CHAPTER SIX: THE SCARED KITTEN

Later in the evening , after my husband retreated to his study to work, the emptiness of the room pressed in on me. Nelly’s flurry of concerned texts glowed on my phone. I sent her brief, reassuring replies, but declined a call she was on a date, and my chaos shouldn't interrupt her night. I picked up a werewolf romance novel, seeking escape in a fantasy of simpler, primal conflicts, but the words blurred before my eyes.

By 10:30 PM, restlessness had become a physical itch. I peeked into my husband’s study, finding him buried in papers. “Coming to bed soon?”

“Not for a while, my dear. Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling absently.

Back in bed, silence and shadows were my only company. My thoughts churned uncontrollably Frank’s betrayed expression, Michael’s dripping fury, the vile labels that had hung in the air. A craving for something sweet and cold pierced through the mental noise. Ice cream.

The house was a tomb, my bare feet whispering against the cool marble floors as I descended to the darkened kitchen. I didn’t switch on the light; the soft glow from the digital clock on the oven and the faint moonlight from the window were enough. I navigated by memory to the large stainless steel fridge, its hum the only sound.

The light from the opened fridge door spilled onto the tiles as I reached in. I closed it, the container of vanilla bean ice cream cool in my hand, and turned, only to collide with a solid, warm presence in the dark.

A gasp died in my throat as a large hand clamped firmly over my mouth, stifling my scream. My back hit the fridge door with a soft thud, the cold metal seeping through my thin nightdress. Panic, pure and primal, shot through me.

Then, a low, familiar laugh vibrated in the darkness. “Poor, skittish kitten.”

Michael.

Recognition flooded me, followed by a wave of anger. I wrenched my face away from his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I hissed, trying to shove past him.

My hands came up against a wall of bare, warm skin, the hard, defined planes of his chest. I snatched them back as if scalded, but not before the impression of solid muscle had seared itself into my palms. My fingers tingled.

“You like what you’re touching?” His whisper was a husky, intimate sound in the dark, his breath grazing my ear.

Mortifying heat flooded my cheeks. “Move out of my way,” I demanded, but my voice came out breathless, lacking all conviction.

“Not so soon, sweetheart.” His voice was a soft, dangerous caress. Then his fingers were on my face, tracing the line of my cheekbone with a shocking, feather-light tenderness. My breath hitched, caught somewhere between outrage and a traitorous, electric thrill.

“That little stunt you pulled today,” he continued, his thumb brushing my lower lip, making my entire body jolt. “Don’t ever try it again. You really don’t want to see my bad side.” The words were a threat, but his touch was a seduction, a confusing, maddening contradiction that left my mind reeling and my body responding against its will.

I was drowning in sensation. My mind screamed to knee him, to shout, to run, but my body leaned infinitesimally into his touch, a fragile vessel drawn to a dangerous flame. His proximity, the scent of his skin soap and something uniquely, infuriatingly male ,was overwhelming.

He leaned in, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought he would kiss me. Instead, his lips brushed my cheek, a hair’s breadth from the corner of my mouth, a kiss that was not a kiss, a promise that was a threat.

“Be a good girl, Mom,” he chastised, the title a deliberate, mocking poison on his tongue.

And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the kitchen as silently as he had appeared. The sudden absence of his warmth left me shivering, the cold from the fridge at my back now permeating my core. I stood there, trembling, the ice cream container growing damp in my hand.

His scent clean, masculine, and subtly spicy lingered in the air around me, a ghostly imprint of the encounter. My skin still burned where he had touched me. I raised a shaking hand to my cheek.