Page 5 of Desperate Crimes

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I know what she smells like.

Always the same. Always tempting. Fresh lemon verbena and sultry roses.

I know how long she lingers in the garden after dinner when she thinks no one’s watching.

I know she can’t stand caviar but always takes a bite, just so her father won’t comment on her appetite.

I know her favorite books.

The romantasies she devours—I’ve even read them, and yeah, they made me blush the first time.

Fairies fucking is so a thing.

Now, I’m addicted to them, too.

I follow her social media accounts—even the ones she doesn’t tell anyone about.

I know what time she turns off her bedroom light.

I know everything about her.

And she still doesn’t see me.

Not really.

But I feel her.

With every breath.

Every heartbeat.

Every time she tosses her hair or tilts her head back in a laugh that’s too big for the room, I feel it in my spine like a wire pulled taut.

I’ve waited long enough.

Waited while boys with soft hands and empty words tried to win her over.

Waited while her world stayed gilded and untouched.

Waited while she grew up—curvier, sharper, smarter.

Waited until she was ready.

Now, she’s almost ready.

And me?

I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

This is the last holiday dinner I’ll attend like a ghost.

Next year, she’ll sit beside me.

In our home.

Wearing my ring.

Carrying my name and our son.

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