“I don’t have anything to say.”
I run the last few steps, catching up and walking beside her. “You’re hurt,” I state.
“Physical bruises heal,” she says, adding, “It’s the emotional ones that take longer.”
“He did this . . . Colin?”
“Does it matter?” she snaps impatiently. “Why are you here, Shadow?”
I take her arm, and she flinches, making me release her instantly and pull back. We slow to a stop, and she gives an apologetic smile, like she’s in the wrong. I hate that. I carefully take her arm again, this time placing her hand in mine and gently pushing her sleeve up. She watches, the silence stretching as more bruises appear. “I’m gonna kill him,” I mutter, rage burning through me. “I’m gonna rip his fingers off one by one.”
“No,” she says firmly, pulling her arm from me and pushing her sleeve back down. “It’s not what I want. Please stop following me or I’ll call the police.”
“Good, get them here, so you can explain your bruises to them.”
She eyes me with contempt. “I won’t say a word, and what do you think they’ll assume? You here . . . following me when I’ve asked you to stop.”
A punch to the sternum would hurt less. I give a stiff nod. “Okay. Have it your way.” I step back.
For a second, I think she’s going to break, to beg me not to walk away. But she’s too stubborn. She squares her shoulders, spins on her heel, and marches off.
Chapter Twenty - Three
Remi
The journey back feels long. It’s two buses across town and a tube ride, and I hardly touched my soup, so I feel weaker than ever. My legs shake, my stomach aches, and my mind won’t stop replaying his face.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe past the sting behind them. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t chase me. Not after everything. But he did, and some pathetic part of me is still clinging to that like it’s hope.
By the time I reach the street I grew up on, my chest is tight, and my fingers are numb from gripping the bag too hard.
I swallow hard and push the door open. The smell hits like it always does. I don’t know if I will ever get used to it.
Colin’s friends are still here, just like every day. Draped across the couch, the floor, the armchairs. Ashtrays overflowing. Bottles everywhere. And Colin sits in his armchair like the king of rot, with his beer in one hand and a cig in the other.
His eyes flick up. “Where the fuck you been?” His voice is lazy, but his stare is sharp.
I hold the bag tighter. “Getting food. I told you.”
One of his mates snorts. “For what? Ya cooking’ now, princess?” Laughter echoes around the room, and heat crawls up my neck. It’s the one thing they haven’t forced me to do. They prefer to order takeout, eating whilst I watch, hungry.
Colin stretches out his hand. “Give.” I hesitate a second too long. His expression doesn’t change, but everything inside me freezes. I step forward and place the bag in his lap. He opens it, looks inside, and lets out a slow, disbelieving laugh. “Soup and noodles.”
More laughter, then he tips the bag upside down. The tin rolls across the floor. Noodles scatter everywhere, the packets splitting under the weight of the fall.
He stands, slow and deliberate, then his boot comes down on the noodles hard, crushing them into crumbs and dust. The sound is loud in the quiet. Then he picks up the soup tin and throws it across the room. It hits the wall, the metal clanging, before rolling in a lazy circle on the floor.
My vision blurs for a second as panic crawls into my chest.
“Make yourself useful,” Colin says, his voice calm, almost bored. “Clean up the shit you brought into my house.”
I don’t move, scared that if I turn away, he’ll hit me from behind. It’s his speciality.
Colin steps closer. His breath hits my cheek, and I wince. “You deaf?” he murmurs.
I shake my head and lower to my knees, gathering broken noodles into my hands. They dig into my skin, sharp, tiny, and impossible to grip. Tears drip before I can stop them, falling into the crumbs. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood.
One of the men whistles. “Look at her. Just like her mum.”
