The Intruder
Her lips were fucking soft.
Too soft.
The kind of soft that made me forget where I was, who I was, and what the hell I was doing here in the first place.
My hand slid higher up her waist almost on instinct, pulling her flush against me, her perfume wrapping around my head like smoke. She fit against me too perfectly, like her body had been waiting for mine, like the universe had played some sick joke by throwing us together in this circus of lies.
I deepened the kiss before I could stop myself.
Her breath trembled, lips parting against mine, and the sound she made—God, that soft little moan—shot straight through me like lightning. I’d kissed women before, hell, I’d done a lot more than that, but none of it ever felt like this. None of it ever stole the ground out from under me.
For a dangerous, fleeting second, I forgot this was supposed to be an act.
Forgot we were being watched.
Forgot that she wasn’t mine to want.
Heat surged through me, my lips pressing harder, claiming, until her hand curled against my chest, and I felt her heart racing as wildly as mine.
And that’s when reality slammed back in.
I pulled away, slow, reluctant, breathing hard, my thumb brushing against her hip before I forced my hand to drop. My voice came out rougher than I intended, the words scraping out between breaths.
“I’m sure,” I muttered, “we’ve given them a show.”
Her lips curved into a smile—smug, radiant, dangerous.
“You’re quite a good kisser,” she whispered, her hand sliding around the back of my neck like she didn’t want to let go.
I let out a low chuckle, trying to shake off the storm still clawing inside me. “Don’t let it go to your head.” I caught her hand gently, slipping it down from my neck and threading my fingers through hers instead. “Lead the way.”
She didn’t argue. Her heels clicked against the marble as she guided me deeper into the estate, away from the glowing chandelier and prying eyes. The further we walked, the quieter it became, the laughter from the hall fading into a dull hum.
The house was massive, corridors stretching like arteries into the heart of something cold and hollow. Every painting, every gilded frame screamed wealth, but to me, it all felt… staged. Like this wasn’t a home, just a museum built to showcase power.
She walked with purpose, but then—abruptly—she stopped.
I almost bumped into her again.
Her gaze was fixed on an empty section of wall. No portraits. No frames. Just pale paint where something had clearly once hung.
I frowned. “What is it?”
Her shoulders stiffened. She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “My mom’s picture used to be here.”
Something in her voice cracked, so soft I almost missed it. “They took it down.”
I studied her profile, the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw clenched like she was holding back more than she wanted me to see.
Before I could say anything, she shook herself out of it and turned to me, her smile brighter, sharper, almost blinding. “Come on. There’s more to see.”
We walked again, but my mind stayed on that blank wall. Her mother erased from the family gallery like she never existed. Convenient. Suspicious.
My eyes tracked everything as we moved—the cameras mounted discreetly in the corners, the locked doors, the faint scuff marks on the floor where furniture had been moved. Every detail mattered. Every detail could mean something.
And while Liliana was distracted pointing out rooms and hallways, I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket.
One by one, with practiced movements, I planted the micro-cameras. High corners, discreet fixtures, hidden ledges. She didn’t notice. She couldn’t notice.
I needed eyes in this house.
Because the more I saw, the more certain I became that her mother’s death wasn’t an accident.
We reached a long corridor lined with bookshelves, the air cooler here. She paused, finally turning to me. “You’re quiet,” she said softly.
“Just observing,” I replied.
Her eyes searched mine, like she was trying to read the thoughts I kept locked away. Something about her made it harder to keep my walls up, but I forced myself to stay steady.
“I’ll need something,” I said after a beat.
Her brows lifted. “What?”
“Camera records. Security feeds from the last three months before your mother’s death.” My voice was low, deliberate. “Can you get them?”
Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn’t hesitate long. “Yes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes?”
“I’ll send them to your computer first thing in the morning.” Her tone carried a strange kind of finality, like she’d already made up her mind before I asked.
That made me pause. Was she holding something back?
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. The air grew thick, weighted, charged with something I couldn’t name. Her green eyes burned into mine, and I swore she was daring me to see past her practiced smiles.
I took a step closer without realizing it, my hand brushing against hers. Something pulled between us—too strong, too dangerous.
But before I could say anything, the silence shattered.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the corridor.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The sound bounced off the marble, sharp and mocking, and my entire body went cold.
“Well, well, well,” a voice drawled, rich with amusement and venom all at once. “I should have known.”
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