“No, you don’t, stalker boy.” I don’t look at him directly, but I catch the frown pinching the corner of his mouth from my periphery.
Then, quietly he adds, “Is it true? Did he… touch you?”
The word hangs there like stale smoke. Like poison. My throat tightens instantly.
Why he’s suddenly decided to play therapist, I have no idea. But I didn’t sign up for this little trauma unboxing. Not today. Not from him. I made that mistake once before—trusted someone with the truth and watched them walk away like it dirtied me.
So I shift gears.
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” I say, forced cheer slathered over something hollow. “Better get to the shop. Wouldn’t want to throw off the sacred routine.”
I slide off the stool and head for the door before he can try again. No goodbyes. No glances. Just the scrape of chair legs and Boomerang’s tail brushing my shin.
He doesn’t chase me. But just before I’m out of earshot, his voice follows like my personal shadow. “We’re going to talk about it, Nell.”
No. We’re not.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
The walk does me good. Fresh air, space to think—less paranoia clinging to my skin with every step. For a minute, I even question if Manticore’s still on my tail. There are no shadows. No tension prickling at my neck. Just… quiet.
Almost suspiciously quiet.
When I return, Cameron’s nowhere near the front line of my attention—he’s buried behind a wall of people in what used to be the living room, now apparently transformed into a full-blown tactical HQ.
Talia I recognise, cool and unreadable as ever. The others? Strangers. All suited in that same intimidating silence, each one exuding the kind of energy that says they’ve seen things they don’t talk about.
I keep my head down and move fast, hoping to slip past unnoticed, and I almost make it.
But a few heads lift as I dart by—eyes tracking me just a little too long. Just enough to remind me I’m not as invisible as I want to be.
I shut my bedroom door behind me a little harder than necessary.
I’m frustrated. Stressed. Pissed off at myself in a way that simmers just beneath the surface, raw and relentless.
I stole my own happiness the other night. Sabotaged it. Kicked it in the teeth and watched it crawl away.
And now? He’s never going to touch me again. Not like that. Not with that heat and hunger I’ve craved for so long. Wewere there. Teetering on the edge of something I’ve wanted more than I was ever willing to admit.
And I blew it.
Ugh.
The silence is worse than I expected. No work to distract me, no chores to bury myself in—no laundry, no dishes, no sense of purpose. Just me. And the roar of my own thoughts, spinning on repeat, getting louder by the minute.
I hate this kind of quiet.
I swear at this rate my vibrator is going to run out of battery, but needs must, and right now, this is very much a need.
28
Cam
“We wait for the signal,” Robby says, tone flat, arms crossed like he’s bracing for something incoming. “If we go early we’ll blow the whole op.”
“We can’t wait,” another snaps back, hands on his hips, tension coiled in his stance. “When they strike, we move. No hesitation.”
“It’s always the same pattern,” someone else mutters, pacing near the table. “They hit hard, fast, clean. Stick to the rhythm. Just make sure the girl doesn’t botch it like last time.”
