I swallow. “So you stalked me.”
“Yes.”
The honesty throws me more than an excuse would have. My heart stutters, fear flaring bright?—
And then, unexpectedly, dimming.
Because that’s what the second presence was, right? That distant protection I kept feeling as I walked in the dark. Not the wolf, but the bigger thing behind it.
“Do you think I’m a threat to you?” he asks.
The question hangs between us.
I search myself for the answer, waiting for instinct to scream at me to run. It doesn’t. Instead, what I feel is steady. Solid. The same strange certainty I felt every time I caught him watching me from across a room.
“No,” I hear myself confess.
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or resolve.
“Then I need you to promise me something,” he says. “You don’t tell anyone where you are. Not friends. Not work. No one. Whoever was watching you can’t be given another way in. Until we catch him, you’ll be under my protection.”
Who’s we?I nearly ask, but then think better of it.
Under his protection. In his house. With my plants and my things and my psycho of a cat. It sounds like a fairytale gone wrong. A twisted parody of one.
But I don’t exactly have better choices, do I?
Besides, Matteo saved me. He’s offering me his home out of the goodness of his heart—I hope—and for no other reason I can discern. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.
I hesitate, then nod. “Okay.”
“You have full rein of the house,” he continues. “Anywhere you want to go. Except the west wing.”
“The west wing,” I repeat, eyebrows lifting.
“It’s not for guests,” he says flatly.
It sounds insane. All of this. Me, staying here, and then this strange footnote at the end of it all. It’s enough to nearly make me break into hysterics. Not because Iwantto go to the famed west wing or whatever, but because who does even have “wings” in their house in the 21st century? In New York?
Rich people,the cynical part of me whispers.Bad people. Like the ones you ran from.
“That’s where you keep the rose under glass, right?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood in my head. “Enchanted curse, dramatic lighting, whole thing?”
He doesn’t laugh.
The silence stretches just long enough for me to realize I’ve misjudged the moment. “Sorry,” I add quickly. “I won’t go in. I promise.”
He nods once, accepting it.
“There is one place you might like,” he says instead. “The library.”
My head snaps up. “Library?”
Something like satisfaction flickers across his face at my reaction.
He gestures for me to follow. I slide off the bed, Wasabi tucked firmly in my arms, and trail after him down the hall.
8
