“Sorry, I—I was just…” The excuse sticks to my tongue. We literallyjusthad a conversation about boundaries, and here I am already trampling them.
“Get out.”
No room for negotiation. His jaw’s clenched, his eyes locked on something over my shoulder—some memory heavy enough to anchor him in place.
I took it too far.
“I wasn’t trying to—I was just looking.”
“Well don’t,” he snaps. “I let you into my house. Gave you a place to sleep. Even took in that fucking cat. But if I ever catch you in here again, the deal’s off. And you’ll be right back where you started. Got it?”
Crystal.
Dinner is… tense. He stabs at his food like it owes him money, every bite chewed with silent aggression—as if the pasta personally offended him.
I keep my eyes down, too sheepish to meet his. Instead, I push vegetables around my plate, carving patterns into the sauce like it’s an art project.
The kitchen’s massive, but somehow, at this island, it feels cramped. Like the air’s pressing in. His presence doesn’t help—he takes up most of the counter space, broad shoulders brushing mine more than once.
Maybe it’s just me who notices.
Maybe he doesn’t feel the static that crackles where his arm touches mine. Doesn’t feel how every stray contact sends a trail of goosebumps marching up my skin.
I think I need to release some tension. Good thing I packed the essentials. That vibrator is going to come in handy tonight.
“She was my wife,” he says, plain and unceremonious—like dropping a live grenade into the room.
I freeze, mouth half-open, every retort evaporating.
Of course I know who he means—the woman in the photos. The smile, the sandy hair, the room sealed off in dust and longing.
I just… never pictured stalker boy married.
He doesn’t wear the history. No telltale tan line. No worn-down band of skin on his ring finger. Nothing to suggest a life shared—let alone one lost.
“Was?” I ask softly, careful not to make it sound like a challenge. This feels as fragile as glass. One wrong move and something important will splinter.
We still don’t look at each other.
“She was taken. Years ago, by a ring similar to Manticore.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
Of course he’s wrapped up in this. Of course it’s personal.
“Hence the company,” he adds, voice clipped.
“Did you ever find her?” I regret the words the second they leave me. Stupid. If he had, she’d be here. Duh!
“No. That was before we knew how they operated. Before we could track anything. But I’ll see her face again someday.” He’s not blinking. “And when I do, I’ll be ready.”
And now I get it.
He’s not just fighting monsters. He’s chasing a ghost—one smile locked in time, one what-if that still ties his bones in knots.
It’s heartbreak without closure. A life paused mid-breath. Not grief, exactly. Something more punishing.
Hope.
