Page 61 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“I’m literally right by the door.”

“Move away from it.”

“Camille—”

“Ryan.”

I move, stepping off the porch back into the yard. “Okay.”

“I’m coming.”

The call ends.

My chest aches as if I’ve swallowed a stone, because all morning I’d promised myself I wouldn’t reach for him. But the first whisper of danger and instinct led me to dial his number. I hate how instinct feels like weakness.

I also hate how relieved I am when I hear the slam of his door less than a minute later.

He appears through the gap in the boundary wall fast enough that I’m not entirely convinced he walked over rather than materialized.

His eyes lock onto mine, then flick to the cottage door.

“Have you touched anything?” he asks sharply.

I shake my head.

He closes the gap between us in two long strides. His hands settle on my shoulders—firm, pressing, not possessive but searching, protective. His gaze sweeps over my face, down my arms, across my chest, as if reading every panic line.

“You are hurt?”

“No.”

“Certain?”

“Yes.”

He exhales, soft as wind over glass. Then he turns toward the cottage. His expression hardens—ice replacing concern. It’s the first time I’ve seen real cold in his eyes, not irritation or distance but something predatory, delivered in a single glance.

“Stay here.”

“No.” The word bursts out, defiance tremulous in my throat.

His head turns. “No?”

“It’s my house.”

“And someone may still be inside.”

“All the more reason I’m not standing outside while you go in alone.”

His jaw works, and I brace for an argument. Instead, he pulls out his phone.

“Then we wait for the gendarmerie.”

“You’re calling the police?” I ask, disbelief crackling through me.

“Yes.”

“What if nothing’s missing?”