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“Yeah?”

She sighs before speaking again. “I want to open my own dance studio.”

My body wakes up at the sudden confession. “Is that why you work here?”

“Yeah.”

That’s an easy fix. She doesn’t have to. I can easily pay for a studio. Ten, if she wanted them.

“How long have you been a dancer?” I ask, wanting to keep the conversation going. Anything just to hear her voice.

“Since as long as I can remember. I’ve never known anything else. It’s the one constant thing in my life. Everything else always disappears one way or another.”

Something in my heart cracks at that. Maybe it’s because I know that feeling. Where dancing is her constant, Jac is mine.

“Your parents?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to push her too far—I know the topic of my parents is something that even I wouldn’t want to talk about.

She huffs bitterly. “Slow down, cowboy. We’re only just getting started here.” She finishes on a light, genuine giggle. My throat seizes up at the sweet sound.

“Fair enough.” I nod, placing my arm under my head.

Lightning strikes, momentarily illuminating the room.

“How many people have you killed?” she asks. The question is steady. Sure. Like she’s used to this. My pulse picks up as I think of all the ways this could’ve happened to her.

“Didn’t you just tell me to slow down?” I chuckle. She tuts.

It’s not as easy as just holding the knowledge of what we do. She would have to swear to take it to the grave with her, and as much as I want her involved in every part of my life, I can’t guarantee that she won’t run and tell the authorities. I didn’t think this through. The one thing I want to do is make Camila mine, but getting her involved in my world is the last thing I want to do.

“I’m not scared of you, Xander.”

I know that now. I think.

I roll over to my front, leaning on my elbows and craning my neck to look up at the bed where Camila is cuddled up in the foetal position, her long, honey hair spread out behind her like waves on an ocean. She’s staring out at the storm, eyes sparkling in the moonlight, and I wish that I could lie next to her and get lost in them.

She feels my gaze because she sits up and faces me, my black t-shirt slipping off her right shoulder, the moon casting perfect shadows along her collarbone.

“I’ve lost count,” I admit.

No reaction.

Just a plain, unreadable stare.

I swallow, bile suddenly rising up in my throat.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs, disappearing back into the safety of the quilts.

My mind and heart are racing. What did she mean? Is she okay with the fact I kill people? Am I going to wake up tomorrow morning and she’ll be gone?

She can’t.

I shoot up, glancing over at her sleeping form.

I can’t risk it.

I wait until I’m a hundred percent sure she’s asleep, then I creep over to the wardrobe and quietly pull one of the bottom drawers open to spare chains that Jac left here after installing a punching bag in his room. With painstaking slowness, I pull them out and lay them next to the bed. The cool metal clicks together, echoing quietly.

My fingers twitch with the need to touch her. To get into bed with her, if only for a few minutes to be close to her. I feel like a ticking time bomb. The longer I keep suppressing my urges, the more they build up, and it’s all going to blow up in my face.