He keeps his gaze on me for a long moment, then raises his arms toward the sky, mumbling something that sounds like torment and catastrophe.
We work in silence, Lori sending me questioning looks, me ignoring him and repacking whatever box he fills—under Wednesday’s eerie gaze.
I’m surprised he yielded so easily. I expected more sass from him. Ollie is right, Lori must be tired. I can see the fatigue pushing on his delicate shoulders and marring his lively energy.
“That one is fine!” Lori almost yells as I start to open the cardboard flaps of the last box. I catch only a glance, but it’s enough to make out what’s inside. An urn.
Lori yanks the small box out of my hands, and taking a pair of red shorts, closes himself in the bathroom—with the urn.
My Little Wasp has secrets, Bez rumbles.
I don’t like the possessiveness in his voice. It irritates me. My jealousy is increasing.
“I need to take Wednesday for a stroll before we leave,” Lori screams from the other side of a door.
A stroll with a hen, nowIhave heard everything.
It’s been three hours since we left Lori’s apartment, or the shithole as Bez christened it. We only had to carry the boxes, the metal rack, and the mini fridge down the stairs with Rague’s and Ollie’s help.
I introduce them to Spencer. The boy held up his part of the bargain and kept people away from my car. When I left with Lori, he was talking to Ollie—under Rague’s vigilant eye—about the library café they opened with rooms available for a very low rent on the upper floors. It’s for young people in need of a job and a place to stay, and Spencer might fit those criteria. He didn’t tell me what he wanted in exchange for guarding my car, but he took my business card and told me he’d call.
I turn on the bed lamp, and the light suddenly illuminates my bedroom. A quick glance to my watch lets me know it’s eleven p.m. Lori is in my extra room, newly turned into a guest room. It’s incredible how fast money can make things possible—in this case a bed, a mattress, a dresser and a nightstand, plus a few more things the shop assistant threw in. Bez didn’t see the need for another room. He wanted Lori in our bed.
I can’t seem to forget the dumbfounded expression on Lori's face as he stepped inside my main living space, his bare feet came to a grinding halt—he’d taken his shoes off in the entrance.Wednesday was inside a cat carrier, her beak peeking out of the holes on the front.
“Holy bloody hellish shit!” he mumbled.
His jaw had dropped as he looked at the sleek modern design of the room with wooden heated floors. The furniture is all contemporary, with a plush cream-colored sofa in front of a glass fireplace. I didn’t use the remote to start the flames within since it’s too hot for that, and Lori hasn’t seen yet how the natural light unfurls in the morning from the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. He also didn’t spend much time in the sparkling stainless steel modern kitchen directly to the right, even though it is fitted out with all the latest appliances. He only brushed his fingers over the massive, white marble island that faces the living area and spun one of the black barstools.
He commented, “Not too shabby,” when I showed him his room, a large bedroom in cream and brown tones with a queen bed and a big wardrobe. Then he added that he was “shattered” and closed the door almost on my face. His “thank you” through the door amused me.
Not Bez. He wanted to tear the wooden panel down, but Lori clearly didn’t want any company, so I forced my legs to move toward my bedroom and left the door ajar.
Just in case, Bez huffed.
One hour later, and I’m still staring at the dark gray walls while lying in the middle of my massive king-size bed. The white sheets feel crisp on my naked skin. I should be tired after the events of the day, but sleep evades me. Not for Bez. He can doze off in the blink of an eye.
I look around the room to distract myself. It’s decorated with dark wood furniture, all masculine and sophisticated. The door to the left of the bed leads to the en suite bathroom and a large, flat-screen TV hangs on the wall. I quickly push away the idea of watching a movie. I think about texting Rami to ask how the search for Bailey is going.
When Lori was recovering from the drug, I forced myself to stay away from him. It increased the prickling sensation over my skin and only taking care of those three perverts who were inside the gallery room at Crimson placated it. They were scum. Rami found them easily through the club cameras and then did a thorough background that showed us what shitheads they were. But Philip Bailey is the one Bez wants, which is alarming. He hasn’t shown any kind of murderous intent since we were kids.
I hear a sudden noise coming from the corridor. Lori left Wednesday in the extra bathroom, he said it calms her down, but maybe she found a way to get out.
I’m about to go check when my door is pushed open and Lori appears on the threshold. He’s wearing a large gray jacket. My suit jacket from the night at Crimson.
A satisfied grunt builds in my chest at the sight of him wearing my clothes. And my bare cock hardens under the sheets. He doesn’t say anything as he takes slow steps toward my bed. His curls look mussed and his eyes unseeing. He isn’t looking at me, or at anything in particular as he keeps advancing.
“Lori?” I call his name, pushing my body into a sitting position.
“Yeah,” he replies, still staring ahead. His eyes are glassy, vacant.
Is he…sleepwalking?
The bed dips slightly as he crawls onto it. He stops on his knees in front of me, bringing his arms up and looping them around my neck, pressing our fronts together tightly in the process.
I grab his hips to keep him still. “Lori, what are you doing?”
One of his hands slips down my back, fingertips tracing my skin with a butterfly touch. A shiver starts at the top of my head all the way down to the back of my knees.
