She just didn't know it yet. I closed the cabinet, checked the time on my watch. She'd be home soon. I needed to leave. But I couldn't resist one last thing. Going back to the living room, I flipped open her sketchbook again. Found the page with the antlered woman. And tore it out. Carefully. Slowly. I folded it, tucked it into my jacket pocket next to her underwear. Souvenirs. Proof that I'd been here. That I could come and go as I pleased. Climbing back out the window, I lowered it carefully, making sure it looked just like I'd found it, latch barely caught, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. Then I disappeared into the woods, my heart pounding, my dick still aching, her scent clinging to my clothes.
The next night, I went back. And the night after that. Each time, I took something small.
A pen.
A hair tie.
A single earring from a pair she'd left on the bathroom counter. I was building a collection.
A shrine, really. Everything I took, I brought back to my cabin and arranged on the desk in my office. Her things mixed with mine. It felt right. Like she was already halfway moved in. On the fourth night, I heard her car pull up while I was stillinside. My pulse spiked. I should have left immediately, should have slipped out the back. But I didn't.
Instead, I moved to the bedroom closet, slid inside, and pulled the door almost closed. Watching. Waiting. She came in humming something under her breath, tossed her keys on the counter. I could see her through the crack in the door as she kicked off her shoes, stretched, rolled her neck. Then she walked into the bedroom. I held my breath. She was so close I could hear her breathing. Could smell that lavender scent even stronger now. She pulled her shirt over her head, and I bit down on my tongue to keep from making a sound. Fucking beautiful. Her skin was smooth, her body soft in all the right places. She unhooked her bra, let it fall to the floor, and I nearly lost my mind. I wanted to touch her. Needed to. But I stayed still. Frozen. Watching as she pulled on an oversized t-shirt and climbed into bed. She didn't check the closet. Didn't check the locks.
She just turned off the light and curled up under the blankets. And I stayed there. In her closet.
All night.
Listening to her breathe.
Chapter 4
Lena
The art mixer was the last place I wanted to be and my little black dress felt constricting and the pearls around my neck felt too delicate. But my boss had insisted and the only thing making it bearable was the white wine in the plastic cup that I was holding.
"You need to network, Lena. Make connections. This town's small and you never know who might commission a piece."
So here I was, nursing a glass of cheap wine in a gallery that smelled like fresh paint and pretension, surrounded by people who used words like "evocative" and "visceral" to describe paintings that looked like a toddler had sneezed on a canvas.God, I wanna go home to the cabin,I thought as the music in the space turned to a weird and seductive pulsing sound.
With another sigh dancing from my lips I looked around the space and noted that it was packed. Bodies pressed close as people moved from piece to piece, wine glasses held to their lips like shields.
I kept to the edges, pretending to study a sculpture that looked like twisted metal having an existential crisis.
"Not a fan?" A voice that was deep and low came from behind me. It was as if someone had dropped warm honey all over my body.
Slowly, I turned to face the unfamiliar voice and found a man standing there. He was broad shouldered and tall with dark hair, slightly too long, like he'd missed a few haircuts.
The intensity of his eyes had me gripping my cup a little too tight.
Blue.
His eyes were so intensely blue and he was looking at me like I was possibly the last meal he’d ever have, if I let him.
"I…" Softly, I cleared my throat, trying to find my footing. "I think it's trying too hard."
The way his mouth curved, not quite a smile gave off dangerous vibes. "Trying too hard to be what?" "Art," I said.
My reply got a genuine reaction out him. He actually laughed. "Fair enough."
He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, casual in a way that felt anything but. "You're new."
It wasn't a question.
"How do you know?"
"Small town," he said, his gaze dropping to my dress, then back up. His eyes were eating me the fuck up and I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not.
"And you’re giving off a vibe."
