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I dropped the kids off at school a few hours ago, so I have the rest of the morning to myself.

I would call my friends, but they usually sleep in until noon because of their late shifts. I should make the most of my alone time, but my mind keeps pulling me back to him.

Klaus Sinclair is still so much of an enigma.

But there’s one way to learn a little more about his life.

I still have the diary.

I haven’t opened it yet. I told myself I would return it because it’s the right thing to do. The diary doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to a dead woman.

I should put it back where I found it.

And now is the perfect time to do so.

I walk to the closet where I hid the book. It’s under a stack of folded clothes. The second my hand wraps around the binding, I’m teleported back to that night.

I smell the vanilla perfume in the air. I feel the walls trying to tell me something. I see Klaus’s beautiful sister staring at me with those clear blue eyes.

The writings in the book call to me.

They promise answers that nobody else is willing to give me. Maybe a little peek won’t hurt.

I flip the diary open to a random page. It smells like leather and secrets.

The cursive is hard to read, but I get the hang of it. My heart starts racing the more I read.

This was a mistake. A big fucking mistake. But I can’t stop flipping through the pages.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His husky voice splatters against the back of my neck.

My heart drops all the way to my stomach. He’s standing right behind me. I can feel the heat of his body enveloping me like dark angel wings.

I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, turning around to face him. My heart stutters once more before it stops beating.

There are storm clouds in his eyes. There’s so much torment and rage there that it takes my breath away. I never thought I’d say something like this about a man, but Klaus looks even more handsome when he’s angry. Because for once, he’s being authentic. He’s not hiding from the world.

I lower my gaze because it’s too much.

Looking at him feels like staring directly at the sun.

“I didn’t know you were home,” I whisper.

He rips the diary from my hands.

“Who sent you?” he asks.

“What?” I look up at him.

He might be standing in front of me, but he’s lost in the chaos of his mind.

“Somebody sent you,” he says. “Who do you work for?”

My heart starts thumping hard against my breastbone.

“Nobody,” I say. “Nobody sent me. Well, the agency recruited me, but?—”