The door opens with a crack, and I squeeze my eyes closed, following him inside. “Tell me when the lights are on.”
He chuckles and takes my face in his hands. “Open your eyes, baby.”
Shaking my head, I say, “I hope you have candles or we’re sleeping with all of the lights on.”
Rubbing the pads of his thumbs under my eyes, he says, “Look for yourself.”
The lights inside are on a sensor like those outside because Wilder is a villain with a heart. He cares about me, but he also cares about melting glaciers in Antarctica and turtles in the sea. I was wrong to call him a psychopath because it’s apparent only real maniacs leave the lights on when they leave. It’s wasteful, and how did I survive so long without him?
My hands come up to cover my mouth. The brilliance around the room blurs to a single golden color as warm tears fill my eyes and fall down my cheeks. Wilder wipes them dry, smiling as bright as the dozens—maybe hundreds of lights plugged into every outlet, screwed into every lamp, and hanging from the chandeliers.
“You were always going to come home with me tonight,” he says. “I wish it was under better circumstances, but I’ve planned this for a long time.”
The grand entrance glows with flickering light, but it’s a trick of the eye. These flames give off no warmth. There’s no danger of burning the house down or catching myself on fire to keep the monsters away. Designed only to look real, the nightlights, light bulbs, and even candles are alight with a faux flame, cool to the touch and not lit with matches, but by simply entering the house.
And they work.
I’m not scared.
“I know you’re afraid of the dark,” Wilder says, leading me farther into his home. Firelight burns at our feet, above our heads, and on coffee tables and bookshelves. “But you don’t have to be afraid when you’re here.”
“I can’t believe you did this for me.”
“Camilla, I will do anything for you.”
He can give me a tour of the house later because I’m only interested in the master bedroom. Wilder and I stumble up the stairs, kissing, roaming, ripping off our clothes, and triggering sensors to light every single step with flame. We crash into his room, and I moan into his mouth as the scent of sandalwood envelops me entirely, stronger here than anywhere else.
“Shower or the bed?” he asks, stepping out of his shoes. I’m naked, he’s shirtless, and falling into that bed would be so nice, but I’ve been running around barefoot, and he has blood on his knuckles.
Is that a bruise near his eye?
“Shower,” I say.
I work to unbuckle his belt, and Wilder lowers his zipper. The lights turn on as soon as we step into the large bathroom. There’s a faux flame nightlight beside the sink, but the rest are normal fluorescents.
“I can change them out if you want,” Wilder says, watching me kneel.
Yanking his slacks down to his knees, I say, “They’re fine.”
Wilder waves his hand and the walk-in shower turns on. Water falls like rain from the ceiling and from a showerhead on the wall.
“You do realize your life is a dream, right?” I stand tall. Not as tall as him, but there’s nothing to be afraid of here. He said so himself.
Gray eyes fall to my breasts, my collarbone, my mouth. His lips curve into a sly smile. “It is now that you’re in it.”
I drop my head back and laugh out loud, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Who could have guessed Wilder Ridge is a smooth talker? I’ll never take you seriously again. Wait until Lydia finds out.”
His expression hardens, but the twist of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. He steps into me, forcing me back until warm water cascades down my back, then over my shoulders, running down my body in sheets.
“She won’t believe you.” He pins me against the wall, trapping me between his arms. Wilder’s hard cock presses against my lower stomach, and heat pools between my thighs.
I reach up to hold his wrist beside my head, turning to kiss the tangle of veins there. “She would.”
There are things I don’t tell Lydia, like when I dropped a match on the couch and melted the fabric. I turned the cushion over instead of having that argument. If she happens to discover the scorch mark, I’ll tell her it was me. Not coming forward the first time I felt followed was wrong, but I spilled the details as soon as she showed me the picture of Vincent Coppola.
Omitting information is frowned upon, but my dad made it very clear that lying is a sin.
I don’t lie to her.
