Page 9 of Die for You (Diamond Devils #4)

Aurora

Those motherfuckers are spying on me. When I joked about them becoming my bodyguards, I didn’t think literal stalking and nonconsensual surveillance were part of the job description.

I sing to myself in the bathroom while dressing. Last night, I examined every inch of this bathroom for a camera or a hidden microphone, but at least it seems like they had the decency to give me some amount of privacy in my own home.

You’ve got a beautiful voice, angel.

As much as I hate to admit it, the praise from Knox and Damien yesterday warmed something cold and lifeless inside my chest. Not that I would ever confess that to them. I will take that small truth to my grave.

When I leave the bathroom for the kitchen, a clatter stops me dead in my tracks.

What the fuck ?

Someone is in my fucking apartment.

I retreat back into the bathroom, pulse thumping in my throat. Of course my fucking phone is in the kitchen. What the hell can I use as a weapon? Stab him in the eye with a toothbrush? Will mouthwash to the corneas distract him long enough that I can escape from the apartment?

Crouching, I dig in the chaotic mess under my sink as quietly as I can until I unearth the hairdryer that shit out on me a few days ago. Better than mouthwash, I suppose. At least I’ll have something to swing at that motherfucker’s head.

With every silent step I take down the hall, the clatter continues. What the hell are they looking for? Soon, soft humming starts to break through over the noise.

The intruder in my apartment is humming ? While breaking and entering to steal my shit? Oh my god .

What the fuck kind of burglar?—

Before I round the corner into the kitchen, the scent of fresh, buttery pancakes and sweet maple syrup hits me.

Knox beams when he spots me, spatula in the air and a smear of flour across his forehead. “Hey! I made your favorite. Chocolate chip pancakes.”

A twisted sense of relief relaxes my shoulders that it isn’t Jeremiah. But I don’t lower the hairdryer from above my shoulder. Knox Rockefeller broke into my home. He’s clearly as unhinged as I assumed. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

“Making you breakfast.” His smile doesn’t falter.

This has to be a fucking joke. “You broke into my apartment to make me pancakes ?”

“To make us pancakes. I’m going to clear out at least six of these.” He nods to the stack beside him before he flashes an amused smile at my makeshift weapon like it’s a kitten. “Were you planning to murder me with a hairdryer?”

Finally, I lower my weapon. But I don’t drop it. Just in case. “I had already envisioned five different ways to kill you.”

“You’ll have to share the gory details with me while we eat.” He grabs our plates and carries them to the table like he lives here. “Take a seat.”

“Don’t act like you’re the host in my home.

” Still, I take the seat among the assortment of chairs I managed to pluck out from a couple of yard sales.

My mouth waters at the syrup dripping off the sides of that stack of pancakes.

I grit my teeth. He obviously learned about my food preferences while monitoring me against my will.

“And don’t ever break into my apartment again. ”

“Give me a key and I won’t have to break in.”

I glower at him, but he doesn’t notice. Already too engrossed in his stack of fluffy, golden-brown confections to feel the weight of my glare. Or maybe he’s actively choosing to ignore it. “Why are you here?”

A line forms between his brows. “Rory, we literally just discussed this. I’m here to make you pancakes. Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”

I roll my eyes at his mock concern and that nickname no one has ever called me in my life. “Why would you break in to make me breakfast? Haven’t you ever heard of knocking like a normal person?”

“Because you wouldn’t have let me in if I’d knocked.”

True. “Maybe that should be your clue that you’re not welcome.”

“You’re telling me you aren’t happy that someone made you breakfast this morning?” He lifts a cocky brow.

I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me. Of course it’s nice to eat a meal I didn’t have to make for myself for once. To wake up and not have to rush through coffee and breakfast and still be late to class. But I can’t admit that to the literal intruder in my home.

“I liked listening to you sing. While you were getting ready.” He’s grinning at me again. Why can’t this guy ever stop smiling ? It’s unnerving. And does weird things to my stomach that it definitely shouldn’t. “Maybe you can serenade me when I drive us to campus.”

“Absolutely not.” My teeth clench. I can’t believe he overheard me singing. Again. “And I’m not getting in a car with you.”

Knox pouts, lower lip puffing out. “Why not? You have a great voice. I could listen to it all day.”

My cheeks warm, and I hope he doesn’t notice the blush.

Jeremiah complained every time I sang around him.

Music is like my second language—my hands itch to play in every quiet moment, and I sing without realizing I’m doing it.

Until Jeremiah would snap at me to shut the fuck up because he had a headache and no one was paying me to hear my voice.

I could never do anything right, so I learned to stay quiet.

“Jeremiah didn’t like my voice.”

For the first time this morning, the smile disappears from Knox’s face. “Then he’s full of shit.”

I bite back a smug smirk. No one ever said a bad word about Jeremiah when we were together.

He was surrounded by sycophants who hoped a bit of his fame would rub off on them.

They’d do or say whatever they needed to to stay in his circle.

It made me feel like I was the crazy one for being the only person in his orbit who grew to hate him.

In the silence that falls between us, I slather my pancakes in butter.

Other than being roped into joining the Devils at the dining hall, I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal with someone.

Even when Jeremiah and I were still together, he usually ate in front of the TV or out with his friends.

Knox watches with a glint in his eye as I cut into the stack. The first fluffy, sugary bite has barely brushed my tongue when he blurts, “How is it?”

“Good.” Honestly, they’re the best damn pancakes I’ve ever had, but if I admit that, he might take it as a green light to keep breaking into my apartment.

“Awesome!” He stuffs a bite into his mouth.

What is with this guy? I’ve never met someone like him. So easygoing, so relaxed, so... happy . I’m caught somewhere between finding it endearing and irritating.

He’s gorgeous, athletic, popular. Some people really get everything, and the rest of us are left with scraps.

“Have you ever had a bad day?”

He lets out a short, surprised laugh. “Why do you ask that?”

“You’re too happy.” I cut another chunk of my pancake stack.

“Let me guess: Your parents are still happily married, you spent your childhood frolicking through flower fields with lots of friends, you grew up with enough money to think that owning a giant house and three sports cars is normal, and you’ve never known an enemy.

You traveled internationally on big family vacations, you had nice, sweet girlfriends all through high school, and you got good grades and played sports.

You’re attractive, so you got lucky there too.

People will be nicer to you, and they’ll cut you slack that they won’t for people who aren’t conventionally attractive.

Life has been good to you, so what’s there to be unhappy about? ”

Silence falls between us. For once, Knox doesn’t have anything to say. Somehow, he’s still smiling, though. A smaller smile, but it’s there.

He folds his arms on the table in front of him and leans closer. “You’re right: my parents are still happily married, I had a lot of friends growing up, and a lot of girlfriends. I got good grades and I played sports. And I’m attractive as hell.”

I roll my eyes and open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

“But you’re wrong too. I’ve got three older brothers who ate a lot and played sports and broke a few bones, so we didn’t have much to spare by the time I showed up.

I was the oops-baby my parents couldn’t afford.

But we got by. We didn’t go on vacations, I didn’t frolic through flower fields, and I’ve had plenty of enemies.

My ex is one of them. I spent too many years being miserable with the wrong person. So I try to live the opposite way now.”

So this is how you make a complete ass of yourself. I should teach a class. I can’t believe I got him so wrong. “Why were you miserable with her?”

His shoulders stiffen, smile slipping away now and gaze dropping to the table.

When his throat bobs, I know he wasn’t kidding.

Whatever that girl did to him, she left her mark.

“She was always trying to control me. She didn’t like me going anywhere without her.

Always wanted to know where I was, who I was with.

She hit me when she didn’t like what I had to say, even if it was just to tell her how much she was hurting me. ”

My chest squeezes. Fuck, that sounds way too familiar.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” Part of me wants to reach out and squeeze his hand.

Do something to reassure him. To thank him for being willing to share that with me.

But then I remember he literally broke into my apartment, and I keep my hands to myself. “I can relate.”

Jeremiah never got physical with me. At least, not in such obvious ways.

He’d grip my arm too tight, wrap his arms around me to restrain me, but he never hit me.

He punched around me—walls, tables, doors.

But that was enough. Enough to set me on edge and know, deep in my gut, that I was never truly safe with him.

The threat was always there, like an undercurrent beneath my feet.

A constant, terrifying promise to drag me out to sea.