She should have screamed. Should have clawed at the door handle, thrown herself into the night. But the heat hadn’t left her. It was still there, coiled low in her belly, confused and furious and desperate.
His name was Silas. He had knuckles tattooed with faded anchors, a smile that looked like a dare, and the kind of quiet that made women lean in just to hear him breathe. Ellie had been leaning for three weeks.
Afterward, she traced the anchor on his knuckle. “You feel like a ghost.”
