Page 37 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

thirty-five

Declan

I shut her door softly and pause on the other side, considering the opportunity that has just fallen into my lap.

Soren Palmer wanted to ruin my public image.

She put herself in my path because something about me is so despicable that she’d go to new lows to try and bring me down with her.

I promised myself that I’d ruin this girl, and now that I’m in her house, there are a thousand ways I could do it.

She’s weak even in her cognizant state, let alone on the verge of darkness in her bed.

I could do anything I wanted to her and there would be nothing she could do about it.

But even I have boundaries, and the thought of trying to take advantage of her mental or physical inebriation doesn’t entice me in the slightest. My vendetta against her wasn’t forged so that I could strangle her in her sleep or cop a feel when she can’t push me away.

I crave her fight. I crave her hand snapping across my face, the hatred that simmers in her eyes before she realizes resisting me is futile.

I want her passion, her rage, her hatred.

I want to take her ugly, her good, her bad, her beautiful.

And I want her to give them all to me grudgingly—every last piece.

While I won’t bother her, I’m not feeling as principled when it comes to her house. She’s defenseless in her room, and now I have the perfect opportunity to get to know her through what I find.

I slip my shoes back on and start by opening cupboards until I find the broom.

The first thing I learned about my beautiful little disaster tonight is that she absolutely has a problem with food.

I noticed the way she eyed the plate I fixed her in the office with disgust. Soren didn’t take even a single bite from it, but I’d assumed that she was repulsed by me, not the takeout.

But when I’d caught Marissa pointing out the plates that had gathered dust and heard her excuse of ordering takeout, I recognized the lie.

In the days I’ve watched her, she hasn’t ordered anything other than coffee at the cafe. She hasn’t stopped anywhere to pick up something, and the only people who have come to her house are Tony, the officer, and her friends.

Only the latter brought food with them.

Her cupboards are neatly organized—a stark contrast to the chaos on her floor.

The finishes of her kitchen are nice—shiny gold handles on stark white cabinets, a tile backsplash so bright I can see my reflection in it, dark stainless-steel appliances.

It looks like the kind of kitchen you’d find in a homes magazine, and the inside of her cabinets reflect the same thing.

Her spices are organized in little glass jars and labeled uniformly.

The pantry—much to my surprise—isn’t bare, like I’d expect from someone who has an eating disorder.

It’s actually full to bursting with all the normal things—cereal and oatmeal, rice and pasta, chips and cookies and crackers.

It’s all put away in some order I don’t bother trying to understand, but the dust that gathers on the top of the boxes is evident.

When I lift one of the boxes of crackers, it’s nearly a year past its expiration.

A spindly spider sits in the center of its web near the top of the pantry, confused by my intrusion.

It only takes one look at her to see that Soren is a well-composed women.

She fixes her hair into the perfect arrangement and dresses to the nines, she’s neat and tidy.

Her workspace is just like her home, with everything tucked away out of sight.

But it’s cold—hollow. She keeps everything organized, but she hasn’t even bothered to clear out her pantry of expired food.

It makes me nervous to open the refrigerator, but I do it anyway.

The light is almost blinding, reflecting off the bare shelves.

She’s got random condiments in the door trays, and an assortment of coffee creamers that appear to be the only things that get used.

There’s a bowl with some soggy looking salad in it, a handful of eggs in a clear acrylic organizer, a bottle of wine.

The freezer is full of frozen fruit in bags, boxed dinners that claim to be ‘healthy’, and low-carb bread.

I decide I’ve seen enough of her kitchen and have my work cut out for me. Her broom is nowhere to be found in the cupboards, so I make my way to the garage, where it becomes immediately obvious why she doesn’t park in there.

It’s a two-car garage, but only one car is in there—a shiny, cherry red Cutlas Supreme.

It’s clearly not the original paint, but by looking at it, I’m guessing it’s a 1977.

The interior also can’t be original; the leather still smells brand new, and the style doesn’t match with what was typical of the time.

Her husband’s car, I presume.

The other space that would be reserved for a second car is filled with boxes and storage totes, some labeled in the loopy open penmanship I recognize from Soren’s signatures on our contract, some unlabeled. A glance up at the ceiling assures me there’s an attic, so why isn’t this stuff up there?

Maybe she avoids the garage because of the car. Maybe she doesn’t have the energy to put all this shit in the attic—that’s not much of a stretch when you consider the fact that she couldn’t be bothered to clear her own pantry.

There’s no good reason for me to do it, but I grab the cord that dangles from the attic.

It’s too short for Soren to reach, which may be the real reason she hasn’t endeavored to clean up her garage.

The cased stairs pull down with a little resistance and I climb them easily, drawing my shoulders in so that I can fit through the opening… only to be met with a door.

Maybe they’d once planned for an attic room before deciding to close the space off. It’s weird, but not the strangest thing I’ve seen in this house. That is, until I notice the deadbolt on the outside of it. A quick jiggle of the door handle proves it is, in fact, locked.

I’m just stepping backwards down the ladder when my phone rings.

I’d forgotten it was in my pocket, but now I pull it out and glance at the caller ID.

Crime never ceases, so it isn’t unusual for my phone to ring in the dead of night.

But it’s weird when I haven’t been expecting anyone to get in touch.

The name on the ID causes a lump to rise in my throat.

Being on the payroll of some of the most vile humans I could have ever imagined puts you in touch with a lot of people. People who, even if you like them, make your stomach twist when you see their name on your phone.