Page 45 of Malice

I lock the door behind them.

The house settles into silence. I stand in the entryway, listening. Familiar creaks and sighs, the low hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the heat. Sounds I’ve cataloged so many times they’ve become invisible.

Tonight, they feel different. Like the house is waiting for a verdict.

I check my phone. Seven fifty-three.

Headlights sweep across the front windows at eight oh two.

I hear the engine cut, a car door, her footsteps on the walkway, and two knocks.

I open the door.

She’s on my porch, a paper bag in one hand, keys in the other, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read, something careful she’s been turning over all day. She’s changed into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that warms her eyes. A hint of color on her cheeks from the cold.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say back, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.

She holds up the paper bag. “I brought wine. Figured whatever we’re about to talk about, we might need it.”

“Smart woman.”

“I know.” She glides past me into the entryway, her scent trailing behind like a damn spell, sweet shampoo mixed with something raw and real beneath the cold clinging to her sweater. That scent always fucks me up, digging deep where I pretend there’s nothing.

I grab her coat, fingers grazing her shoulders. She freezes for a beat, long enough to matter, before finally meeting my eyes.

“You’re nervous,” she says, her tone pure observation.

“Nah, I’m not nervous.”

“Carter, I’ve seen you stare down guys twice your size without flinching. But right now, you’ve got that muscle jumping in your jaw.” She taps my chin like she’s branding me. “That thing it does when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Liar.” Her voice goes soft, almost endearing. It’s like a fucking punch.

Fuck this. No more avoiding it. I grab her hand, her fingers small, cool. Leading her up the stairs, I feel the pull, the trust she gives me, even after all the mess. Trixie would walk right into hell if she thought I’d keep her safe.

We stop outside the door at the end of the hall, the room that’s been empty since day one. The one I’ve been sweating over, tearing apart, and putting back together just for this moment.

“Close your eyes,” I command.

“Carter.”

“Just fucking humor me, all right?”

She sighs, but those long lashes sweep down over her cheeks, flushed with color. I push open the door, nudge her in, my heart thrumming like I’m waiting for a knockout blow.

“Okay. Look.”

Her eyes open, taking in the room. Soft blue-gray walls, a shade that feels like calm itself. A deep, comfortable reading chair sits in the corner, angled toward the morning light. An empty bookshelf, built from dark, solid wood, stands like an open invitation. A life waiting to be filled.

Her hand covers her mouth, and she just stands there, the silence stretching out. Shit, I fucked this up.

“It’s blue,” she whispers, her voice barely there. She turns to me, her eyes shining. “How did you know?”

“I know how you take your coffee. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. Three years, and none of it went anywhere.” My voice is a rough rasp, but I don’t give a damn. “Move in with me, Trix. Stop dragging yourself back to that shitty apartment where you don’t sleep. I hear it, every goddamn night in your voice. Be here. With me. Let me⁠—”