Hard.
“No one,” I breathe. “It’s no one.”
Noah straightens slowly, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lowers the box with a controlled, ominous calm.
“Don’t lie to me.”
My pulse falters.
I force a soft smile—the kind I’d use at charity galas with champagne in my hand and cameras flashing.
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
He steps closer again.
My back gently hits the marble counter.
He places the box down beside me.
Then braces one hand beside my hip, leaning in—not touching, but close enough my breath stutters.
Noah isn’t loud.
He isn’t violent.
He doesn’t need to be.
His possessiveness is colder.
Sharper.
Polished like the knife.
“Scarlett,” he murmurs, “you disappeared last night. You were shaking in the bathroom this morning. And now a knife shows up at my door addressed to you.”
His breath warms my cheek.
His voice drops lower:
“Tell me what’s going on.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because I don’t know how to say:
Kai was in our bedroom.
Kai put this on the counter.
Kai watches me breathe.
Kai is the ghost in all my walls.
So I press my lips together.
