Page 19 of His to Haunt

How do I tell a grown man who lived here his whole life to stop intruding? After all, he gave me clear boundaries I am not to cross, but why doesn’t the same apply to him? Because he was here first?

He actually said that. He’s not wrong, but still.

“Keep your mom where she belongs, please,” he snipes, which gets under my skin. I’m starting to realize how unrealistic it may be for either of us land-mates to expect the other to stay in their own overlapping corners.

“Look, she was just enjoying the garden. It all kind of flows together, and it’s not obvious where mine ends and yours begins.”

“It’s obvious because I showed you. You need to relay that information.”

“Yeah, I get it. Anything else?”

I make no attempts to hide my irritation.

“You might try knocking,” I add.

“Did,” he shrugs.

The heat of frustration floods my cheeks.

“As in, knocking and then waiting for me to answer. I get that this was your house, Zand. But I am living here now. It’s what my sister wanted.”

I resist saying sorry. Why should I apologize? I didn’t plan this. It wasn’t a hostile takeover or anything. It was Rachel’s choice.

He trails me up and down, studying me again. I press my lips together, feeling uneasy.

“If only you could take orders…I might paint you.”

My jaw drops at the thought of being one of his dead women. Even if it is somewhat of a compliment, he would consider painting me; pretty sure I’ll pass on the offer.

“Not my thing,” I say, and he smirks at me.

“What is your thing, Leena?”

I blink, shaking my head with a shrug. It’s none of his business.

He nods at me as if I’ve answered his question.

“Be a good girl,” he warns, leaving me.

I watch him walk off. More of a swagger that screams casual arrogance and dangerous sex appeal.

I hate him for it.

Widow’s Peak

Leena

Like normal people.

The kitchen is well stocked, almost overly so.

There are several different complete sets of China, not tucked away in a China hutch but inside the cupboards for regular use. Floral and fancy. Lots of glass pitchers and vases and various drinking glasses, all in thick, colored, beveled glass. Pink. Grey. Brown. Multiple sets of utensils in both silver and gold. Large dinners must have taken place here.

For a moment, I imagine being invited. Staying over. Having a sister again. One big, blended family. Some families are like that. Just not ours. Maybe all Byrons are like Zand.

I’ve been contemplating which type of narcissist he is to formulate a plan to communicate with him effectively.

He is not a vulnerable narcissist, self-centered, and attention-seeking due to deep insecurity. He’s more of a grandiose narcissist. He arrogantly believes in himself. Entitled. Aware of his power. He oozes danger and sex appeal like a predator.

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