Gio’s gone.

I wake up to a house that’s too quiet—not a footstep on the floorboards, not a breath in the air, and I come alive slowly. It’d be delicious if he’d taken me home from the bar. I stretch under the covers, waiting.

Nothing.

He doesn’t appear in the doorway, and after several minutes, I have to pee.

Gio’s bathroom is as meticulous as his garage. No stubble in the sink, clean towels on the rack. There’s no sign of the one I used last night. He must’ve taken care of it while I slept. I wash my hands and dry it on a hand towel folded over a silver towel rack.

Then I wander.

It’s true, he’s not here. I put a hand on the doorknob of his bedroom and crack the door. The bed is made, the comforter pin-straight. I want to snoop. I want to snoop so fucking badly, but the memory of the gun in his glovebox makes me think twice. He’s given me another night to live. I don’t want to screw that up by having my hands in his underwear drawer when he gets home.

Upstairs, there are three rooms—the master suite, the guest room, and another full bathroom. I’ve seen all of it already, so I go downstairs.

In the entryway, I try the front door.

No surprises—it’s locked from the outside. No matter how I latch and unlatch the inner lock, it doesn’t budge.

Should I scream?

It’s a townhouse. If there are other people on either side, one of them would surely hear me.

Or Gio could hear me on his way back in and silence me the best way he knows how.

So, I don’t scream.

I’ll say this much: Europe seems like a fucking fantastic idea right now. I was so stupid, throwing a fit like that, planning my revenge on my uncle. I should have been paying closer attention to my surroundings, like my mother warned me to do.

The central air kicks in, humming in the quiet of the house, the air stirring dust specks in the sun from the windows, and I do another lap. There’s the living room, neat, a pile of business-ish magazines on the side table. A dining room that’s been converted into an office. Gio keeps everything in desk organizers. There are no papers scattered around the desk, which makes me crack a smile. That’s still the same. In school, he never spread his papers out over his desk like an asshole. Even in the privacy of his own home, he doesn’t do it.

I wonder if his murders are this neat and clean. The thought disgusts me. I don’t like picturing him as a killer, but what else could he be? What else could he possibly be, if I’m here, wearing his clothes, trapped in his house?

Tucked behind the kitchen is a small laundry room. My dress from last night hangs on a hanger sticking out from the dryer next to my bra, already dried through, and my panties are folded neatly on the folding table.

What the fuck?

He did my laundry, but he’s going to kill me?

It’s beyond understanding.

I take off Gio’s clothes and put my panties and bra on, which makes me feel slightly more human, but there’s nothing else to wear so I end up back in the sweatpants.

The garage door opens.

I hear the creak and groan and jump into the air, scurrying out of the laundry room, heart in my throat. What’s my plan? What’s my plan? I run into the kitchen. Jesus, all this time, and I haven’t looked for a weapon? I’m so stupid. There are no knives out on the counter. I try one drawer and it’s full of cutlery, dull butter knives.

The second drawer is locked.

Locked.

A violent shiver moves through me. How many women has he brought here? How many women have gone rifling through his drawers? Why the hell would he need a lock?

I get two more drawers open fast, one after the other. One has dish towels. The other has pieces to kitchen appliances. The beaters for a mixer gleam at the top. I slam it shut a heartbeat before I hear the snick of a deadbolt and a key in the door.

He opens the door and looks straight at me.

This is it.

Gio and I face off across the kitchen, and my heart beats painfully hard. Be brave, I tell myself. Be brave. But my hands shake at the hard look on his face. Oh, God, he’s made up his mind. He’s going to kill me.

I have one option left.

Gio steps into the kitchen and closes the door behind him.

I fall to my knees, hands clasped in front of me, almost a prayer. “Please,” I say, my voice ragged. “Please don’t kill me, Gio. I didn’t think any of it was true, I swear.” I stumble over the word swear and pray silently and fervently that he won’t take it as a lie. “I didn’t know any of it was true.”

The hard look on his face softens. He drops his keys onto the counter and steps closer, into the light streaming in from the kitchen window. It catches the line of his face, and even begging for my life, I’m struck by how fucking gorgeous he is.

He parts his lips and speaks. “I like you on your knees.”

Relief, hot and pure, cracks at the top of my head and streams down every inch of me. “I’ll stay on them forever if you let me live.”

God help me, God help me, there is heat in his eyes, and it matches the heat between my legs. God help me.

His eyes are a dark inferno and beneath my bra, my nipples rise against the lacy fabric.

Gio steps closer. “I don’t have a choice about that.”