Her eyes narrowed, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Don’t you start.”
I giggled. She smiled lightly, then her face sobered. A pained sort of love was written all over her features.
"Go do what you need. I’ll go back down and distract them. I know I can keep them occupied for at least twenty minutes."
"Thank you, Mary."
Mary nodded, her eyes lingering on me with a mix of fear and hope. "Be careful, baby. He’s a wolf."
"I know. But I’ve been raised by hyenas. I’m not scared of wolves.”
She gave me a sad smile before leaving the room.
I turned to the small, cracked mirror on my wall. I didn't just look at my reflection; I studied it like a map. I tilted my head. I let a small, shy smile touch the corners of my mouth. I widened my eyes just enough to look curious, but not too smart.
Needy. Fragile. Breathless.
"Killian," I whispered to the empty room. I followed it with, “Mr. Hart,” testing the pitch of my voice. His name had to come from my mouth softly. It had to sound like a secret between us.
I knew his type. He was a protector. He wouldn't be moved by a woman who had it all together, but he would burn the world for a girl who looked like she was drowning.
I turned to the window and pushed it open. The humid air hit me, smelling of salt and the coming storm. I took a deep breath. I wasn't just about to climb a tree; hopefully, I was climbing out of my grave.
Chapter 4: Killian
A shadow shifted in the gnarled oak tree. My hand went to the Sig Sauer at the small of my back, my finger tightening against the trigger guard, ready to pull. I stopped when a woman’s legs dropped from the leaves.
Long. Thick. Bare.
Then came the rest of her—a woman in a thin shirt and lace-trimmed panties. She settled on the lowest branch, ten feet up, letting her legs dangle. She swung them lazily.
It took a heartbeat too long for my gaze to climb higher—snagging on the flare of her hips, the soft, heavy bounce of her breasts beneath a camisole that barely existed. Then I saw her face. My breath actually hitched.
She had an ethereal beauty, like an ancient siren pulled straight from the New Orleans folklore my grandfather used to whisper about. Her hair fell in wild, dark waves down her back. She glowed in the moonlight.
I blinked, taking a slow pull of my cigar to steady myself. I looked at her, then back to the house I had thought looked haunted—then back to her.
“Are you a ghost?” I asked before I could stop myself.
I assumed she was the missing daughter. She didn’t startle at my voice; it was like she expected me to be there. Shetilted her head, watching me with eyes that were too bright, too focused for someone who was supposed to be “disconnected.”
She stayed silent.
“You’re going to fall, little ghost.”
Nothing. Maybe her being mute wasn’t a lie.
“Are you Chloe?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. “And you are?”
“Killian,” I said, my brow furrowing. “I was told you were… unwell. That you didn’t talk.”
“They say a lot of things about me,” she said, her voice lifting slightly with her chin.
I gestured with my cigar toward her attire. “Why are you running around a dark estate in your underwear if you aren’t?”
She gave me a wide smile—sweet, deceptively innocent. “I’m crazy, Mr. Hart. That’s what they told you. Crazy people do crazy things, like run around in their underwear.”
