Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I wait. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. The phone call should be nothing. A spam text. A weather warning. But my hands have a mind of their own: they slide out from under the quilt, pull on my sleep shirt, and guide me toward the stairway.
I creep downstairs, and then down the hall, pausing at the corner. The office door is closed, but not all the way; there’s a narrow wedge of light slicing across the floorboards, the faint scent of printer toner and woodsmoke leaking into the hallway.
I lean closer, bare feet silent on the old pine. I can’t hear much—Talon’s voice is low, a growl pitched for secrecy—but the words that do reach me are sharp and clear:
“—no, she’s perfect. No complaints. The arrangement’s working better than expected.”
A pause, then: “Yes, J.E. I understand. I’ll keep her until the end of the term. No longer. The payment’s already been made.”
The floor drops out of my stomach.
A slow, deep laugh. “You know me. I’m not sentimental.” Another silence. “Yes, I’ll send you the sample pages tomorrow. No, there’s nothing in writing. She thinks it’s just a new manuscript. She’s—” A sigh, tired and annoyed. “Yeah. Exactly as promised.”
He hangs up. The office chair creaks. Papers shuffle, then the click of the screen saver as he wakes up the computer.
I barely breathe. I press myself flat against the wall, every muscle tense, waiting for the next sound. Were they talking about me? My mind screams as my breaths come fast, pulse racing. Surely he must be able to hear. But Talon stays in the office. No footsteps. No hint he knows I’m hiding just outside.
I slip back to the bedroom, moving on autopilot. I crawl into bed and yank the quilt over my head, curling into the smallest ball I can make. My mind races, replaying the call: J.E. The arrangement. Payment. Exactly as promised. They must be talking about me. I’m the arrangement. I’m the girl who got paid for sex, exactly as promised.
I feel sick. I want to scream or cry or maybe just rip the quilt in half. But I do none of those things. I lie in the dark, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I’m in a thriller after all.
When Talon comes to bed, he smells like the office: a linger of woodsmoke and cold resolve. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close, and I almost let myself melt into his warmth. Almost.
Instead, I watch the moonlight, waiting for dawn. And this time, I don’t fall asleep at all.
11
CHAPTER ELEVEN – THE TRUTH REVEALED
Kat
There’s something about a mountain morning, even after a night of zero sleep, that makes you feel both tired and refreshed simultaneously. The light is blue and clear, and the air is so sharp that it stings my lungs. I’m sitting shotgun in Talon’s old Tacoma truck, which has seen better days, given its mud-spattered paint and well-worn wheels. But I like it. The bench seat is cold against my thighs, but Talon’s palm is warm where it rests on my knee. My hands are in my lap, fingers fidgeting, drumming an SOS on my jeans. I keep stealing looks at the handsome man when he’s not looking at me.
I have to get out of the house. Not just out, but away. I need a cover story, something normal. Talon’s suggestion is so reasonable it makes me want to scream: “We’ll make a run to the general store. Stock up on whatever. Chips, snacks, whiskey, you name it. Then we’ll come straight back.” Like I’m not a problem to be solved, like I’m not watching him with one eye for the first time since I got here.
The ride is long enough that I start to feel idiotic for even being nervous. The forest is a blur of gray and green, the sky a clear blue, the road so rutted that my teeth click on every hard turn. Talon’s got his playlist going—a mix of outlaw country and vintage punk, which shouldn’t work but somehow does. He’s humming low in his throat, not singing, but there’s a rhythm to the way he taps the steering wheel with his thumb. I think about the phone call last night, the contract, the weird chill that settled in my bones after. I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself if I bring it up, he’ll think I’m crazy.
Instead, I watch the scenery. We pass a rotted sign for “Pine Hill Mercantile,” paint peeling, the word “Mercantile” barely legible. I recognize the turnoff—one sharp left at the fork, then a mile of winding dirt before the parking lot appears, muddy and full of potholes. The truck rumbles in, and Talon parks close to the door, leaving the engine idling. He turns to me, mouth soft at the corners.