I roll my eyes, irritation flashing across my face. “Obviously.”
He leans in, close enough for the warmth of him to skim my shoulder, and points to a polka-dot sleeveless blouse paired with black trousers.
“I’m sure you’d look good in anything here,” he begins, words steadying with growing confidence, “but these might work best today.”
The corners of my lips shoot up, and I appreciate that he doesn’t dare touch the fabric himself. I slide the hangers off the rod and study the pieces briefly before carrying them to the bed, laying them out so the light can fall over them properly.
“Not bad for a starter,” I muse, letting mockery drip through my tone. It’s enough to earn a low chuckle from him.
“And blackloafers,” he adds, “to match the pattern.”
I turn to him slowly, eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise. “You know what they’re called? Color me impressed.”
He nods, amusement rippling across his face, brief and fleeting. Then, without warning, a sour image flashes behind my eyes—another woman beside him, picking clothes, his hands brushing fabric that isn’t mine. Heat erupts in my chest, sharp and sudden, nearly knocking the air from me.
I stumble a little, a frown pulling tight across my face as I try to understand where the fuck that emotion even crawled out from.
It’s just… theideaof him standing close to someone else, watching her dress, touching her...
It sends something vicious through me—a flash of anger so irrational, so primal, it almost frightens me because of how out-of-place it feels.
I cross the room in quick, decisive steps, slip back into the closet, and pluck the black loafers from their shelf. Carrying them out, I place them beside the rest of the outfit, completing the look with practiced precision.
“I’ve never been to a flea market,” Dante says behind me. He must sense the fumes rolling off me, thick enough to poison the air between us.
I turn as my brows lift, suspicion sharpening my gaze as I skim him for a lie. But he only shrugs, offering a soft, almost boyish smirk.
“Just never had the chance,” he admits. “Or the desire.”
“You can go somewhere else if you don’t want to go,” I snap, my voice still burning from the jealousy I refuse to fully acknowledge.
He presses his lips together. “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, as cocky as ever. “And Iwantto go with you.”
Of course he does.
I flick my hand toward the door, dismissive. “Wait for me in the corridor then. I need to get dressed.”
He taps two fingers against his arm before pushing off and walking out. My eyes follow him until his silhouette is swallowed by the hallway, and only then do I let out a slow, simmering breath.
I just need to stay calm. A little shopping, a little distraction—anything to keep me from snapping and doing something regrettable to him or anyone else.
The city feels awake, as always—its streets stretching, yawning, bathed in gold and honey. The air carries the faint scent of roasted coffee and the tang of sea salt drifting from the coast, and each time I inhale, it sinks deeper, stronger.
I’ve lived here for nearly forever, yet every time I step outside, it’s like experiencing it for the first time.
The edges of my polka-dot blouse flutter in the breeze, and the loose waves of my hair sweep across my shoulders, half-covering the scars beneath. I’ve learned not to notice them anymore—the faint, wispy lines that cross my skin like a pale, unfinished tattoo.
Vendors call out prices in sing-song rhythms as we dodge tourists snapping photos, weaving past stalls stacked with vintage fashion magazines and forgotten records.
As it turns out, Dante isn’t interested in Barcelona. He doesn’t seem interested inanything—except me. His eyes have been drilling into me every step of the fucking way.
He should sense my irritation, notice the twitch of my lips, the sharp glances I throw his way—but he doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t back down.
I bite down on the strawberry heart-shaped lollipop he bought me, spinning the stick between my fingers. The candy clacks against my teeth, and once again today, I get lost in my thoughts.
I’ve met a lot of men in my life. Fucked plenty, killed plenty. But I’ve never met anyone so annoyingly persistent.
He doesn’t even have to open his mouth to make me want to slit his throat—if anything, it’s worse when he stays quiet. He’s an observer, always lurking, always watching. And when he finally does speak, it sends a strange pull straight to my core.
