Page 18 of XOXO, Little Butterfly (The Storyteller’s Bodyguard #2)

Tristan

Birdie doesn’t do social media. What the hell is she up to now? What new mastermind plan has taunting me to the point of shattering inspired? It seems my destruction has become her diabolical muse these days.

“Gatsby, hit the shower,” I grumble, turning to face her. The kitchen is still charged with tension. She’s turned provoking me into an art form, each challenge designed to push me closer to the edge while keeping me guessing about her true motives.

“Sir,” he says, his feet too eager to escape the awkwardness.

“Gatsby,” Birdie crosses her arms over her chest, mischievous defiance in her gaze, “I thought that was my safeword, not yours.”

The things I’d do to that mouth… The things I’d do to show her she should have never messed with someone like me… Time will come, Birdie. Time will come, Reagan.

“The whole point of coming here is staying off the grid so that no one tracks you or knows where you are, and you suddenly wanna post to your story?”

“You said there’s no cell service here, but you reached Brandon to order him to come here, contacted the rest of the team to get our traps in motion and Boston to get working on that list of everyone who worked at the school in Miami.

It means you do have secure comms that can’t be traced to this place, and it can’t be the radio in that bunker, right? ”

I watch her carefully, an attempt to decipher what new game she’s playing now. She must be already three steps ahead in whatever plan she’s formulating. “Yes, I’m using Monarca’s own network with proxy servers and satellite comms that will trace back to freaking Kyrgyzstan.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.” A hint of a smile tugs at my mouth despite my better judgment. She has a way of making me forget myself, of turning every interaction into a dance between protector and provocateur.

She shrugs with practiced nonchalance. “So there is no problem for me to use the internet.”

My patience wears thin. Every instinct screams she’s planning something dangerous, something that could compromise everything I’ve done to keep her safe. “Birdie, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Language, Mr. Morra.”

I let out a dark chuckle, remembering how she wielded that kitchen knife against my dick.

Always pushing, always testing limits. But with Birdie, the real danger isn’t physical.

It’s in the way she sees through every defense, every carefully constructed barrier.

The way she matches my intensity and turns my own tactics against me.

“I’m not gonna ask again. If you want the internet, you’d better come clean and tell me the truth. ”

“I already told you.”

The cabin grows smaller, too small for the collision course we’re on.

Before she can throw another smart lie, I reach her in two strides.

My hand shoots out, gripping her jaw, thumb pressing against the spot where I held the knife.

Her breath hitches—the first sign of real submission I’ve seen from her all day.

“You think because you got the upper hand once, you run this show?” I lean in close, my voice a low growl against her ear.

“Let me remind you of something, Reagan .” I emphasize her real name, savoring her shiver against me.

“That little stunt with the knife? I let you have that moment. Could have disarmed you before you even touched the blade.”

My other hand finds her hip, pinning her against the counter.

“So here’s how this works. You tell me exactly what you’re planning or you don’t get anywhere near that internet connection.

And if you try to play another one of your naughty games.

..” I drag my thumb across her lower lip, reminding her who’s really in control.

“Well, let’s just say I won’t be so generous next time. ”

Her pulse quickens under my palm, that delicious mix of defiance and desire.

But this time, I need her to understand.

“Your safety isn’t a game I’m willing to lose, and for that to happen, you must know who is in charge.

Me, Birdie. What I say goes. No objections, no manipulation, no fucking lies. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” The word comes out breathy, almost vulnerable. But there’s something in her eyes—a glint of mischief that makes my gut clench with warning. She leans into my grip, her lips brushing against my thumb. “Crystal clear, sir .”

Submission laced with mockery, and yet it goes straight to my cock. My fingers tighten on her jaw. “Sing, little bird. What’s your plan with the internet?”

The mask of compliance slips just enough to reveal the calculating mind behind it. “I need to check something.” Her tongue darts out, a quick swipe against my thumb that sends electricity down my spine. “About Blake.”

She knows exactly how to play this—how to mix truth with temptation until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I force myself to focus past the distraction of her mouth, past the heat of her body against mine. Blake. Of course this comes back to him. “What about him?”

“The night Butterfly Man broke into my bedroom, you sent Marcus to Blake’s office, but he didn’t find him.

Based on Jacob’s interrogations, I don’t think the police have Blake in custody either.

” Her voice takes a serious turn. “His response to the divorce was to leak one of my secrets. I need to see if he’s made any public statements since the press conference.

Especially now that the police suspect he killed Gia, he’ll be thirsty for blood.

If he’s planning to expose more of my secrets, I need to know. ”

My grip softens. “Or maybe he’s dead like Gia.”

“You have no idea how much I hope so, but what Butterfly Man said to me begs to differ. My stalker is punishing and testing me, not rewarding me. He’s leaving Blake for last but only if I submit to his twisted love.

” Real vulnerability flickers in her eyes.

“Blake is alive, and he has the means to destroy me.”

She’s right. Every person related to the Aaron West scandal is dead. The only one still breathing that knows that secret is Abel. We need to know what he’s doing, what he might reveal next and how to prepare for it before it’s too late.

“And…” She hesitates.

Damn it. “And what, Birdie?”

“I’ve been asking myself…what if you and I are both wrong?”

“Wrong about what?”

“Who the real Butterfly Man is.”

Not that shit again. “I’m not wrong, Birdie.”

“You don’t know that. Everyone is a suspect. It could be Jacob, it could be Morrison…or someone else entirely.”

“For God’s sake, we can’t keep running in circles. Give that writer’s mind that’s always spinning stories a break. You’re always seeing plot twists where there should only be clear lines and boundaries. Jacob Torrance is Butterfly Man.”

“No. Because Jacob has never worked or been to our school, and honestly…I don’t think Morrison has either.”

Leaning back, I drop my hands. I’m the one who has made the connection that the stalker is someone from the school. “Morrison finished high school in Arkansas. He joined the military right after. He never attended nor worked at any school in Florida.”

“And Jacob is too old to be a student at my time as a teacher. He doesn’t have any children either. And he certainly didn’t work there. I’d have remembered him.”

“Your memory is hardly proof, Birdie. I mean, you don’t remember me. And we don’t know much about Torrance before he transferred here, so…”

She steps away from the counter, but her eyes never leave mine. “When a woman admits she might be wrong, a smart man knows better than to play dumb to prove himself right.”

This is bullshit…and yet it can be true. Fuck me. I cross my arms, hating how easily she can make me doubt myself. “If it’s not Torrance or Morrison, who do you think Butterfly Man is?”

“That’s what we’ll find out when I go on my social media accounts and post this video.”