Page 77 of When Love Found Us
Suddenly, I wake up in my bed. A rush of heat, a snap of awareness, a body that’s too tight, too hard, too fucking desperate beneath the sheets. For just a moment, the dream lingers—her taste, her sounds, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing in the world she needed.
I grit my teeth, pulse hammering. She’s right there, inches away, lost in sleep, tangled in my sheets, easy to reach. Too easy.
Then there it is again, the noise that woke me up. It’s not inside the dream. But here in the apartment. My breath locks, my body reacting before my mind catches up. A shift in the air. The faintest creak of wood. A scrape just outside the room.
Adrenaline spikes, a cold shot to the system.
I listen before I react because I don’t want to make any mistakes.
Again.
Fuck.
I don’t waste time.
I move silently, sliding out of bed without disturbing Blythe. My hand finds the knife I keep tucked beneath the mattress—old habits, old training, things that never really go away. I barely breathe as I cross the room, my steps soundless against the floor.
Another sound—closer this time.
The door handle.
Motherfucker.
I move fast, yanking the door open just as the intruder starts to pick the lock.
Broad shoulders. A hunched stance. Hands still on the damn handle like he owns the place.
Malerick.
He exhales hard, jerking back a step, gaze locking onto the knife in my hand. “What the fuck, Atlas?”
I don’t lower it.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t put this through your chest.”
He lifts a hand, expression flat. “I’m your brother?” Like that’s supposed to mean something. Like that’s supposed to get him out of this. “You should relax, man.”
Relax?
I step forward, voice low, sharp enough to slice through the thick air between us. “You broke into my apartment. At one in the fucking morning. While me and my wife were sleeping, and you want me to fucking relax?” I tilt the blade, let the light catch it, let him see exactly how close I am to losing patience. “I’m two seconds from seeing how deep I can cut before you start begging.”
Malerick sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like I’m the unreasonable one.
“I needed to talk to you. Privately.” His gaze moves toward the bedroom area.
I let out a slow, dangerous breath. “You could’ve tried the fucking phone.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to see if I could break into the place.” He glances around. “Too much security for a guy whojustowns a fucking parlor.”
My grip tightens. “That’s none of your fucking business.” My patience thins with every passing second. “What do you want?”
His jaw ticks, like he knows I’m already pissed enough to throw him out. But he still steps closer.
“You know I’m the sheriff, right?” He stares at me like he’s trying to get ahead of whatever reaction he’s expecting from me. “That means I see everything that happens in this town. The reports. The calls. The missing persons bulletins from other counties—and states.”
I stare at him, unamused. “And?”
His jaw locks. “And two days ago, a report was circulated from Miami. A missing woman. Last seen fleeing her home.” He watches me closely, waiting for something. “Henrietta Elizabeth Worthington.”
