Page 19 of Curvy Arranged Mate

“He was here.” Chris stepped into the room. “The man from your cottage. He was inside this room.”

“Get out, Chris.”

“When? Last night? While you were at dinner?” He turned, scanning the window, the lock on the door. No scratches, no forced entry. “How did he get past the wards?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

He stopped moving. Faced her. She stood with her back against the far wall, her arms crossed, her chin raised. The posture was familiar. It looked like defiance. Up close, with the bond pressing her fear into his bones, it looked like a woman bracing for a blow.

“There’s a note,” he challenged. “Isn’t there?”

Her face didn’t change. But her fingers tightened on her own arms, the knuckles going white.

“Sloane.”

“You need to leave.”

He crossed to the desk. She moved to block him, quick, but he was already pulling the drawer open. The shirt was folded on top. He lifted it. Six pieces of paper, some folded into squares, some creased, the handwriting visible through the folds.

Sloane’s hand closed around his wrist. Her grip was strong, her fingers pressing into the tendons, her nails biting the skin. He looked at her. Her eyes were bright, the hazel burning gold at the edges where her wolf pressed forward, the expression on her face stripped clean of everything she used to hide behind.

“Put them back.” Her voice broke.

He didn’t put them back. He picked up the top note, the newest one, and unfolded it with his free hand while she held his wrist.

You moved. That’s fine. I know where you are.

You’ve been talking. That’s less fine.

The boy who broke my door won’t always be close enough to help. You know that.

I told you I’d come back. I don’t break promises, sweetheart.

Chris read it twice. He set the note down on the desk, picked up the next one. Then the next.