Page 39 of Prey

He kisses my forehead.

"Good."

Chapter 20

Grey

I wake up sore and stupidly happy.

My body is a map of last night. The ache in my thighs from holding him there. The faint sting at my throat where his teeth grazed my skin. The deep, bone-level looseness that only comes after you finally stop pretending you don’t want something.

Cain is still asleep beside me. One arm heavy over my waist. His hand splayed over my stomach like he’s pinning me in place even in his dreams. I watch him breathe for a few seconds, because I can. Because he let me. Because he said I’m not going anywhere and then proved it.

For a moment, the world is simple. There’s his bed, his sheets, his warmth, and the echo of his voice in my head: You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.

Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Work notification. 7:11 AM. Subject line preview: Executive safety notice.

The feeling in my chest changes so fast it makes me dizzy. The happiness doesn’t vanish; it curdles. Cain’s eyes open. He doesn’t move his hand.

"Morning," he says quietly.

"Hi," I whisper back.

He watches my face. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing." It’s automatic, a lie. My phone buzzes again. Another notification: HR: follow-up on safety notice.

I flinch. He sighs. The sound is soft but heavy. "Shower," he says. "We’ll go in together."

"You don’t have to."

"I’m doing it anyway." His fingers tighten once on my waist.

The shower doesn’t fix anything. Hot water doesn’t erase the memory of subject lines waiting for me at my desk. I scrub until my skin is pink. It doesn’t help. When I come out, Cain is fully dressed: dark suit, white shirt, tie loose but present. CEO instead of the man who fucked me into his mattress all night. He looks at me like he wants to strip me again but instead, he hands me my jacket.

As he drives I find myself staring out the window, stalling I don’t want to open the emails. It's childish I know, but it’s the only option I have right now. For some few extra minutes, I can pretend the messages are about someone else. Some other executive. Some other problem.

The elevator to the executive floor is crowded with our reflections. His, mine, the mirrored walls. My stomach knots tighter with every floor we pass. When the doors final slide open, the air feels wrong. Usually, there’s humming, typing, phones ringing, low voices. Today, it’s quieter. The kind that isn’t silence, it’s restraint. People pretending not to look.

Reception glances up, sees us and her eyes go wide for half a second before she drops them to her keyboard. The analyst at the far desk closes something on his screen too fast. Another pretends to be on a call, but his grip on the receiver tells another story.

Cain’s hand finds the small of my back. A simple touch that feels like I'm being marked in red.

"Ignore them," he murmurs.

I try and I make it five steps before I hear it.

"That’s him," someone whispers, not as quiet as they think. The words cling to the air like damp smoke.

My name is on a subject line on the nearest monitor. I see it before they can close tab away. Employee: Grey – behavioral review.

My skin goes cold, then hot, then nothing. At my desk, my chair is wrong. Not just moved; tilted. Like someone sat in it, then stood up fast and didn’t bother putting it back the way they found it. My mug is gone. The little plant that used to sit in the corner of my desk is missing too.

I sit anyway. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingers. Cain doesn’t go into his office. He leans against the frame of my desk instead, body blocking half the room’s view of my screen. It doesn’t matter. They’ve already seen enough.

"Open the email," he says quietly.