Page 124 of Stolen Vows

43

GRAHAM

I’m runningon fumes by the time I finally shut down my computer.

My eyes burn from hours of staring at cascading lines of code, my brain wired but my body exhausted. These assholes should’ve taken the bait by now, jumped on my hook like the little worms they are.

Either they’re better than I gave them credit for or they’re on vacation.

I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly before pushing back from my desk. It’s late, later than I planned to be up. I’m used to it but my wife is not. Last I looked, she was reading. Even that was so distracting that I had to minimize her security feed so I could get some work done.

It’s been a week since she first slept in my bed, and I’ve asked her to sleep in it every night since then. Some nights she does, some she goes to her own bed. I’ve been trying not to read too much into it, trying not to let myself hope it means something deeper. But it’s hard when she fits so perfectly against me, her soft curves melding to my hard edges like they were made for each other.

I’m not used to wanting someone like this, needing them in a bone-deep way that terrifies me if I examine it too closely. So I don’t. I lose myself in lines of code and the satisfaction of unraveling digital puzzles, anything to keep my mind from dwelling on the way my chest aches when I wake up and she’s not beside me.

I push to my feet with a low groan, my body protesting the sudden movement after hours of stillness. I flick off the office lamp and make my way toward the bedroom, rolling my shoulders to work out the kinks.

Padding barefoot down the hallway, I pause outside her closed bedroom door, debating.

I want her in my bed. Want to fall asleep with her tucked against my chest, her hair tickling my nose, her scent surrounding me. Want to wake up to her sleepy smile and wandering hands, her body soft and pliant beneath mine as I take her.

But I won’t push. She’s had enough of people making demands and expectations of her. The last thing I want is to be another source of pressure in her life.

With a sigh, I turn away from her door and head to my own bedroom. It’s probably for the best anyway. I’m exhausted and liable to pass out the second my head hits the pillow.

I don’t bother turning on the lights as I step further into my room. I reach behind my head and grab the collar of my shirt, stripping it off and tossing it on the armchair.

My breath catches in my throat when I see a flash of blonde, curled up on my side of the bed, fast asleep. The delicate sleepwear she loves to tease me with, thin straps, soft fabric, short shorts. Her hair spills across my pillow in a golden wave, her face shadowed in the dark.

Something clenches in my chest, a feeling I’m not ready to name. I take a step closer, drawn to her like a magnet, unable to resist her pull. The sight of her in my bed, wrapped up in my sheets, it does something to me.

I take a step toward her, then stop.

Something’s wrong.

The air is too still, too heavy with a strange uneasiness that prickles along my skin.

I draw in a slow breath, trying to shake off the odd sensation as I stare down at her slumbering form. I should find comfort in the sight of her here, so trusting and vulnerable. But the tightness in my chest only grows, an icy tendril of unease snaking through my veins.

I reach out to brush a lock of hair from her cheek, but my fingers hover an inch from her skin. Something holds me back, some instinct I can’t name.

Frowning, I let my hand fall away and take a step back, my gaze roaming over her still form. My instincts kick in and roar to life.

I snatch the wooden bat from beside my nightstand, grip firm, heart hammering. I point it at the woman sleeping in my bed.

“You are not my wife.” My voice is sharp, ice-cold.

The figure shifts slowly, a languid stretch, deliberate. And when she rolls over, her smirk is too familiar. It’s like looking at my wife in a distorted mirror, like some alternate reality version of her. Her smile is all wrong and her eyes are too narrow and her smirk is mean.

I know exactly who she is. But what I don’t understand is why the fuck she’s here. In my fucking bed.

“Oh come on.” She lays back dramatically. “If you turn off all the lights, I’m sure we’ll feel exactly the same.” It’s a taunt. “We used to do the twin switch thing when we were younger. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” The woman laughs, low-toned and throaty.And loud. Nothing like my wife’s bright, infectious giggles.

It makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it’s this whole fucked-up situation.

“Get out of my fucking bed. Don’t make me say it again.” My grip on the bat tightens before I force myself to rest it on my shoulder.

Florence pouts dramatically. “C’mon, don’t tell me she didn’t mention me.”

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