Book 17: The Nest

Aris

Posey’s skin gleams in the midmorning light. I’ve been staring at her for the past hour while keeping watch on the back porch swing, giving her the space I can tell she wants. Classical music drifts from the kitchen where the sound of her knife against the cutting board is a rhythmic reminder of her presence, but even over the smell of whatever she’s cooking, something rich and deep with hints of maple, her scent is everywhere.

The last two nights were insane. I can’t come up with a better word for it. Gods, I thought she was dying. I think she thought she was dying. Waking up in the dark hours of early morning with her sweat-soaked body clutched against mine and her scent enveloping me had me thinking thoughts I can’t say out loud, like whatever’s happening to her has me by the balls, and I’d crawl through fire to make her feel better.

I tw