The bed looks different.
When I first came in, the quilt was rumpled. Dented in the middle like he'd been sleeping on top of the covers. Now it's smooth. Tucked. Fresh sheets peeking out at the corners.
He changed the sheets while I was showering.
And my bag is open.
I cross to it, heart pounding. Maya packed it, so I don't know everything that should be in here, but I know the one thing I added, and I dig through the clothes, the toiletries, the—
Gone.
It's gone.
He took it. He went through my bag and he took it and—
I'm out of the bedroom before I remember what I'm wearing. The living room is dim, one lamp on in the corner.
The laptop sits on the coffee table.
Carver's laptop. The airgapped one. Opened. The screen is dark but recently touched—I can tell from the angle, the smudge on the trackpad.
He's in the kitchen with his back to me, packing what looks like dinner into containers.
"You went through my bag."
He keeps working like I'm not standing here in his shirt, vibrating with rage.
"Glad I did."
I step closer. "You had no right."
"You're under my roof. In my care. Putting both our lives at risk." He sets down a container. Turns. "You're the one who has no rights."
His gaze drops to the shirt. His jaw tightens.
He looks away first.
Good.
He has to duck through doorways. His skin is olive green with undertones of gray, like army fatigues. Tattoos disappear under a black tank top that strains across shoulders wider than I am. I shouldn't feel like I can yell at him. But I hold my ground. Barely.
He turns back to me and his hands hang loose at his sides. They could crush my skull without trying. His tusks—four of them, two smaller ones bracketing the larger pair—catch the light when he shifts his weight.
I make myself meet his eyes. Amber—warm and fierce at the same time. My breath catches.
"You were in my room. While I was—" The violation hits fresh. "I was twenty feet away. Naked. And you just—"
"My room, and I told you to lock the door."
I flinch. He's right. He said the lock works from the inside. And I hadn't.
"That doesn't give you the right—"
"I put myself in the crosshairs for you." His voice is flat. "You walked into my home with a bag I've never seen. Someone's been selling you out. And I'm supposed to trust there's nothing in there that could get us both killed?"
He's not sorry. He's not defensive. He crosses his arms over his chest—stating his position and waiting for me to catch up.
"So you waited until I was in the shower and went through my underwear?"
