Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
She nods, then takes another sip of soup, her hand barely steady.
I watch her, the way she curls inward, making herself smaller. There’s a charge to it, a little wire of fear that runs from her wrist to her jaw. I hate it, the way it feels — like someone else is in this room with us, pressing their thumb down, waiting to see what happens.
We finish the meal in silence. She clears the bowls, stacks them in the dishwasher, her movements clipped and efficient. I wait, leaning on the counter, the weight of her mood pinning me down.
She stands at the sink, hands braced on the rim, hair falling loose around her face. I walk up behind her, put my hands on her waist. She stiffens, then lets out a long breath and leans back against me.
“You’re mad,” she says, not quite a question.
I shake my head. “Not at you. But something about this Evan guy is off.”
She turns, twisting in my arms so we’re face to face. Her skin is flushed, eyes shining with something I can’t read.
“You just have the heebie-jeebies because he talked to me at the auction. And I’ll be honest - I gave him my number that night because he asked. But I’m not going anywhere, Trevor,” she says. “He means nothing to me. I’m here with you.”
I lean in, letting my forehead touch hers. “You’d better not go anywhere with that douche otherwise I’ll have to kill him.”
For a second, it’s just us and the white noise of the city through the glass. The anger drains out, replaced by something hotter and more dangerous.
I kiss her, hard enough to bruise. She yields, mouth open, the taste of lemon and salt still there. My hands slip down her hips, fingers digging in, pulling her against me. The dress rides up, soft as tissue, and her body shudders against mine.
“Now,” I growl, already moving her that way.
She laughs, the sound unsteady, but nods.
I take her hard, right there in the open, the city watching through the glass. She moans my name, hands knotted in my hair, her whole body electric. I leave marks, not by accident but on purpose. I want her to remember who she belongs to.
When it’s over, we lay there on the rug, her dress bunched around her waist, my shirt open, sweat cooling on our skin.
She rolls to face me, lips swollen, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry about the broker thing,” she says, voice small.
I brush the hair from her face. “Doesn’t matter. You’re the only thing in here that matters.”
She smiles, and it’s real this time. I pull her closer, wrapping her up until there’s no space between us, and let the world fall away.
I watch her drift off, face soft, hair tangled across the pillow. She looks like peace, like something you could come home to for a lifetime.
And for the first time in months, I don’t dream about anything but this.
Just my beautiful girlfriend, in the golden dark, right where she belongs.
27
THE CONFRONTATION
Trevor
The dining room is glass and frost and a scatter of white candles down the length of the marble. I went all out tonight: linen napkins folded like chess pieces, the wine decanted, bread basket under a silver dome. Kayleigh sits at the far end of the table, shoulders bare in a white dress that’s loose enough to be innocent but cut just high enough to make me think about pushing it up over her hips the moment we’re done. Her hair is twisted off her neck and pinned with something gold. She’s using the silverware I bought from Copenhagen, because she knows I care about the details.
We eat in comfortable silence, just the steady clink of cutlery against plates and the quiet hum of the city behind the glass. From this high up, the skyline has no sound, only a kind of icy glow, like a moonlit graveyard. I watch Kayleigh eat, the way she lifts her fork, how she chews with a small crease of concentration above her nose. She’s aware of my attention but pretends not to be; it’s our game, or maybe just mine.
It’s a perfect evening. Or it would be, if not for the pit in my stomach.
The tension has been brewing for two weeks now. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s off. I can see it in Kayleigh’s posture—too careful, too bright, like she’s been rehearsing every word in her head before it comes out. She says she’s happy, she says she loves being here, but sometimes I catch her watching the windows, eyes soft and wet like she’s waiting for a sign.
Tonight, I want to prove to her, and to myself, that this is real. That what we have is more than some extension of the old nude photos debacle that kicked off the whole mess. I want to believe that I can be what she needs, not just what I want.