Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I flip him off. He laughs all the way upstairs.
I stand in the living room for a long moment, listening to the distant party noise fading behind the closed door. My heart’s still beating too fast. My skin still remembers where his hand rested on my waist.
This was supposed to be simple. Keep him contained. Keep him working. Keep my own secrets safe.
Instead I just spent half a day pretending to be married to the man I’m supposed to be breaking. And the worst part is, some tiny, treacherous piece of me didn’t completely hate it.
I push the thought away hard and head upstairs to change. Tomorrow the real work starts. No more pool parties. No more nosy neighbors assuming we’re in love.
Just me and Poe in this secure house, dancing around the truth and the tension and the very real threat hanging over both of us.
I can handle that.
I think.
As long as he stops smiling at me like that.
Because that smile is more dangerous than any gun Serafina could point at us.
And I’m not sure how long I can keep pretending it doesn’t affect me.
SEVEN
POE
The hot water from the shower beats against my shoulders, washing away the chlorine and the sticky sweetness of those fruity drinks from the party. I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam fill the small bathroom while my muscles relax. My mind replays the last hour on an endless loop.
I still can’t believe I fucking did that shit.
Mark had left his phone sitting on the little patio table next to the grill while he flipped burgers and told some long story about a stupid fishing trip. Everyone was laughing, distracted, half-drunk on sunshine and cheap beer. Orchid had been pulled into a conversation with Tammy and Lisa about throw pillows or some other suburban bullshit. For maybe sixty seconds I had a clear window. So, I took it. Fuck yeah, I did.
I moved fast as my heartbeat pumped violently through my veins. I slid the phone into my palm, angled my body so no one could see the screen, and fired off a text to Ozzy’s burner number I have memorized like my life depends on it.
It’s Poe. Safe. Serafina blackmailing me. Has Enley hostage. Trace this number. Find me. Find her.
My thumb had hovered for half a second before I hit send. Risky as hell. If Orchid had glanced over at the wrong moment, if Mark had reached for his phone early, if anyone had noticed me typing… but they didn’t. Ozzy’s reply came back almost instantly.
On it.
I deleted the entire thread, cleared the recent calls, wiped the keyboard history, and slipped the phone back exactly where I found it. All while pretending to laugh at Mark’s terrible punchline.
Now, standing under the spray, I feel the smallest crack of relief in my chest. It’s not much. Not enough to fix everything. But knowing Ozzy is out there, that the team might be looking for me instead of hunting me, eases some of the weight that has been crushing me since that first phone call with Enley. I can handle whatever Serafina throws at me. I’ve been playing dangerous games for years. Enley is the one who can’t. She’s the only reason I’m still breathing, still obeying, still pretending to be the perfect little prisoner.
I kill the water and towel off, pulling on fresh clothes that feel softer than anything I deserve right now. Gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Nothing fancy, but clean. When I step out of the bathroom the house is quiet except for the faint sound of music drifting up from downstairs. Soft, slow instrumental stuff. The kind people put on when they’re trying to unwind.
I head down the stairs, bare feet quiet on the hardwood.
And then I see her.
Orchid’s in the middle of the living room, yoga mat rolled out on the floor, moving through poses like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. The late afternoon light coming through the big windows paints her in soft gold. She’s wearing tight black leggings and a cropped tank that rides up every time she stretches, showing a strip of smooth olive skin at her lower back. Her dark hair is pulled up in a messy knot, a few strands sticking to the back of her neck from the effort.
She flows from downward dog into a low lunge, then arches into something that makes her spine curve in this graceful, lethal line. Every movement is controlled. Effortless. Powerful. Like her body is a weapon she knows exactly how to wield.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, one hand still on the railing, and just… watch.
I should look away. I should keep walking into the kitchen and pretend I didn’t see anything. But I can’t. My eyes trace the long lines of her legs, the way her muscles shift and flex under her skin, the subtle roll of her hips when she transitions into warrior pose. She breathes deep and steady, completely focused. Completely unaware that I’m standing here like an idiot, pulse kicking up and heat pooling low in my gut.