Page 59 of Shadow Of Sin

He left. He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He just left.

Daniel would have argued. Daniel would have explained and justified and charmed and twisted until I couldn’t tell the difference between his bullshit and the truth. Typical gaslighting behavior. He’d make you feel crazy for being upset about the thing he did.

What an asshat.

But Wolfe didn’t do that. He sat there and took everything I dished out and then left when I told him to leave.

That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about, which is infuriating because it shouldn’t matter. A man who respects your boundaries after lying to you for weeks shouldn’t get a prize. That’s the bare fucking minimum.

But the bare minimum is more than anyone else has given me. Which is so depressing I could scream.

I kick off the covers, get dressed, and grab my jacket.

Because if nothing else, I have a solid track record for making really fucking stupid decisions.

I walk down the quiet sidewalk, the streetlights flickering overhead.

Wolfe’s light is on in his apartment. Of course it is. The man doesn’t sleep. I’m starting to think sleep is just another thing his brain decided was optional, like normal food, and alcohol, and facial expressions.

I shoot off a text from the burner once I’m at the top of the stoop.

You up?

Three gray dots appear almost instantly.

Yeah.

I type again.

I’m downstairs.

The door buzzes ten seconds later. I take the stairs two at a time because fuck the threat of elevators. Stairs are so much safer.

He opens the apartment door in a Metallica shirt and sweatpants. No glasses. His hair is sticking up on one side and his blue eyes look tired in a way I haven’t seen before. Not the analytical tired, the kind where he’s been staring at his computer monitor for too long. This is the bone-deep kind that comes from carrying things your mind won’t allow you to put down.

I know that brand of tired. I wear it every freaking day.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He steps back to let me in.

I take a deep breath once I’m inside. I don’t know why, but the clean scent of fabric softener and dryer sheets makes me feel happy. Comforted. Warm. There’s an empty bowl and spoon next to his monitor, which I don’t allow my eyes to linger on because I’m not here to work. I walk toward the living room area, noting that the Cheerios box is on the counter, lined up with the edge.

I sink onto his couch for the first time. In the past, I’ve always taken the desk chair. The couch feels different. More personal. Like choosing it means something I’m not ready to name.

He sits at the other end, leaving about two feet between us.

Smart man.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Yeah, but you never sleep,” I say.

“I sleep.” He brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs it hard. “Just not well.”