Page 40 of Widow's Walk

It cascades around my upper back and shoulders. His fingers run through my hair to cradle my head, and I hold my breath.

“So, how did you know?” he asks, breaking the silence that was beginning to suffocate me.

I arch an eyebrow. “How did I know?” He gives a curt nod. “Question is, how did you not?”

“Humor me,” he says with a controlled level. I hit a nerve.

I grin up at him smugly and slide my hands to meet around his neck, my body arching into his. “It was easy to read the room.” I shrug casually. Truth is, I happened to see the men arguing first thing when I walked into the room. And not too far from the trouble brewing, there was a guy laser-focused on Blackwell. As if waiting for a signal to go for him.

“The tension is always high when we’re all forced to share the same space.” He narrows his eyes as if trying to read me. “What was it exactly? What tipped you off?”

I’m almost flattered he’s looking at me with accusation. As if I’m someone important enough to be in on a scheme to take him down. I could take the opportunity to string him along. To fuckwith him and have him questioning everything about me. But the rebellious spark in me isn’t lighting up like it typically does. I blame the draining sex we just had.

“The dude was too obvious.” I sigh and occupy my wandering hand by petting a scar on the front of his shoulder. “He stood there, all wide-eyed and mute. Eyes solely on you. He was waiting for his cue. The heated argument between Beck and whoever was meant to be a distraction.”

He doesn’t speak, and I’m afraid to look up. But that trepidation turns into curiosity. My eyes slowly roll up to his. He holds my stare, and I don’t dare flinch.

A humorous grunt jolts his body, and his lips slowly curve into a sly grin. Then there isn’t much more talking left.

After he eats my pussy like he’s angry at it, we finally wash up and get out of the shower. “I want to show you something.” His hesitation behind his tone has me looking at him. The towel hangs low on his hips, displaying that fucking ‘v’ us women tend to wet our panties for.

I groan and use a towel to start drying my hair. “I’m tired,” I whine. Truthfully, I am. He has exhausted me with too many orgasms.

The corner of his mouth ticks. “Be ready in thirty.”

Chapter sixteen

Sinclair

He has the decency to warn me that we’re going back outside again and on the ATVs.

So, I wrap my damp hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and tuck my head under a black beanie. My jacket zips all the way up over my chin, so I don’t have to battle the freezing air against my face.

We walk side by side to exit out the back again, and when I realize there’s only one vehicle there, I don’t miss the little smirk on his face when he mounts it. Rolling my eyes, I climb on behind him and slip my arms around his waist.

The innocent gesture has those crescive feelings in the pit of my stomach festering. The sharp, unwelcoming knot twists with something I’ve tried to ignore since the moment I stepped foot on the estate. A pestering ache, heavier now, and impossible to ignore.

His scent envelops me, intoxicating and smothering. I made a vow to myself to never let anyone hold that kind of power thatcould crush me. But that control is unraveling thread by thread. And I fucking despise it.

Yet here I am, pressed against him, soaking in his warmth like it’s salvation. Letting him thread himself deeper into my bones. And the worst part is, I’m not even trying to stop it.

I pay close attention to where we’re going and realize we aren’t heading in the direction of their little torture bunker. We’re headed in a different direction. We reach one part of the iron gates, and he stops to hop off and enter a code into a keypad I almost didn’t notice.

The gate opens and he climbs back on to drive us through, exiting the estate and entering into the thick tree line. A path is already stamped through the forest as if used frequently, and I sit quietly behind him until something materializes in the distance. A shadowy figure grows with each beat of the engine.

The figure rapidly takes shape. A house. Black, striking, and entirely unexpected. It’s not massive, at least not in comparison to the estate we both grew up in, but it carries a grandeur that leaves me breathless.

The forest gives way to manicured landscaping, and the closer we get, the wider my eyes become. It’s something straight out of my dreams. Gothic bones dressed in regal detail, with hints of mid-century lines and Victorian drama. A deliberate chaos of styles that somehow feels like dark poetry. A driveway curves around a freshly carved crater in the earth, suggesting something still being built or unearthed.

I’m in total and complete awe as the vehicle falls silent and I robotically dismount it. My eyes are unable to tear from the sight before me. The stunning architecture.

Movement dances in my periphery, snapping me back to reality. I blink the daze from my eyes and catch myself in time. I settle my cheeky mask into place and look to Blackwell, finding him already studying me coolly, and impossible to read.

“I don’t care whose house this is,” I murmur, eyebrow arched with mocked defiance, “but I will take it from them.”

His smile spreads slowly, like he was anticipating this kind of reaction from me. Something about it is infuriatingly endearing. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but there’s no need for bloodshed.” He leaves a heavy pause. “This is our home.”

I swallow hard, unsure if I heard him correctly. “Ours?” I parrot back, the word unfamiliar on my tongue.

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