Two words. No decoration. The quiet certainty of a man who doesn't say things he doesn't mean. I want to believe him so badly it feels like a bruise.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
The fan clicks. Gary the gnome stands guard in the moonlit garden below our window. The cameras record their steady loops. Somewhere out there, someone is watching this house — watching me — and I should be thinking about the notes, the surveillance, the man who thinks he can scare me out of the only place that's ever felt like mine.
Instead I'm lying in the aftermath of something I chose, with a man who's still holding me like I matter, and I'm terrified.
Not of the stalker.
Not of what we did.
Of how easy it would be to rebuild my entire life around the shape of Liam Cade, the way I rebuilt around the last man — and of what happens to me when this one leaves, too.
His breathing evens out. His arm stays heavy across my shoulders. Mine.
For now.
I close my eyes. Press my ear against his heartbeat. Try not to count the days until he goes back to being someone else's security detail.
Try not to wonder if the person watching the house already knows that the best way to hurt me isn't a note under the door or a photo slipped through a blind spot.
It's him. It's always been him.
The thing I'd lose that would finally make me leave.
Chapter 12
Liam
Her hair smells like coconut and sleep.
The light through the window is barely there — gray, thin, the color of early morning before it commits to being day. Kari is on her side, facing me, one hand on my chest where it landed sometime in the night. Lips slightly parted. A faint crease on her cheek from the pillowcase.
Last night happened. Not the investigation. Not the cameras or the sightlines. Her. The way she looked at me when she decided. The way she said my name like it was the only word she'd ever needed. Everything I've been holding at arm's length came undone so completely I couldn't remember why I'd been holding it at all.
My hand is in her hair. I don't remember putting it there — tangled in the curls near her temple, thumb against the curve of her jaw. The gesture is so gentle it doesn't feel like mine. I don't do gentle. I do controlled. Clean entries and exits with minimal exposure.
This is the opposite of minimal exposure.
Her eyes open. Immediate. Clear. Like she was waiting just below the surface. The look she gives me guts me so efficiently I don't feel the cut until after.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
She studies my face the way she studies load-bearing walls — testing for cracks, for regret, for the moment the professional reasserts itself.
"You stayed." Not an accusation. Like she'd given even odds on waking up alone.
"Where would I go."
"The porch. The backyard. Gary's herb garden. You have a very extensive list of places to be that aren't near feelings."
The corner of my mouth moves. "Gary's not great company."
"Gary's an excellent listener." She props herself up on one elbow. The sheet slips. Morning light catches the faint redness on her throat where my stubble scraped her skin. I put that there. The thought doesn't register as guilt. It registers as something far more dangerous.
Mine.
