If he’d come thirty seconds earlier, he would’ve found one.
“You’re pale,” he says, taking a step in, scanning me. “What happened?”
The words catch in my throat. If I tell him, it’ll explode everything—Kate, us, this fragile thread of a secret we’re barely holding together. If I stay silent, it feels like lying, like sin layered on sin.
I force my lips to curve. “Nothing. Just… dizzy. Haven’t eaten.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it. He never buys it.
He crosses the room slowly, predator-sure, like he’s waiting for me to crack. His fingers brush my jaw, tilt my face up, making me meet his stare. His touch should calm me—it always does—but tonight it only makes the guilt roar louder, because I can still feel Rafe’s heat in the air where Dean stands now.
“You’re lying,” he murmurs. Not a question. A truth.
I flinch, lips parting, but nothing comes out.
Dean studies me another beat, his thumb stroking under my chin in a way that feels both tender and possessive, then he leans down, voice a razor-soft whisper against my mouth.
“Who was here?”
I feared I would be discovered as the question made my stomach churn and my heart pound.
No footsteps. No sound. No proof. Just me, trembling, with a truth that could kill me either way.
His gaze slices through me, and I swear he can hear my pulse screaming.
I try to breathe steadily, try to keep my eyes from darting toward the back door, but Dean misses nothing. His head tilts just slightly, a predator scenting the air, and then he lets go of my jaw.
“Stay here.”
Two words. Command. Condemnation.
My knees nearly buckle as he moves past me, stalking the perimeter of the kitchen. His boots are too loud in the silence, each step a reminder that he knows something I don’t. He pulls open the back door, the hinges whining. Cold night air spills in, and with it, the echo of the man who was just standing there.
Dean crouches. Stills.
When he straightens, he’s holding something between his fingers. My breath catches.
A cigarette—still faintly smoking.
Not his brand. Not his scent.
Dean turns it once, twice, watching the ember die. His jaw tightens, a vein ticking at his temple. Then his eyes lift, pinning me to the spot.
“Funny,” he says softly, almost too softly. “I don’t smoke.”
The lie on my tongue burns. I want to say it blew in from the street, that someone dropped it earlier, that I don’t know—but the way he’s looking at me, sharp and savage, I know he’d hear the fracture in my voice.
He steps closer, closing the distance until the dying ember glows between us like proof of sin. He brings it to his nose, inhales, and something dangerous twists in his expression.
“Rafe.”
The name is a curse. A growl. A sentence.
My whole body goes stiff.
Dean drops the cigarette into the sink, douses it under the tap with a hiss, then fists the counter on either side of me, caging me in.
“When?” His voice is thunder low. “When was he here?”
