I should have backed down. He had power. Connections. The kind of influence that could make a midlist author disappear. One phone call to the right people and my career was over.
But Emma’s face, lit up with joy over two free books, was burned into my brain.
And I was just so goddamn tired.
“Go fuck yourself, Damien.” The words came out calm, almost pleasant. “You want to know what I regret? The nine dollars I spent buying a magnifying glass back when I was still trying to find your dick with it. Biggest waste of money of my life.”
He slapped me.
Not hard, more shock than pain, but the sound echoed through the storage room. We stood there, frozen, his hand still raised, my cheek stinging.
This wasn’t the first time he’d put his hands on me. Probably wouldn’t be the last.
But the signing, the sweet girl, the first time I’d felt good about my writing in months... all of it crashed together in my chest. I stared at him. He was already composing his face, probably preparing his apology, his “you made me do this” speech.
I didn’t give him the chance. I felt the last thread inside me snap.
Holding eye contact, I raised my hand to my cheek and rubbed. Hard, then harder, until the skin burned, until it was flaming red and looked way worse than his pathetic slap could have managed.
His eyes went wide. “What are you... stop that. Riley...”
I didn’t stop, not until I was satisfied.
“Wait.” He stepped toward the door, blocking it. “Don’t you dare...”
I shoved past him, yanked the door open, and walked out back to my signing table. Back to the public. Head high, cheek blazing, making sure everyone got a good look at me.
“Sorry about that,” I said, settling into my chair with a serene smile that probably didn’t reach my eyes. “Where were we?”
The audience stared at my cheek and then at Damien, who was slowly walking out from the storage room, his face pale. The whispers started immediately, spreading through the crowd.
Good. Let them talk.
I won the battle. But my hands were trembling under the table where no one could see them.
***
The line had dwindled to almost nothing by the time I stopped shaking. A few more signatures, a few more polite conversations, a few more stolen glances at my red cheek and Damien’s pale face.
Sloane caught my eye from across the room before she walked out of the door, making a throat-slitting gesture toward Damien, her eyebrows raised in question.
I shook my head slightly.Not yet.Soon, hopefully. But not yet.
My hand was cramping and my face hurt from smiling, but I was running on spite and adrenaline now. I could crash later. Cry in the shower, stress eat an entire sleeve of Oreos, maybe write a villain based on Damien and kill him off in chapter three.
The line finally emptied and I slumped in my chair. Almost done. Almost free.
That’s when the bookstore door chimed and a blonde woman walked in.
She was around my age, maybe younger. Pretty in a chaotic way, the kind of person who could definitely start a bar fightand look adorable doing it. Her outfit was interesting. Not bad, just slightly… Off. The kind of clothes you’d pick when you’re playing dress-up with your mother’s wardrobe. My godmother’s wardrobe, in my case.
She scanned the room with bright, curious eyes, spotted my signing table, and made a beeline toward me.
“Hi!” Her smile was blinding. “You’re the author, right? The wolf book lady?”
“That’s me.” I gestured at the banner behind me. “Riley Hawkins. Wolf book lady extraordinaire.”
“I’m Thessa.” She plopped into the chair across from me with absolutely no hesitation and made herself at home. “I just found out about this event three minutes ago. I was walking by and saw the poster. You write about werewolves?”
