“Let's go downstairs, all of us,” he says. It's not a request. It's an order.
He turns and starts walking down the stairs, pausing halfway to shoot Mark a sharp glare. Then Mark looks at me and extends his arm, signaling for me to follow.
“B-but,” I manage.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, Mark’s whole face hardens, and he grabs my arm with enough force that I can already feel bruises forming. He shoves me toward the stairs with such force that I nearly stumble, barely catching myself against the wall. The air rushes out of me, but I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to cry out.
Mark… he's never hurt me before. He’s always been cold, but he’s never laid a hand on me. But now, as I press my palm against the railing, feeling the sting of where his fingers just were, I realize something—
It doesn’t matter what he hasn’t done before. It matters what he’s doing now.
Because I don't even recognize him anymore.
He forces me to go first, keeping his pace fast enough that I have no choice but to move quickly, my heart pounding in my ears as I descend the stairs. Just moments ago, I was bringing Gran's chair upstairs, feeling like everything was finally starting to fall into place.
How did things end up like this?
The bald man is already at the bottom, waiting. He's made himself comfortable in the living room, squeezed between a white leather sofa and glass table standing on a pale blue frothy carpet. He sits down, legs spread wide, and looks around once more.
This room, unlike most of the house, was chosen by Mark. There are no antiques here, no traces of Gran’s touch—just sleek, modern furniture he's been buying lately.
I had thought he finally wanted to make this place feel like home for him, as much as it's always been for me. But...
It wasn't cheap.
I never even stopped to wonder why he was spending so much money all at once. It never crossed my mind that Mark might be doing something behind my back. Something that clearly hasnothing to do with the lawful accounting he's always been so good at and everything to do with... shadiness.
The bald man gestures toward the couch opposite him. “Sit,” he tells us.
I glance at Mark, still feeling the ghost of his grip on my arm, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t offer any reassurance. He doesn’t even pretend to care that my world is unraveling by the second.
Something inside me cracks.
But still, I sit.
My hands stay inelastic in my lap, fingers contorted together to stop them from trembling. The bald man leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and I catch a faint scent of tobacco and something ferrous, something that evokes blood a little too vividly.
He looks like malice, but smells like death.
His eyes flick to my fingers, and he tilts his chin up.
“What’s going on, sweetheart?” he asks me suddenly. “Did I scare you that much?”
I blink at him, unsure whether I’m meant to answer or stay quiet.
Mark exhales sharply through his nose.
“Skye frightens easily.” Alie. I don't. I don’t—at least, not unless I’m face-to-face with someone who radiates the capacity to kill. “You’ll have to forgive her for this behavior.”
This behavior?Thisbehavior? If my entire body wasn't frozen with fear, I might have laughed. What other behavior should I have in this situation?
I swallow hard as the man reclines into the couch, his leather jacket parting to reveal a holstered gun at his side.
“Lucky for you two, I'm in a very forgiving mood today,” he says. “You see, sweetheart,” he continues “your husband here is very useful to my boss. He’s got a real penchant for numbers.Allegedly. He can make money materialize out of thin air. Or make it vanish, depending on what’s needed. I don't know how he does it. I mean, look at me. Math's not exactly my forte, right?”
Another question I don't know how to answer. So instead of speaking, I just simply stay put and wait for him to continue. He does.
“But there are times—rare times—but still, when people like your husband blunder. A small mistake here, a misplaced digit there, and suddenly, someone's short a few grand. And my boss? He’s not the kind of man who likes to be short on anything.”
