The More Things Change

Fifteen

Fingertips trailed down my cheek, gentle as tears. Breathing made my throat ache. Swallowing felt like gulping down rocks.

I opened my eyes. I was on a bed, one with rough sheets and a blanket so thin it could've doubled as a third sheet. A man hovered above me, watching.

I jerked away, a frightened whine igniting a fire in my throat. He followed, shushing me as his hand kept hold of the lower half of my face like a mask of flesh.

"What?" I rasped through his fingers, wincing as soon as the word was free.

Then it came back to me. The accident. The car door torn aside. Being grabbed. Unable to breathe.

I sat up and scooted as far up the bed as I could manage, until my back hit the headboard. He kept after, leaning over me. Short brown hair, dark eyes, dimpled chin and a dopey smile. I didn't recognize him from the show.

I tried to avoid his face by taking in the room. Beige walls and a brown carpet that looked as if it could've doubled as a welcome mat. Heavy cream drapes covered a window the span of the wall next the door. A small round table and a few chairs were arranged in front of it. Another bed beside the one I and Mr. Personal Space were using, covered in the same crappy bedspread. A nightstand with a small lamp stood between them. A television sat on top of a dresser. Another door stood across the room from the first.

One open room, two beds, simple furnishings, big window and little door, muted color palette—the whole thing screamed motel.

Mr. Personal Space was getting closer. Too close. His face loomed, his grin widening to the point where dolls had more natural smiles. I tried leaning further away, but I was running out of room.

The second door opened, and a cloud of steam billowed out. A man in a towel followed soon after. My heart picked up. Not because of his handsome face and muscular build, but because I was with two strange men in a motel room after a kidnapping. One of which wasn't dressed. This was all going in a direction that had some of my worst fears running roughshod through my head.

But instead of joining Mister Personal Space, he saw the man leaning over me and frowned. "Jesus, Noah. Give the girl some space."

"She looks like Katherine."

My eyes flew to Noah's face. He knew Katherine?

Great.

"Whatever," towel boy replied, side-eyeing him before walking to the table and picking up a remote, powering on the television with a hiss and click. "Freak."

Noah didn't seem to care what towel boy thought. The longer he stared and petted my face, the more inclined I was to agree with towel boy.

If he thought I looked like Katherine, he already knew I wasn't her. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. The way my luck ran, probably the latter.

A few minutes later the door to the outside world opened and the first familiar face walked in, bucket of ice in one hand and a cooler in the other. She took in the room, sights stalling on me, and moved to set the bucket and cooler on the small table in front of the window.

Well. That answered the question of where the hell Anna's been.

The dark-haired vampire grabbed Noah's shoulder and pulled. He fell back with a frown. "Don't get weird."

"She looks like—"

"Katherine. I know." Anna rolled her eyes before opening the cooler and pulling out two blood bags. She tossed the first to Noah and the second to towel boy. He must be the bar tender at the Grill who worked with her on the show. The one who'd trick Bonnie. "Noah has a thing for Katherine," Anna explained, somewhat unnecessarily I thought, and dropped onto the second bed.