The Enemy in My Bed by L.K. Shaw

Chapter 11

Mila

I sit,staring out into the lovely backyard I’m not allowed to enter, and watch the sun set. Not that I can actually see it collapsing behind the horizon. But the shadows along the grass are growing, lengthening, and the sky is changing to beautiful shades of orange and red.

I’ve been locked up in this house for two days. Alone. Without a single visit from Death. Not since my confession. Who knows what his response would have been, if anything, if we hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of a delivery boy with a week’s supply of already prepared food. Apparently I can’t be trusted with cookware. Whoever made the meals had been kind enough to include plastic utensils.

Death had given me a brief instruction to put all the meals away, and then he’d left without another word. He hasn’t been back since. I don’t know why I care, either. I should be glad. I’m in a nice house, even if it is a prison, and I have a full belly. Except, I’m…lonely.

There’s a series of beeps from the front door, and I turn my head. It opens and, as though I’ve conjured him, there he is, stepping through it. Death pauses at seeing me on the couch, but then he closes the door behind him and re-engages the security system.

In his hand is a plastic bag. On its side is a name I’ve never heard of before. He strides through the entryway and stops where it opens in to the living room. He looks me over. As always, his expression is unreadable. Blank. Not a single emotion crosses his face.

“I assume you’ve eaten dinner already, but I brought you dessert,” he says, holding up the bag.

Death strides farther into the room and sits in the overstuffed chair, setting the bag on the floor next to him. I have to stifle a smile. He’s so big and muscular, the furniture looks like it belongs to a child. He reaches in and pulls out a small, square styrofoam box and a plastic fork. He holds them out to me.

“The best tiramisu in Brooklyn,” he says.

Gingerly, I take it from him. “What’s tiramisu?” The word feels foreign against my tongue.

He screeches to a halt mid-lean and lays a hand over his chest as though I’ve wounded him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

My cheeks heat, but I shrug as though I could care less. “We don’t have a lot of Italian restaurants in Sheepshead.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” He reaches back into the bag and pulls out another container and fork. “You’re from Sheepshead, then?”

“Mostly.” Which isn’t a lie.

Death rises up to sitting with a brow raise, but doesn’t comment. He gestures toward me with his chin. “Go ahead.”

Warily, I flip open the lid and stare at the off-whitish and brown colored square with a brown powdered top. “What is it?”

“I told you. It’s tiramisu,” he says with a surprising amount of patience. “It’s coffee soaked cookies and some type of creamy stuff topped with cocoa powder. I don’t know any other way to describe it.”

I eye the dessert warily, but finally dip out a forkful and give it a little sniff. Smells good, at least, like the coffee shop we used to walk past on the way home from picking up Anya at school. My gaze darts to Death, who’s waiting expectantly. Here goes nothing. The first taste of it on my tongue, and I’m not sure about this. But within seconds my whole life changes. I quickly swallow that bite and shovel another one in right behind it.

“Oh my god,” I mumble through a mouthful. “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

I inhale the rest of it, finishing the last bite before Death even makes it through half of his. He chuckles, but it doesn’t seem like it comes naturally to him.

“Would you like the rest of mine?” he offers.

For a brief second I hesitate, eyeing his container, but shake my head. “No, I shouldn’t.” I lift my gaze to his. “Thank you for bringing it. It was delicious.”

He dips his head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Why can’t I look away?I manage to shake myself out of this fucked up hold he seems to have over me, which is no doubt his intent, and rush into the kitchen to toss the empty box in the trash. I stand in the middle of the room taking one deep breath after another. I refuse to admit I’m running. From what, I’m even more afraid to admit.

Once I feel like I have myself under control, I head back into the living room. Moments later, Death finally finishes his dessert and discards it in the kitchen as well. He returns to his seat. An uncomfortable silence hovers between us. A question has been niggling in the back of my mind. One I’m afraid to ask for fear of upsetting the tentative peace we occasionally have between us.

There’s nothing else I can do but plow ahead. “Are you ever going to tell me your name? I think it’s only fair since you know mine.”

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds. It’s unnerving the way he stares at me. It’s as though he’s imagining all the ways to hurt me. I can’t keep calling him Death though.

“It’s Pierce,” he finally replies with some reluctance.

I’d expected something like Bruno or Luca. Maybe a Mario or Roberto. He must sense my confusion.

“It was my father’s best friend’s name. He died when they were in middle school. It was his way of honoring their friendship.” Death—Pierce—quickly rises from his seat and moves back into the kitchen like he regrets telling me something so personal.

Before I question my decision, I follow him. He’s leaning against the counter with arms crossed in a deceiving casual stance. There’s so much tension in his body, he isn’t fooling me. It strikes me that it’s not just a pose to intimidate people. It’s also as though it’s armor—a shield—to protect himself.

I mimic his pose at the opposite counter. “That’s a lovely thing for your father to have done. My sister is my best friend. Even though she’s six years younger than me. She was all I had growing up, and I was all she had.”

“Where is she now?” he asks.

I look away and focus my gaze on the floor. My eyes rise up to meet his. “I don’t know.”

Unable to meet his stare any longer, and cursing myself for coming in here, I hurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I arrived. This time, he follows me. My hatred of Mikhail is probably greater than Pierce’s. Despair hits as I accept the fact that Anya is probably lost to me forever. I curl up on the couch and rest my head on my propped arm.

My gaze is unfocused and blurry. “I’ve spent the last six months trying to find her,” I begin. “The last time I heard from her, we fought. She accused me of being overprotective and said that I was smothering her. She said I wasn’t her mother and then she hung up on me.”

“She sounds like my sister was at that age.”

I jerk my head up to meet Pierce’s gaze. How could I have forgotten he was here? His very presence is overwhelming. “Did she grow out of it?”

His cold, blank expression shifts into something different. My gut clenches. It’s because the same expression has crossed my face more times than I can count over the last six months.

Sorrow.

Pain.

“She did. But she paid a high price for it. Too high of one, actually.”

Once again I avert my gaze. Anya is most likely paying a steep price as well. I open my mouth to ask for his help, but close it again. I don’t want this man to be human. To be someone who is real. Who feels things. It’s too easy not to fear him. It’s too easy to hope. Maksim made me hope once, too.

Never again.