Nursing the Murderer Alpha King
It is not the tidy brick house I’ve spent eight years building a life into, or the mirror image next door that I’ve been trying very hard not to look directly at.
This is something else entirely, gates, grounds, a driveway long enough to qualify as a small road, and at the end of it, lit from below against a moonless sky, the kind of house that doesn’t call itself a house.
The kind that calls itself a residence. Plural staircases visible through the front windows. Wings. An actual east wing.
“No,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re going to live with me.” He says it the way he says everything, like the decision was made somewhere prior to this conversation and reality is simply catching