13. Whispers of Hope #2
I pause at the bottom of the grand staircase, listening. The house is eerily quiet, save for the gentle hum of the central air. No TV sounds, no voices, no sign of Zeke. He’s probably at the club again. He spends most of his nights there. Not that I care. I don’t.
The stairs creak slightly under my weight despite my careful steps. I freeze, holding my breath, but the house remains silent. Leo’s room is the third door on the right—right next to mine—and I ease it open with practiced care.
Moonlight spills through his window, casting a silver glow across his sleeping form. He’s sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. His hair is tousled, and his favorite stuffed dinosaur is tucked securely under his other arm.
I watch his chest rise and fall with each peaceful breath. His features normally remind me of James—the same nose, the same chin. But when he’s sleeping, I see my sister.
I step closer, my fingers itching to brush back the hair from his forehead, to place a soft kiss on his cheek. But I don’t dare risk waking him. Instead, I stand here, drinking in the sight of him, safe and sound in his bed.
For a moment, the chaos of my life fades away.
My fingers trace the cool wood of his bedpost. I used to sleep just as soundly, before life taught me to keep one eye open. Before Ryan’s cruel words carved permanent scars into my soul. Before I learned that love could be wielded like a weapon.
A car passes outside, its headlights briefly illuminating the room. Leo stirs but doesn’t wake, and I hold my breath until he settles.
The coffee I had earlier still buzzes faintly in my system, but it’s not enough to quiet the storm of thoughts in my mind. How did I end up here? Married to a man I barely know, living in his mansion, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy for Leo while my world tilts on its axis.
I long for the simplicity Leo knows—the ability to trust completely, to feel safe without questioning every shadow. But my reality is full of sharp edges and hidden threats. Even this moment of peace feels borrowed, temporary, like holding water in cupped hands.
My badge sits heavy in my jacket pocket, a constant reminder of who I am—or who I’m supposed to be. Detective Landry. Protector of the innocent. Now I’m Mrs. King, wife to a man who operates in shades of gray.
I slip out of Leo’s room and head downstairs, my footsteps whisper-soft against the marble stairs. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and moonlight, pristine and untouched. A showroom rather than a home. But I know where Zeke keeps the good stuff—the top shelf of the corner cabinet.
My fingers close around the smooth neck of the gin bottle. The crystal tumbler makes a soft clink as I set it on the counter, and the clear liquid splashes musically as I pour. The familiar scent rises up, promising relief from the thoughts crowding my mind.
I lean against the counter, raising the glass to my lips. The first sip burns pleasantly, and I close my eyes, savoring the warmth spreading through my chest. It’s become a nightly ritual—this quiet moment with my thoughts and my gin, trying to make sense of the mess my life has become.
The soft creak of the floor jolts me from my reverie. My eyes snap open to find Zeke standing in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. Even in the dim light, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches when his gaze lands on the drink in my hand.
He’s still wearing his suit, though his tie is loosened and his collar unbuttoned. The sight of him stirs something in me that I’d rather not examine too closely. Something that has nothing to do with fear or resentment and everything to do with the way his presence charges the air between us.
“It’s late,” he says, his voice low and rough. He moves into the kitchen with that dominating grace that seems to come so naturally to him. Each step closer sends my pulse skittering, though I refuse to back away. This is my home now too—isn’t that what he keeps telling me?
I take another deliberate sip, meeting his dark gaze over the rim of my glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Common problem,” he says as he grabs the bottle of whiskey from the same cabinet.
I lift my chin, studying him over the rim of my glass. The late hour and gin loosen my tongue. “Have you been avoiding me?”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. In the shadowed kitchen, his eyes are nearly black. “Yes.”
The blunt admission catches me off guard. I expected denial, deflection, or that infuriating silence he’s so good at. My fingers tighten around the crystal tumbler. “Why?”
“You needed time to adjust.” He takes a sip of his whiskey before he sets the glass down. He moves closer, his presence filling the space between us. “And I’ve been busy with work.”
“Work?” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “You mean the club? Or your other activities?”
“Both.” His gaze flicks to the gin bottle, then back to me. “I thought you’d appreciate the space, considering how reluctant you were about this arrangement.”
Heat rises to my cheeks as memories of my drunken wedding day surface. “I wasn’t reluctant. I was realistic. This isn’t exactly a fairytale romance.”
“No.” He moves even closer. “It’s not.”
The counter presses against my lower back as I resist the urge to step away from him. “So what is it then? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you married me to protect your interests, and now you can’t even stand to be in the same house.”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger? Frustration? But his voice remains controlled, measured. “You think I’m avoiding you because I can’t stand to be around you?”
“Aren’t you?” The words come out sharper than intended, fueled by two weeks of confusion and sleepless nights.
I lift my glass and toss back what’s left of my gin, savoring the familiar burn. The empty tumbler makes a soft clink as I set it on the marble counter. Without hesitation, I reach for the bottle again, desperate to dull the riot of emotions his proximity stirs up.
But before I can pour, Zeke’s hand closes over mine on the bottle. His touch sends electricity skittering across my skin. The heat of his palm bleeds through my fingers, and my breath catches in my throat.
“That’s enough,” he says, his voice a low rumble vibrating through my chest.
I try to tug the bottle free, but his grip is iron-clad. “Let go.”
“No.” His other hand slides the empty glass away from me, dark eyes never leaving mine.
The kitchen is suddenly too small, too warm. His body radiates heat like a furnace, and the spicy notes of his cologne fill my lungs with each shallow breath. My pulse thunders in my ears as we stand locked in this silent battle of wills.
I should step away. Should put some distance between us. But pride and something darker—something that feels dangerously like desire—keeps me rooted to the spot. His eyes are nearly black in the dim light, full of an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
“I’m not one of your employees,” I say, hating how breathless I sound. “You don’t get to dictate what I do.”
His thumb strokes once across my knuckles, the small gesture sending sparks of sensation up my arm. “You’re not.” His voice is gruff. “You’re my wife .”
The word hits me hard, and heat pools low in my belly. My fingers flex against the cool glass of the bottle, still trapped beneath his much larger hand.
He leans down and hovers over me. His eyes hold mine, lust-filled and wild. “Tell me what you want, love.”
I suck in a breath, knowing exactly what he wants me to say. Do I want that? It takes me mere seconds to decide.
“Fuck me,” I breathe against his lips, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt. The words surprise even me, but the gin and his proximity have lowered my inhibitions. “Right here, right now.”
Zeke pulls back slightly, his dark eyes searching mine. “Are you sure?” His voice is rough with restraint. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Only one drink. Besides, I know exactly what I’m asking for.” I press myself against him, feeling the hard planes of his chest through his shirt. “Please, Zeke.”
A low growl rumbles in his throat. “Don’t play with fire, Eve.”
“Maybe I want to get burned.” I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my palm. “I need to feel you again. Like before.”
His control snaps. In one fluid motion, he lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs. His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and demanding. I match his intensity, my fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons while his hands grip my thighs.
“Do you remember what I like?” he murmurs against my neck, teeth grazing my sensitive skin. “I’m not a gentle man.”
I arch into him as his fingers trace the edge of my jeans. “If I recall, you like me on my knees.”
His fingers tangle in my hair as he kisses me roughly, possessively. The counter is cold against my thighs, but his body burns hot between my legs. My head spins from more than just the gin as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of whiskey and desire.
“On your knees then,” he growls against my lips, stepping back just enough to give me room to slide off the counter.
My legs are shaky as I drop to my knees on the hard floor. His eyes are dark with lust as he looks down at me, and the raw hunger in his gaze makes me throb with need. I reach for his belt with trembling fingers.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” His voice is gravelly as I work his belt free and pop the button on his slacks. “Show me how badly you want it. And then I’ll fuck your tight, sweet pussy.”
I drag his zipper down slowly, teasingly. His breath hitches as I free him from his boxers, his cock already hard and straining. He’s thick and long, and my mouth waters at the sight of him.
“Open that pretty mouth for me,” he commands, fisting his hand in my hair.