Page 190 of Wallflower

The worries start to melt away the closer I get. I swear I feel her with each nearing step. An energy travels across my skin, increasing in intensity until I’m sure I’m vibrating from the charge. It thrums like a magnetic pull, drawing me in without thought, or effort. I’m swallowed up by a singular need, and it feels like floating across a cavern without any risk of falling.

My boots stop before the heavy, dark door. The number plaque staring me right in the face. This supernatural force threatens to yank me through the wood, and I steady my stance, bracing my palms on the doorframe.

This is it.

I hesitate.

It’s only a moment, but it feels like my soul will tear out of my chest to force us together if I wait a second longer.

My knuckles rap against the door. Quiet at first, then increasing in demand.

“Who is it?” a voice calls out, though muffled by distance.

Chelsea.

She better not cause a problem. I have no qualms ridding every obstacle in my way to Rose, though it would taint our reacquaintance quite devastatingly.

“Uhh,” I grumble, clearing my throat. “Housekeeping!” I keep my tone light, slightly feminine, and not at all threatening.

“One second!”

Just open the fucking door.

Please.

Dampened murmurs can be heard when I press my ear to the door, but no matter how hard I try to discern the words, I can’t.

The seconds climb uncomfortably as I shift my weight from foot to foot. Walking in an impatient circle at the threshold, I drag my hands down my face.

Get it together.

I can’t, it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams all over again.

The cauldron boils over, and I knock far too aggressively, banging my fist into the door so hard the437sign rattles.

“Who is it?”

It’s her.

All the moisture disappears from my mouth as her talons sink into my flesh, slicing through the sinew and muscle to coil around my heart. Rose threatens to rip the stalled muscle clean from my chest and keep it with her for eternity.

“Housekeeping.” My reply is squeaky and weak, as my fingers coil around the doorframe to keep me steady.

Her voice, sweet and light like the most delectable whip cream, comes again, “We don’t need anything.”

I beg to differ, bloodflower.

“I have towels sent by Mr. Melborne.”

“Just a minute, please.”

I don’t think I can last a moment longer.

I raise my knuckles once again, and knock insistently.

“You can just leave them by the door, I’ll grab them!” she calls out. I can hear the annoyance in her voice, buried beneath the engrained teachings to be polite, and the urge to taunt her further pulls me deep below the surface.

“We aren’t allowed to do that, it’s unhygienic.”