What in God’s name has he done? He’s proven that there’s no telling what he’s capable of, and I’m scared as much as I’m intrigued, but the sensations between my thighs are making my brain too mushed up to properly spiral and force him to answer me.
He runs his hand down the back of my head in slow, soothing motions. “Shh, it’s alright. Just go to sleep, baby. There’s nothing you need to worry about anymore.”
And I do sleep. I relish being in his arms because when he says it like that, I can almost believe it’s true.
If my vagina didn’t spend the whole day throbbing, I might think that last night never happened. I woke up, and the other side of my bed was empty, and my room looked exactly as it did when I went to sleep.
The text from the unknown number? That’s still there taunting me like a bad fucking omen.
They haven’t said anything else. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.
It’s taken the willpower of a divine being to stop myself from obsessing over it, and I distract myself with working all day until my alarm goes off for Leo’s game.
I shut it off, then finish the last bite of my spam, egg, and rice dinner. I wince as I readjust the pillow behind my back and settle in to watch the game on the brand-new laptop thatmysteriouslyappeared on my desk, which my insurance company sure as hell didn’t put there.
My gift was coupled with a text I was almost too nauseous to read in case it was the unknown number, but I relented when I saw that it came from the man I was mutually stalking.
Leo: Use it, or next time I won’t let you come.
I didn’t need much convincing.
Rationally—and probably ethically—I should refuse the gifts. But I want them, so I do what is expected of me: play hard and reject the present twice (via text on my new phone that I told him I couldn’tpossiblyaccept), and fold at his third insistence.
A decision that I now partially regret because my phone is lighting up with a call just as the commentator mentions Leo, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he’s finally swapping out with one of his teammates and skating out onto the ice as the game stops—no idea why.
My lips part. Leo is kissing the handle of his hockey stick. The same stick that was in me less than twenty-four hours ago. In front of a fully packed stadium and live national TV.
The phone rings a second time, and I answer it without thinking, still gawking at the screen.
“Yeah?” Oh, Christ, I’m breathy.
“Hello, notyeah.” The sound of Mom’s voice makes me feel physically ill, and I have to take my glasses off from the stress. She is the very last person I want to hear from today. “That’s just—just rude to say to your mother.”
Wait. Is she... crying? Oh no. That never works out well for me. “Sorry, I was in the middle of doing work and was distracted.” My voice wavers.
She huffs, and I brace myself for a round of abuse that never comes. Instead, she says something far worse.
“Thomas was killed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Leo
Color me shocked that it took so long for someone to realize Thomas was dead. A day and a half his corpse lay there decaying.
Ialmostfelt guilty when I heard it was sweet, little ol’ Tita Agnes who found his body because he wasn’t responding to her texts. According to the family group chat that Mina never responds to, the police have no suspects and have labeled it a robbery gone wrong, since all his valuables were gone—donated to a charity on the other side of the city, not that they know this, though.
I place my hand on the woman’s bony shoulder, and her sniffling takes a pause long enough to look up at me with confusion.
“My deepest condolences,” I offer, then continue through the church’s courtyard before she can pester me with questions I have no intention of answering.
No, Agnes, you haven’t met me before.
Do I know your son? Well enough to be here.
The last time I attended a funeral, it was for someone in my family, and it was most definitely nothing like this one. It’s quite literally a full house—good for Thomas, bad for me because I have to spend far too long weaving around the courtyard and the hall attached to the church, trying to find who I’m looking for.
The longer I’m in the building, the hotter it gets. I shrug my coat off and scan the room to confirm the heaters are to blame. My track list doesn’t exactly make me a welcomed member of the house of God.
