Page 70 of In Case You Didn't Know

The tension between us is suffocating. He’s all chiseled restraint and clenched jaw and I’m one deep breath away from combusting.

So I sit up, rip off the unnecessary bandage, and shake out my hair, which now looks like I’ve lost a wrestling match with a sea witch.

And then I march straight into the living room.

But I don’t get the chance to deliver my ultimatum. Because there he is, lounging on the sofa like a cover model for Moody Men Monthly, one ankle propped on his knee, his brows dipped in concentration as he flips a page.

Of my manuscript.

The one I printed earlier. The one that’s supposed to be sitting on my desk, waiting for me to go through it with a red pen.

The one he’s very much not supposed to know about, let alone reading.

I come to a stop, mid stomp, my heart doing a triple axel in my chest. “What are you doing?” I ask with a panicked voice. It’s clearly not as intimidating as I’d hoped.

He doesn’t even look up. Just turns another page and mutters, “This scene. Chapter sixteen. Is this guy supposed to be me?”

My jaw drops.

Oh god, he’s readingthatscene. The one with telepathy and her sending him dirty thoughts, showing him exactly how she touches herself while the brooding commander is away on maneuvers. He sends orders back. Commanding, filthy instructions laced with praise and control. But he never once touches himself.

I think I might die.

My cheeks start to flame as I step the rest of the way into the living room. “I can explain…” I tell him. Oh god. “It’s just astory. Fiction. Completely made up.” I’m babbling, trying to fix this. “And the similarities to anybody living or dead are entirely coincidental.”

He lifts a brow. “Francie.”

“Just because he has a jawline dangerously similar to yours means nothing. It’s not like you’re telepathic, is it? Unless you count the cameras as telepathy. Which they’re not…”

“Francie.” This time his voice is louder. More commanding. My body does weird things I’m not sure I’ll ever get over.

But it does the trick. I stop talking.

He looks at me. Cool, steady, like he’s cataloguing every inch of me. As if he’s remembering exactly what I do when I’m alone at night with the lights off and one of his filthy little voice notes in my head.

“I’ve known about your books for a while,” he says calmly.

My mouth opens, then closes. Heat prickles down my spine.

He’s known? How long? For days. Weeks maybe. And I didn’t know he knew. He watched me come undone every night and never said a damn thing.

It feels like being naked again. Not in the fun way.

“After everything that went down at the club, I needed to make sure you were safe. It came up in my checks.”

I blink. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my business to say anything. Generally, if people are hiding things and not hurting others by doing so, I assume there’s a reason behind it.”

A weird feeling comes over me. Guilt. I was so angry at him after that, yet he kept my secret. My heart feels so tender it might be bruised.

He leans back, the manuscript in his lap, looking entirely too comfortable considering I’m melting down.

“You don’t think it’s your business when your literary alter ego is telling my alter ego to touch herself in graphic detail?” I ask, trying to ground myself.

A corner of his mouth lifts. He’s smirking, goddamn it.

“I do have a question for you, though,” he murmurs. “Why do you keep it a secret? I’m guessing my sister knows.”