Too late for that. Way too late. You disturbed us the second you walked through that door, Carter. You've been disturbing us every second since.
His door opens. The click is quiet but I hear it. I'm listening for it. Waiting for it.
Pause. Silence. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Long enough that I start to wonder if he saw it. If he noticed. If he—
"Fuck." Quiet. Broken. Panicked.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
His voice. Low. Panicked. Music to my ears. The sound of control slipping. The sound of fear. The sound of him realizing he's not safe. Not here. Not anywhere.
I grin. Wide. Genuine. The first real smile I've had all night. My cock throbs. I ignore it. This is better than sex. This is power.
Chapter 7
The house is dark when I get home. Dark and looming, the windows like empty eyes watching me pull into the driveway.
I park Margot's car and sit for a moment, staring at the estate. My hands are still gripping the steering wheel even though the engine's off, my knuckles white, my fingers cramped. All those windows. Too many to count, most of them dark now, a few glowing with warm light that feels like it belongs to someone else. All that space. Vast. Overwhelming. Suffocating despite its size. None of it mine.
I don't want to go inside.
But I'm tired. Exhausted down to my bones, the kind of tired that makes my whole body ache. My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel too hard on the drive back. Twenty minutes of white-knuckled tension, my shoulders hunched, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my teeth. My head pounds from two hours of pretending to pay attention in class when all I could think about was Atlas's face when I pushed past him. Those gray eyes. That disappointment. That flash of something I couldn't name.
Neither did we.
The words echo in my head on repeat, a chorus I can't silence.
I grab my bag —the strap catching on the gearshift, making me yank it free with more force than necessary— and head inside. Each step up the front stairs feels heavier than the last, like I'm walking through water. Like gravity has doubled.
The foyer is quiet. Dark except for the lights Margot must have left on—warm sconces along the walls casting long shadows across the floor, the ones that make the marble floors glow like something out of a magazine. My reflection stares back at me from the polished stone, distorted and ghostly.
I take the stairs slowly. Quietly. One hand trailing along the railing, the wood smooth and cool under my palm. My sneakers whisper against the carpet runner. I hold my breath at the landing, listening for any sound of movement, any sign that someone's still awake.
My room is at the end of the hall. Door closed. Exactly as I left it. The thin line of darkness beneath it unchanged.
I open it and step inside. The hinges are silent. The room is dark. I fumble for the light switch, my fingers clumsy against the wall.
Everything looks normal at first. The lamp clicks on, bathing everything in soft yellow light. Bed still made. Gray linens smooth, pillows arranged exactly as I'd left them this morning. Desk still organized. Laptop closed, notebooks stacked, pens lined up in a neat row. Laptop exactly where I—
I stop. My breath catches. My hand falls from the light switch.
There's something on my bed.
Orange plastic. Bright against the gray. Impossible to miss. Wrong. So wrong.
No.
My heart starts to pound. Slow at first, then faster. Faster.
No.
I cross the room in three steps —my bag sliding off my shoulder, hitting the floor with a thud I don't register— and pick it up. My hands are shaking. The plastic is cold. Light. Too light.
My pill bottle.
Empty.
The cap is twisted on loosely, like someone didn't care enough to close it properly. Like someone wanted me to know. Wanted me to see. I shake it anyway. Once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. The bottle is silent in my hand, hollow, mocking.
