Page 17 of Enter if you Dare: Part One

“In our defense,” Noa continues, “we didn’t come here to break in, but the door being broken . . .”

“Was an opportunity to let yourself in?” I drawl sardonically.

He points at me. “We were concerned for your safety, which is why Cipher is going to fix it before we leave.”

Cipher reaches into his pocket and pulls out a deadbolt, as if that’s a normal thing to have available.

Cave grunts and turns the paper over, sliding it toward me. When I walk over and scan it, I see it’s an NDA with a lot of legal jargon I don’t know shit about. There are clauses about the island’s operations, night events, and the staff. At the bottom there are two signature lines, one of which has already been signed.

“You came here with an NDA?”

Cave doesn’t respond.

“Well, when you were asking about the island, I couldn’t tell you anything, but after you left, I bumped into Cave. I told him about our talk, and he dragged me to Cipher’s shed. I think it was supposed to be a meeting of sorts, but since he doesn’t talk, Cipher and I did, and it has been made clear Cipher belongs to Cave.”

“I do not belong to him,” Cipher says, and Cave grumbles. The big guy doesn’t like that correction.

“I just thought that if you sign it, and you wanted to come back, I don’t have to worry about saying things I shouldn’t,” Noa explains. “And also, you won’t have to leave before the guests arrive. Ares is a stickler for the rules.”

I don’t have to think about it hard—digging a freaking grave with a man I just met was the most fun I’d had in a long time. Besides, I really want to know what goes on there, and they can’t tell me without me signing an NDA.

“I don’t have a pen.”

Noa reaches into his pocket and pulls one out, holding it toward me. He smiles as I take the pen, and Cave watches me lean over the table to sign my name, then set the pen down. Cave picks up the paper and folds it in half, then carefully puts it inside his weird jacket.

“So,” Noa says. “Do you have anything to eat? We’ve been here for two hours, and I only had half a sandwich before we left.”

“You can’t eat her food,” Cipher says from the floor.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s rude. She wasn’t expecting us, so order some pizza.”

Noa claps. “Why didn’t I think of that two hours ago?”

Noa openings my drawers, rifling through the contents. “Do you have a menu anywhere?”

I laugh. “No, I can’t afford takeout, but there is a place down the street.”

Noa declares he will be back soon, and I take a seat opposite Cave. I wonder how my life went from being kidnapped from an alleyway to having three men in my kitchen. Sure, they’re all weird in their own way, but they seem harmless enough.

Cave

What belongs to no one until it is given?

What cannot be taken, only offered?

What can break and stay intact at the same time?

The husks have to be dry, not brittle or green, else they will split the moment you try to curve them. Dry and pliable is best. I peel the layers back from the cob slowly, needing to keep the outer husks whole.

I have woven husks before. Mainly for Cipher, or for practical reasons, like seat repairs or things with a function. This is a first, and it’s because she is mine.

I knew it the night I first saw her, when I watched her refuse to go down without a fight. Again, when I pulled her against my chest and smelled her hair, then even more when she agreed to stay the night. It’s in how she looks at me, like I’m worth the effort of understanding. Few people look at me like that; most people stare or glance away, and I mostly prefer it that way.

I split the husk into strips and ply them between my fingers, testing the give as I start at the center. Folding the first layer back on itself, I press the crease with my thumbnail to hold the shape while I build behind it. The petals take patience. Each one must be opened out from the center and held in place while the next layer is set behind it, otherwise they will collapse. Yet when they are woven the right way, the petals will remain open if they are bound tightly around the center.

I reach into my coat pocket for the small paper rectangle I stole from Cipher’s card stock earlier in the week. Cipher labels everything in his shed—drawers, shelves, even jars of screws sorted by size. I take the piece of charcoal from beside my post and write on the card.