And I stand there, watching her go.
Watching her storm away barefoot through cold grass, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair a tangled halo of rage.
When she disappears into the yard, into the glow of that too-perfect house with the man who doesn’t deserve her name in his mouth—I exhale slowly.
Controlled.
Calm.
Focused.
“She’s awake,” I say to myself. My smile sharpens. “And she’s mine again.”
She storms back toward the house, shoulders tight, fists clenched, breath still shaking like she’s trying to exhale me out of her bloodstream.
Good.
She won’t.
She never has.
I stay in the trees a little longer, watching her pace across the lawn like she’s ready to tear the world apart with her bare hands. Her hair is wild, her cheeks flushed, her hoodie slipping down one arm like she just fought the woods themselves.
She looks wrecked.
Not weak.
Wrecked.
By me.
And fuck if that doesn’t hit somewhere low and dangerous.
I run my thumb across my lower lip, the ghost of a grin tugging there.
“You’re furious,” I mutter. “Good girl.”
She disappears into the house, slamming the sliding door hard enough it echoes.
Even from here, I can feel the heat of her.
Her anger hangs in the air like smoke—sharp, intoxicating, addictive.
That scream she tore through the trees?
The one that cracked something open under my ribs?
I’m still hearing it.
Come out, you fucking coward.
Jesus Christ.
That one almost had me stepping out of the shadows right there.
Hands in my pockets.
Smile on my mouth.
