Page 52 of Eyes in the Shadows

I roll my eyes. Wes has to re-invite Dimitri to the chat every time we get off topic—luckily, he finds it hilarious instead of tedious. For someone so severe, Dimitri can be pretty dramatic. Once, he joined and immediately left when he saw Wes had added him under the name Papa Bear.

It was just another day in the glamorous life of surveillance duty, watching the guards at a storage unit. Chairs were sat upon. Phones were scrolled. Balls were scratched. Nothing fucking happened.

But at least I got some good shots of the faces of the men on duty. I sent them to Wes and he added their personal details to the file we’ve been keeping. It all gets wiped when the job is done, but we’re never upset that we had too much information.

I make a pit stop at the address Felix texted me, park next to the car he described in the mostly-empty strip mall parking lot, and find Eleanor’s bags in theunlocked trunk. There’s a paper bag next to them with a little sharpie doodle of an eyeball. The suitcases go into my trunk, but the paper bag gets placed on the seat next to me. I’m going to need to remember to put them on ice.

More of the house is lit on the third floor than usual, so I know my girl is in our bedroom. The comfort of knowing she’s been safe at home—untouchable and getting her scent all over my bed—almost made up for the fact that I had nothing to listen to while I worked today. Almost. It is going to make coming home interesting, though, because I’m so juiced but she’s still playing hard to get.

Once I’m inside, I make a beeline for the source of the amazing smell in the air and find only clean pans laid upside down to dry next to the sink and a spotless stovetop. With a frown, I open the fridge. There are a dozen neatly-stacked Tupperware, and I check each one, but can’t find the brown onion-y thing Wes sent the picture of. Grumbling, I toss one of the other containers into the microwave and eat the contents standing up. Whatever it is, it’s good—damn good—but I’m still pissed.

Jealousy makes my temples pound. I’m going to have to have a chat with her about cooking meals for the other guys and not me. Especially if she’s doing it on purpose now, like it seems. I’ve seen the flash of defiance in her eyes when I remind her it’s only a matter of time until she’s mine. So, if this is her fucking around, she’s about to find out.

I rifle through her bag long enough to find what I want, then I take the stairs two at a time. When I get to the third floor, I slow down to a creep. Our bedroom door is open, and the hallway is still lit from the motion sensor, so if I’m quiet she won’t necessarily know I’m coming. It’s almost comically nostalgic—me framing her in my view, her blithely unaware.

My heart pounds as I watch her. She’s sitting in the very middle of the bed that she must have made, cross-legged, with a pad of paper in her lap. She chews on her lower lip thoughtfully and crosses out something that she’s written. The pen makes a loose rattling noise as she taps it against her knee.

It feels so different now. Before, it was all about being the eyes in the shadows—captivated, covetous, greedy—and now that I have her… well, it’s not better. The satisfaction of having her in my bed, the feeling of rightness, that she’s where she belongs, is only second to the primal need to be inside her, hearing her cry out my name and knowing that the rest of the house hears it, too.

The noise of nails against skin drags me out of my fantasy, and I remember I have the cure to her suffering.

She looks up when I enter the room. “Hi,” she says. Her tone isn’t quite what I expect, it’s bright and casual. Her eyes scan me, settling on the bags now on the ground at my feet. “Is that my stuff?”

“Yes.”

Eager, excited almost, she scrambles off the bed, leaving the paper behind. I glance at it as she kneels down and unzips the first suitcase. It’s a meal plan. Hot jealousy climbs back up my throat as I glance over what she’s planned to feed everyone but me, and I sit on the bed.

“Mac, what’s this?” She pulls the canvas case out of one of the bags and flips it open. Inside, I know she’ll find her entire knife drawer. She glances up at me. “These weren’t on my list.”

I’m impressed. She’s good. No hint of unrepentant rebellion, or the overconfidence brats wear when they know they’re about to get the punishment they want.

“You said the ones here suck, so I added it. Thought you’d like having your own.”

A ghost of a smile traces her lips and she sets the canvas roll back down. “That was… really thoughtful. Thank you.”

I let her dig through the bag a little longer. She pulls out clothes, finds the travel bag of toiletries and unzips it. She frowns as she moves aside the tubes and bottles.

“Looking for this?” I produce the medicated cream from my pocket.

She freezes, seeing it in my hand, the color rising to her cheeks. Now, she gets it.

I pat my lap, like I did the first time. “Legs.”

Her chest rises and falls. Slowly, she stands, and moves towards me and the bed. It fires me up even more that she keeps her eyes locked with mine—a good girl like her should lower her gaze, accept the repercussions with deference.

So, I make a decision. I shake my head as she moves to place her knee next to me. “Shorts off, this time.”

She pauses and I wait for the defiance. I wait for her to tell me to kick rocks, to declare that she doesn’t need the cream that badly, to call me an asshole for holding her medication over her head. Instead, she looks down, swallows, and hooks her thumbs into either side of the waistband of her shorts. As she pulls them down, I eat up the sight of her exposed skin hungrily, feeling the blood rush and the pressure building in my dick, giving it its own heartbeat. I can only see the very bottom of her pale green underwear below the hem of her shirt, which she tries to tug lower.

I let the tension mount in my silence as she decides how best to follow my order. Does she place her foot on my knee, knowing how it’ll open her up? Does she sit back against the pillows so she can keep her legs together, knowing how much easier it’ll be for me to get her under me? I’m tempted to let her make the call.

“Sit,” I nod next to me, and tap my lap again. “Legs. Don’t make me tell you again.”

I uncap the tube as the bed dips under her weight. I catch a flash of pale skin, but then she’s on her ass, turned around. It was a calculated move, on my part, that we’re sitting far enough that she can’t lean against the headboard. She shifts her weight onto her hands and drapes her knees over my lap.

Once there’s sufficient cream on my fingers, I grab her opposite ankle with my free hand, locking both legs down. I know she can feel my hard on when she inhales sharply.

As I smear some cream on the area, she relaxes a bit. Enough, anyway, to focus on other things. “Mac?” she asks, voice small. “Will you tell me… How did you get into this job? What did you do before?”

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