Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

It was always weird to wake up in an unfamiliar place. And it was even weirder to wake up and realize that you were in that unfamiliar place against your own will.

That was how I felt this morning waking up in Harry's guest bedroom, cursing myself that I'd actually slept, feeling the panic ebb it's way in as I got up – the events of last night coming back to me in fractured, painful glimpses.

Harry had eventually dragged me up here last night after making sure that I'd finished my food yet had still refused to tell me anything. For a while, I'd just sat on the edge of the bed staring at the door. Mind wandering between wondering if Harry was going to randomly burst through and decide he actually wanted me dead or debating on whether or not I should just call the police. Or maybe just one of my friends to come get me.

When I remembered though what had happened – what I had witnessed – all of those thoughts were quickly squashed. No fucking way did I want to involve any of my friends in this. Not when Harry was so adamant that, had he not kidnapped me, I would be dead.

A lovely thought, really. One that had me pacing for a solid hour last night in the lavish, silken suite that Harry had put me up in until I finally decided to shower in the connecting bathroom, only to be panicking the whole time about whether or not he had any hidden cameras and still pondering over how the fuck he afforded any of this.

I was actually almost surprised when I got dressed this morning, quietly slinking out into the hall, that Harry hadn't locked the door. I hadn't bothered trying it last night, realizing I'd probably wind-up dead or lost if I tried to sneak out on my own. I figured as long as I got to go home now, one night in a strange, terrifying, green-eyed tattoo artist's home wouldn't kill me.

But what did startle me this morning, as I tiptoed down the stairs to the main level, were the numerous sets of voices that stopped me dead in my tracks sounding out from the living room.

Harry had assured me multiple times last night that his house was safe. That those men – whoever the fuck they were – 'would be dead before they made it halfway up the driveway' according to him.

It hadn't exactly soothed my nerves, the whole talk of murder, but I reluctantly agreed to stay the night without a fuss and stopped asking questions. All I'd said as he herded me up the stairs and to the guest bedroom was that I needed to be at the studio in the morning for 8:30.

The only thing I'd gotten in response was a muttered 'fine' before he disappeared. No mention of having any guests this morning nor whether or not he'd decided not to take me.

Needless to say, I felt that my apprehension was thoroughly warranted as I pressed myself flat against the wall at the base of the staircase, wondering if I'd realistically be able to deal with what was on the other side. It was like a flashback of last night when I hadn't wanted to peek my head around into the alleyway to see what was going on.

Except for this time, I knew that there could be trouble waiting for me.

The voices cleared as I inched my way closer, holding my breath and trying not to make any noise. It was after a few seconds of hearing them speak that I realized, with startling clarity, they were voices I recognized.

"You're sure they saw what she looked like?" I could hear Zayn say.

"I don't fucking know," was Harry's frustrated response. "I tried to keep her hidden as well as I could. But they think she was there. They think she fucking helped."

"Why didn't you just tell them she didn't?" Niall asked, sounding more engaged than I'd ever heard. The normal airy, humorous tone that usually lingered in his words was long gone.