Without thinking, I snatch the knob and slam the door shut in my own face. My breathing is heavy, and I’m still staring at the door when I hear Bobby’s voice right behind me.

“Hey,” he says, making me jump. His voice is soft, but when I spin around to face him, he’s looking all around like he’s trying to figure out what in the hell he just missed. “You okay?”

“I—yeah, I’m fine,” I manage, glancing back at my closed door. What in the world is he doing in my room? And while I was gone, too. My legs suddenly feel stiff, my chest tightening.

After a brief pause, Bobby shakes his head and grabs the knob. Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s pushing the door open and stepping inside. My jaw drops, the blood draining from my face as I wait for him to take in the man stalking my room. Except he doesn’t. Instead, he walks right into the middle of the room, stops a mere two feet away from him, and turns back to face me, an easy smile forming on his face.

“All clear,” he says, oblivious. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt, fanning it as he lets out a low whistle. “Feels like a fuckin’ sauna though. You comin’ in?”

Oh my god. Bobby can’t see him. It’s no wonder he can feel him, though. His presence, his heat, warms the entire room more effectively than my damn fireplace would if it were lit. My feet apparently don’t notice, though, because I’m pretty sure they’ve turned into blocks of ice—I can’t seem to move them. I’m too busy gawking at the strange scene taking place before me.

While Bobby watches me, hands now in his pockets, eyebrows furrowed, and an amused smile tugging at his lips, Death has stopped moving completely. A good four or five inches taller than my ex, not to mention broader, he’s eying Bobby like an annoying little bug that deserves to be squashed. He runs a large hand through his dark hair, lip lifting in a snarl, then shifts his attention to me.

It’s not until then that I get a full look at the expression on his face, and it is not a friendly one. His eyes are furious, narrowed as though he might kill the first living thing that gets close enough, and his lips are set in a grim line.

“Lou?” Bobby asks, reminding me I still haven’t moved from the doorway. He lifts an eyebrow. “I’ve known you since high school, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wig out like this before. What’s goin’ on?”

“Um…” What am I supposed to say? Well, so this one time, I died and met this guy who goes by Death, and he’s kind of standing right next to you. Oh, and he looks like he might kill one of us. Or both. No big deal. Yeah, not gonna work. So instead, I find myself spewing out random words in some form of verbal diarrhea. “Nothing. What? Nothing’s going on. I just—I’m—cramps,” I blurt, finally getting my legs to work and crossing the threshold into the room. Not even a five-year relationship with me could rid Bobby of his strong aversion of period-talk, and I’m taking full advantage of the fact right now. “You know, that time of the month.”

I step closer, pleased to see I’ve managed to throw him off, and Death has returned to pacing. “I mean, we can talk about it more if you’re so concerned—”

“Nope. No. I’m—nope. All good.”

“You sure?” I ask innocently, forcing my posture to appear casual as I walk past both men and head toward my dresser. If either of them were really looking at me, they’d see my hands trembling against the golden knobs.

“Ah, yep.”

I would chuckle at the way he’s suddenly avoiding eye contact if I could relax enough to do so. Instead I shrug, pulling the middle drawer open. “Okay.”

I’m so busy trying to keep discreet watch over the pair of them that I hardly pay attention to the mismatched pajama set I grab. I consider escaping into the bathroom to change, but leaving them alone out here seems like a very, very bad idea. After a moment’s hesitation, I set the items on top of the dresser for later.

Bobby starts strolling around the room, taking his time as he soaks it all in. It hits me he’s never been inside before.

“This place suits you,” he eventually says, running a hand along the brick mantle above the fireplace. He glances at me over his shoulder, his expression softening. “So, why are you havin’ so much trouble settling in?”

I frown. “I’m not. Why would you think that?”

“No pictures, none of those little trinkets Grams passed down to you, nothin’ . . . you.” He pauses, then takes a few steps toward me until our faces are no more than a foot apart. He leans down, lifts his hand to the loose hair hanging in my eyes, and gently twists it in his fingers. “I know you, Lou. And it looks to me like, for whatever reason, you aren’t comfortable enough here to settle down yet. Something’s holdin’ you back.”

I can understand why he’s coming to that conclusion. He’s referring to my stuff, the items he used to see almost every day for five years. Pieces of me, of my family. My life. He doesn’t know my bland room wasn’t a matter of choice, that Tuttle Creek Lake stole it all away.

I glance past Bobby, over his shoulder. Death has stopped pacing again. He's watching our exchange, and I can feel the fire burning behind his dark gaze. It's licking at my skin, my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. He rakes his hands through his hair, before striding the short distance across the room and pressing his palms on the wall as if he's prepared to push the thing down to get out of here.

Why is he here? If he’s so desperate to get out of my room, why doesn’t he just do that fading act and disappear already?

Bobby pulls my attention back to him by giving my hair a tug, his blue eyes looking down at me with something new—hunger. Hope. Longing.

I need to say something. I make sure to look him right in the eye when I do. “Nothing’s holding me back, Bobby. I know I made the right choice, coming here.”

He swallows, looks away, and I know it isn’t the answer he was looking for. I hate that I’m the cause of the broken expression on his face. But I’m not going to lie to him. If I still care for him at all, and I do, the best thing I can give him is my honesty.

After a moment, he releases my hair, dropping his hand. He takes a small, stiff, step back. “Okay,” he finally mutters, giving a slight nod of his head. “Then you made the right choice.”

I’m so surprised by the sincerity in his response, I’m sure it’s written all over my face. He turns away before I can respond, continuing his slow, observant stroll around the room. When he reaches the restroom, he steps inside, grabbing the door handle and looking back at me briefly. “Be right out.”

The bathroom door closes, effectively blocking him from the man whose eyes are burning into me like a laser and making me almost sigh in relief at Bobby’s temporary departure. Not quite though; it’s impossible to feel too much relief when boiling hot anger still licks at my skin. Still, I only have a few minutes, if that, before Bobby comes back out here. I need to find out what the hell is going on, and I need to do it now.

My heart beats sporadically in my chest, thumping like a hollow drum that can’t settle on a rhythm. Slowly, I bring my gaze to him. He’s still leaning against the wall, but his head is angled toward me, eyes locked on mine, making me shudder at the grip he always has over me. It’s solid, tangible, as if his hands have a firm hold in place at the nape of my neck, ensuring I can’t turn away even if I try.

I’ve seen frustration in him before. I’ve seen impatience. Conflict. Heat. But this, the fire bubbling inside him in a way that makes the muscles of his arms and shoulders contract as he digs his fingers into the wall, this is something entirely different.

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

He says nothing. Just watches me, drinking me in with his eyes like he’s breathing in a long, deep drag.

“You need to leave,” I try. The reality is if he’s not gone by the time Bobby comes back, I have no idea how I’m supposed to act natural and ignore the fact that Death is in my bedroom with us. I don’t have much time to figure out what he wants and somehow get him out of here.

Finally, he pushes off the wall with his hands, taking a step toward me that’s filled with intention. This time, I do stumble back, straight into my dresser. A sharp corner of the cherry wood digs into my back, and I wince. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing close enough that the front of my shirt rubs lightly against his, creating an electric friction that bounces between our bodies and makes my breath hitch.

Oh, God. It hits me then that, somehow, I’ve gotten too comfortable with him. Assuming I can make demands and get away with it. It’s true that he’s only ever been gentle with me before, but I can tell from the everlasting coldness in his dark eyes that gentle is not likely a word that comes naturally to him. I have no idea what he’s about to do. What he can do. The true extent of what he’s capable of.

“Please,” I hear myself whisper, my voice shaky, my eyes on the only thing in my line of sight—his T-shirt covered chest. I don’t know what I’m asking for, pleading for. For him to leave? Not to hurt me?

When I feel him press closer, his thighs rubbing against mine in the movement and his head leaning down until surprisingly soft lips brush my ear, every muscle in my body freezes. I’m a statue. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I can do is wait. Wait to see what he will do.

When he finally speaks, it’s quieter than a whisper. A gentle caress of silk, his breath warm on my neck. “Do you think I want to be here?” There’s a vibration from the low hum of his voice, and it sends a shiver through me. “That I sought you out?”

The questions catch me off guard. He’s not here by choice?

“Believe me,” he breathes—half whisper, half growl, “if I could leave right now, I would.” I swallow, a lump forming in my dry, tight throat. There’s a strange hint of torment lacing his voice. A quiet desperation. I want to look up at him, see his eyes when he speaks, but he’s still got me caged against the dresser, his lips so close to my ear.

Without warning, the bathroom door swings open and Bobby steps out, looking like he just splashed water over his face and hair. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and jaw and gazes at me innocently. Oh, Bobby. He’s entirely unaware that there’s a 6’4” man trapping me where I stand, no more than four feet away from him.

As Death’s body stiffens, hard muscle contracting against my chest, hips, and thighs, I try my best to relax my own body—no easy feat. But I know how strange it’ll appear if I don’t, standing against the dresser as though I’m . . . well, trapped here. I let out a low, uneven breath and try to pull off an easy smile when I glance at Bobby. He grins back, still clueless, and wanders past me, toward the loveseat at the foot of the bed.

I take the opportunity of his back being turned to hiss at Death and shove my hands against his chest.

I still don’t know what he might do to me, and the fear over that hasn’t completely diminished, but he has to know as well as I do how suspicious things will look to Bobby if he keeps me here like this. Does someone like Death care about arousing suspicion? I don’t know. I guess I’m about to find out.

He takes the hint and backs off, but only enough to allow me some wiggle room. He lifts his arms until they’re placed on either side of my own, gripping the dresser with his hands and thereby keeping me blocked in. Finally, I’m able to shift my position and lift my chin so I meet his gaze. But he’s not looking at me. In fact, with the way his head’s now angled toward the wall as he grinds his jaw, I’d even go so far as to say he’s trying very hard to avoid looking at me.

“So,” Bobby says, his voice so relaxed and carefree I could almost laugh. I turn my head to the right so I can see him, peering above the strong arm that locks me in place. “You got any plans tonight?”

“Um . . .” I don’t know why, but I find myself glancing up at those cloudy, dark eyes before me, searching for an answer in them. Do I have plans? Will he be here all night, or will he be able to leave soon? Do I actually want him to leave just yet? I can never seem to place the conflicting sensations his presence sends rippling through me.

“Well?” Bobby’s voice draws my gaze back to him.

“Sorry, yeah. I mean, no, but I’m exhausted from cleaning all day. I really wanna just stay in, relax.”

“Hmm.” Bobby looks thoughtful, glancing away for a second and brushing his thumb over his chin. “Yeah, wasn’t sure if you’d be workin’ today. Sorry about that, stopping by without notice.”

I smile half-heartedly, finding it impossible to focus on anything other than the large, unforgiving biceps caging me in, the steady rise and fall of the chest directly in front of my face. “No worries,” I manage to mutter.

“You know, if you got a new phone I could just text you beforehand.”

“Uh-huh.” My voice is fainter than usual, and it sounds strange even to my own ears. “Think I—think I need—”

The arms caging me in suddenly drop as the man before me takes a step back. He lets out a ragged breath and rubs a hand behind his neck, then finally—reluctantly?—meets my gaze. “This would be better for everyone if the guy left. Right now,” he says softly. There’s no growl this time. No simmering anger. It comes out almost like a gentle suggestion.

“I really need to rest right now,” I begin vaguely, my eyes still locked on clouds of black and grey, my palms pressing against the dresser behind me. “Those cramps . . .”

I hear Bobby let out a sigh, and the creak of the loveseat as he stands. “And that’s my cue,” he says, amusement in his tone. When he strolls toward me, I stiffen, unsure what to do. He walks right next to me, almost touching Death’s arm in the process. “Better let you go for the night. Can I see you tomorrow?”

I nod without thinking, just needing him to leave. He reaches a hand up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Once again, I can’t breathe, watching him barely miss making contact with the other man before me. A man who suddenly looks ready to kill again, jaw locked and eyes hard. He doesn’t move though, not in the least, as though daring Bobby to come closer.

I inhale a sharp breath and angle my head to see Bobby fully, hoping I sound sure and calm when I say, “Tomorrow. We’ll have lunch.” I even attempt a smile.

Bobby nods and lowers his hand. “Great. Lunch it is.” He turns and walks toward the door. When his fingers squeeze the handle, he looks back with a parting smile.

Then he’s gone.

And suddenly, it’s just me . . . and Death.