CHAPTER 8. TANGLED #2
I finish with the main wardrobe compartment and glance over. Xavier’s kneeling beside the stripped bed—comforter, pillow, and sheet folded neatly at the foot—just staring at the floor.
“Xavier?”
He looks up. In the daylight, the bruise on his cheekbone is a dull smear of yellow and purple, but it’s the shadows under his eyes that stand out more.
We both seriously need to sleep.
“There’s nothing here,” he says, snapping out of whatever daze he was in. He pushes to his feet and heads toward the small bookshelf in the far right corner of the room.
Silence falls again as we keep searching.
I go back to sifting through clothes, but my mind drifts—back to last night’s trip to the crematorium.
Well, not even the trip itself. As scary and exhilarating as it was, what sticks with me are the moments around it: when he held my hand in the car, or pinned me against the wall in that dark corner under the stairs, or later, in our apartment, when he traced my scars like he wanted to know them by memory.
Honestly, it throws me.
How Xavier can be so gentle one moment—like last night—and then the next, he’s distant again, pulling away like none of it ever happened. It’s hard to keep up. Harder not to take it personally.
His voice cuts through my thoughts. “Found a camera.”
I turn to him, startled. He nods toward the top of the bookshelf.
I hurry over, caught completely off guard. “Where?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
He points. “Under your graduation cap.”
And there it is—a small cylindrical device tucked beneath the faded fabric, its convex glass eye gleaming faintly in the light.
Xavier lifts the cap and picks up the camera. It’s small, with a wire trailing from its end into a narrow hole in the wall. He gives it a firm tug, and the whole thing comes loose with a faint pop. Then he snaps the camera clean in half, like breaking a pencil.
“Oh God,” I breathe, staring at the broken pieces in his hand. “So I’ve been watched this whole time? By who?”
“Ernest, almost definitely,” Xavier says, a flicker of irritation in his voice. “If it were our mystery journalist, trust me—we’d know.”
I frown. “How?”
“There’d be photos, Newt,” he says, already moving on, eyes sweeping the room. “Check the lamp.”
I reach for the bedside lamp on the left, unscrew the bulb, and peer inside. Nothing looks off. With a quiet sigh, I screw it back in. Xavier steps up beside me.
“The lamp’s cord is split,” Xavier says, crouching to point at it. “See that? The gray wire running alongside it? That’s not part of the lamp.”
I stare at it. “That’s a bug?”
He nods. “Yeah. Probably an audio line. They tucked it in next to the power cord to hide it.”
He follows the wire down to the socket, peels the tape away, and pulls the wire loose.
I let out a shaky breath. “Is this Ernest again?”
“No doubt.” Xavier leans against my desk. “Bugging your room this thoroughly takes time—and the kind of confidence that comes with money and zero shame. He probably had a crew install it while we were out.”
“Great,” I mutter, wondering how many times I’ve probably jerked off for Ernest’s entertainment. Honestly, I don’t want to know.
I go back to searching—table, windows, armchair. I even run my fingers along the baseboards, checking for anything loose or out of place. Nothing.
After half an hour of tearing the room apart, it’s clear there’s nothing else.
I sit on the edge of my bed, already tired, and knowing we still have the rest of the apartment to get through.
“What made you think our secret admirer planted something in here, anyway?” I glance at Xavier. “Maybe this room was never bugged.”
He frowns, eyes distant. “It doesn’t make sense.”
That’s all he says.
The next hour passes in near silence as we sweep the living room and kitchen. We find a camera and an audio device in each—Xavier’s convinced they’re Ernest’s work.
His bedroom turns up more of the same. Beyond that, the apartment is clean. Nothing else.
“Just the bathroom left,” I say, dropping onto Xavier’s bed. I’m seriously wiped.
“There has to be something,” Xavier mutters, still pacing, clearly convinced we missed something.
I stretch, rolling out the tension in my neck and shoulders. My body’s still sore from yesterday’s fall. Then—
“Shit,” I hiss, grabbing my side as a sharp pain stabs through my lower left abdomen. I double over, breath catching. It fades as fast as it hit, but a dull sting lingers.
“Let me see.”
I look up. Xavier’s already in front of me, face tight with concern. His familiar scent wraps around me—clean, with a hint of citrus and soap—and my chest tightens.
“Can you stand?” he asks, holding out a hand.
I nod and get up on my own. We end up too close—almost chest to chest—and my breath catches.
Xavier meets my gaze for a split second, then reaches for the hem of my sweater and undershirt, lifting them both.
We glance down together. Just below my ribs, three dark, round bruises mark my skin—definitely new.
I try to keep my breath steady, even though Xavier’s proximity is messing with my head.
I frown, forcing myself to focus, trying to figure out what I could’ve hit when I fell.
Then Xavier drops to his knees in front of me.
My brain short-circuits.
His breath grazes my stomach, warm against the sting of the bruises, and goosebumps rise in its wake.
My legs feel suddenly unsteady, my pulse spiking.
I swallow hard and look away—anywhere but down—because the sight of Xavier Ormond kneeling in front of me is doing things to my already scrambled brain I am absolutely not equipped to handle right now.
“Shit,” Xavier mutters, and I shiver as his fingers ghost over the bruises. “Does it hurt?”
He exhales slowly. Against my better judgment, my eyes flick down, meeting his. He’s already looking up at me, lips pressed into a tight line.
Then he says, softer, “I’m sorry.” His fingers skim over my skin, like he’s trying to soothe it. “I’m so sorry, Newt.”
“For what?” I manage, somehow, despite the weight in my chest and the heat crawling up my neck. I’m covered in goosebumps.
“For all of it,” Xavier says, bitter, his touch sliding higher to trace the scars the Carver left behind.
“It’s not your fault,” I say gently, curling my hand around his and easing it away from my skin before this gets awkward. I tug my sweater down, then, without thinking, rake my fingers through his messy curls. “Come on,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “let’s check the bathroom.”
I press a quick kiss to the top of his head and turn for the door, my heart pounding.
I don’t wait to see his reaction. If I do, I’ll lose my nerve. My pulse is a frantic rhythm in my ears, drowning out every rational thought.
I step into the bathroom and flick on the light. Memories from last night hit me all at once, and my stomach flips. The way he touched me—then and just now—so careful, like I was something fragile, leaves me a little dizzy.
Behind me, Xavier follows—quiet, but lighter somehow. There’s even a trace of color in his cheeks.
He catches my eye and presses a finger to his lips. I nod. After what leaked from last night, we could still be overheard.
We search in silence, methodical, checking every corner. Twenty minutes later, it’s clear: the bathroom’s clean. No cameras. No audio devices.
“Well, at least that’s something,” I say, pulling back the shower curtain with a grin. “At least Ernest gave us this—one tiny bit of privacy.”
Xavier doesn’t smile. He just shakes his head, frowning, then jerks his chin toward the door, motioning for me to follow, and heads back to his room. I trail after him.
“I don’t get it,” Xavier says, stopping in the middle of the room. “How did they even know about your injury? You didn’t tell anyone, right?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
Xavier narrows his eyes. “Then how did it end up online?”
I shrug, but the thought hits me mid-motion. “Wait…what if the bug was in our clothes?”
Xavier blinks, then strides to the laundry basket in the corner. He pulls out yesterday’s shirt and pants, checking them inside and out. I watch, holding my breath, but after a minute he tosses them back with a muttered, “Nothing.”
“Could’ve been on me,” I suggest.
“If I remember right, you were down to your underwear,” Xavier says.
Heat crawls up my neck. “Yeah, but my clothes were in the room.”
Our eyes lock. A beat of silence—then, at the same time, we bolt for the bathroom.
We tear through the laundry pile, tossing shirts, pants, even shaking out socks, but come up empty. Xavier runs a hand along the seams of my jeans, then scowls.
“Nothing.”
I straighten with a sigh. “Yeah. All clear.”
Xavier frowns, pulls out his phone, types something, then holds the screen up to me.
New rule: no talking in the bathroom.
I nod.
Back in the living room, the clock shows a little past six. Outside, fat snowflakes cling to the glass, swirling in the wind.
“So that’s it? We’re done with the bugs?” I ask, turning to Xavier.
“Why?” he says evenly. “Got somewhere to be?”
I roll my eyes. Even if Xavier won’t admit it, I know he doesn’t want me meeting with Katie Fairfax. It’s not jealousy in the romantic sense—more like a childish refusal to share me with anyone else. Funny, though a little annoying too, mostly because he’ll never admit it.
“No,” I say. “I just thought we could make some food, maybe watch something—since we’re stuck inside anyway.”
For a second, he looks caught off guard. Then says, “Sure. I can cook.”
I blink. “You?”
Silence.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Stop asking.” Xavier looks faintly offended. “I cook all the time.”
“Well, usually just eggs,” I say, fighting a smile. “And, uh…do you actually know how to make dinner?”
Xavier smirks. “Of course. Cooking isn’t complicated—it’s just measuring proportions and following steps.”
“Sounds like you know the theory,” I shoot back, grinning now. “But can you actually pull it off?”