He looks at me for a moment, blinking slowly. Something in his expression moves, and I can't read it, which is more unsettling than I'd like.
"Done," he says.
He extends his hand to me.
I look at it. His hand is large, which is an objective fact, minotaur build being what it is, but it still manages to churn my guts into knots.
I take it.
The contact hits me somewhere behind my sternum, warm and solid and deeply, mortifyingly electric. My whole arm tingles from palm to shoulder. Something happens to my pulse that I am going to need several uninterrupted hours to not think about.
I shake his hand and let go in approximately the right amount of time, which is the most I can say for myself.
"I'll be there in an hour," I tell him.
"I'll see you then."
I blink and cock my head like a freaking golden retriever puppy.
"What? Why?"
"I'm staying at Stronghold through the recovery," he says with a flat tone. "Until she's back on her feet."
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
I'm going to be stuck living under the same roof as him for six to eight weeks?
"Great," I say, in a voice that implies it is the opposite of great. "See you there."
Then I do the only thing I can think to do that is not screaming mindlessly into the void. I go back inside and close the door on him as he's still looking at me. A few moments later, his heavy steps travel down the stairs as he leaves. I stand in the hallway and wait until I hear the car start.
Then I go to the kitchen window and watch that obscene machine back out of the driveway and roll down the street and disappear around the corner like it was never here at all.
I must be out of my mind. That's the only explanation.
If someone had told me I'd agree to live under the same roof as Demetrius Thornwood, I would have asked them what they were on and if they had enough to share.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess.
Chapter Six
Demetrius
Threedays,Imanagedto avoid Madison Berwick.
Seventy-two hours of impeccable, focused self-discipline, and then my stomach overrules every rational decision I've made since she walked through Stronghold's front door.
I have been productive. Objectively productive. Cornelius's old study has more square footage than most Boston apartments and an internet connection robust enough to support a small nation-state, and I have used both fully and without interruption in the service of not being anywhere Maddie might also be.
My team has the Rotterdam deal solidly scheduled. The Windemere legal review is three days ahead of schedule. I have read every document Patel forwarded twice and drafted three separate memos with my notes.
I have also been very aware, through all of this, of where she is in the house.
That part is less productive. She has a way of carrying herself through Stronghold that produces sound even when she isn't being loud. It's not her, really, if I'm being fair about it. It's just that her musical voice carries down the long hallways all the way to wherever I'm holed up. I can hear her laughing and chatting away with Agatha even when I don't want to. Even when I put background music on or my noise-canceling headphones on. It's like I can isolate myself from the entire world except for that one sound.
I've officially become a reverse stalker.
It's a skill I did not need and did not ask for. Still. Here we are.
