Chapter 295
Daphne
I've had a little stalker these days in the mansion.
She's terrible at hiding it.
The past couple of weeks, as I've been painting...nothing really, let's call it abstractexpressionism, and there she is.
My beloved, on the garden patio, "reading" a book. A book whose pages never flip. Not once.
Tonight, I put my brush down, stretching my neck, and walk to the edge of my balcony to check if she's still there.
The garden is bathed in soft moonlight, and there she is—curled up on the patio chair, the book fallen from her lap onto the grass. Asleep.
Something in my chest cracks open, just a little.
I don't take the stairs. I don't take the path. Habits from my time as a panther linger in my bones,the easy calculation of distance, the silent fall. I grip the railing and vault over, landing in a crouch on the soft grass below. No sound. No disturbance.
I stalk toward her, movements deliberate, unhurried.
