As I stepped on the first step, a slow, heavy footsteps sounded from one of the rooms upstairs, belonging to whoever broke into myhouse. Judging from the casual walk, I could tell they were not in a rush.
Okay, Sanora. This is weird—
My soul made an exit out of my body when I heard a sudden thud from upstairs, making me yelp. I slapped a hand over my mouth, hoping whoever made that sound didn’t hear me.
Then the thud came again, like they were hitting something on the floorboards. It was coming from the second room. Not mine. Not the bathroom. The one that was supposed to beempty.
Terror twisted in my stomach.
I looked around wildly for anything I could defend myself with until my eyes landed on the open kitchen. Knives. Yes. A whole block of them was sitting on the counter.
I dashed in, snatched the largest one with both hands, and tiptoed out of the kitchen, my grip tight on the knife. The light switches beckoned, but I didn’t dare touch them. I didn’t want whoever was up there to know I was here. If they didn’t already.
My brain screamed to run, but I climbed the stairs with dread clinging to my back instead, step by step, until I was standing in front of the second room.
Then, from the other side of the door, a masculine voice muttered, “Goddamn.”
I jumped, every inch of me ignited in goosebumps. Still, I moved. And stopped—
Something tugged inside me. A wrenching, visceral pull in my chest, just like near The Crater, but this one was cruel. I clutched the spot with my free hand, gasping. My heart stammered, then pounded so violently I thought I might pass out.
I stood there for a long second, fighting for breath until I was back to my normal self. Something was wrong.
Or worse...something was familiar.
Hand shaking slightly, I closed my fingers around the doorknob, twisting it.
The door opened soundlessly.
I raised the knife, extending it before me like some amateur.
“If you move, I’ll slit your throat with this.”
My eyes settled on the form in the room by the window, and the knife nearly fell from my grip. I leaned on the door frame for support as my knees suddenly felt weak, shock overtaking my fear.
My world stopped.
Hestood tall next to the window, his back to me, head tilted slightly, admiring the night. His hair was wet, pushed back like he’d come out of a shower, and it gleamed under the faint silver moonlight pouring through the glass. A long-sleeved black top clung to his frame, matching his sweatpants.
I would have said he didn’t hear the door open nor did he hear my threat if I didn’t know better. He stood immovably tall and broad in a way that made the window he was staring through look narrower than it was. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, as if he knew I was there.
And didn’t care.
“Slit my throat,” he murmured, his voice a quiet scoff, finding the idea insulting. Then slowly, his eyes slid from the window, not meeting my gaze, but going straight to the knife that I was barely holding up. “You don’t even know the proper way to hold it.”
And just like that, he went back to staring out the window.
I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain scrambled to catch up. To make sense of this.
I looked around the room.
It wasn’t empty.
The bed had been made. Not like the staged setup it came with when I moved in. The sheets were laid neatly. A jacket hung on the chair. A book lay on the bedside table that held the lamp thatprovided the only light in the room, and on it was a watch. There was a duffel bag at the foot of the bed. Boots by the closet. His presence filled the space so completely, it was impossible to imagine it had ever been empty.
Did he...did he move in?
My breath hitched, my knees buckling slightly.
