I finish cleaning while he’s in the shower, the steam filling the bathroom and wafting into the hallway, carrying the faint scent of his body wash-a mix of cedar and mint that makes my head spin. I’m washing up the dishes, the warm water soothing against my hands, when he comes up behind me and kisses the side of my face, his lips lingering.
“I’ll be back in an hour and a half, tops,” he says, and I nod, turning to kiss him. It’s quick and almost chaste.
He drives away, the rumble of the engine fading into the distance, and I sigh, looking around the small house. The silence feels different now, heavier. I’ve done all I can do inside, and the emptiness gnaws at me, making me restless. I close the sliding door to the terrace and the pool and draw the curtains, planning to nap on the couch, but something keeps me awake.
Maybe it’s the thought of going back to the way things were before we went on the run, or the unsettled feeling in my stomach that’s been there for days, but I toss and turn on the couch, unable to drift off. My mind races, thoughts spiraling in a tangled web of fear, love, and uncertainty.
I finally get up and walk to the linen closet to find a better pillow or maybe a softer blanket, thinking that might be the reason that I can’t sleep. I’m standing in the open closet doorway when I hear something.
It isn’t much, just a creak, a small sound like someone stepping on the floorboards out on the porch, but I stiffen nonetheless. My pulse quickens, thudding loudly in my ears, and a chill sweeps down my spine.
It could just be Camden coming back, but somehow, a sense of dread settles over me, cold and unshakable. Then I hear the door open, and just out of instinct, I walk into the closet, slowly shutting the door. My hand trembles as I grip the doorknob, holding it tightly, trying to steady my breaths.
I wait for Camden to call out, to say, -I’m back, principessa,-.
But there’s only silence, thick and suffocating. A deep, gut-wrenching fear grips me, and I know, suddenly, like a bucket of ice water has dumped on my head, that it’s Marco.
Or maybe not Marco, but one of his men, someone that is out to kill me.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, a frantic, staccato beat that I can’t quiet. I take in deep, slow breaths through my nostrils so that it’s quiet, but my body betrays me, shaking all over.
Footsteps echo down the hall, slow and deliberate, each one making my skin crawl. My fingers dig into the doorknob as I freeze except for the trembling, my heart seizing in my chest. A chill spreads through me, like my blood has turned to ice.
“Where are you, fatty?” someone calls, his voice a twisted, mocking singsong, and I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. Every muscle in my body locks up, and my skin feels too tight, stretched over a rising tide of terror.
I hear a door open and flinch, but it’s not this one. It’s the bedroom door, kicked open with a loud crash that makes my knees weak. I wait with bated breath as the footsteps come closer and closer, each one echoing like a death knell.
For a fleeting moment, I think I might be safe, that he’ll leave, but then the closet door is yanked open. I stumble out into the hall, a scream ripping from my throat as a sharp pain explodes in my shoulder where I’d been holding the doorknob.
“There you are,” he breathes, his voice dripping with twisted satisfaction. My gaze snaps to his eyes, dark brown and void of mercy, peering out from beneath a ski mask. “Gonna have a little fun with you before I take you out.”
Another scream claws its way out of me as I finally find my feet, adrenaline surging through my veins. I sprint toward the back, toward the sliding glass door out onto the terrace, but his hand catches me around the waist, a bruising grip that steals my breath.
“No!”