Restless like her skin doesn’t fit.
Good.
She fucking feels me.
The street is empty, dead quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like God forgot this block existed—but I haven’t.
I haven’t forgotten a single goddamn thing.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word scraping out of my throat. “There you fucking are… little sister.”
My hand twitches like I’m reaching for her throat even from across the street.
She walks past the big front window again—bare legs, loose clothes, hair down, looking like she’s trying to peel herself out of her own body.
My jaw ticks.
“You lied in that courtroom,” I breathe, lips curling. “And you’ve been lying ever since.”
Her silhouette freezes.
Just for a second.
It’s enough to send heat down my spine.
“You feel me,” I mutter. “You always fucking did.”
She moves again—fast, agitated, rubbing her arms like she’s trying to shake something off.
Me.
She’s trying to shake me off.
My laugh comes out low, humourless, cracked from four years of waiting. “Try harder,” I whisper. “You don’t get rid of me that easy.”
I shift forward in the seat, eyes locked on her like I could drag her out of the house through the glass if I wanted.
And I do want to.
God, I fucking want to.
Then I see him.
Noah.
Tall.
Blonde.
Perfect.
Fake as fuck.
He walks past behind her, and something in me snaps so hard my vision blurs at the edges.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I snarl, chest tightening. “Him? You let him put his hands on you?” My fistslams into the steering wheel. “You let that clean, polished, empty suit of a man touch you like he earned it?”
I lean back, run both hands through my hair, breathing hard. “Christ, Scarlett… you let him into your bed?”
