He's been honest about what he is. Obsessive, dangerous, willing to kill for me. But I haven't been honest about what I know.
After yesterday, that imbalance is unbearable to me.
He's in the monitoring room. Working. Watching feeds that don't show this bathroom, this mirror, this transformation. If I'm going to do this, show him what I bought and tell him what I know, I have to walk out there and find him.
I take one last look at the woman in the mirror. She has her mother's cheekbones and her father's stubborn chin. She has stretch marks and a C-section scar and the permanent shadows under her eyes that concealer stopped fixing two years ago. She's wearing four hundred dollars of black lace and she's about to do something she can't take back.
Chesca's been asleep for an hour. I checked twice.
I turn off the bathroom light.
My bedroom is quiet and lamp-lit. The white sheets on the bed are still rumpled from this morning, and something about that feels right. Evidence that this space isn't sterile anymore. That someone else has been sleeping here.
My robe is draped over the chaise by the window. It's navy silk and worn soft from years of use. The safe choice. The covered choice.
I'm reaching for it when the door opens.
Cole.
He stops in the doorway. Then his gaze lands on me and whatever he was about to say dies.
What if he doesn't—
"Don't cover up."
Three words. That's all it takes to kill Adrian's voice completely.
I stop. My hand hovers six inches from the robe. "Cole—"
"Whatever you were about to put on." He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. The click of the latch sounds very loud. "Don't."
He's still in his clothes from dinner—sleeves pushed up at the forearms, dark jeans, bare feet.
I let my hand drop. "I was going to come find you."
"Saved you the trip." He crosses toward me. Not fast—unhurried. Giving me time to retreat if I want to. His gaze drags down, back up. His jaw tightens. "What is that?"
"La Perla."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Liar."
He's near enough now that I can smell his cologne. Near enough that the height difference makes me tip my chin up to hold his gaze.
"You bought this," he says. Not a question.
"Arrived yesterday."
"Therefore premeditated." The word sounds dark in his voice, like a verdict.
"First degree."
His hand comes up slow and purposeful, and his fingers brush the strap at my shoulder. A whisper of contact. A question.
"Why?"
