Page 43 of When Death Whispers

Then he clears his throat, steps back like he didn’t just short-circuit.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice low, almost hoarse.

I turn back to the fridge, pretending I need something else. Anything to keep my hands busy. My body’s still buzzing like I stuck a fork in the toaster, and my brain’s shouting at me to get it together.

It was just a dream. A weird, hyperreal, sexy-as-hell dream that needs to stay buried in the dark recesses of my mind.

Only… itfeelslike more than a dream. Itfeelslike my body remembers him—like itwantsto remember. Every heated grind, every breathless moan, every inch of him buried inside me.

I force myself to grab the jam.

He’s already plating the toast when I turn around, but his eyes flick up as I approach. Something dark simmers beneath his usual brightness. Tension coils between us again, taut and unspoken.

“So,” I say, placing the jam beside the butter. “Dreams.”

“Right,” he says, pausing with the knife in his hand. “You, uh… have any you remember?”

The question hangs there, heavy with too much meaning.

I open my mouth, then close it. “Vaguely.”

His eyes search mine. “Me too.”

God, this is torture.

We both look away, like the toast has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. I tear off a corner of mine and chew it just to avoid saying something stupid. Or something too damn honest.

He leans against the counter next to me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.

“You’ve got jam,” I say, pointing to the corner of his mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can wipe it, I reach over without thinking—thumb brushing against his lip.

Big mistake.

His breath stutters.

My heart does, too.

I pull my hand back like it burned me. “Sorry. That was?—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says quickly, but he’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle hewantsto solve. “Thanks.”

It’s like we’re both waiting for something to tip the balance and send us over the edge.

But neither of us moves.

And neither of us brings up my monster, or the death attempts, or the fact that we’re stuck together with something unnamed brewing between us.

Instead, we eat toast.

18

The feelingof being watched won’t go away. It clings to me like static. Crawling up the back of my neck. Nestling in the space between thoughts. Not terrifying, exactly. Just… constant. Like something’s waiting. Watching. Wanting.

Even with Hudson just feet away, rummaging through my cabinets like he’s the one that pays the rent, the air feels charged. Not in a bad way, more like a low thrum beneath my skin. I tell myself it’s exhaustion. Or adrenaline. Or maybe the afterglow of the most vivid fucking dream I’ve ever had.

But that doesn’t explain why my skin tingles every time Hudson brushes against me. Or why my heart picks up speed whenever he gets close.

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