Page 21 of Sweet Doe
Her mouth opens, closes again. I can see the war behind her eyes—denial colliding with the sick, slow realization that I’m right.
“I noticed, Sloan,” I growl. “I noticedeverything.”
I step closer, my voice breaking at the edges now—rough with emotion, sharp with something deeper.
“I memorized your routine. I watched your mornings, your nights. I know how you like your coffee. I know the shampoo that doesn’t irritate your scalp. I bought the vitamin powder you mix into your smoothies even though it smells like seaweed, because you said it makes your head feel clearer.”
She’s staring at me like I’ve cracked wide open. Maybe I have.
“I stocked the cabinet with your favorite gum. I got theexactblanket you sleep with—twice, just in case you ever needed a spare. I even bought books you haven’t read yet but always looked at twice in the store before you walked away.”
Her lips are trembling now. Not from fear.
From knowing it’s true.
“I watched youlive, Sloan. And I loved every fucking second of it. Because you were real. You weren’t pretending. You weren’tperforminglike the rest of them. You didn’t even know I was watching, and you still smiled like that.”
She turns away fast, shoulders stiff, spine locked tight.
But I don’t let her escape.
I grab her wrist gently, my voice dipping softer. Rawer.
“You were the one good thing in his entire fucked-up life, and he didn’t evenseeit. He was going to destroy you. So I ended it.”
She swallows. Hard. Doesn’t speak.
And I don’t need her to.
I already know.
We head back inside.
She walks ahead of me now, stiff and silent, her shoulders curled inward like she’s trying to disappear—but I see the flick of her eyes, the twitch in her jaw. She’s memorizing everything. Still planning. Still looking for exits I haven’t thought of yet.
I let her.
Let her hope a little. It makes breaking her easier when she realizes the walls don’t have weak points, because I built them forher.
But then something clicks. An idea. A way to soften the tension coiled in her spine without saying another word.
She mentioned the salon like it was oxygen. Something that kept her alive. Not a job. Not something to pass the time. No, that placemeantsomething to her. I heard it in the way her voice softened when she said it. The pride. The ache. The loss.
And yeah, it lit a fuse in me.
Because I don’t want to take that from her. I don’t want to rip apart the things that made her… her. I just want to be part of it. Togiveher something back.
So if she can’t go back to that life—then fine. I’ll bring it to her.
She deserves something that feels like home, even if it’s inside the one I built with my bare hands. I’ve seen the way she moves, the way she tilts her head while she talks about hair texture, color, angles. The way she lights up when she’s passionate right before she catches herself and dials it back like she’s not allowed to enjoy anything anymore.
I’ll change that.
“I forgot something,” I say casually, catching her gaze.
Her jaw tightens when I cross the room to the coat closet and pull out the soft-lined leather cuffs. The long chain dangles from my fingers like a leash.
She stares. “You’re seriously chaining me up.”
