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I read a paragraph and realized I’d started listening for him. A sick part of me wanted to hear footsteps, to hear that voice slide out of the dark and tell me I wasn’t invisible to him, that he saw me, wanted me.

I snapped the book shut.

“Absolutely not,” I said, breath coming faster. “No. Nope. I am not sitting here wishing my stalker would come back like a pathetic romance heroine.”

Silence.

My cheeks heated, my thighs shifted. “Do not,” I warned myself. “Do not do that.” My pussy refused to listen.

Still, my skin kept that prickly awareness, like the room held an extra set of eyes, like he would appear at any second, and I found myself sitting straighter without meaning to, adjusting my shirt, smoothing my hair, which was humiliating in a way I couldn’t fully explain.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “I’m performing for the dark.”

That thought made me laugh, sharp and miserable.

“Cool,” I said, voice rough. “Cool cool cool. I’m going to get murdered, and my last act will be trying to look hot for the boogeyman.”

I almost called Kalon. I almost chickened out. But no, I’m a strong fucking woman who can handle this on her own, right?

My thumb hovered over his name long enough for the screen to dim.

He would answer. No games. No cryptic note. No rose left where my fear could trip over it. He would answer, ask where I was, ask what I needed, and show up if I said yes.

That was why I almost called.

That was also why I didn’t.

Because my body wanted the man who had broken the lock, not the one who would wait outside until I opened the door.

I told myself I left the curtains open because the apartment felt stuffy.

That was a lie.

The air was fine. My brain was the haunted little trash fire.

I stood in front of the window in my oversized sleep shirt, arms folded, chin lifted, daring the darkness to move. I wanted proof. That was all. Proof meant I wasn’t losing my mind. Proof meant there was a line between me and whatever waited outside.

I didn’t step away.

I didn’t close the blinds.

I didn’t turn off the lamp.

I stood there and told myself I needed to catch him. That sounded better than the truth. Stronger. Less pathetic. More woman-with-a-plan, less woman-with-a-Kindle-history-that-needed-priestly-intervention.

The apartment behind me stayed quiet.

“See?” I said to the glass. “Nothing.” A normal woman would have been relieved.

Instead, disappointment crept over me. Yep, there’s something wrong with me.

The alley below sat dark.

No mask. No shadow. No impossible man with terrible manners and worse timing.

I reached for the curtains.

The darkness moved.