“Not tonight,” he corrects.
I don’t want to ask what he means. I don’t want to know if he plans to keep doing this.
Following me. Watching me. Protecting me.
Because the truth is, part of me wants it.
That’s the part that scares me the most.
It doesn’t take long for us to reach my street.
The little cottage is waiting like it always is, porch light flickering that I’d left on, paint chipped, steps worn down from years of coming and going. It’s the perfect little home for just me. It’s small and meant for going unnoticed.
Orpheus’s gaze sweeps over it, and something dark moves in his expression.
Disapproval. Anger. Possessiveness.
I don’t want to think about why.
I step up onto the porch, hand moving toward my key.
Then I stop.
Something’s wrong.
The door is shut, but the lock looks off.
Not broken exactly. Just not right. Like it’s been forced, and someone tried to make it look normal afterward.
My skin goes cold.
Orpheus stops behind me.
“What is it?” he asks, voice low.
I don’t answer. I stare at the door like it’s a mouth about to swallow me.
My hand trembles as I reach for the knob.
Orpheus’s hand covers mine.
“Move,” he says softly.
I step back without thinking.
He turns the knob and pushes the door open.
The air inside is stale. Wrong.
Orpheus steps inside first, his body blocking the doorway like a wall.
I follow, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to climb out of my throat.
The living room is a mess.
Not destroyed. Not ransacked like someone was searching for treasure, but clearly disturbed.
Couch cushions tossed. A drawer left open. My bag from yesterday tipped over with its contents spilling out onto the floor.
