Chapter Eight #2
in windows, our footsteps crunching on freshly fallen snow. Every few minutes Knox pulls me closer, his arm around my shoulders,
his warmth bleeding into me through layers of wool and cotton.
The snow falls around us, and I find myself thinking about last night. The confession. The kiss. The way everything shifted
between us in the space of a heartbeat.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I stop walking and turn to face him. We’re standing under a streetlamp, snow falling around us like the universe is trying
too hard to be romantic, and I reach up to brush a snowflake from his jaw.
“Last night.”
“What about it?”
“The part where you stopped being careful.”
His hands find my waist, pulling me closer. Not kissing me yet. Just holding me there, our bodies pressed together through
layers of winter clothing.
“I’m always careful.”
“Not with me.”
“No.” His forehead drops to rest against mine. “Not with you.”
When he kisses me, it feels different from last night. Slower. Like he’s proving something, making a point about patience
and control even as his tongue traces my lower lip before sliding inside. I make a sound that gets lost between our mouths,
my fingers fisting in the front of his coat, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us.
He walks me backward until my shoulders hit a building, and pins me there with his body. The stone is cold through my coat,
but everywhere Knox touches burns. His hand slides up my side, fingers finding the curve of my waist, the edge of my ribs,
higher. He stops just below my breast, not quite touching, and I arch into him, desperate to close the distance.
“Patience,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I don’t have any.”
“I know.” He kisses me again, harder this time, and I can feel his restraint starting to fray at the edges. “I’ve been watching
you for months, Hailey. I know exactly how impatient you are. How you fidget when you’re bored, how you tap your fingers when
you’re waiting for something, how you speed up when you’re close to getting what you want.”
“Then stop making me wait.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. In the lamplight, with snow caught in his hair and want written across every line of his face, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Not yet,” he says. “Not here.”
“Then take me home.”
Something flares in his eyes, hot and possessive, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me again. Instead, he takes
my hand and starts walking, his pace faster than before, his grip tight enough that I feel claimed.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. The tension between us is a living thing, coiling tighter with every step, every brush
of our bodies as we navigate the snowy way home. By the time we reach my building, I’m practically vibrating with want.
At the front steps, I turn to face him. His breathing is ragged, his jaw tight, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity
that makes my knees weak.
“Come upstairs,” I say.
His whole body goes still. “Hailey.”
“I mean it.” I reach for the lapel of his coat, curling my fingers into the wool. “Come upstairs, Knox.”
He catches my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point where my heart is hammering out a frantic rhythm. “If I come
up tonight, I’m not leaving.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise. Heavy with warning.
“That’s the point,” I whisper.
“No.” He steps closer, backing me against the railing, his free hand coming up to grip my hip. “I don’t think you do. I’m
not talking about spending the night. I’m talking about more than that. Once I’m in, Hailey, I’m in. All the way. And I need
you to be sure that’s what you want before we cross that line.”
My breath catches. He’s not just talking about sex. He’s talking about everything. The watching, the wanting, the obsession
that runs both ways. He’s asking if I’m ready to be his completely.
The answer is yes. God, the answer is yes. But there’s something that tells me he needs me to wait. To be certain. To come to him when there’s no doubt left.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Dinner at my place. And if you still want this after . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t
need to.
“I’ll still want this.”
“I hope so.” He releases my wrist and takes a step back, putting space between us that feels like a wound. “Tonight, I need
to know you’re safe inside. Doors locked. Windows checked.”
“Knox—”
“Please.” The word comes out fractured, and I realize how much this is costing him. How much control it takes to walk away
when every line of his body is screaming to stay. “Let me take the time it deserves.”
“It’s been a year—”
“Let me do this right.”
I swallow hard and nod. “Okay. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
He waits while I climb the steps, waits while I fumble with my keys, waits until I’m through the door and I hear the lock
click behind me. Only then do his footsteps retreat down the stairs.
I lean against the door, heart pounding, body aching. Part of me wants to yank it open and drag him back. But he’s right.
Whatever this is between us, it deserves more than a frantic tumble born from weeks of tension. It deserves intention. It
deserves certainty.
It deserves everything.
I cross to the window and pull aside the curtain, expecting to see Knox walking away into the night.
He’s there, standing under the streetlamp, looking up at my building. Waiting to see my light come on. Making sure I’m safe.
But there’s someone else, too.
Across the street. A figure, half-hidden in shadow between two parked cars. Tall. Lean. Perfectly still.
Not Knox. Knox is right there under the streetlamp.
This is someone else.
My blood goes cold. Knox’s words from dinner echo in my head. Like someone standing outside your apartment last night. Watching.
I’d dismissed it. Laughed it off. Chalked it up to his overprotective instincts.
But he was right.
The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, just stands there in the darkness, watching my building with the same patience Knox
showed all those months he followed me. Except this doesn’t feel protective. It feels . . .
And then, as if sensing my gaze, the figure turns. The streetlight catches his face for a moment—a flash of haunting features,
dark eyes—before he melts back into the shadows and disappears.
My breathing stops.
Those eyes. That stance. Something sparks in my memory, a ghost of recall that I can’t quite grasp.
I’ve seen that patience before. Five years ago. In a different life.
My phone buzzes, making me jump.
Safely inside?—Knox
I type back with trembling fingers: Yes. All locked up.
I watch him read the message, watch him look up at my window one more time, watch him finally turn and walk away into the
snowy night. Part of me wants to call him back, to tell him what I saw.
But I don’t.
Because if I’m right about who’s standing in the shadows, this is something I need to handle myself.
I turn off the lights and stand in the dark, watching the empty street where that figure had been.
Just my imagination, I tell myself. Just paranoia.
But when I crawl into bed, I don’t sleep.
Some ghosts don’t stay buried.