Chapter 7 Intruder
‘The dishes are done. Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll head off now. I’ll pay you back when I’ve got the money.’
I looked over at her clothes, hung beside the dryer. ‘They’re clean. Ironed. Take them.’
She blinked. Her voice cracked when she mumbled another thank-you and came closer to grab them.
Then she changed in the living room.
When I stepped out, she had nothing on.
Pale from neck to ankle, ribs showing. Skin so thin it looked almost blue in the light.
Her limbs were all angles, her spine too prominent.
I looked away.
I’d grown up in a house where weakness got you punished, not pitied.
I didn’t think I had softness left in me.
But watching her like that—exposed, trying to pretend she wasn’t—I felt it anyway.
She changed quickly and turned around, fully dressed, hair still damp.
I handed her five hundred euros.
She held up her hands, panicking. ‘I can’t take that—’
I didn’t let her finish. ‘You can. Pay me back later.’
She took it, clutching it tight, then gave me this nervous little smile like she thought she owed me more than money.
I hated that look.
‘Stop it,’ I snapped. ‘Consider this my one act of kindness a day. It’s got nothing to do with you. And don’t get any ideas. I’m not in the habit of rescuing people.’
Livia smiled again, muttered another thank-you, and left with the bag of medicine.
I watched from the window.
She kept glancing back as she crossed the street.
She’d layered three pieces—one cotton hoodie, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a windbreaker—but none of it held any heat.
Once she stepped out of the warm lobby, her shoulders hunched. Her walk turned stiff. Small frame. Shaky movements.
I shut the window. Went back to my desk.
I expected Dorian to call again.
After the way I’d hung up on him last night, it would’ve been like him to mete out punishment before noon.
But the phone stayed silent.
By mid-December, the only green left on the street came from the olives and the cypress.
The oaks, the beeches, and the chestnuts were all stripped bare.
The avenue outside my building used to be shaded end to end in summer.
Now the branches looked like scaffolding, and sunlight hit the pavement in sharp, clean angles.
I carried two canvas bags from Esselunga, heavy with oranges, rocket, aubergines, chicken thighs, canned chickpeas, vinegar, rice.
Enough to keep me indoors for a week.
I didn’t like the cold. I didn’t like people.
My supervisor was rarely in the country, and most of my work ran through code anyway, so I’d built a machine at home powerful enough to handle the whole project.
Outside, the air smelled like car exhaust and wet stone.
My breath fogged.
The sun wasn’t strong, but it was dry, and it touched the back of my neck.
I walked slower than usual. Not many chances to feel warmth this time of year.
The second I stepped into the flat, I knew someone had been inside.
My grip on the bags tightened.
I said nothing. Just set the groceries down by the door and opened the shoe cabinet.
My indoor slippers were in their usual place.
Next to them sat a pair of men’s leather shoes. Black, size forty-two, polished to a shine.
I ignored them. Switched shoes. Shut the cabinet. Picked up the bags again and walked into the dining room.
A vase sat in the centre of the table. Clear crystal. Expensive.
Inside it were roses. Black-red. Fully open. Dense, almost wet with scent.
The smell hit me straight away. Overripe. Heavy. So sweet they were almost sour.
I set the shopping down and yanked the stems out of the vase. Walked to the sitting room, slid open the balcony door, and flung the flowers out into the street.
They disappeared below.
I shut the door, turned back.
He was already behind me.
Tall. Still. Not moving.
He hadn’t made a sound.
I looked up at him.
His face always caught people off guard—sharp bones, long lashes, deep-set eyes that made him look half-foreign.
But the colour of his eyes made it worse.
Brown, technically, but pale.
Flat. No sheen, no flicker, no softness.
Just a hard surface.
Like stone.
I took half a step back before I forced myself still again.
‘This is my flat. You’re trespassing.’
His eyes dropped to my hand.
I followed his gaze.
Thin lines of blood streaked my palm. They had started dripping down my fingers.
I hadn’t noticed.
He stepped forward.
I backed up instinctively.
His hand clamped around my wrist.
‘Let go,’ I muttered.
He didn’t. His grip wasn’t tight, but it held.
His stare pinned me still more than his hand did.
He pulled me inside and shut the balcony door.
He turned my hand over.
The cuts had gone deeper than I thought.
Red welts, torn skin, darkened edges.
One thorn was still embedded. Maybe two.
‘This is what you get when you throw tantrums. You cut yourself to prove a point.’ His voice made me feel like a five-year-old.
I clenched my jaw and said nothing.
If I opened my mouth, I’d scream.
He tugged me to the sofa and pushed me down to sit.
Then he crouched in front of me and began pulling the thorns out.
I flinched. My fingers curled.
Once he got the last piece out, he lifted my hand and ran his tongue slowly over the blood.
I went rigid.
His mouth was hot.
The scrape of his teeth, the drag of his tongue—he didn’t stop.
He sucked hard around the worst cut.
The skin around it throbbed, stung, then pulsed.
My whole body tensed, hips pressed back into the cushion.
My spine arched and stayed arched.
I yanked at my arm. No use.
‘Stop it,’ I snapped. ‘You’re fucking deranged. Let go. I’ll clean it myself.’