Page 10 of Claiming His Bunny
My mom used to complain about having cold feet whenever Dad wasn’t at home to warm her. And Kayla doesn’t have anyone to keep her warm.
I can change that, but it will require some preparation. There’s no way she’ll just let me sleep in her bed, even if I’m an excellent bed warmer. However, she won’t complain if she never wakes up to find me here.
I continue inhaling her scent, my mind finally at ease. This is what I need. Calm, quiet, and her scent surrounding me. I might even fall asleep here. Between tracking and killing Gerardo, cleaning the crime scene, getting rid of his body, and driving all the way back here, I didn’t get a second of sleep last night. Kayla’s bed is warm and cozy and smells like heaven. I can afford to close my eyes for a few minutes.
I check the cameras and set a proximity alarm to wake me in case anyone comes close to the house. Then I set a regular alarm to ring in two hours, just in case I actually fall asleep. It’s unlikely, but stranger things have happened.
My sense of order protests when I gather the clothes scattered over the bed and simply toss them to the side without properly folding them. I can’t do that. Kayla will already be spooked by the flowers, and I suspect she’d lose her mind if she found her clothes neatly folded and put away into the dresser. I need to take baby steps with her, which is why I’ll throw the clothes back on her bed when I leave.
I take my jeans and shirt off, then dive back under her blanket, wriggling around to find a comfortable position. Kayla’s bed is my new favorite place, but I suspect that’s only temporary. Soon, my favorite place to be will be inside her pussy. But for now, I’ll take the bed.
I find a single curly hair on her pillow and wrap it around my finger, imagining winding my hand through her hair while she sucks me off. It makes me hard again, but I refrain from touching myself. I won’t make a mess in her bed. I might be a serial killer, but I’m not a fucking pig.
Surrounded by Kayla’s scent, I close my eyes and drift off into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter 7
Kayla
Despite its beautiful name,Sunrise Terrace is a dingy apartment building in the more rundown part of the town. An older lady scowls at me as I park my car and she tugs on the leash she’s holding. Her tiny Chihuahua barks, first at the woman, then at me, and finally at a suspicious spot on the side of the building before the woman drags it away.
Having lived most of my life in a similar apartment building, I don’t risk getting stuck in the elevator and take the stairs instead. There’s a faint stench of urine in the air, but aside from that, the staircase is relatively clean. I know that Georgia probably didn’t have many housing options after her parents kicked her out, but she could have ended up in a much worse place.
It doesn’t take me long to locate the right door. There’s no name tag, and the apartment number is missing, too, but I can hear a baby crying from inside. I wait, listening for any shouting or the sound of things breaking that would suggest Georgia might be aggressive toward her baby, but all I hear are muffled words, a god-awful attempt at singing, and then heart-wrenching sobs.
I take in a deep breath, reminding myself that I’m a professional. I can’t pull this girl into a hug and tell her everything will be alright the second she opens the door, no matter how much I want to.
The sobbing stops the moment I knock on the door. The baby wailing does not. I hear someone blow their nose, then the door opens, and I’m met with a menacing scowl of a girl at least a foot taller than me. Holy cannoli! Georgia could easily kick my ass if she wanted to.
She has a fresh burp stain on her shoulder and looks like she hasn’t slept in a month. Which she probably hasn’t. “Yes, I know my daughter is crying,” she snaps at me before I have a chance to introduce myself. “Babies cry. Get used to it. Or call the fucking police again. I don’t care.”
She tries to slam the door in my face, but I stop her. “Ms. Simpson? I’m not your neighbor. My name is Kayla Reynolds, and I’m with the local Child Protective Services department.”
As expected, Georgia’s face pales to an alarming shade of white, her eyes widening like saucers. One would think I’d just pointed a gun at her instead of simply saying my name. But I know it’s not my name she’s scared of.
“N-no,” she stammers, taking a step back. “You can’t take Arya away from me. I know she cries a lot, b-but the doctor said she’s fine, that some babies just cry more. You can’t take her. I-I won’t let you.” She positions herself protectively between me and the crib, tears streaming down her face.
I give her a sincere smile, fighting off my own tears. This girl is at the end of her rope, exhausted both physically and mentally, and despite that, she’s ready to fight tooth and nail for her baby. “Ms. Simpson,” I say in the calmest tone I can manage, “I’m only here to talk to you and perhaps offer some help, if you’re interested. May I come inside?” The neighbor across the hall has their door cracked open and is no doubt listening to everything we say.
Georgia wipes at her tears, eyeing me with uncertainty. “Just to talk?”
“Yes. I only wish to talk to you. I promise I’m not here to take your baby away,” I add, smiling again. My wording is far from what the CPS guidelines suggest, but I’m not about to start citing laws to a frightened girl on the brink of total exhaustion.
After a moment’s hesitation, Georgia returns my smile. “Okay. Come in.” She glares at the door on the opposite side of the hall but doesn’t say anything; just closes her own door and turns to me. Her smile vanishes as her eyes dart around the room. “Sorry about the mess,” she mutters, hurriedly picking up clothes scattered around and stuffing them into an already overflowing hamper. As she collects the dishes, a plate slips from her trembling hand, rattling in the sink. “I-I haven’t had much time to clean up.”
“That’s understandable, Ms. Simpson,” I reply.
The single-room apartment is indeed messy, but all I see are burped-on clothes and dirty dishes. There are no empty beer bottles, pills, or syringes. Not that I expected any. The crib is definitely second-hand, but there are no cracks in the wood, and it doesn’t creak when Georgia picks her daughter up. The bedding is clean, and there aren’t any dangerous objects inside the crib. It’s as safe as it can be, which is the only thing that matters.
The baby finally calms down a little as Georgia rocks her, the ear-splitting cries turning into dissatisfied whimpers. “Ssh, it’s okay,” Georgia whispers, running her fingers over the baby’s tiny head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” she says to me, lowering her eyes. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I thought you were here to complain about the noise.”
“I figured,” I reply, softening my tone as I watch the baby’s eyes close. “Her name is Arya, like from Game of Thrones?”
“Yeah,” Georgia says bashfully. “My mother said it was stupid, but, well…she doesn’t get to decide for me anymore.” There’s something hard in her eyes, something angry.
I don’t blame her. I know for a fact my family will always be there for me, no matter what happens. They’d never kick me out, especially not with a baby on the way.
“Well, I loved Arya in the show. She grew up into a total badass,” I say, hoping to connect with her. Every little thing that makes her more trusting and less afraid of me helps. “Are you in contact with your parents?”
