It’s because I don’t fear death. If anything, I continue to crave it.
What frightens me is the loss of those I care about. That’s the true taunt of the nightly demons. I’m constantly reminded I still have so much to lose. That this freedom is only a mirage.
I shudder out a shaky breath and wipe my hands down my face.
I hate this.
Every day starts with horror, and every night begins with dread. There’s no escape.
I’ve been safe for days now, cocooned in the protection of Luca’s inner suburban home in Portland.
I suck in a deep breath, forcing calm, and let it out slowly. Sunlight bathes the room, letting me know it’s morning and I no longer need to battle for rest.
Because that’s all I’ve been doing. Battling.
I fight to pretend I’m doing okay. I scramble to create some kind of normalcy in a world entirely unfamiliar to me. It’s like I’ve been thrown into a melee of mental torment. My thoughts are my shackles now. This head of mine is a prison.
I never imagined freedom would be like this.
Painful.
Suffocating.
Now I know better.
I slide from the bed, drag my feet to the adjoining bathroom to take a shower, then dress and make my way through the house.
The hall is exactly like it was in my dream. Shadowed and empty. The living room is a carbon copy, too, those French doors tormenting me from my peripheral vision.
I attempt to distract myself by pulling pans from drawers and food from the fridge, like I have every morning since I’ve been in this sanctuary.
I cook. I eat. I clean.
And when Luca walks into the open living area, his hair mussed from sleep, his hazel eyes lazily blinking, I breathe a sigh of relief at the visual confirmation that my nightmare was nothing more than a cruel joke of my subconscious.
There’s no suit this time. Only a black T-shirt and stone-washed jeans, the casual attire suiting him perfectly.
“Morning.” He rakes a hand over his skull and winces when his fingers brush the slowly healing injury above his ear. He’d been shot while saving me, the bullet grazing his head, and there’s not a moment when I’m not entirely aware of what he could’ve lost.
“Morning.” I turn to the far wall of the kitchen and flick on the coffee machine. “I only finished cooking breakfast a little while ago. Your omelet should still be warm, but you might want to give it a few seconds in the microwave.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
There’s the slide of a plate behind me. The clink of cutlery. Then the low grumble of a man who appreciates a home-cooked meal. “This is good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I pull two mugs from a head-high cupboard. “Strong coffee this morning?”
“Always.”
I press buttons on the coffee machine, the tingle of his attention resting at the back of my neck as the sweet gurgle of liquid heaven fills the silence.
“What are your plans for today?” he asks.
I stiffen, hating this rerun conversation. “The same as yesterday, I guess.”
“You should go out. Get some fresh air. We could even catch a movie.”
I shake my head and pull the filled mugs from the machine. “Not today.”
As much as it pains me to trap him here when he refuses to leave the house without me, I’m simply not ready to face the outside world. I don’t want to be in the open, waiting to be found. Not by the police, my family, or Luther Torian’s men. Right here is where I want to stay until I can figure out an alternative.
“You should leave, though.” I turn and slide his mug toward him, seated at the opposite side of the island counter. “I can stay on my own.”
He forks a mouthful of egg into his mouth, his reprimanding eyes holding mine as he chews. “No.”
“You’ve shown me how safe the house is.” The security system is state of the art. Video cameras. Door and window alarms.
“I’m not leaving you.” His tone is final. Lethal. I wish I wasn’t comforted by his stringent protection. “If you’re adamant about staying, at least let me set up the phone so you can call your friends. You haven’t spoken to them since Greece.”
I disguise the pang of guilt with a fake smile. “Not today. They need more time to focus on getting their story straight so they can return home.”
“Penny.” My name is a warning. A barely growled admonishment as his jaw ticks.