Page 22 of Little Stranger

I pull off my clothes then sink into the warmth and rest my head against the bath pillow, finding the page I accidentally dog-eared.

An hour passes of me silently worrying about stuff I shouldn’t worry about before I get out, wrapping a towel around my body.

With the book back on my shelf, I nearly drop the material from me as I turn around and find Malachi sitting by my open window, his hood up, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “What the hell?” I whisper-hiss. “You scared me!”

Parting his legs further, he perches his elbows on his thighs, watching me as he puffs.

“Mom is in the next room setting up for the new foster,” I point out. “She’ll smell the smoke.”

Malachi doesn’t listen though as he gets to his feet. He inhales a lungful of smoke, his eyes on me, dragging down my body as the orange tip burns bright. My skin heats, and I don’t know if it’s from the scare I got, or the fact he’s like a shadow standing in my dark room, but a wave of tingling excitement comes over me. I’m reminded of the way he looked at me while I—

I absolutely cannot feel this way.

Nope. Not towards him.

The night in the tent was a mistake.

“I found your cameras by the way. I threw them in the trash. Pervert.”

Not all of them, he signs.

“What?”

He leans against my window, blanking me, blowing more smoke out, and I can’t help but think about what his night entailed. Did he kiss her? Touch her? Does he know how to, considering he has no social skills and rarely tries to communicate with anyone other than me? He didn’t touch me intimately, but he wanted to, and he tried to kiss me. Maybe he does know?

Dammit, brain.

I close my eyes and press my hand to my forehead. “You need to go to your own room. I need to get dressed.” Then I drop my hand. “You can’t ignore me for weeks then just crawl back into my life, Malachi. It isn’t fair.”

Instead of leaving, Malachi inhales another lungful, blowing it straight at me this time. I don’t flinch, even as he takes a step towards me—but I do gulp harshly as my breath comes out in bursts.

“I’m not interested in your push and pull anymore. You can’t pick and choose when to speak to me. Take your other hidden cameras, go to your own room, and leave me alone.”

The tilt of his head is miniscule, but it’s there as he takes another step, causing me to back away. Another, and another, and the back of my knees hit my bed—I sit on the mattress while keeping my eyes on his.

The warmth between my legs is improper—I shouldn’t like the way he’s looking at me, or the way he comes even closer, his cologne filling my senses and sending my thoughts haywire.

He’s not signing; I’m not sure he will either as he pulls down his hood, revealing his messy black hair, then tugs off his motorbike gloves and tosses them on the floor with the cigarette in his mouth. I don’t smoke—I hate it—but for some reason, I like it when he does.

He isn’t wearing the dressy clothes he left in.

Stubbing the cigarette out on my vanity table, he wets his lips and glances at the bedroom door. I tighten my towel around my body, and for some reason, I say, “It’s locked. No one can walk in.”

My nipples are hardening under the towel. I can smell the sandalwood on his clothes, mixed with cigarette smoke and the outside air. His cheeks are a little red from how cold it is outside, and I have a sudden urge to wrap my body around his to heat him up.

I’m betraying myself, because I’m mad at him for kicking me out of his bubble, yet I want him to crawl back into my life—I’d welcome him with open arms and…

But then he pulls off his hoodie, tipping his head towards my pillows.

“You want me to lie down?”

Malachi nods slowly as he kicks off his boots, his eyes not leaving mine as I chew my lip and look between him and the pillow. “I’m in a towel.”

You could remove it?

Gulping, I shake my head.

All he does is shrug and move to the opposite side of the bed like he hasn’t been a ghost in my life recently—the side he always slept on when he used to sneak into my room to hold me. Sometimes, I used to pretend I had nightmares—I’d either send him a text to come cuddle me until I fell asleep, or I’d go to his room and sleep against his chest, him smelling my hair like it’s a drug to him.