Chapter 6

Sara staresat the remaining boxes in her living room, a mug of chai tea cradled in her hands. Her finger taps against the ceramic, a rhythmic reminder of each second she wastes procrastinating instead of just getting started already. It's already past noon, the tea in her hands is the third that morning and already more warm than hot.

She takes another sip; breathes a promise against the rim. The boxes can wait a few more minutes, but her tea is cooling (and she'd hate to waste it).

Leaning against the kitchen counter, she tries to imagine how different it will look—how it will feel—once her treasures fill the space. She's glad Jen stayed long enough that morning to at least get her room looking in order. The bed's still on the floor, but at least there's sheets and a quilt tucked around the mattress, Oma's crocheted blankets folded neatly at the foot. In the closet, her clothes hang neatly from their bargain store hangers; the pine dresser she (permanently) borrowed from her childhood bedroom is lined with everything else. They even reused one of the plastic milk crates she used to pack clothes as a makeshift nightstand.

It's not much, but it's hers. Somehow that brings equal amounts of pain and pleasure. Mine, her heart whispers, one traitorous second before reminding her, but it was supposed to be theirs.

Sara flinches, forcing a shaky sigh from her lungs. It would be easy to crawl into bed, to throw the covers over her head and spend the rest of the day letting out all the tears she's been holding back, but she won't. She can't. If she falls apart now, she's not sure how long it will take to piece herself back together. Her life is strewn across the living room, unlabeled boxes staring up at her like headstones—the items inside begging to be brought back out into the light. If she doesn't do it now, before classes start, Sara knows it will take her five times longer to get it all sorted.

Movement from the living room catches her eye—Ansel sniffs one of the boxes cautiously, his lithe body taunt and his ears pinned back. He's been weaving through the mess like it's his own personal labyrinth, exploring between the niches and scaling up the sides. Last night, she overheard him knock something over, but still hasn't been able to figure out what. She takes some comfort in the fact that the sound was more of a thud than a shatter.

He gives a trilling mewl, jumping up onto a stack of boxes, tail swishing. Sara smiles, pushing herself off the counter to close the distance between them. "Enjoy it while it lasts, buddy," she says, scratching under his chin. "We need to get through at least half of these today, so no dilly dallying, alright?"

Ansel answers with a purr, his back arching as he pushes his head more firmly into her hand. Sara laughs under her breath. Living here won't be what she imagined when she signed for the apartment three months ago, but at least she won't be alone. She should text a picture of the both of them to Oma; it would make her smile. Sara owes her that and more.

She pivots, intending to grab her phone, but freezes mid-turn.

There's a man in her apartment.

A shadow of pale skin and charcoal finery. Hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes survey the mess with a casual grace that is in direct opposition of the terror seizing her heart. "My, quite a bit of work to do, hm?"

Sara can barely hear him over the drumming pulse in her ears, numb panic twisting into fear. Her eyes dart, searching for something to defend herself with, but she has nothing. Anything she could possibly use as a weapon—her kitchen knives, the expired pepper spray she never managed to shove back in her purse—all of it is still packed away in the sea of boxes littering her living room. The only thing in reach is the mug in her hand and, in a panic, she throws it at him—tea and all.

He dodges it easily; liquid splattering on the floor and the ceramic shattering against the kitchen cabinets—pieces raining down like sharp-edged confetti.

Frowning, he pins her with a reproachful glare. "Honestly, I grant you a miracle and your response is to attack me with stale tea?" He tsks. "Incredibly rude, even for an American."

In her chest, Sara feels her heart skip a beat as realization dawns. "You—you're that guy!" She had written him off as a bad dream—a figment of a man born from exhaustion and gut-wrenching worry in her darkest of moments. To see him, standing in her kitchen, is almost as horrifying as the realization that she hadn't just imagined him.

"That guy?" he echoes, voice flirting the line between amused and offended. "Of all the ungrateful—"

"Have you been stalking me?!" Her gaze flits over the room, but there's no open windows, and she knows she locked the front door after Jen left. "How did you get in here?"

His lips tilt, a shadow of laughter dancing across his eyes. "Stalking? My, someone thinks highly of themselves, but no. I said I would leave you be for a time, and I was nothing if not true to my word. As for getting in," he waves a flippant hand, "I wished it, so it was."

"What does that even—"

"You're welcome," he cuts in, fingers curled under his chin, "by the way. Since you seem to have forgotten yourself in all this excitement, I will assume your gratitude is implied. But, please, feel free to thank me. I do love validation."

"Thank you!?" she repeats, temper rising. The sarcasm is thick, dripping from each syllable like tar. It is impossible for him to misunderstand her.

He tips his chin, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he gives a mocking bow. "You're most welcome."

"He doesn't remember me!" she hisses, fury overriding the fear.

His eyes darken, lips twisting into something teetering the impossible line between feral and composed. "Well, I certainly didn't hear you making any specific requests for otherwise."

She gapes at him. There is something strange about the way he moves, the way he speaks. Goosebumps dot her flesh, a warning ringing in her skull that something isn't right. Sara sucks in a breath, drawing courage into her lungs and willing her voice not to tremble. "I don't know why you're here, but get out."

He tilts his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Tell me, is it that you didn't understand the terms or that you've forgotten them?"

"Terms? What are you—"

"A life for a soul. A soul for a life." His eyes are feral. "You're mine, Sara."

Her stomach drops, the blood draining from her face as she remembers her last words to him.

Fine. It's a deal.

Her vision swims, her hand reaching out to steady herself against one of the boxes. The air she's dragging into her lungs in rapid gasps feels thin. "I, wait, no. I didn't—I thought you were just a crazy person!"

"Again, terribly rude. Also, not at all my problem." He pushes himself away from the counter's edge, stalking closer. Sara backs away, pulse hammering so loudly in her ears it's a small miracle she can hear his words. "A deal is a deal, after all."

She takes a step back, then another, and another. He matches each and every one. A glance shows only one escape—the narrow pathway between the countertops and her boxes—but she doesn't dare waste it. She turns on the ball of her foot with every intention of getting the hell away, but she doesn't make it out of the kitchen.

Her slippered heel catches pieces of broken ceramic, sliding her foot from underneath her with a screech against the tile. She throws her weight, tries to regain her balance, but it's too late. She's falling, the ceiling staring up at her in mocking indifference. A crack, a burst of pain, and things go black.

When she wakes,the first thing she notices is the throbbing pain in the back of her skull. She groans, shifting, and finds that her spine doesn't feel much better. Opening her eyes, her ceiling stares back at her—pristine white with the beginnings of a cobweb in the corner.

"Ah, sleeping beauty awakens."

It takes her pain-fogged brain a second to recognize there's someone else in her apartment, and another two before remembering there shouldn't be. She scrambles up, vision swimming and hands grasping at the counter for support. It doesn't take her long to find him. He's lounging in Oma's floral wingback, his long legs draped over the arm and her traitor of a cat purring in his lap.

His fingers scratch behind Ansel's ear—his eyes dark and fixed entirely on her. "We were wondering when you'd join us."

Ansel gives a trilling meow before jumping from the stranger's lap and padding over to his rightful owner. He gives a mewled grunt as Sara hastily scoops him up, cradling him protectively against her chest. "Get out."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do believe we've already danced that dance. Now, why don't you get that distracting bit of cereal out of your hair and we can have ourselves a civilized conversation." His gaze drops, head tilting as he adds, "But first, perhaps take care of that nasty little cut before you bleed all over the carpet."

Sara chances a glance. The bare skin of her right knee is covered in blood; punctured by one of the ceramic shards littering her floor. Now that she sees the proof of it trailing down her calf, her brain registers the pain. She's none the happier for it. "Seriously. Get out. I want nothing to do with you. I don't care about whatever deal you think we made, but—"

He groans, hand dragging down in his face. "You really are the slow sort, aren't you? Very well. Let's speed things up, shall we?" He raises his hands, snaps his fingers with a level of exaggerated drama that would make her theatre friends jealous.

And he's gone.

Blinked out like a bulb.

Her breath comes faster, vision swimming. She grasps for the stack of boxes to her right, her knees weak. It's impossible. She can't—no—she couldn't have imagined him. There's no way—

She blinks, and in the space between one breath and the next, he appears a mere foot away from her face.

Her heart stops.

He smirks. "Are we beginning to understand now? Or would you like a repeat performance?"