Smuggling
SARAH
“Yes,” my father says warmly, leaning forward to kiss the back of my hand. “Thank you, Angel. Thank you so much for agreeing to this.”
“It’s fine,” I say with a small, distant smile. “They’re my brothers. Of course, I’ll have to see them one way or another. So I’ll just…”
I trail off, my thoughts already moving elsewhere, to the man upstairs, to Cullen. I have only a few hours to figure out how to sneak him out… or hide him again. And my father, the man sitting across from me… should never have found out.
My stomach tightens. I smile again, just enough to keep the peace.
“So I’ll just… get ready,” I finish.
“Good girl,” he says, standing and stretching. “I’ll go make sure everything is perfect. Just relax today, okay? It's your birthday.”
Relax. Right.
I wait...... I wait until I hear my father’s office door click shut, until I’m sure he’s not coming back out. Then I move quickly.
I pack the breakfast leftovers into a container, eggs, toast, and fruit. I throw in a bottle of juice, some water, and even sneak a thermos of tea. But that’s not enough. I remember how my brother, used to eat like pigs, and somehow I can’t stop myself from going a little overboard. I grab whatever junk food I can find, wrapped crepes, cookies, a few packs of À mango slices, even some chocolates. I toss everything into a little bag and carry it upstairs, trying not to look like I’m smuggling contraband.
When I open the door to my room and step inside, I find Cullen asleep again. My heart softens. He’s curled slightly toward the pillows, his brows furrowed even in sleep. There’s something boyish about him like this, something vulnerable.
But the moment I notice how still he is, how quiet, something shifts in my stomach.
What if he has scratches from the dogs?
What if they’re infected?
What if he needs a doctor?
What if he gets too sick and—
No. I can't let him die in my bedroom.
Panic flickers through me. I set the food down quietly and walked over to him. He hasn’t stirred.
I kneel beside the bed and slowly reach out, touching his forehead with the back of my hand. He’s warm. A little too warm. Not enough to be terrifying… but enough to make my heart twist.
I hold my hand there a moment longer, trying to gauge it better and that’s when his eyes open.
I jerk back with a small gasp.
His lashes flutter, and then his gaze locks on mine, still foggy with sleep.
“You’re warm,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
“Good morning to you too,” he rasps, voice gravelly with sleep, but there’s a hint of amusement in it.
I frown. “I’m serious. You’re a little hot.”
He smirks, even half-dead. “That’s not exactly a new development.”
“Cullen,” I say, glaring at him but I’m also fighting a smile. “You could be infected. That’s not funny.”
“Maybe,” he says, blinking slowly. “But if I die… I die happy.”
“Not funny,” I repeat, a little sharper this time.
He exhales through his nose, eyes finally growing a bit clearer. “You brought food?”
I nod, gesturing to the bag on my desk. “I snuck you breakfast. Extra everything. I remembered how your family eats like they’re training for a war.”
He chuckles, but it turns into a slight wince as he shifts upright. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did. You’re hiding in my bedroom, Cullen. The least I can do is make sure you don’t starve to death while you recover from being mauled by security dogs.”
“I wasn’t mauled.”
“You look like you were.”
He gives me a sideways glance, then mutters, “Well… thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I pause. “But if you start sweating or get dizzy, I’m calling someone.”
“Like who?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Your father?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is.... I don’t know. I really don’t know who I would call.
I think the right thing would be to call his family, but I don’t know their numbers. Not his mother. Not his father. Not his brother. Not even Bella. No one. So to reach them, I’d have to physically go to them… and I don’t think that would be possible. Not without setting off every alarm in this house, figurative and literal.
So it’s just something I say, something I throw out to make myself feel like I’m in control, as I place everything in front of him.
“Do you think I can have anything hot?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “I’ll go and get it.”
He watches me for a beat, tired but grateful. “Why don’t you try waking up a little more? Maybe take a shower, and I’ll be back in a second.”
“All right,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
“Please don’t thank me,” I answer quietly, already heading toward the door, not turning back.
I go downstairs, trying to move like everything is normal—like I don’t have a whole human hiding in my bedroom, one who shouldn't be there, one who is not supposed to still have this hold on me. I make him a cup of warm milk. It’s simple, but something about it feels soothing, nurturing. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Maybe it’s out of guilt. Maybe it’s out of habit.
When I come back upstairs, I find that the bathroom door is closed. He’s in there. At least he took my advice. I place the mug down carefully, trying not to think too much. But it’s useless. The thoughts are loud now—louder than ever.
I kind of don’t want to be here in my room right now. I want to be out there. Thinking. Plotting. Preparing. Not here. Not in this space with him.
But instead, I’m here—here trying to understand Cullen. Trying to dissect him, trying to unravel the past and weigh it against the present. Something that shouldn’t even be on the table. Something I told myself I wouldn’t do again.
I already defrosted him. I already opened the door once.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
Why can’t I let him?
Why, after everything, is he still hereand why am I still letting him be?
I sit down at the edge of the bed, my eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door. I sigh.
“Bye,” I whisper under my breath. But it’s not to him.
It’s the part of myself I keep losing every time he looks at me like I’m the only person in the world that matters.
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