Page 68 of He Sees You
Every sound could be him approaching.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, I'm wet.
Again. I've been in a constant state of arousal since he touched me, my body primed and waiting for its master to return.
I think about his hands—scarred, capable, gentle with me but violent with others.
I think about how he looked when he was inside me, controlled even in passion, watching my face like he was memorizing every expression.
I think about the promise he made: that I was his forever, that there was no going back.
I don't want to go back. I want to go deeper.
I stand to get more coffee and notice the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. It's after four—I've been writing for six hours straight.
My coffee's long cold, my shoulders ache, but I feel more alive than I have in years.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze. Cain wouldn't ring the doorbell.
He'd simply appear, or use the key I gave him.
Dad has his own keys. Which means?—
"Celeste? Open up. I know you're in there."
Jake.
My blood turns to ice.
He sounds drunk. Angry.
The kind of combination that leads to mugshots and memorial services.
"Go away, Jake. You're not supposed to be here."
"Not supposed—" He laughs, ugly and sharp. "I'm not supposed to be anywhere anymore, thanks to you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." Something slams against the door—his fist or his whole body. "Your father called me into his office a few days ago.Started asking about Sarah. About complaints from years ago. About why I really wanted off your protection detail."
My hand moves to my phone, but I hesitate.
Call Dad?
He's forty minutes away at least.
Call Cain?
I don't have his number.
Call 911? Jakeis911, or was.
"Someone told him lies about me," Jake continues. "Was it you? Or was it your psycho boyfriend?"
