Ray shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he plans to bury you with it.”
And if that day comes—if Igor ever decides I’m a threat instead of a weapon—I won’t be sitting here, waiting for death to find me.
I’ll be ready.
I just hope it doesn’t come to that.
8
Mary
Iwake up to the sound of my upstairs neighbor’s toilet flushing. Twice.
Mrs. Chang must be up early again; she’s been doing that a lot lately. The elderly woman from 4B who feeds the stray cats and nods politely in the hallway. I can hear her shuffling around up there sometimes, slippers against linoleum.
“Ugh.”
I grope blindly for my phone, squinting at the glowing screen. 6:24 AM. Six whole minutes before my alarm gets the chance to assault my eardrums. I reach over and switch it off before it ruins what’s left of my soul.
A quiet sigh slips out of me as I let my arm flop back onto the mattress, phone still in hand. The ceiling fan clicks somewhere above my head. I groan and roll over, face-first into a pillow that smells of drugstore lavender spray. My left foot is sticking out from under the sheet. My right thigh is cold.
I tug the hem of my T-shirt down over my ass without opening my eyes, more out of habit than modesty. It’s already ridden halfway up my hips, same as it’s been all night. My usual sleepwear: an oversized, worn-out shirt that saysProperty of No Oneand a pair of high-waisted underwear I’ve had since college. Not cute, but comfortable. And more importantly, it cuts down on laundry. Which means lower water bills. Which means maybe next month I can afford real mascara instead of crying in the Walgreens aisle.
Right. Focus. I have things to do. Call the utilities company. Pick up Grandma’s meds. Figure out how to stretch thirty-two dollars across three days without resorting to instant noodles or selling plasma. Email Dave. Pretend to care about Dave. Shave my legs if I have the energy. Possibly start building a new personality from scratch.
And then—bam—he’s there.
Not literally. But in that annoying, high-definition way your brain decides to replay the most mortifying scenes of your life, unprompted.
Green Eyes.Like danger had a face and decided it should also have perfect bone structure and abs sculpted by emotional damage.
Some unholy strangled wheeze escapes me, half muffled by pillow, half choked by shame. I turn onto my back and fling one arm over my face, covering my eyes.
“Okay,” I mutter into the void. “Let’s not do the mental spiral thing again.”
But of course, my brain doesn’t listen.
I twist under the sheets like a human croissant, legs curling and uncurling, trying to fold the frustration out of my body. The duvet gets halfway wrapped around one ankle. I keep going. Let the bed swallow me whole.
That’s fine.
Because. Oh God.
Evan dumping me was bad enough. Six years down the drain like old bathwater, no warning, no fight. Then came the wine. Then the apartment mistake.
Him.
I touched the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life. And not like “accidental graze on the arm in a grocery store” kind of touched. No. Igrabbedhim. Full hand. Firm grip. No hesitation. Like I was trying to test the tensile strength of high-end, gym-sculpted stranger dick.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, dragging my hand down my face. “I’m the problem. It’s me. Hi.”
My fingers drift toward my lips like traitors. Because yeah. I kissed him, too. Full-on kissed him like I had nothing to lose.
Which, to be fair… I kind of didn’t.
I slap my cheek lightly. Then again. “Nope. We’re not doing this. Not today, Satan.”
But just as I start to shake off the shame-spiral, my stomach knots.
