Page 40 of Consume Me
And, I realize, despite the hell of the last eighteen months, so am I.
After dinner, we walk through the Crossroads with me pointing out some of my favorite places. Noctan is a great listener, which is something I didn’t expect but find incredibly hot. Then again, it’s in that quietness that lies a stealth and cunning I should really be more wary of.
“Wait. This is my house…” I trail off.
We’re standing before my childhood home, before I realize it, and I honestly have no idea whether he or I steered us here. Noctan’s eyes are on the house, but there’s a smug curve to his full mouth.
Definitely him then.
I swallow. “How did you?—”
“I told you before. My recon training is very useful.”
I scowl up at him even though my chest squeezes in a way I don’t want to examine. Apparently, I like the stalker vibe in a man. “You could have just asked.”
“I am asking,” he says, and when I glance at him, his gaze is steady and intent, like my answer matters more than he’ll admit. “Can I come in?”
I have the distinct impression we aren’t just talking about the house.
Something in me gives way. “Fine. Come on, sentinel pup.”
He smirks at the nickname, but when he follows me up the walk, I can feel the weight of his attention onevery step I take, like he knows what a big deal this moment is for me.
The porch creaks under my weight, same as it always did. I half expect my mother’s voice calling me in for dinner, the smell of fresh bread drifting through the open windows. But the house is silent.
I fish the spare key from the hollow under the third step—a habit so ingrained I don’t even think about it until I feel Noctan’s gaze on me.
“What?” I ask, straightening.
He’s leaning against the porch railing, the casual stance doing nothing to hide the sharp edge in his eyes. “It’s strange, seeing you here.”
“Strange how?”
“Like I’m trespassing.”
“Youaretrespassing,” I remind him, unlocking the door.
Inside, the air is faintly musty, like it’s been too long since anyone’s lived here. And I guess it has. Tori technically owns it, but even she hasn’t visited. I only know because she asked me to look in on the place, to make sure it’s still standing, from time to time. I think it’s too painful; the memories. I don’t blame her. It’s why I stayed away too. But now, the familiar sight of the worn sofa, the framed photos on the mantle, and the crocheted throw draped over the armchair hit me right in the chest.
I slip my shoes off by the door and glance back at him. “You coming in, or are you going to lurk ominously on the porch all night?”
He smirks and steps inside, the warmth of his presence immediately filling the space. “You sure about this?”
“About letting you in?”
“About letting me see this part of you.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just a house.”
But it’s not, and we both know it.
He walks slowly through the living room, his gaze flicking over the photos, the shelves lined with books, the tiny imperfections in the wood floor. It’s the same look he gave me the first time he saw me—the one that made me feel like he was cataloging every detail to keep forever.
When his hand brushes mine, the dagger’s whispers go silent. The relief is instant, almost dizzying. I let my fingers curl into his without thinking.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah. It’s just… quiet.”
