Page 45 of Where the Snakes Sleep

That had been Ryan’s idea.

Or, more accurately, Ryan had been attempting yet another repair when I wandered over, made one observation too many about his technique, and found myself shoved against the remaining section of wall with his mouth on mine.

The irony of Ryan using the very boundary between our properties as a place to violate several other boundaries was not lost on me.

I did not mention it.

I enjoy possessing all of my teeth.

Only once has it happened inside his cottage.

That particular invitation surprised me enough that I nearly asked whether he was certain, which would have immediately guaranteed that he changed his mind out of spite.

Instead, I followed him through the kitchen and upstairs.

Ryan allowed me into his bed. He did not allow me to remain in it.

Afterward, while I was still recovering sufficiently to remember that human beings are expected to breathe at regular intervals, he rolled onto his side, looked at me with heavy-lidded eyes, and said, “Okay. You should probably go.”

I stared at him.

He stared back for a few seconds before adding, “Not because that was bad.”

“How reassuring.”

“It was actually really fucking good.”

“Your praise overwhelms me.”

“Don’t be weird. I just don’t want you sleeping over.”

He had sounded defensive before I had even objected. So I did not. I dressed, I kissed him once at the door because I wanted to and because the surprise on his face pleased me, then returned home.

That was five nights ago.

Ryan has not invited me inside the cottage again.

I have not asked.

This is how our arrangement functions.

He decides which pieces of himself I am permitted to have, and I behave as though I do not notice that the pieces have slowly become larger.

At first, he came over only when he wanted sex.

Now he sometimes stays afterward.

Ten minutes became twenty.

Twenty became an hour.

Once, he remained sprawled across my library sofa until nearly two in the morning, complaining about the French language while eating half the strawberries from my refrigerator and periodically remembering that Raja existed on the other side of the room and glaring suspiciously into his enclosure.

I have also spent the last two weeks watching the road.

At first, every unfamiliar engine drew me toward a window. Every set of headlights passing after dark made something tighten beneath my ribs. The sedan I saw that first night had returned often enough in my thoughts over the next few days that I eventually downloaded the footage of it from my security cameras and spent hours combing through it for any detail or clue I’d possibly missed.

I didn’t find anything, and ever since, no one has approached Ryan’s cottage, no unfamiliar vehicles have lingered near the property, no lights have appeared in the fields after dark, no gates have been disturbed, and there has been no indication that anyone other than me has taken unusual interest in Alberte Legrand’s grandson.