Part 13:

With her covered and still, OS got to his feet. He didn’t go far. Her mumbling had stayed with him. The singing, the way she’d begged a ghost not to go upstairs, and he started moving through the small space, slower now, taking in what Veto had hidden down here, the kind of things a man stored when no one would look. He kept her talking so she wouldn’t drift off, and worked the thread she’d handed him in her sleep.

“Where’s your mother now, Anita?” He ran his eyes along the shelves while he waited for her to answer and caught on two drawers built into the wall beneath them. He worked the first one open and went through it. From the bed her voice came thick and far away, the wine and the blow to her head still dragging at every word.

My mother is dead. His hand went still on the drawer. He didn’t turn around right away. When did your mother come down here? I don’t want to talk. The words slurred together, halfformed, sleep pulling her back under as she spoke. I’m tired. Pulling the second drawer all the way out, he reached into the gap and felt along the wood behind it.

Something was wedged there. He pried it loose and brought it into the light. A photograph. A woman with striking pale eyes looked back at him. this house rising behind her, the garden, the edge of the pool, a cake sat on the table in front of her, and a baby rested in her lap, maybe a year old.

He took it in for a long moment. Then his gaze moved to Isabella on the bed. He turned the photo over, written on the back in faded ink. The 21st of June, 2002. The date hit him in the same pattern as the code. 216. A baby turning 1. A smile touched the edge of Aeros’s mouth, but there was no humor in it. Whose birthday opens the tunnel, Anita? Warmth came first, then the smell of it, soap on top, and under it something intoxicating, scent of his own skin.

She was still half asleep, and she turned her face into it and breathed it in, and when her lips moved against it, she could taste the faint salt of him. Her eyes opened. Her cheek was on Eeros Svino’s bare chest. She jerked upright, and the whole picture landed at once. Her underwear, nothing else. his boxes.

His arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her into him like she belonged there. Her fingers flew to her forehead. A dull throb met them, and her gaze dropped to the half empty wine bottle on the floor. “Oh my god,” she whispered. The man who raided her house, and she’d slept on him all night. When she shifted to push up, his arm only drew her in closer.

“How’s your head, Anita?” His voice came low and thick, close above her. Shame and confusion were moving through her, and under them something she had no name for. The lamplight was sitting low on his skin, on the hard lines of a face that sleep had only made worse to look at. “Look away,” she told herself. “He’s the enemy.

” But she didn’t, and she could feel the heat crawling into her cheeks anyway. His eyes opened slowly. She fixed her face into something else. Get your hands off me. His gaze traveled over her. Her hair spilling against his chest soft enough to set his skin on edge. The bra the fury she aimed back at him and the corner of his mouth curled slow like he meant to take his time with the view.

Oh, you’re the one sleeping on me. The words came out unbothered, almost lazy. She tried to climb over him. He sat up at the same time and suddenly there was nowhere for her to go. She landed in his lap. both hands against his chest, her mouth inches from his. Neither of them moved. His hand stayed at her hip, not pulling her closer, not letting her fall.

The room went too quiet. Then his eyes dropped to her mouth. Once when they came back to hers, the sleep was gone from them. “Good morning.” His voice came rough, the calm in it worse than any threat. She pushed against him. “What do you think you’re doing?” twisting to get a knee down and climb off. Why? Why are you naked all the time? The more she fought to get free, the more she ground against him, his grip locked her in place. Anita, don’t.

A muscle worked in his jaw, and whatever ease had been in his face was gone, his breath shallow, his eyes hard on hers. Stop moving like that. She froze. It took her a moment too long to understand why. She was painfully aware of every place they touched. Then the heat went through her so fast she almost hated him for it. Almost.

Isabella threw herself off him, snatched the towel from the floor, and wrapped it around herself. You went too hard on the wine. OS rolled his neck to one side, then the other, and swung his feet to the floor. I was keeping you awake. You hit your head. You weren’t supposed to sleep it off. he shrugged. We both went under.

Isabella turned away to look for her dress, mostly so he wouldn’t see how red she’d gone. He stood, turned her by the shoulder, and tipped her chin up with one hand. “Let me see.” His thumb moved near the cut. For a second, she was caught right there in front of him. Close the blush. She’d been hiding nowhere left to hide.

His eyes left the wound and found her face and stayed. Who said you could put your hands on me whenever you want? She pulled back from his touch. Why did you take my dress off? Did you? She swallowed the rest. He set a hand on his hip, still in nothing but his boxes, standing there like a statue.

👉 [Tap here for Next Part] 👈