Page 17 of Wicked Believer

“Miss Charlotte? Miss Charlotte?”

I close my eyes, not wanting to emerge from the feeling of numbness that’s now come over me, the feeling of weightlessness.

As if the whole world isn’t on fire all around me.

I’m still not exactly certain if everything I thought I overheard in the clearing is true. Lucifer didn’t mention the world ending, but I ... can’t seem to stop thinking about it.

The distant voice echoes again. This time, the pounding against the door grows more urgent, extreme enough that I can feel the ripples in the water with ease.

I sigh, jackknifing upright so that the sounds of the penthouse come back to me in a sudden rush. The quiet hum of the bathroom lights. The water dripping from my body.

And the now-incessant pounding on the door.

“Miss Charlotte?”

“What?” I finally snap, my tone uncharacteristically bitchy.

I try hard to be extra patient with the staff, to treat every one of them kindly. It wasn’t that long ago that I could have been one of them, after all.

Wasone of them. Lucifer’s employees.

Even if I’m technically still on the company payroll.

“Yes?” I call again. This time softer, to mask my annoyance.

It takes a long time for me to escape my own mind these days. The dark thoughts and memories that haunt me each time I close my eyes. So, it’s moments like this I cherish the most.

The moments where I feel nothing.

Ramesh or another one of the staff—though I’m fairly certain it’s Ramesh from the sound of his voice—clears his throat from the other side of the door. “Apologies, Miss Charlotte, but the car is waiting.”

The car?

I wade to the other side of the bath, careful not to splash any of the water onto the edge where my iPhone waits. Drying off my hand on a nearby towel, I press the side button, lighting up the home screen.

8:30 p.m.

My stomach flips as I glance down at my severely pruned fingers.

I’ve been in the bath for over four hours.

Time has felt ... different these last few days.

I shake my head, my sopping wet hair flopping about my shoulders so that a few drops of water sprinkle across the screen. I don’t bother to dry it off before I tear out of the bath, more water sloshing onto the marble floor behind me as I wrap a towel around myself and hurry to the bathroom mirror.

I’m still not particularly comfortable with my own nudity.

With the woman who stares back at me.

I scramble in search of my makeup bag, realizing I must have left it upstairs, but somehow amid my mindless rushing, I end up accidentally turning the faucet on, even though I don’t need it. I’m supposed to meet Lucifer for dinner at nine o’clock.

And I’ve never once been late.

“Would serve him right,” I mutter to myself.

Things have been ... tense between us. Ever since the funeral. That night in the forest.

Another knock at the door interrupts me.