Page 36 of Bound By Revenge

Glass in hand, I tiptoe back toward my room. The last thing I need is for Nik to pop out of the darkness and think I’m planning a prison break.

I turn the corner, and that’s when I see him.

My breath catches, and I instinctively step back into the shadows.

He’s standing outside my door.

Why? Why does he have to behere? Why can't he just leave me alone?

My mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario: he’s here to finish what he started in the kitchen. More insults. Or maybe another lecture on what a "menace" I am? Perhaps a fresh reminder of how much he hates me? Or worse—maybe he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble and is here to kill me.

I peek around the corner, expecting him to storm into my room like he owns the place—spoiler alert: he does— but he… doesn’t.

What he does instead is… unexpected.

My frown deepens as I watch him take a few steps toward my door, pause, and then shake his head, muttering under his breath.

Then he does it again.

And again.

Each time, he raises his fist like he’s going to knock but stops short, his hand hovering near the door before dropping back to his side.

He runs a hand through his hair, his movements sharp and . There’s something extremely… fascinating about it, and I can't look away.

What the hell is he doing?

His paces back and forth, his jaw tight, his shoulders visibly tense. In his other hand, he’s holding a box, clutching it to his side like a dirty secret.

He stops in front of my door again, squares his shoulders, and raises his fist. Then he clears his throat and rolls his neck. I hold my breath, sure this time he’ll knock.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he mutters something under his breath—a curse, maybe—and steps back again, his shoulders slumping.

I blink, clutching my wine glass so tight I'm surprised it doesn't even crack.

This isn’t the all-powerful, fearsome god who lashed out at me in the kitchen.

This guy looks… human.

Unsure, even. No. Not unsure.Torn.

The realization creeps up on me slowly, sneaking in as I watch him curse softly, pace back down the hallway, and finallychuck the box onto the floor a couple of doors down. His footsteps echo as he storms away, his whole body radiating frustration.

I stare after him long after he's disappeared, my chest tight, my heart hammering like I’ve just sprinted a mile. Then my eyes drop to the box he left behind.

I approach it carefully, as if it might bite me, and crouch to open the lid.

I don’t know what I expected to find inside. It’s not like he’s the devil, and it’s definitely not like this harmless plastic box is Pandora’s, packed with all the evils of the world.

But for some reason, it still surprises me when I find a t-shirt inside—impossibly soft, well-worn, and unmistakably his.

Oh, and a clean pair of flannel boxers.

And toiletries—shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and more. The familiar scent gives it away—his stuff.

I sit back on my heels, my breath catching.

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