Page 16 of The Kill

The floorboards creak first on the stairs, then I hear slow, careful footsteps in the corridor just outside my door. I hold my breath, tugging the covers up over my shoulders, and sliding further down the bed.

Tyson stops right outside my room, and my heart pounds, adrenaline coursing through me from replaying the memories of that night, and some more hot and heavy dreams my mind has concocted over the years. Even though he can’t see me, and my room remains shrouded in the darkness of the heavy blackout curtains, I blush like I’ve been caught doing something shameful, rather than spending the night curled up on the floor.

“Breakfast is ready, if you’re hungry,” Tyson growls, his voice so near to me making me jump. My heart pounds in confusion as I try to scramble up the bed, surprised by his proximity, but as my hands hit cold wooden floor and I feel the scratchy rug under my legs, I realise I’m not in the soft, sumptuous bed like I should be.

Tyson grunts when I don’t answer immediately, sounding like my company is the last thing he wants. It’s barely past sunrise, and he’s already pissed-off.

Is this what my life would be like living with a half-wolf, half-vampire? Would he blow hot and cold, or remain one-hundred percent grumpy-alpha all the time?

Not that I’m entertaining staying here.

I only agreed to come with Tyson so that he’d leave Zoe and the Steel pack alone. Obviously, I want to get to know my mate, and the fairytale ending would be to find a way to make it work, but the reality is looking decidedly less like a fantasy as the hours pass. There isn’t any sign of my Prince Charming looking to sweep me off my feet.

Instead, he waits, huffing when I continue my pretence of being asleep, then slowly moving away.

Shaking my head to empty it of all fanciful thoughts of remaining with Tyson and finding a way to be together, I push up on my elbows and then sit, staring numbly out the window. Rubbing at my aching eyes, I feel like burying down under the cosy duvet, but that wouldn’t be right. Tiredness seeps my aching bones, and my body screams at me for stupidly not sleeping in this plush bed.

I curse the condition that sometimes makes waking up an interesting surprise. I don’t really understand how sleepwalking works, just that it’s a pain in the ass.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I summon the energy to stand and yank back the curtains. A harsh, bright slice of sunlight, pouring in through the large rose window, hits my eyes, and I squint, wishing I could crawl back under the luxurious covers for another couple of hours. Maybe I could get some proper sleep without temptation beckoning me from across the hall.

It feels like it was only five minutes ago that I woke up cold and confused.

Judging by my bruised shins, and the slightly askew chair, my addled mind decided I didn’t want to sleep in this room. Tyson’s scent calls to me even now, colouring my thoughts and making me hot and needy. I have a pretty good idea of where I was trying to go.

Thank God I didn’t get out.

“Bad brain,” I chastise, staggering toward the bathroom to freshen up. My favourite products line the shelves, and I groan, frustrated that I can’t get a read on this guy.

Thoughtful mate, or crazed and vengeful murderer? Weird stalker for somehow getting intel on what shampoo I use, or overly enthusiastic wolf trying to satisfy his potential partner?

Maybe all of the above?

Splashing my face with cold water to wash away that groggy feeling, I ignore the clawfoot copper tub in the corner of my ensuite. I’ll have a date with that bath later when I can properly relax, and Tyson isn’t waiting for me, impatient and pissed off.

Letting my fingers trail along the bannister, registering all the dark and dramatic details I was too tired to take in yesterday, I can’t decide whether I’m in a horror film or an old classic. I follow my nose to the dining room where Tyson waits, fingers drumming on the table beside him. There’s an elaborate spread of food on the table, and a steaming pot of coffee sits in the middle. It’s got my name written all over it.

As I approach, he looks up from his book and tracks my movement but says nothing. Slipping into the only other chair, kitty-corner from him, I keep my gaze fixed on the piles of pastries and bowls of fruit to avoid getting lost in his hypnotic eyes. He can’t know that my subconscious tried to force me to find him last night, but it feels like he knows something.

Like he can see my deepest, darkest secrets.

As I squirm under his scrutiny, he grunts.

“Sleep well?” His clipped tone drips with a scorn I don’t expect.

Although, maybe I deserve it for not answering when he came to my door.

“Not really,” I admit, rubbing my sore lower back and studying him cautiously.

He grunts again, looking at me with barely concealed irritation and returning to his book. When it’s clear we’ve seen the extent of his small talk, I reach over and take a croissant, the buttery smell enough to make my stomach rumble.

“If you hadn’t fled to your room last night, there was dinner for you. You wouldn’t be so hungry,” he comments, turning the page but still refusing to look in my direction again.

“Oh. You never said.” Tyson huffs at my response and my temper flares. “And I didn’t flee. I just wasn’t keen on meeting Lucian after an exhausting day.”

Tyson folds the corner of the page he’s reading, like a savage, and closes the book. His gaze is steady, expression serious. I love a man who reads. There’s something so sexy about it. Or maybe it’s just Tyson? He oozes charm and confidence, even as he openly seethes.

“But not Seth.” His tone is caustic.

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