VIOLENT DELIGHTS | Rosalie Hale

CHAPTER NINE

FLAVOR OF THE WEAK

ROSALIE HALE HAD NOT BEEN inside a human house in quite some time. She makes the confession softly, almost nostalgically, as she crosses the threshold. We'd gotten caught in the drizzle on our hike back, but it was starting to thicken out there. The drum of rain on the roof was slowly thudding faster. I realize this must be some sort of moment for her, watching her as she scans the space. It's like she's trying to soak it all in. Her lips twitch at something, in the living room, but I can't tell what amuses her. I don't really want to break the spell by asking.

When I return from changing out of my muddy boots and getting rid of my backpack and coat, she's waiting for me at the kitchen table. She has the window open, and her body is a little tense, but she's smiling at me. Rosalie must have noticed the way my eyes flicked to the window, where the icy air breezed freely through along with a few stray raindrops the overhang of the roof hadn't cleared. "Your scent is particularly potent at home. It's on everything."

Ah. I realized then that we'd never spent time alone anywhere that wasn't outdoors, except for her car. Even then she'd pressed the button for exterior air circulation. Somehow, home, the place I felt the safest, was apparently the most dangerous. "Is it really that difficult?" To not kill me?

"Extremely." Her liquid eyes bore into me. I can't stop the shiver. She giggled. "You did say you're not afraid of dying."

"That wasn't an invitation." I grumble, drifting toward the cabinets to make myself a cup of hot cocoa. I hadn't been able to recreate Mrs Stanley's yet, but I was determined. "What do you want to do today?"

"I didn't really think that far ahead." I catch her frowning when I glance over my shoulder, and turn back to the kettle to hide my smile. I liked that she wanted to see me when she was mad about something. That she wanted to see me at all. "Can I see your sketchbook?"

"Huh?" I had forgotten what she'd caught me doing in the woods, flushing. "It's not really great."

"I can go get it...?" But she was already getting up, and the idea of Rosalie going into my bedroom makes my eyes flash wide with panic.

"No! I mean, I'll get it." I abandon the kettle on the stove, and she looks a little startled at my outburst. There was a tiny, perfect v between her brows. I could feel the heat rise on my neck as I stalked past the stairs to my room. I knew what I had to hide first, and quickly, tearing three half-worked pages out of my sketchbook after fishing it out of my backpack. I scrunch the paper up hard, ignoring the perfect face that bore back at me, dumping the sketches into my waste basket. When I turned back around, Rosalie had just appeared at the half-open door, looking around my room with the same silent wonder as she had the house. Her lips twitched at the bed spread.

I clear my throat a little, holding the sketchbook out for her. She chuckles, crossing in deeper instead of leaving my room like I wanted her to. She helps herself to my neatly made bed, dropping back. She's taller than I am, her pretty golden hair fanning out. She flips the thin paper cover back, one hand reaching behind her to twist the latch on my window, shoving the heavy glass up with the impossible ease of lifting a feather. Her eyes are focused on the first page, eyes flicking across every stroke. I don't remember what I'd drawn.

All I can do is stare at the scene before me, soaking it in. Rosalie was lying on my bed. My bed. I had to try very hard to keep my mind clear and my heart from racing. "You're actually quite gifted."