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“No. You don’t have to do that,” I say. “But if you really don’t mind…”

“I really don’t,” he says. His voice is firm. “I have a go-bag in my car. I’m gonna run and grab it.”

I watch him walk away, noting the strength in his gait. Everything about him is controlled and precise. But sometimes,when he looks at me—reallylooks—I see something else under the surface. Something raw. Maybe even fragile.

He returns a minute later with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. I smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the night air when he passes me. He sets the bag down at the foot of the stairs and glances over at me.

“Thank you,” I say. “For agreeing to this.”

“It’s nothing,” he replies.

With that, I head upstairs, passing dangerously close to him as I ease by him to get to the stairs. His eyes follow my every move, but I don’t know if it’s methodical observation or something more.

I’m halfway up the stairs when he says, “Goodnight, Sable.”

I stop, but I don’t turn around.

“Goodnight.”

My heart is hammering by the time I make it inside my bedroom, every nerve lit with awareness. I close the door, disrobe, sink down onto my bed, and pull the covers around me. But they don’t warm the places I need them to. I stare at the ceiling, trying to quiet my mind. Trying to ignore the pleasant ache between my thighs.

Then I hear it.

The sound of wood scraping gently across the hardwood floor.

He’s getting his chair into position outside my door.

I exhale.

He’s out there. Watching. Protecting.

I drift off with that thought wrapped around me like a second blanket.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel so alone.

11

King

12:42 a.m.

Sable was smart to ask me to stay.

The wood floor creaks softly as I shift my weight from one foot to the other in front of the living room window, my eyes glued to the car that’s parked a few houses down facing west, dark and still, no lights, no engine hum. It hasn’t moved in the hour since I noticed it.

Most people wouldn’t clock it. Most people would assume it belongs to a resident or a guest.

But I’m not most people.

I’ve been at this way too long to believe in coincidences.

Brett called in backup. He’s eager, and I waited too damn long. Sable was meant to die tonight, whether it was me or the man in the driver’s seat doing a half-ass job of looking like he belongs.

I pull out my phone and send the photo I took of his wife lying “lifeless” on the floor. The timestamp is set, metadata wiped. It’s fiction, but it’s convincing enough for a civilian.

A few minutes pass before Brett responds.

Glad it’s done. I see you had to chase her ass. I forgot to tell you she sleeps naked.