I don’t sleep. Not really.
The floatel creaks. Water slaps against the pontoons in slow, steady thuds. Every noise sounds like a footstep if you listen too long. I lie on the couch staring at the ceiling, boots off but jeans still on, one hand resting near the knife at my hip.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way she looked earlier. Sun on her skin. That defiant little smirk. The way my palm landed on her breast, felt her nipples harden too, and my body reacted like it found home. I hate myself for that part, for the instinct to claim, for the hunger that don’t care about vows or optics or the fact that she’s young enough to still have softness in her face when she laughs.
I shouldn’t be picturing her in that bed in the next room.
But I am.
Half asleep, half awake, my mind builds a stupid, dangerous fantasy. I imagine pushing open the bedroom door. Imagine slipping into the edge of her bed just to feel her warmth,not touching, just close enough to prove she’s real and safe and here.
A scream rips through the floatel.
I’m on my feet before my brain catches up. Knife in hand, breath in my throat, heart slamming.
I shove the bedroom door open.
Lights are on. She’s sitting upright in bed, breathing hard, eyes wild, hair everywhere.
“It moved,” she says.
“What moved?” I demand.
“The bear,” she says, pointing at the mounted head on the wall. “It moved.”
I glance at it. Glass eyes. Open mouth. Dust on the snout. It looks dead because it is dead.
“Brit…”
“I’m not crazy,” she snaps. “I turned on the light and I swear to God I saw eyes behind it. Human eyes.”
I step closer to the wall, every muscle tight. “You were dreaming.”
“I wasn’t.”
She throws the covers back and climbs out of bed, still in one of the shirts I bought her. Bare legs. Bare feet. All that exposed skin in a place that suddenly feels like a trap.
She marches to the wall and grabs the mounted head.
“Brittany.”
“I’m not crazy,” she says again, voice shaking, and this time I hear the difference between fear and humiliation. She’s been doubted too many damn times.
She pulls hard.
The screws groan.
Then the whole thing tears free.
Behind it is a hole. Not big, but big enough.
My blood turns to ice.
I step forward and put a hand out, not touching her, just guiding her back. “Move.”
She does, breathing fast.
I stick my head toward the opening. There’s a narrow cavity behind the wall, closet-sized, and at the back of it an access panel that ain’t supposed to be open.
