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He finishes his food long before me, bounding off to play while I clean the kitchen.
The mundane task carries the weight of the world after working all day, and it’s only seven.
“Jacob, bathtime!”
He fusses a little, but gets in. When he’s finished and dressed in pajamas, I tuck my baby boy in bed before pulling out the book I’ve been reading him.
It’s about all kinds of different Native American shapeshifters and tricksters from the different tribes, but my favorites tales are, of course, the Lakota ones.
They remind me of the stories u?cí used to tell me.
Jake’s face glows in the soft lamplight as I make silly voices for each new character, eliciting delighted giggles from him as I read on.
As the chapter winds to an end, my son’s eyes grow heavy.
I lean down to brush a tender kiss across his forehead as he drifts off.
“Night, Mom. Love you.”
“Sweet dreams, chi?kší.”
I watch the rise and fall of Jake’s chest, a peaceful balm to my own restless worry, but the feeling quickly fades when I’m alone in my room.
My clothes slip to the floor with a soft rustle as I climb into bed and slide under the cool, linen sheets.
No matter how hard I try, my mind races, a carousel of unease and weariness that refuses to slow, and at the center is my boss with his stupid bet.
I close my eyes and will my thoughts to still, but they refuse.
The darkness behind my lids takes the shape of Ettin’s lips curled into the familiar smug smirk, and I want to scream.
Even in the quiet sanctuary of my room, I can’t escape the man.
His presence lingers, a specter feasting on my misery.
“Go away!” I whisper into my pillow, the words meant for both my boss as well as the intrusive thoughts he inspires.
Still they cling to the edges of my consciousness, and in my dreams, the smirking face of Mr. Ettin morphs and changes, blurring around the edges, mocking me from the shadows.
Promising me a kiss that I’ll never admit that I want.
CHAPTER FOUR
BASH
It’s another bright Monday morning, the conference room bathed in the glow of the early sunlight.
Across the long table, Wyn sits, her spine ruler-straight. Of course, she chose the seat furthest from me, and when our gazes meet, she flushes before looking away.
A brilliant way to start the week.
Between us lies a battlefield of pie charts and campaign projections while all the department heads prepare for the meeting.
I greet everyone individually, making small talk as I work my way down the table until I reach the one person I want to talk to the most.
“Good morning, Wyn. Another Monday meeting.”
She glares at my subtle reminder that we’re a week closer to the deadline of our bet. I wait for her to say anything, but Wyn remains infuriatingly silent.
