I know that’s what I should do, but I’m absolutely exhausted. Maybe in the morning I’ll have the strength to pick up the phone and tell a nice police dispatcher that I have a crazy pen pal and could they please go over to the prison and tell him to stop writing me letters, but for now, all I want to do is sleep.
Sleep and forget about Aidan Leighrite and his sorcery.
I’ve still got adrenaline coursing through my veins from that chance meeting. The way he looked at me. The things he said.
“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”
To my eternal disbelief, I actually considered his offer for a moment.
It was shock. It had to be. In my normal state of mind, I’d have smacked that guy right across the face, barged out of the bar, and filed a complaint about him with the Better Business Bureau. Who talks to a customer like that?
A former customer, but still.
Actually, did I ever technically hire him? We negotiated pricing, but I didn’t sign any kind of contract. It didn’t get that far. I threw him out of my house first.
Oh God, who cares? This is all too much for me.
I make sure all the doors are locked and the drapes are drawn. Then I go upstairs, put the letter with the others in my underwear drawer, and go to bed.
I fall asleep within minutes, but in the middle of the night, something wakes me.
Groggy, I lie in bed listening into the dark. It’s stormy again, and the wind is blowing. Rain peppers the roof. A tree branch scrapes against a windowpane somewhere downstairs.
No, that wasn’t a tree branch. It was a floor board creaking.
It sounds like someone’s creeping up the stairs.
I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering. I listen hard, trying to hear over the crashing of my pulse, but the sound doesn’t come again.
Did I imagine it? Or is someone in the house?
I try not to panic. I try to be logical. The house is old and makes all kinds of odd noises, especially when there’s a storm. Things are blowing around in the yard…maybe the sound was a lawn chair toppling over. Or a draft sighing through the living room curtains. Or a total figment of my imagination, seeing how I’m still adjusting to sleeping alone.
All of those things make complete sense until the floorboard creaks again and I have to stifle a scream.
I leap from bed, run to the door, and lock it. Heart pounding, I grab the flashlight from under the bathroom sink. It’s big, heavy, and the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon. Then I crouch down on the side of the bed opposite the door and sit there, shaking and hyperventilating, clutching the flashlight like a baseball bat.
I don’t know how long I huddle like that before I decide I’m being silly.
If someone broke into the house, I’d have heard a window smash or a door being kicked in. I’d have heard more footsteps, not just a few groaning boards, because the stairs creak with every step. I’m just being paranoid.
That has to be it.
The alternative is too terrifying.
I stand, wincing when my thighs cramp. I go to the door, put my ear against it, and listen. I hear nothing more than the rain on the roof. I decide to put on some clothes and quickly change out of my nightgown into jeans and a shirt.
Then, with the flashlight in hand but not on, I carefully open the bedroom door and peer out.
The hallway is pitch black. It’s a moonless night, and the cloud cover is thick. I listen into the darkness for a moment, the tiptoe down the hall in my bare feet and look over the railing to the living room below.
It’s dark down there, too. Dark and silent. Nothing moves.
Then my skin starts to crawl because I have the creepiest feeling I’m being watched.
Get out of the house!
It’s not even a coherent thought. It’s more like a subliminal thing, as if the ancient part of my brain screamed a warning at me.
With my heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I make my way down the stairs as quickly and silently as I can. I grab the car keys off the console table in the foyer and run out of the house in a full-blown panic, not even bothering to bring my purse.
Ten minutes later, I’m pounding on Aidan’s door.
He opens up wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is mussed, his stomach is flat, his chest is covered in tattoos.
He’s fucking magnificent.
The horrible thought that he’s not alone flashes through my brain, right before I blurt, “I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m going now.”
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me inside before I can run away.
Closing the door behind me, he demands, “What’s wrong? What happened?”