Chapter 7 Poe
SEVEN
POE
The hot water from the shower beats against my shoulders, washing away the chlorine and the sticky sweetness of those fruity drinks from the party. I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam fill the small bathroom while my muscles relax. My mind replays the last hour on an endless loop.
I still can’t believe I fucking did that shit.
Mark had left his phone sitting on the little patio table next to the grill while he flipped burgers and told some long story about a stupid fishing trip.
Everyone was laughing, distracted, half-drunk on sunshine and cheap beer.
Orchid had been pulled into a conversation with Tammy and Lisa about throw pillows or some other suburban bullshit.
For maybe sixty seconds I had a clear window. So, I took it. Fuck yeah, I did.
I moved fast as my heartbeat pumped violently through my veins. I slid the phone into my palm, angled my body so no one could see the screen, and fired off a text to Ozzy’s burner number I have memorized like my life depends on it.
It’s Poe. Safe. Serafina blackmailing me. Has Enley hostage. Trace this number. Find me. Find her.
My thumb had hovered for half a second before I hit send. Risky as hell. If Orchid had glanced over at the wrong moment, if Mark had reached for his phone early, if anyone had noticed me typing… but they didn’t. Ozzy’s reply came back almost instantly.
On it.
I deleted the entire thread, cleared the recent calls, wiped the keyboard history, and slipped the phone back exactly where I found it. All while pretending to laugh at Mark’s terrible punchline.
Now, standing under the spray, I feel the smallest crack of relief in my chest. It’s not much.
Not enough to fix everything. But knowing Ozzy is out there, that the team might be looking for me instead of hunting me, eases some of the weight that has been crushing me since that first phone call with Enley.
I can handle whatever Serafina throws at me.
I’ve been playing dangerous games for years.
Enley is the one who can’t. She’s the only reason I’m still breathing, still obeying, still pretending to be the perfect little prisoner.
I kill the water and towel off, pulling on fresh clothes that feel softer than anything I deserve right now.
Gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. Nothing fancy, but clean.
When I step out of the bathroom the house is quiet except for the faint sound of music drifting up from downstairs.
Soft, slow instrumental stuff. The kind people put on when they’re trying to unwind.
I head down the stairs, bare feet quiet on the hardwood.
And then I see her.
Orchid’s in the middle of the living room, yoga mat rolled out on the floor, moving through poses like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. The late afternoon light coming through the big windows paints her in soft gold.
She’s wearing tight black leggings and a cropped tank that rides up every time she stretches, showing a strip of smooth olive skin at her lower back.
Her dark hair is pulled up in a messy knot, a few strands sticking to the back of her neck from the effort.
She flows from downward dog into a low lunge, then arches into something that makes her spine curve in this graceful, lethal line. Every movement is controlled. Effortless. Powerful. Like her body is a weapon she knows exactly how to wield.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs, one hand still on the railing, and just… watch.
I should look away. I should keep walking into the kitchen and pretend I didn’t see anything.
But I can’t. My eyes trace the long lines of her legs, the way her muscles shift and flex under her skin, the subtle roll of her hips when she transitions into warrior pose.
She breathes deep and steady, completely focused.
Completely unaware that I’m standing here like an idiot, pulse kicking up and heat pooling low in my gut.
Fuck.
She’s beautiful. Not in the polished, magazine way.
Moreso, in the dangerous, I-could-kill-you-with-my-thighs way.
And right now, with her body moving like liquid and that tiny strip of skin flashing every time she breathes, my brain is supplying way too many images I have no business thinking about.
Her on top of me. Those strong legs wrapped around my waist. That focused expression shifting into something softer, hungrier.
My hands on her hips, guiding her, feeling her move against me the same way she’s moving now.
My body reacts before my brain can shut it down. Heat rushes south, my sweatpants suddenly feeling a lot tighter. I shift my weight, trying to will it away, but it’s no fucking use. She’s right there, bending and stretching and breathing like sin, and every cell in me is paying attention.
She transitions into a standing split, one leg extended high behind her, balance perfect.
The curve of her ass in those leggings should be illegal.
I swallow hard, throat dry. Part of me wants to walk over there, slide my hands along her waist, feel the heat of her skin, see if she would push me away or pull me closer.
The rest of me knows that’s the stupidest idea I’ve had all day, and that’s saying something after stealing a phone at a pool party.
Orchid finishes the pose and flows into child’s pose, forehead to the mat, arms stretched forward. For a second she just stays there, breathing. Then she pushes up slowly, rolling her shoulders, and turns her head.
Our eyes meet.
She freezes.
I try to look casual, like I just came downstairs and happened to glance over. But I know my face is probably giving everything away. The flush. The way I’m gripping the railing a little too tight. The obvious interest I can’t quite hide.
She straightens fully, wiping a strand of hair off her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed from the workout, lips slightly parted. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough,” I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be. I clear my throat and force a half-smile. “You’re… really good at that.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s something else in her expression now.
Awareness. A flicker of heat that mirrors what’s burning through me.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it because my brain is still stuck on the way she looked bent over in that lunge.
Fuck me. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about the woman holding me captive.
“Spying on me now?” she asks, but her tone is not as sharp as usual. There’s a hint of breathlessness underneath. From the yoga. Probably.
“Not spying. Just… appreciating the view.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I lean against the banister, trying to play it cool even though my body is still very much on board with every filthy thought I just had. “You make it look easy.”
Orchid grabs a towel from the back of the couch and wipes her neck, giving me a long, measuring look. “Most things look easy when you’ve been doing them long enough to survive.”
There it is again. That tiny crack in her armor.
The reminder that she’s not just Serafina’s pretty enforcer.
She has her own reasons, her own scars, her own reasons for playing this game.
I want to push. I want to ask again why she’s really here, what she’s waiting for.
But right now my blood’s still running hot and my brain’s not exactly in interrogation mode.
I step off the last stair and into the living room, keeping some distance so I don’t do something stupid like reach for her. “After watching that, I might need to take up yoga. Looks better for stress relief than punching walls.”
She huffs a small laugh, almost surprised. “You would hate it. Too slow for someone who likes to run headfirst into trouble.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’d like watching you demonstrate every pose.”
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. Her eyes darken just a fraction. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, like she’s deciding whether to snap at me or play along.
Instead she tosses the towel onto the couch and crosses her arms, which only pushes her tank top tighter across her chest. Not helping.
“Careful, Poe,” she says quietly. “You’re supposed to be the prisoner here. Not the one making comments.”
I shrug, even though my pulse is still hammering. “Prisoner. Husband. Neighbor. I’m whatever gets me through the day right now. And right now I’m the guy who just watched you bend in ways that should come with a warning label.”
She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah. But I’m also the only one here who knows how good that ass looks in downward dog.”
This time she does laugh. Short, surprised, and genuine. It lights something up in her face that makes my chest tighten for an entirely different reason.
“Shut up and go make yourself useful,” she says, turning toward the kitchen. “There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry. And stay away from the windows. I don’t need Tammy knocking again because she saw you staring at me like a creep.”
I watch her walk away, hips swaying just enough to keep my imagination running wild.
The relief from the text I sent is still there, warm and fragile in my chest. Ozzy’s on it.
The team might be coming. But right now, standing in this safehouse with a woman who’s supposed to be my warden and somehow feels like so much more, I feel the first real crack in the cage.
I don’t know if it’s hope or just really good yoga-induced lust.
Either way, I’m not sure I want it to stop.
I head into the kitchen after her, already wondering how many more neighborly invitations I can manufacture without blowing everything. Because next time, I might need more than sixty seconds with a phone.
And because part of me, the reckless, stupid part, really wants to see Orchid do yoga again.
Preferably without the leggings.
But that’s a problem for another day.
Right now I’ll take the small win, the stolen text, the quiet relief, and the way Orchid’s eyes lingered on me just a beat too long when she caught me watching.
It’s not freedom.
Not yet.
But it feels like the beginning of something.
And for the first time since Enley’s voice cracked over that burner phone, I let myself believe I might actually get us both out of this alive.
Even if I have to flirt, steal, and fantasize my way through every single day with the dangerously flexible woman currently glaring at me over a bottle of water.
Yeah.
I can work with that.