Page 99 of Burn

The door is unlocked, and when I push it open, it bumps something. The apartment is silent — no music or TV sounds, and I glance down to see what I bumped, spotting Mildred’s carrier on the floor. Something about it causes my stomach to drop.

“Hey, Lex,” I call as I close and lock the door.

There’s no reply, and I look into the bedroom as I tentatively move further into the kitchen, setting the coffees on the table. It’s empty, and the bed is neatly made. Behind me, Mildred lets out a sad yowl from inside the carrier.

“Babe, you home?” I say, my words trailing off as I see her seated on the couch. “Hey… what’s going on? Why is Millie in the carrier?”

I know why, but I can’t bring myself to accept it.

Lex’s eyes are fixed on the blank TV screen, and her mouth is set in a straight line. I drop my bag on the floor and slowly enter the living room, giving a wide berth and stopping directly before her. She doesn’t react to my presence. I lean down, trying to capture her gaze, but she turns to face the patio door.

“Lex,” I start again, but when her jaw tenses, I shut the fuck up.

My chest tightens, like there’s a vice clamped tight around it, and the electric air feels thin, like I’m sucking it in through a straw. I feel shaky, so I stuff both hands into my pockets so she won’t see the physical presentation of my feelings. I resist the urge to kneel before her and take her face, compelling her to meet my gaze.

A heavy silence stretches out between us, and it’s not until the first lightning strikes, followed by a boom of thunder, that she speaks. “I’ll give you credit,” she starts, her tone cold and detached.

When she doesn’t immediately continue, I ask, “About what?”

Slowly, she turns, and for the first time, her stormy eyes meet mine. She’s not wearing any makeup, so the bruises on her face are prominently on display. Despite the bruising, I can tell she’s barely slept. Her eyes look weary, and there’s a hardness to her expression that I’ve never seen. The night of the wedding, she’d looked vacant, but now she seemsverypresent.

“You told me not to trust you.” She holds my stare while she speaks, and the intensity makes me more nervous than any woman ever has. Fuck, she may be making me more nervous than any person, male or female.

“Okay…” I pull one hand out of my pocket and rake it across my hair. Twice.

“So maybe I can’t be mad when you proved to be exactly who you warned me you are.”

What the fuck is she talking about?

She slowly unfolds herself and places both feet on the ground, squaring her shoulders at me. That’s when I notice the stack of papers beside her, with one line highlighted. Her handmoves to the papers, collecting them and placing them into her lap.

“The courier yesterday delivered a list of items my insurance company is planning to replace.” She speaks slowly and clearly, as if waiting for me to catch on, but I’m lost.

“Okay,” I repeat the only word apparently left in my vocabulary.

She doesn’t blink, and I’ve stopped breathing, holding air deep in my lungs for so long it aches.

“Imagine my shock when I saw that they plan to replace,” she pauses to lift the papers, studying them. “‘Security Monitoring Device - Bedroom Wall’.”

My heart stops.

Oh, fuck.

Every drop of blood drains from my face, and she quirks an eyebrow before shuffling through the pages. When she finds the one she’s looking for, she adds, “‘Security Monitoring Device - Peephole Style.’” She drops the stack on the couch in an exaggerated motion. “So strange. I’ve never owned security cameras. Something I’m currently kicking myself for, if I’m honest.”

“Lex,” I grit out.

“Because maybe if I’d purchasedmy ownsecurity cameras, I would have seen the monster creeping into my fucking home to install cameras.”

She stands off the couch and moves across the room until she’s standing inches away. My heart slams against my chest as she looks up at me. I think I’ve underestimated her from the start. I assumed she was someone I could control, but as her lip curls ever so slightly, I know I was wrong. There’s nothing meek about her; she’s a hurricane, and this quiet stillness she currently displays feels too much like the eye of the storm.

“How long?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I swallow past the boulder lodged in my throat and tilt my chin. “A few weeks. Maybe five or six, at the most.”

“You violated me,” her tone is rife with disgust.

Thunder shakes the windows, and the power flickers.

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