Page 4 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

My gaze stops on the big mirror and a groan escapes my lips. I look like shit. No, really. I’m paler than ever, my long white hair looks like a bird has made its nest in it, and under my pale blue eyes are bags darker than a black hole.

I used to have brown hair—I think. I don’t have any pictures from before , but I’m pretty sure I remember playing with it in the back of that car and wrapping the brown strands around my finger so tight it would turn the tip white.

At least, that’s if you trust my childhood memories, which, I quickly learned, no one does.

In any case, my hair is now as white as snow.

Never mind that I’m only twenty-four. I tell people I bleach it to make things easier when, in truth, I’d love to look a little more alive than I do, but the dyes I use never last more than a week.

My pale eyes don’t help with the overall look, honestly.

At least I’m pretty sure those didn’t change because of him.

After all, who ever heard of eyes changing colour?

I try to smooth my hair down now but curse when my hand touches a bump on the back of my head, awakening a sharp pain that has my heart going wild.

He clearly wasn’t lying about that concussion.

Deciding there’s nothing I can do about that right now, I go back to my snooping.

The big walk-in shower has many heads that must send people to heaven and a little stone bench on one side that I hadn’t noticed at first. I’m not sure why one would need such a thing.

Right outside the shower there’s a wooden ladder that doubles as a towel rack and next to it a stool, on top of which are a thick, clean towel and clothes.

Are they for me? I check them further and discover a big white shirt and grey sweatpants.

I feel uncertain for a second but realise that I prefer stealing clothes that may not have been put out for me to going out there with dirty, rumpled clothes and the worst case of bad hair day I’ve seen in a while.

Anticipation runs through me as I eye the many shower heads longingly.

I just have to figure out how they work.

Once my old clothes are in a tidy pile on the floor, I enter the shower as I would a mysterious, heavenly lagoon in which a big-ass water monster could come at me at any second.

I try not to look at the streets below; I’m almost certain no one can see me, but it’s still rather unnerving.

One water jet nearly takes my eye out before I manage to have a somewhat normal shower.

The no-nonsense shampoo I find in an alcove stings like a bitch against my wound, but I power through, knowing there’s no better feeling than a clean head.

I take my time, enjoying the jets against my back, and then the feeling of the fluffy towel wrapped around me. I even enjoy the soft fabric of the clothes I put on. I refuse to think of them as Nathan’s, it’s too weird. But they’re clearly of a higher standard than the ones I buy in charity shops.

I find a hairdryer under the sink, the only item in the drawer.

I feel like I’m in a hotel. A fancy one, mind you, but a hotel nonetheless.

It’s all too neat, too clean, without any personal belongings.

Maybe he just moved here, or it’s a secondary house for when he’s in town for business.

That would make sense; he looks like he could be a fancy lawyer or some kind of financial businessman with a job title no one ever understands.

After making the bed, there is literally nothing else for me to stall with. Taking a steadying breath, I open the bedroom door fully and enter the rest of the flat.

I stop short, unable to take it all in.

It’s huge . The bay of windows that was in the bedroom keeps going, and the entire wall of the living room shows off the roofs of London. There’s no one above us.

In the centre of the room, an enormous L-shaped couch faces a beautiful fireplace with a TV hanging on the wall above. For some reason that shocks me more than the rest. I blame the concussion. In all fairness, a TV above flames doesn’t seem like the smartest idea, but what do I know?

In the far back I notice two closed doors, and on my left is the open kitchen, the space separated only by a breakfast counter and high stools.

Like the rest of the flat, the kitchen seems brand new, like no one’s ever cooked in it. Further to my left is what looks like the front door.

It’s as if I’ve stepped inside a magazine showing off billionaires’ houses. Except on those pages the billionaires are usually standing somewhere in their houses, whereas my kidnapper-slash-saviour is nowhere to be found.

I stand in the middle, not knowing what to do with myself.

Maybe he had to work? Would he leave a complete stranger inside his house unguarded?

I’m about to go back into the bedroom to gather my stuff and leave when the front door opens.

I whirl so hard towards it that I nearly lose my balance in the process. A warm chuckle greets me, and I’m flushing before my eyes even land on him.

When they do, they get stuck.

In the morning sun, I realise that the unflattering lights of The Muddied Waters were not working in his favour.

Simply put, he’s gorgeous. Short dark hair, eyes like black pools that are currently laughing at me, tall frame and broad shoulders.

No number of romance novels could have prepared me for the effects such a man would have on me.

My breath catches when I see the white shirt straining against his clearly ripped torso and the grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

I can’t pretend I’m not wearing his clothes anymore. We’re literally matching. Who has more than one set of identical clothes? Him, apparently.

He’s kicking his shoes off while closing the door behind him with the one hand that isn’t holding anything. Feeling awkward as shit, I wave at him and feel my heart accelerate as he laughs once more while shaking his head.

Way to make the situation less awkward, Liv.

“Hi,” I croak in my effort to be more polite than I was before.

“Hello again. How are you feeling?” His voice is like velvet. There’s a faint accent that I hadn’t noticed before and can’t quite place. It almost distracts me from his question.

“Fine. Well, better.” Looking down at myself, I tell him, “I hope you don’t mind, I found these in the bathroom and really needed a shower.”

“Of course not, I left them out for you yesterday in case you needed them.”

“Thank you.”

Silence stretches on, and he smiles at me before jerking into motion once more.

My gaze zeroes in on the tray of takeout cups he’s holding, hoping there’s caffeine in them and wondering how rude it would be for me to start chugging one down before he offers it to me.

He goes to the counter and starts unloading the bag he’s also been carrying.

“The healer said you needed food, but I didn’t have any here, so I went out and got a few things. I hope there’ll be something you like.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck, looking self-conscious. “At least I knew to get a mocha.” He flashes me a hopeful smile and I melt.

Literally.

For a second my legs don’t hold me up any longer and I have to catch the back of the couch to prevent myself from crashing in front of this man once more.

I blame the concussion. Again.

When I regain my composure, if not my pride, I see that he’s standing impossibly close to me, arms outstretched.

He was ready to save me again. This dynamic between us needs to change. I’m not in the habit of having people rescue me.

“Coffee!” I blurt. “Coffee would be grand. Thank you.”

He frowns. “That’s not coffee, I got a mocha since you said that was your favourite.”

“Mocha is coffee. Coffee with a shot of heavenly goodness in it.” I smile at him, and he relaxes. I walk towards the counter, glad to have something to focus on instead of my increasingly embarrassing existence.