Bella's POV:
This wasn't my first heat, but it was my first without my parents. My first alone.
And it was early. I'd thought I was fine, but now my skin was on fire, a feverish, crawling heat that felt like dying. I was drowning in it. My hand flailed out, patting the space next to me in the tangle of sheets. It was empty. Cold.
My heart gave a painful lurch. Where is he? Did he leave already?
He promised…
The thought surfaced before I could stop it, a desperate, traitorous anchor in the storm of my need. Since when did I start clinging to him? Since when did the beast become my safe harbor? A weak, frustrated sigh escaped my lips, doing nothing to cool the throbbing in my head and the deeper, more insistent ache pooling in my core.
Then, a sound cut through the fog—the definitive slam of the front door downstairs. I couldn't help but hide, pulling the messy sheets up to my chin. Pillows were scattered everywhere, a testament to my restless night. The soft clicking of glasses from downstairs froze me. It wasn't the heavy, purposeful sound of Knox. It was… different. Suspicion cut through the feverish haze.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, my legs trembling and unsteady. I crept out of the room, and a chilling thought dawned on me with the force of a physical blow: Knox knows the layout of my house.
He knew where my room was. The kitchen. He'd been in my room at noon. He wouldn't have left without his shirt, so he knew where the laundry room was.
A cold dread, entirely separate from the heat of my body, slithered down my spine. He always knew things he shouldn't. He mapped his surroundings with a predator's instinct, making my sanctuary his territory.
Holding my breath, I began my descent down the stairs, each step a careful, silent negotiation with my own fear.
Peering around the corner into the kitchen, I froze.
It was Knox. His back was to me, his broad shoulders tense. But he wasn't just getting water. He was at the counter, his head bowed as he meticulously wiped one of my mother's crystal glasses with a cloth. His movements were slow, precise, almost ritualistic. On the counter beside him lay a small, open leather case I'd never seen before, its contents gleaming with a sinister, metallic sheen under the kitchen light. Tools? Weapons?
My blood ran cold. What was he doing? This wasn't fetching water. This was… something else. Something calculated.
As if sensing my presence, his head tilted slightly, though he didn't turn. His voice cut through the silence, low and flat, devoid of its usual teasing warmth.
"Couldn't sleep, little bunny?"
The question felt like a threat. He wasn't surprised I was here. He'd been waiting. My mind raced, connecting terrible dots. He knew the house. He was handling our belongings. He had strange tools. He was casing the place. He was…
Oh, god. He's not my protector. He's just another predator, and I've let him right into the heart of my nest.
I took a shaky step back, the floorboard creaking beneath my foot like a gunshot.
I jolted awake, a gasp tearing from my throat. Cold sweat dripped down my temple. A nightmare? It felt so real.
The other side of the bed was empty. He. He must be here.
The thought was a desperate prayer. I scrambled out of bed, my legs still wobbly, and didn't bother with stealth. I hurried down the stairs, my bare feet slapping loudly against the wood in my panic. I went straight to the kitchen and peered inside, my heart in my throat.
Knox was there. In the same spot from my dream. But instead of a sinister leather case, he was simply pouring cold water from a glass jug. The simple, domestic sound of the water filling the glass was a balm to my frayed nerves.
Sensing my presence immediately, he turned. His ultramarine eyes found mine, and in them, I saw no calculation, no cold predator—only a quiet, steady calm.
"Couldn't sleep, little bunny?"
he asked, his voice a low rumble, but this time it was filled with a warmth that melted the last of the nightmare's chill. I hated him for this. For making my body betray my mind, for the magnetic pull that drew me across the cool kitchen tiles when every rational thought screamed to stay away. I was gliding to him, a moth to a deadly, beautiful flame.
My gaze dropped, catching sight of his tail, usually a lazy, swaying metronome, now utterly still, a black ribbon frozen in the air. The intensity of his focus was a physical weight.
My knees buckled then, a sudden surrender to the heat and exhaustion. A small, helpless sound escaped me as I started to fall.
His eyes widened. In one fluid, impossibly fast motion, his arm shot out and he caught me, his grip firm and sure against my back. The world steadied. A silent, traitorous thankfulness flooded my veins. But I would rather chew off my own tongue than ever say it to his face.