Page 42 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I exhale.

I move through the house in darkness, pausing at each window to scan for any lingering headlights or silhouettes. I do not consider myself a nervous person—cautious, perhaps, but not paranoid—but there is a flavor of anxiety tonight that tastes different from my usual caution. It tastes like anticipation, like a challenge issued.

I return to the kitchen and pour a glass of water, then remember Ryan’s mouth on my tongue, the taste of his arousal, and nearly drop the glass.

It is ridiculous to be so distracted.

I check the door locks twice and reset the alarm before climbing back up the stairs.

Once in my bedroom, I strip off my shirt and examine the scratches on my arm more closely. I imagine Ryan’s nails digging in, imagine the tension in his jaw, the whimper in his voice. I had not expected to want him so much, not after so many years spent numbing myself to the idea of wanting anyone at all. That, too, is ridiculous.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling for a full hour, listening for the sound of cars on the distant road. I hear nothing except the usual sounds of my home and the rasp of my own breath.

Sleep evades me.

By dawn, my eyes burn, and my brain is no less fevered than it was at midnight. I dress and go to the window again, scanning the lane for tire tracks or signs of disturbance. There is nothing. The morning air is so cold it fogs the glass, and I wipe circles on the pane with my knuckles, convinced that this will help me see better.

I am debating whether to make coffee or to simply walk the property perimeter when I hear it—Ryan’s voice, as clear as if he stood beneath my window. He is not visible at first, only audible, his tone pitched up for conversation, the way he sometimes narrates tasks aloud when he needs to focus.

“Motherfucker,” he curses as the noise of stone scraping against stone fills the air.

Well, now is as good a time as any to visit him. I forgo the coffee for the time being and step outside, walking casually through the dew-covered grass as I listen to Ryan curse some more.

“Fuck! Stay. Stay, you absolute piece of shit.”

The broken section of the boundary wall comes into view first as I walk over, followed by Ryan kneeling beside it in pale shorts and a loose shirt, both knees dirty, one hand pressed against a stone.

Ryan releases it slowly and curses as it rolls forward, catching it with both hands. “Oh, come on.”

“Your technique remains fascinating.”

He jumps at the sound of my voice, almost toppling the rock. “Jesus fucking—Camille.”

“Bonjour.”

“I didn’t hear you come up. It’s like you need a bell,” he mutters.

“I am not a cat,” I reply.

He flushes. Petit chaton. He remembers.

His eyes travel down my buttoned blouse, then jerk away. I have experimented with restraint today, choosing fitted trousers and a collar high enough to conceal any reckless intent.

“Morning,” he says, throat rasping.

“How do you feel?” I ask, arms remaining folded.

He snaps, “Fine.” The single word is too quick, too clipped.

“You’re moving carefully.”

His gaze flicks toward the stones at his knees. “You look smug.”

“I am merely standing.”

“Smugly.”

I arch a brow. “I wasn’t aware standing possessed moral qualities.”