My breath stops.
Then breaks.
Another piece of fabric slips from beneath it.
I hadn’t seen it before.
Something small.
Flat.
Wrapped in a torn strip of black ribbon.
My fingers shake as I unwrap it.
It’s a photograph.
A glossy, perfectly lit photograph.
Of me.
Last night.
Blindfolded.
Head tipped back.
Mouth parted.
Lips swollen.
Hands braced against the bed as someone — someone I couldn’t see — touched me like he already owned me.
My knees slide on the wet tile.
My heart free-falls.
My breath comes in sharp, broken bursts.
And scrawled across the bottom of the photograph —in dark ink, thick strokes, the handwriting unmistakable —is a message so intimate, so threatening, so possessive it steals every bit of air from my lungs:
IF YOU MARRY HIM, I’LL FUCKING KILL HIM.
— K
Not Noah.
Not fiancé.
Not boyfriend.
Him.
He didn’t even bother writing a name.
Because in his mind there is only one other man, one other threat, one other obstacle standing between my body and his hands —and he’s already decided how that ends.
My vision blurs at the edges.
