“So is my husband,” I say evenly. “Choose a noun that matters.”
The rest of the meal is a tug-of-war disguised as conversation. He tells me stories about us that never happened, about dances we didn’t share and looks I didn’t give him. He paints a future like a travel brochure. He tries to correct my memory as if it’s a radio he can tune.
Gaslighting.
I don’t throw the plate. I don’t scream. I don’t give him what he came here to take by force if he can’t have it by persuasion: the idea that I can be moved.
He finally gets bored of my calm. Or drunk enough to feel unsafe around it. He stands, drags his chair back a foot, and glares down at me.
“You’re being stubborn,” he says. “It’s not attractive.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, rising. “And it’s permanent.”
He reaches for my elbow. I step away on instinct and he doesn’t like it the way men who prefer a still target don’t like math. “Enough,” he says, and the word is less romance, more policy.
The guard moves—one step, then back when Nico flips two fingers. “Lock her in the room,” he tells the air. “She’ll think better after sleep.”
“Sleep,” I repeat lightly. “In your house.”
“In mine,” he says, pleased. “For now.”
They walk me inside. Not rough. The kind of handling you use for things you plan to display later. The room is coral stone and white curtains, a bed that tries to be kind. The window frames moonlight like a painting.
They close me in, the lock clicking loudly with confidence.
I pace and force myself to breathe. I count—one, two, three—because counting helps.
The window lifts.
I go still so fast my ribs ache. A palm wedges under the sash. Fingers—small, ringed—appear, followed by a face that looks like trouble and salvation and a thousand bad ideas I have loved since ninth grade.
“Miss me?” Pru hisses.
I fling myself across the room and haul her in by the forearms, swallow a laugh that wants to come out like a sob, and we end up in a tangle on the floor like girls at a sleepover who made all the wrong plans and survived them anyway.
“What—how?—?”
“Tiernan literally tossed me,” she whispers, gleeful. “Human fastball special. Ten out of ten. I had about two seconds to consider breaking my neck and then I was inside. You good?”
“No,” I say. “Yes. Where is he?”
“Tiernan?”
“Cayce.”
“Being biblical,” she says. “In the old-fashioned way. He’s definitely about to commit murder that he told your father he wouldn’t do around you.”
My mouth goes dry. “Alive?”
“Furious,” she says. “Focused. He and Tiernan cleared the outer ring. I came for you.”
I drag her up, grip her forearms. “I need him.”
“I know,” she says, softer. “But I need you to breathe. Here.” She digs into her hoodie pocket and produces a small black device with a mean little spark. “Taser. Thumb safety, trigger here. Aim center mass or thigh. It won’t kill him, but it will make him rethink his life choices. Do not drop it or tase yourself. I’m saying that because you’re shaking.”
“I’m not—” I am. Fine. “Okay.”
She squeezes my hand once and then lets go. “We go slow. We go right. Tiernan’s?—”
