Page 165 of Their Arrangement

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“Do you need something?”

“No,” I said too fast.

His eyes narrowed.

“Then why do you look like you just opened a grave?”

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The black book still felt like it was burning through the lining of my purse—even if it wasn’t there. Even if it was still locked away.

He stepped even closer.

I stopped breathing.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “if something’s wrong?—”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just nodded once. Then?—

“You have until the end of the week.”

I froze.

“To what?”

“To figure out who you belong to.”

And then he walked away.

Leavingme there.

Shaking.

Still.

Seen.

I stood there long after Wolfe left. Frozen in the hallway like my body had forgotten how to move. Not because of what he said. But because of what he didn’t. He hadn’t asked what I was hiding. He hadn’t threatened to search my bag.

But he didn’t have to.

Wolfe didn’t need brute force. He only needed time. Because the longer he stared, the more I fractured. The more I wanted to confess just to make it stop. And part of me wanted to give it to him.

The truth.

The book.

The fear.

Because Wolfe doesn’t forgive. He takes. And some dark part of me? Wanted to be taken.

Fully.

Burned.

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