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Chapter Two
Occasionally—very occasionally—rich people weren’t completely the worst.
The guy who owned this cabin for instance had the good grace to have locks that were easy peasy to pick, kept the place clean, and was clearly paid up on all his bills because the cable, internet, electricity, and hot water all worked. Thanks, WASPy ass motherfucker who probably paid more in taxes and HOA fees on this place than she made in a year and likely spent a weekend or three here over the summer and otherwise left it to gather dust. Asshole.
Despite this guy probably being a douchcanoe of the highest order, Lilith hadn’t fucked up his stuff. Just made use of as little as she could and cleaned up after herself. He might be a popped-collar, straw-haired, Nantucket-red-chinos-wearing piece of shit, butshewas a good person.
She’d stay here a few more days and then clear out because she was pretty sure the security at Mountain View Cabins did their rounds at this part of the property on Sundays. Last thing she needed was to have the cops called on her.
Ugh, she didn’t want to get off this couch because it was really comfortable, but she hadn’t meant to fall asleep here either. She had a bed to sleep in for a few more days and she should take advantage of it. But she’d leaveMurder Filesplaying on the massive flatscreen because true crime shows helped her sleep and they were having a marathon this week.
Rubbing at her eyes, Lilith took a few more sucks on her paci. It was her favorite and it came in handy when she was as stressed as she had been for the past few days. There was just something about the latex nipple in her mouth and the rhythmic sucking that turned off the part of her brain that was freaking the fuck out.
Getting fired after refusing to blow your creepy ass boss would do that to a girl.
Crawling out from under this blanket was going to be the worst, but she’d do it. Change into her pajamas, brush her teeth, wash her face, and then climb into the massive bed that could sleep four comfortably. What the hell did a single guy need a bed that big for? Because the preppy bastardwassingle—she’d determined that from the pictures around the cabin.
He was in all of them, but mostly with different groups of people. Seemed to have a lot of friends. That must be nice.
Reluctantly, Lilith stretched, poking her feet out from under the cuddly blanket and reaching her arms overhead and across the arm of the big couch, and then finally opened her eyes, expecting to see the cheesy reenactments that were a hallmark ofMurder Files.
Which she saw, yeah, but standing next to the flatscreen with crossed polo-shirt-bared and burly as hell forearms, was the guy from all the pictures. The man whose house she’d been squatting in for the past several days.
Well, shit.
* * *
Vance would’ve been less surprised to find a cat burglar rifling through his drawers than to find a woman asleep on his couch. A woman with black hair, pale skin, and a…a pacifier tucked in her mouth.
That last had made Vance’s cock jerk in his pants. Not that a grown woman using a pacifier meant she was a little by default—apparently they could help with snoring?—but this paci didn’t look like a utilitarian one. No, it hadrhinestoneson it. Hard to tell in the glow of the TV, but looked like black and red sparkly little crystals surrounding a shiny black bat. And the tiny letters glued to the ring spelled out “Hell Child.”
He probably should’ve said something, woken her, turned on the lights, done any damn thing. But for a few minutes all he could do was stare. Was this some sort of demented joke the universe was playing on him?
The woman snuggled under the blanket that was usually draped over the back of the couch looked petite, but he couldn’t be sure. And she looked young too, but maybe that was just how sweet and vulnerable she looked with her eyes closed and her mouth working the pacifier in rhythmic sucks.
Christ.
He only had a few minutes to consider his options before her lashes fluttered, she gave a big stretch and made a cute little “mmph” around her paci, and then blinked her eyes open.
As soon as her gaze fell on him, she sat bolt upright, scooted into a corner of the couch, and her paci tumbled from between her lips onto the floor as her mouth gaped in surprise.
“Who the hell are you?” he blurted, mentally smacking himself upside the head because he didn’t want to scare her. Yeah, she’d broken into his house but she seemed harmless.
Didn’t seem to have touched anything, just had a few bags she’d hidden behind the end of the couch, and she’d fallen asleep. She could’ve stolen shit or trashed the place if she’d felt like it, and she was in fact fairly petite although with tits that were straining the snap-front of her shirt.
“Who the hell areyou?” she retorted, clutching the blanket to her chest and he had to laugh.
Her voice was high but loud, and she resembled nothing more than an indignant and furious little kitten who he wanted to pick up by the scruff of her neck.
She scowled at him, brows gathering under her thick, blunt cut bangs, and crossed her arms over her chest, mirroring his own posture. And yeah, she clearly expected him to answer despite her being the one who had committed a home invasion. Hell child indeed.
“I’m Vance Yardley. I own this cabin that you’ve made yourself at home in. Now could you explain who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my house?”
“I’m leaving,” she spat, throwing the blanket off and getting to her feet, snatching the paci off the floor and going to shove it in her pocket before realizing she had no pockets. No, her little outfit had nothing. It was basically a scrap of fabric masquerading as clothes. A romper cut just below her indecently full buttocks to reveal lush, ample thighs.
His cock jerked again and he wished his dick had better sense. He’d grown up in New Haven, for fuck’s sake, and not the nice part. You didn’t sleep with people who broke into your house; you shanked them.
Something toppled to the floor when she flounced over to her bags and started pulling them over her shoulders—she was going to carry all that? He hadn’t seen a car—and he picked it up.
It was a black bat stuffie with evil-looking beady red eyes and purple satin-lined wings. Creepy little thing, but it seemed to go with the whole goth-chick aesthetic she had going on.
The hissy little cat burglar shoved her feet into some ankle boots with thick soles that shimmered in the glow of the TV that was still on. They looked almost pink but shiny, like what Halli would call iridescent. Speaking of Halli, he should make an appointment at her salon because he was looking shaggy and he knew how Arthur felt about him going all mountain man. For now, he watched as the punky little miscreant, laden with all of her stuff, spun around, clearly searching for something on the floor.
Flicking on the lamp on the end table, he held up the bat stuffie.
“Looking for this?”
