Lavender fills my nostrils, relaxing my muscles. I finally allow my shoulders to sag.
“Thank God,” I say in a breathy exhale. I really got away with murder.
A creak fills the air, making me freeze. Was that just settling? Or footsteps? I hold my breath, listening to water hitting porcelain in sync with my racing pulse.
It could be pipes. Or someone lurking. In a creepy old house like this, it’s hard to tell the difference. But I sure as hell can’t afford to get it wrong.
The spray turns to ice, making my stomach lurch. With a scream, I leap out and grab a threadbare towel. My pulse hammers so hard I think it’ll burst.
What the hell was that?
I turn off the faucet before anything else goes wrong, wrap myself in the towel like it’s a safety blanket, and hurry back to the bedroom. I wrestle my way into the nightgown, which pulls tight across my chest. My lungs constrict. Tomorrow, I’ll ask for a larger size.
After folding my old clothes and shoving them back in the duffel bag, I turn off the main light and slide into bed. The mattress is unexpectedly soft, a vast improvement from Gil’s waterbed. And the sheets smell like lavender and fresh starch. I settle into the pillows, letting my body melt.
My eyes flutter shut, and the permanent knot in my stomach loosens. I’ve made it. No one will think of finding me on this remote island, let alone this oldestate.
But as I reach for the lamp, the balcony door slams.
I bolt upright. Did I forget to lock it?
Sighing, I pad across the wooden floor. Wind blows in through the gaping door, making me think of Lucy from theDraculamovie who was turned into a vampire through an open window.
I grab the door, only to see a figure outside in the garden.
It’s a man.
He remains perfectly still on the lawn, head tilted up toward where I’m standing. Even from up here on the balcony, I can see he’s wearing a mask. Is that the chauffeur? Why the hell is he just lingering there in the dark?
I place a hand over my heart, and he copies the movement. My breath quickens. I drop my hand. He does the same. The pulse between my legs comes to life.
Is he… mirroring me?
No. Whatever he’s doing is none of my damn business. And it’s not like I have a mask kink. That was Gil’s thing. Not mine.
But then he raises a gloved hand and beckons.
Panic bursts across my chest. I scramble back, the nightgown gaping open at the front. When I steal another glance, he’s still there. Watching. Waiting. For me?
Fear and arousal twist together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I pull the balcony doors shut, turn the lock, and check it twice. Once I’m sure it’s secure, I yank the curtains closed, blocking out the moon, the gardens, and the creep. With a shiver, I rush back to bed and pull the covers over my head.
My door is locked. The balcony is shut. He’s irrelevant.
That’s what I tell myself over and over until the words blur into nothing. Until memories of men, manipulation, and murder melt toward oblivion. Until footsteps echo in the hallway outside my door.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate, they pause outside my room. I swear there’s someone breathing on the other side of the wood.
My pulse kicks up several notches, and I try not to think about the masked man. Or the way he called me down. “Please let it be Mrs. Fairfax,” I whisper like a prayer.
But the footsteps sound masculine. And whoever’s out there is panting like the Hound of the fucking Baskervilles. I ball my hands into fists. The door is locked. Even if he has a skeleton key, he won’t get it in.
After what feels like an eternity, the footsteps fade down the hallway.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pull the covers over my head, and tell myself I’m safe.
Goddammit. I have to believe it.
