I glance at the clock—9:15. He’s still lingering in the bathroom, fussing with his shirt and pretending not to be nervous as hell.
Now that he’s explained the plan in full, I’m not as anxious. But the reality of sharing a house with his wife if this goes through? That’s a whole new kind of nerve-wracking.
I’m still not entirely convinced he won’t cast me aside. But I owe him the benefit of the doubt—even if my heart feels like it’s standing on a ledge.
“Ready?” I ask, wrapped tight in the duvet, Boomerang stretched long across the bed, purring like a tiny engine in deep sleep.
He looks up, that pale ghost of an eye cutting straight through me before he forces a smile.
“I’m always ready.”
But I see it—the tension in his jaw, the barely-there crease between his brows. His mind is anything but still.
“Hurry back,” I whisper, burrowing deeper into the pillow. “I don’t like it when you’re not here.”
This bed is too big without him. Too quiet. Too cold.
“I will, baby girl,” he sighs, adjusting his cuff as he steps closer.
God, he’s gorgeous. Men in suits were never my thing—but him?
Christ. The ache for him settles low and hot, twisting through me. His hair’s slicked back from his face, sides freshly shaved, and my eyes trace the ink climbing his neck, disappearing into the roots of his hair.
“Keep the bed warm for me,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.
I catch him by the neck before he can pull away, my lips claiming his, still drunk on the high of our last tangle.
“Be safe, stalker boy,” I whisper into his mouth.
He groans as I slide my tongue between his lips, clinging to him like I might never get another chance.
“And keep out of trouble, trouble,” he teases, knuckle tipping my chin up.
“I can’t promise that,” I breathe.
Okay, so maybe watching a horror film before bed wasn’t my brightest idea. It felt fine back at the flat—surrounded by people, strangers, sure, but company all the same.
Out here? Fuck. It’s a whole different kind of terrifying.
On the upside, at least it’s distracted me from the whole Kyla mess.
Then the kitchen door creaks.
Not gently—loud enough to freeze my blood. I stop breathing. Light spills into the hallway as the door inches open further, the sound sharp in the silence.
Is it an intruder?
Or worse—Manticore, come to drag me back?
My heart pounds like a war drum. Palms slick. Muscles locked.
Then a meow.
Boomerang appears, tail puffed and eyes wide, like he hasn’t just triggered my fight-or-flight response.
“Goddamn it, Boomerang,” I hiss, but he meows again, demanding food like he didn’t already get fed before the film started.
I flick the kettle on, hiding in the harsh brightness of the kitchen, clinging to the illusion that ghosts won’t dare show up somewhere so well lit.
