Page 85 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"That's insane. We've only been..." She trails off, searching for the right word. "Whatever we are. It's only been a few weeks. How would anyone even know?"
Because they're watching. Because the Brotherhood has eyes everywhere, and Zach has spent three years building his own network of informants and spies. Because nothing stays secret forever, and my obsession with her has been obvious to anyone paying attention.
"People talk," I say simply. "Word gets around."
She studies my face, and I see the moment she decides not to push further. Not yet.
"Should I be worried?"
"No." I crouch in front of her chair, bringing myself to her eye level. "I told you—you're safe here. With me. I won't let anyone hurt you."
"Even if they're trying to get to you through me?"
"Especially then."
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods slowly.
"Okay," she says. "I trust you."
There it is again. That word. Trust.
She keeps handing it to me like a gift, and I keep taking it even though I know I don't deserve it.
I lean forward and kiss her—soft at first, then deeper, claiming her mouth the way I've claimed the rest of her. She responds immediately, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders, her body arching toward mine.
I pull back before it goes further.
"I have work to do," I tell her. "But tonight—"
"Tonight," she agrees, and there's a promise in her voice that makes my blood heat.
I leave her in the library and return to my study, my mind already turning back to the problem at hand.
Zach is circling. Getting closer. Planning something that involves Poppy, involves her mother, involves secrets I haven't uncovered yet.
I need to find out what he knows before he makes his move.
And I need to make sure that when he comes for her, I'm ready.
She's mine.
And I protect what's mine.
No matter what it costs.
Chapter 21 - Poppy
The estate is starting to feel like home, and that terrifies me more than anything else.
I've been here for five days now. Five days of waking in Gabriel's bed, of wandering through endless corridors, of eating meals prepared by silent staff who never meet my eyes. Five days of his hands on my body at night and his absence during the day, while he disappears into his study or leaves for meetings, he doesn't explain.
It should feel like a prison. In many ways, it is one—gilded and beautiful, but a cage nonetheless. I didn't choose to be here, not really. I chose it the way a drowning person chooses a life raft, because the alternative was worse.
And yet.
And yet I'm starting to learn the rhythms of the house. Which floorboards creak, which doors stick, which windows catch the morning light in ways that make me want to sketch them. I'm starting to recognize the staff—the older woman who manages the kitchen, the young man who tends the grounds, the silent army that keeps this monument running. They don't speak to me, but they nod when I pass, acknowledging my presence if not my place.
I'm starting to feel like I belong here.
