Did he hear me moaning Eli’s name?I can’t imagine that went down well.
My heart starts a staccato drum as I worry about my mysterious patient getting harmed.
Emily:How are you watching me?
No answer.
I let out a sharp breath, annoyed, and toss my phone onto the sofa. In defiance, I grab one of my therapy books and force myself to focus.
Eventually, I settle. This is why I love my boring little books—highlighting, annotating, surrounding myself with colour-coded sticky notes like it matters.
I cook dinner.
Eat enough pasta for three people.
Then feel guilty about it.
Monotony.
Eli
Graham.
Who.
Thefuck.
Is.
He?
Her whole face lit up when she saw him.
I’ve never been this fuckingjealousin my life.
The urge to skin the bastard from head to toe is almost unbearable.
She’s testing me. Pushing my limits like it’s some sort ofgame. Shelaughedat my possessiveness.Ignoredmy question.
She wants to play?
Fine.
I’ll show her how serious I am.
I power down my computer, grab my mask, and head out.
The car sits in the drive, but that’s not what I need tonight. I straddle my bike—a Triumph Bonneville T120—throttle the engine, feeling it rumble beneath me, and race into the night. The wind bites through my jacket and jeans, slicing through my rage just enough to think straight.
If this Graham matters to her, I can’t kill him.
Not yet.
But Icanmake damn sure he never lays a finger on what's mine.
I park behind her building and climb the fire escape with ease.
I’ve done this before. Watched her sleep. Studied her breathing. Memorised the shape of her in the dark.