Chapter 8

Riley’s POV

He finally believed me—must’ve thought I really would scream murder—because he stomped out of the bathroom, tail—or ego—between his legs. As soon as his retreating silhouette disappeared, I sprang into motion. Even with throbbing, protest-y feet, slipping into leggings and a sports bra was a breeze. Could’ve been quicker, but, hello, stubbed toes.

No way in hell was I squeezing back into shoes, so I slipped on fluffy socks that felt like I was walking on clouds—crushed, pain-spiking clouds, but clouds nonetheless—and hobbled out onto the porch beside my personal security system: Noah the Wolf.

Each step was a fresh sonnet of agony, but I was determined to enjoy my temporary veranda. A hammock swung lazily between two posts, looking so inviting it might as well have had a neon sign: SIT YOUR BUTT HERE. I almost curled up and took a nap, but—hello!—kidnapped. No hammock piñata fiesta until the Stockholm Syndrome wears off.

“I swear, if you gr