Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tomcat shifting, his body turning my way. The motion sends a wicked jolt of electricity through my chest.
He’s coming over here.
Ohh, this is promising.
Except Blackjack steps directly into his path, and in his hand is Sooty McSnuggleface.
Oh.
My.
Goddess.
Every nerve in my body sparks to life, a riot of fireworks exploding across my skin like New Year's Eve gone wild.
If I let myself clap with delight right now, I’d give everything away, wouldn’t I?
Yes. Yes, I would.
Pretending I’m not utterly obsessed with the scene unfolding across the room is so much harder than I thought. Even Birdie seems to sense it; her words fade mid-sentence.
Tomcat laughs when Blackjack hands him the plushie.
My brows furrow. That laugh is off-kilter, just enough to jab a needle of worry straight through my chest.
Is he embarrassed?
Birdie’s voice snaps my attention back, but I can still feel the searing weight of Tomcat’s gaze dragging across me again.
I refuse to look this time.
Don’t be suspicious.
Don’t be suspicious.
“Oh, he’s opening the note,” Birdie murmurs. “I think this is the most exciting thing to happen around here lately. Who do you think it’s from?”
I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out the truth. I know every word on that note by heart. I labored over each line, drew a tiny heart at the end so he’d never forget how deeply, how tragically adored he is.
“Look at his face,” Birdie whispers. “I think he might actually like it.”
My eyes fly to him. Could she actually be right?
I’ve spent years memorizing this man. Every micro-expression, every flicker of tension, every tiny shift in his posture. That blank, unimpressed mask he wears so perfectly?
Yeah, I see right through it. He likes it. He fucking loves it.
Then his club brothers swoop in, laughter and mockery swirling around like vultures. My gift becomes a punchline. My love for him, just another joke. My fingers twitch against my fanny pack before I even realize it. That sharp, familiar itch for my knife slithers beneath my skin.
Nope. Terrible idea. Really, really bad. Yikes.
“Cute handwriting,” Cypher calls out. “Real romantic serial killer vibes.”
Ouch. Okay. Sure, I’ll take romantic, but serial killer vibes? That feels unnecessarily aggressive. I’ve only ever killed one person, thank you very much. Well, kind of. I thought I did anyway.
“It’s pathetic.”
Such cruel words from a mouth so heartbreakingly beautiful.
