Page 33 of If I Stopped Haunting You

“Of course I do!” She stepped forward and shoved a hand against his chest, baring her teeth as she glared up at him like a ferocious kitten. “Because I spoke my mind, I gave upeverything. I risked my career to be honest, and now…”

Her chin wobbled, and Neil was unsure what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. And he was. He was sorry for all of it. He had been for a long time, but he’d never said it to her. Her nostrils flared as she looked from him to her door.

“Please just go.”

Neil’s stomach twisted. She’d made him doubt himself, made him question every decision he’d ever made in his career, but he had not come to her room (had not even meant to come here) to make her cry in the middle of the night.

Swallowing, Neil turned and strode to the door. He left without another word, pausing to lean against the wood after pulling the door shut behind him. He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

Maybe she was angry, maybe she hadn’t been as sympathetic as he’d hoped, but at least she knew the truth. At least she knew what he’d done in order to scrape his way to the top.

Neil pushed off to return to his room but paused, glancing down the hall. There was no sign of whatever had lurked before, no rotting stench lingering to send him spiraling into another panic attack. And though Neil couldn’t be certain how much time had passed since he saw the flash of white disappearing into one of the rooms, he decided he didn’t want to know what it was.

He returned silently to the warmth of his room. The fire had dimmed since he’d left, but the space was warm, the glow of the fire enough to light his way to the bed.

“Just to be safe,” he said, locking the door behind him. He jiggled the handle for good measure, satisfied when it didn’t budge.

Maybe there was something out there, maybe there wasn’t, but Neil wasn’t willing to takeanychances.

Excerpt fromFor What Savages May Beby Neil Storm

Trent Barker was a strange man. He’d spent the better part of his life on the reservation, waiting for his chance at an escape. He’d dreamed of what it meant to see the real world, to join it and experience the things that lay beyond that border.

And now that it was time for him to leave, he couldn’t bear to. So much had happened to him, so many terrible and wonderful things.

But they’d all shaped him into the man that he was, the person he’d become.

Trent stood on the border of the land he called home, looking out over the empty space beyond. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes, and leaped.

Chapter 11

PEN

Pen lurched upright as someone banged their fists against her door. Her cheeks were flushed, her underwear sticky, and Pen was alarmed to realize she’d been rudely woken from an incrediblyhotdream.

As she stretched and yawned, arching her back with a shiver, she was certain she could still feel the leather of books digging into her back and the dragging of nails down her thigh as long fingers dug into bare skin and her leg was lifted aside for easy access, fingers squeezing almost painfully. The person in the dream had hefted her up against one of the bookcases in the study, pressing her into the shelves as books fell around them, clattering to the floor. Their bodies had clashed against one another, heartbeat against ragged heartbeat.

Pen could practically taste the burn of whiskey down her throat as someone kissed her deep, tongue dipping and tangling with hers, their teeth scraping her bottom lip. But already the dream’s clarity was fading, and Pen couldn’t make out the face of the man who’d devoured her.

Much to her dismay.

“Wake up! We have places to be, things to do!” Laszlo called.

The sound of her friend’s voice pushed her thoughts of the dream away. For now. She’d have to revisit it later. For… reasons.

A piece of paper was slipped under Pen’s door, and she pulled on her glasses before stumbling out of bed, hitting the floor face-first as she twisted in her sheets, legs tangled together. Grumbling, she reached out and snatched it up, squinting. Pen struggled out of the blankets and stood, pulling open her door and nearly mowing down Laszlo in the process.

“What’s this?” Pen demanded, holding it up.

Laszlo raised a brow and looked from the paper to Pen. “It’s an itinerary.”

She blanched. “It’s a writing retreat, not a boot camp, Laszlo.”

Laszlo opened his mouth to respond, but Storm’s door opened across the way, and both Pen and Laszlo turned to survey him. He was freshly showered, water dripping down his curls and soaking his shirt. And something about the sight of him in that button-up, the water making the forest-green fabric cling to his chest, made her mouth go dry.

“You look like shit,” Laszlo observed.