HANS: Alliance Series Book Four(53)
I slam the closet door shut and hurry back to the chair.
The wheels slide around a little bit as I pull the oversized socks onto my feet.
A handful of the views on-screen are of the dilapidated house at the end of our little cul-de-sac, but I don’t spend time looking at those feeds. I don’t know why he has cameras on that place, but he’s not going there. He’s going to my house.
My house, which is featured in the majority of the camera angles.
I reach up and touch the screen that shows my large living room windows.
Since it’s dark outside and lights are on inside my house, it’s easy to see straight inside. I can see my couch, part of my work desk, and part of the opening that leads into my kitchen.
Hans has sat right here—I grip the chair armrests—and he’s looked right into my home.
Heat swirls in my belly.
My reaction to Hans has always been more.
I’ve been more interested in him than I should be.
I’ve focused on him. Wondered about him. Fantasized about him. Thought about stripping down in my bedroom window just for the hope that he might see me. And want me.
I never did it, but I wanted to.
And this… Him watching me. Or whatever this is. I know it’s not right.
And I know it’s not right for me to feel so fucking good about it.
But I don’t really feel like fighting it.
I know who I am. And I’m a lot.
My scattered attention span. My attempts at baking that I know are nowhere near as good as my mom’s. My ultra-curvy body that I have no intention of changing.
All my relationships have been surface only. Fun while they lasted but nothing special.
My parents raised me to have good self-esteem. And I mostly do. But a part of me has just assumed I’d be one of those single forever women. And I was okay with that. I accepted it.
I look around at the other screens, wondering if he can see into my bedroom.
My core muscles tighten just thinking about it.
Could he see me touching myself?
Would he have sat here, gripping that big dick of his, jerking off while he watched?
My eyes bounce around as I look for my bedroom window, but I don’t see a good view of it.
I move my attention back to my living room and yelp.
Because Hans is there.
Inside my house.
CHAPTER 65
Hans
I cross Cassandra’s living room and flip the deadbolt on her front door.
Assuming she’s watching and not disobeying by leaving my safe room, I stop in front of the picture window and hold up my hand with my fingers spread, letting her know I’ll be back in five minutes.
Then I turn and head back toward the back of her house.
The man outside is most certainly dead.
My pretty little Butterfly shot him straight through the Adam’s apple.
I believe it was an accident, but it’s still a damn good shot.
Even though I should be leaving, I move into the kitchen. There’s something in here for me.
On the counter, next to the stove with the tray of burned cookies, is a Post-it note. Just like all the other ones stacked in my nightstand. And I know she was going to give it to me.
I read the words.
Charred Sweet Corn Cookies.
“Ah, Christ.” I shake my head. “Why, Butterfly?”
I nudge one, and it slides across the pan. At least they aren’t stuck.
It feels dry, and when I pick it up, little pieces fall off. But I’ll take my cookies crumbly over wet, like the last batch.
Opening wide, I shove the whole thing into my mouth.
My throat closes involuntarily, the intense campfire taste overwhelming my senses. But I chew.
Needing a little help, I step to the sink and turn on the tap. I bend and put my mouth under the stream and gulp some water.
Then I shove another whole cookie into my mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Not wanting to dirty one of Cassandra’s containers, and not willing to leave them behind, I stack the cookies to make them easy to carry.
I can hold eight in my hand, but she made a full dozen.
I work to swallow the burned corn, then I cram two more cookies in.
I’ve tasted Cassandra at the source. I don’t need to settle for her awful baking anymore. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone so much as thought about eating what she made for me, I’d slice their stomach out of their body.
I duck my mouth back under the faucet.
The water helps to dissolve the mashed-up cookies in my mouth, and I’m finally able to get them down.
With my stack of eight cookies in one hand, I stride back to the front door and scoop up a pair of Cassandra’s tennis shoes. It’s her favorite pair. The ones she always wears when she’s leaving the house for errands, so I know they’re comfortable.
I hesitate for a split second as I consider bringing them to my nose, but then I remember that she might be watching through the window, so I shove them under my arm instead.
I’ve already shown her too much of my hand with the whole surveillance thing. I don’t need to add shoe sniffer to the list.
Flipping off the backyard light, I exit out the back door.
Not having camera angles in her backyard was clearly a fucking rookie mistake, but I utilize that now so Cassandra can’t see me use my own set of keys to lock up her house.