Mr. Bolinger is standing in the doorway of my restoration room, concern creasing his weathered face.
"I hope you don't give your wife that kind of sweet talk."
I expect him to laugh. Instead, he frowns. "When's the last time you ate?"
I try to remember. Breakfast made me nauseous. I skipped lunch because the smell of the deli downstairs made me gag, and I was so exhausted that I couldn't cook dinner."
"This morning," I lie.
"Seraphina." His eyes narrow. When I first started here, I barely ate. I was too busy crawling out of debt, trying to keep my head above water while Gabe drained me dry, and the easiest place to skimp was food. Mr. Bolinger filled my fridge then, looking at me with the same concern and pity I see now.
"I'm fine, really. Just been having trouble sleeping." That part is true. When I do sleep, I dream. And the dreams are always the same. Silver eyes. Strong hands. The feeling of being completely, thoroughly claimed.
I shake my head, banishing the memory. That night was a mistake. A beautiful, terrible mistake that I've locked away in a box labeled "never think about this again."
"Go upstairs," Mr. Bolinger says gently. "Rest. The Dickens can wait."
"I'm almost done with?—"
"Home, Seraphina. That's an order."
I want to argue. I need to work. Need the distraction from the shit show that is my life. Not only has my brother brought a bunch of shit to my doorstep, but I still haven't heard from the library.
But Mr. Bolinger is using his stern voice, the one that means he won't budge.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll go."
I clean my workspace with movements that feel mechanical. Even though I live above the store, I don't go home immediately.
I need to run some errands and get a breath of fresh air before I go home and rest. I'm too keyed up.
Outside, October has turned cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you want to curl up under blankets and never emerge.
I pull my cardigan tighter and start to walk to the bodega two blocks away.
Normally I take the main streets, but I'm exhausted and the alley is a shortcut. I've used it a hundred times.
I'm halfway through when I realize my mistake.
The sound of footsteps behind me. Too close. Too deliberate.
I speed up. So do the footsteps.
My heart starts racing. I reach for my phone.
Then someone grabs me from behind.
An arm wraps around my throat, stopping a scream before it could make its way out.
I slam my head back as hard as I can. I grew up in this city, and I wasn't going down without a fight. I feel the crunch of his nose against my skull, and his grip loosens just enough for me to drive my elbow into his ribs.
He grunts but doesn't let go.
We're grappling now. My cardigan tears. I scratch at his face, aiming for his eyes. My nails find skin and I drag them down. He yells and screams bitch, but he still doesn't stop me.
He's bigger and stronger, and even when I manage to get a blow in, it barely does more than wind him.
He recovers quickly, and his fist connects with my face so hard that I see stars and taste copper as blood explodes on my tongue.
