I'm so stupid to suspect him.
He can't do that.
I don't think he killed Luca.
How can someone who crouches in a tailored black suit so he doesn't scare a crying kid brutally murder a man?
My brain tries to stitch those two images together and it just won't stick.
Down there, the guards don't even react when he walks past them.
No whispers.
No tension.
They nod like that's their heir.
Like they know him better than I do.
Like they've already decided what he is.
And I'm the only idiot still trying to solve him like a puzzle.
He disappears inside.
I stand up so fast my chair scrapes.
I close the journal.
I don't even know what I'd write.
"Dear diary, my husband might be a criminal but he's hot and good with kids."
Embarrassing.
I head downstairs before he can get to our floor.
I know his routine.
He'll go to the bedroom first.
He always does.
Control the territory.
I slip inside our room and lie down on the bed like I've been here the whole time.
I face the other side.
Close my eyes.
Slow my breath.
I am not stalking my husband from the balcony.
I am resting.
Gracefully.
Calm.
Door opens.
Footsteps.
Measured.
Heavy but quiet.
Then nothing.
What the hell.
He's in the room.
I know he is.
But no sound.
No drawer.
No phone.
No sigh.
Nothing.
Fabric rustles.
Subtle.
He's changing.
Why does that thought make my stomach flip.
The bed dips slightly.
Fuck.
He's sitting beside me.
My heart speeds up immediately and I hate it.
Control it.
Slow.
Slow.
"Fucking hell," his smoky voice mutters under his breath.
I swallow.
Still facing away.
Don't move.
He shifts.
Then… stillness.
No phone scrolling.
No movement.
No breathing sound.
Is he gone?
Did he leave?
Did I imagine the bed dipping?
I wait.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Nothing.
Fine.
I'll check.
I slowly turn my head—
And freeze.
He's right there.
Shirtless.
Sitting against the headboard.
Watching me.
Smirk carved into his stupid perfect face.
"You are a terrible actress," he says calmly.
I blink lazily.
"What are you talking about?" I mumble in my best fake sleepy voice.
He doesn't even look convinced.
"I know when you're sleeping."
"Oh?" I tilt my chin slightly. "And how do you know that?"
His eyes move over my face like he's scanning data.
"When you sleep, your breathing slows and evens out. Your eyebrows relax. Your lips press together slightly. Your face goes soft."
He leans a little closer.
"When you pretend, you breathe too fast. Your chest rises unevenly. Your eyes move under your lids. Your jaw tightens."
My stomach drops.
He says it so casually.
Like he's describing the weather.
I stare at him.
"How do you know that? We don't even sleep together."
Separate rooms.
Separate beds.
Separate everything.
He goes still for a second.
Then shrugs lightly.
"Just observe."
That's it.
No explanation.
"You sound like a stalker," I say, narrowing my eyes.
He chuckles.
Low.
His fang flash.
Sharp.
"Is it that obvious?"
A chill slides down my spine.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something else.
How the fuck did he sit there for minutes without making a sound?
I didn't hear him breathe.
Didn't hear him shift.
Nothing.
I open my mouth to ask—
But he suddenly lies down beside me.
Close.
Too close.
I jolt upright instantly.
"What are you doing?"
He looks up at me, calm.
"You always sleep on the couch," I snap. "Go there."
"It's afternoon, baby."
"So what?"
Before I can move again, his hand closes around my wrist.
Firm.
Not painful.
But controlled.
He pulls.
I fall back onto the mattress beside him.
Bounce slightly.
Annoyed.
"Sleep," he says.
"Why?"
"You must be tired after pretending to sleep."
I roll my eyes so hard it physically hurts.
His grip loosens from my wrist but his fingers slide down to my hand.
Slow.
Intentional.
"We're going home tomorrow," he says.
I frown.
"Tomorrow? I thought it was the day after."
"I changed the plan."
Of course he did.
Because control.
Because he can.
I look at him properly now.
His eyes are closed.
Lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
Skin smooth.
Unfairly smooth.
What the hell is he using?
Some billionaire vampire skincare routine?
Is it blood?
Why does he look airbrushed in real life?
And how the fuck am I still not bored of this face?
It's actually offensive.
"Done looking?" he asks without opening his eyes.
My brain glitches.
If voices could get someone pregnant, his would have ten kids by now.
"I wasn't looking," I lie.
He smirks without even trying to hide it.
Liar detector built into his ego.
His fingers tighten slightly around mine.
Warm.
Grounding.
He turns his head toward me slowly.
Eyes still closed.
"Do you wanna cuddle?"