Suddenly, a voice spoke beside me in a deep and unbothered way that sent every organ in my body into cardiac arrest.
"So… Did you enjoy the show?"
I turned to stone.
My heart threw itself into my throat. My back stiffened so violently I almost snapped the spine I was trying to pretend I didn't have. I didn't breathe. I didn't blink. I just curled deeper into my fake-sleeping fetus pose like some kind of oversized shrimp of denial.
Maybe I had imagined it. Maybe my brain was short-circuiting from stress and residual hormonal chaos.
I summoned all the fake sleeping power I had, softened my breathing, relaxed my muscles, and let out a breathy little exhale like I was halfway to my dream wedding with a dog.
He didn't fall for it.
"I mean, I wouldn't blame you," he continued, voice inching closer.
I could feel the smirk—his smirk. "I did put on quite the performance. Slow shirt removal, tasteful stretch, a little hip action—I even gave you back muscles. That's premium content, Rose."
I clenched my jaw, praying he'd shut up or burst into flames. What the heck was this man? Shameless? That was the understatement of the year.
He didn't shut up.
His voice was now at my neck. "Oh no, don't go all shy on me now. You were practically drooling. I heard it hit the pillow."
I almost choked. But of course, he was bluffing. What man hears a drool hit the pillow? This man was a freaking bonker.
But how dare I judge him when it had been me shamelessly watching him undress all along?
ARGH!
"Come on, querida, you watched me strip like it was the season finale of your favorite drama. Do you want a popcorn bowl next time? Maybe I'll do it in slow motion."
I cracked. My breath rose much to my dismay. It was just a tiny gasp, but loud enough.
He howled.
"Oh my God," he laughed, full-bodied and delighted. "You are awake! That's incredible. That was a ten-minute performance, and you watched every second of it. Didn't even blink, did you? I know you're awake, Rose. I can hear your heart pounding fast like it might burst out of your chest. I can hear the silent fluttering of your lashes as you secretly open and close them. I could go on…"
I clapped my hands tighter over the blanket and willed myself to disappear. His laugh was so dark and deep and so stupidly beautiful that my bones turned to hot pudding.
"You're full of surprises. Didn't peg you for a voyeur." He clicked his tongue.
He definitely was having the time of his life mocking me like this. That's it.
"I did not," I snapped before I could stop myself. Then cursed.
He grinned so wide I could feel it. "Ahhh, the lady speaks. You honor me, mi amor."
"I was—sleeping."
"Oh yes," he said with mock solemnity. "That's what we're calling voyeurism now. Very chic."
"I wasn't watching you…"
He interrupted. "Sweetheart, you stared at me like I was cake and you were on day twenty of a diet."
I groaned into the pillow. "Please shut up."
He didn't.
"In fact," he said thoughtfully, "I've never felt more objectified. Stripped of my dignity. And my clothes."
"You stripped yourself!" I protested, turning halfway to glare at him.
"And yet," he murmured, eyes glinting, "you watched."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. And that's when he did the worst thing of all. He let his fingers trail—slowly, shamelessly, from my hip to my waist, then back down again in a lazy, featherlight pass. Like I was a harp and he was feeling out the tune.
I shivered so violently, that I levitated. His touch… oh, his touch. It felt like having multiple fingers teasing me at once. I shut my eyes, feeling the sensation crawling up all over me.
Thus, he edged closer, lips brushing my ear. "See? You do want me."
My face went up in flames. "I—You—That's not…!"
"That's not a denial," he sing-songed.
I twisted to smack him, but he caught my wrist in the air and laughed again, dragging me into the warmth of his chest like it was nothing.
It was far from being nothing. It was everything. This feeling, this heat beneath my thighs, it was alien, yet so satisfying. How do I explain a satisfying feeling that didn't feel enough?
One that felt like you needed more. Like there's more to take despite the sooth you feel, you long. I wanted more… whatever that was.
Hold up…
This was Caligo. The devil. The serial killer Aurora warned me about. How dare I fantasize about such a horrible man?
"Why," I hissed, breathless, "do you live to annoy me?"
"Because I think you like it," he whispered.
Right now, his mouth was too close to my neck for comfort. "I think you lie in bed all along imagining all the ways I could ruin your life. And maybe your clothes."
W-WHAT?!
"You're disgusting," I muttered, even as my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest.
He made a satisfied noise. "Disgusting. Handsome. Deadly. Pick three."
I tried to push away, but he wrapped himself tighter around me, legs tangling with mine like an octopus made of sin.
I shuddered. Full-body, trembling, busted-level shuddered. The kind that no one could fake.
Get a grip, Rose!
"Why did you come in so late?" I blurted, before my mouth could pass the question through TSA.
He didn't even hesitate. "It's only 1:35."
Oh.
Does that mean wasn't that late? I mean, not for this haunted hotel masquerading as a mansion.
"I meant why."
Caligo shifted closer, his arm now thrown over my waist like he was the big spoon who paid for the privilege—which, technically, I guess he was?
"Meeting ran long," he murmured. "Had to deal with a traitor."
That word. Traitor. It dropped into my stomach like a bag of wet cement. Did that mean the traitor was the reason why he returned all bloody?
It took a while before I gathered the courage to swallow and ask: "Was that… why you had blood on you?"
I turned my head, expecting a reply. But Caligo had fallen asleep.
Just like that. Like a light switch. One minute he was stroking me and saying things that made my internal monologue short-circuit, and the next, he was dead to the world.
Was this… my chance?