Page 11 of My Demon Neighbor
"I'm sorry," I mumbled as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he shook his head.
"You have absolutely nothing to apologize for, Codie," he said, a hint of an accent peeking through his words. I didn't recognize the accent, but it somehow made his statement sound firmer, as if he wouldn't hear any arguments against it.
I shrugged, and an awkward silence hung between us before Pythor cleared his throat.
"How about we end our session here today? You should take some time to recover, and check in with Vanessa. Message me later, and we can decide when our next session will be. I'm free most mornings, so we don't have to stick to the weekends if weekdays work better for you and Vanessa."
I nodded, not quite surprised by his thoughtfulness. He was clearly a good guy, and according to him, I'd be an idiot not to trust my instincts.
"Okay. Thank you, for... for the class," I said lamely, when I'd been thanking him for his help with my panic attack. Mentioning it would make it more real, though, so the lame sentiment would have to do.
Pythor gave me a warm smile, his brown eyes soft and kind. "It was my pleasure."
I walked him to the door, and he stepped outside, waiting until I'd closed and locked the door—thrice—before he stepped off my porch and made his way to his place. I watched him until he went into his place, and just before he closed the door, he smiled at me, as if he could see me through the solid wood door between us.
My cheeks flushed as I pulled away from the door, and I shook my head. Of course he couldn'tseeme. He'd been smiling at my house. But why? Did that mean he'd enjoyed spending time with me? Even though I'd freaked out and had a meltdown in front of him?
I shook my head at the fanciful thought and made my way to the kitchen. I always felt thirsty after a panic attack, and I downed two glasses of water before going to my studio, taking my phone so I could call Nessa.
Once she'd assured me Alia was fine and they were back home, I put my phone away and turned my attention to the painting I'd been working on. The other one still sat abandoned because it reminded me of that night far too much. I wasn't ready to face it yet. But this one was easy. This one I could handle.
As I painted, my thoughts drifted back to Pythor. Why did I feel so unafraid around him? He looked exactly like the menwho haunted my nightmares—except for the skin color, since they'd all been white—and yet he never elicited fear in me.
