She was perched on the edge of the bed, wearing that tragically oversized shirt she’d slept in—bare legs, bare feet, hair piled up like a crown spun from chaos and war. Scratches on her legs and arms.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t even say good morning.
Good girl.
We’re learning.
I strolled in like I owned the place.
(Which I did.)
Hands in my pockets. Smile just this side of a threat.
“You need to get dressed.”
She lifted a brow—slow, deliberate, full of that sparkling, venom-laced defiance I kept tucked under my skin like a favorite knife.
“For what?”
Dry. Disinterested. Already annoyed.
Perfect.
“We’re going shopping.”
Her other brow joined the first, climbing like it was trying to escape her face. “For what?” she repeated, voice dipped in mockery now.
There it was—that bite.
That dare me edge.
I leaned in just a touch, lips twitching into a slow, razor-curved grin.
“A wedding dress.”
She blinked. Just once.
No explosion. No scream.
Oh, sugarplum.
You’re learning how to bleed without making noise.
I straightened up, still grinning.
“Chop-chop, sunshine. You’ve got lace to loathe and virginal white to desecrate.”
And me?
I had a front-row seat.
The color drained from her face like spilled milk across marble?—
Slow.
