“This is what he dressedme in. Little girls need help getting dressed. Didn’t you know?”
My stomach jerks. “Hedressedyou?”
Her shudder tells me more than words ever could.
The mirror over the sink is begging for my fist. I picture spiderwebbing glass, scattering shards, crimson dripping down my knuckles. I want to smash the reflection, destroy the image of her wrapped in ribbons and lace. Instead, I stand there choking on the need to tear the dress from her body and burn it.
She smooths her hands down the front, brushing past me, her bare feet padding quickly down the hallway when the phone starts ringing.
“No, this won’t do.” She points at my armchair. “You need to be out of my sight line.”
“Okay, I’ll be here.” I drag the chair back and to the left.
She settles onto the couch, tilts her head, and double-checks she can’t see me when she looks up. Satisfied, she schools her features, pinches her cheeks and answers the call.
“Sweetheart,” Anton croons, his voice poisoning my mind, my apartment, and my girl.
Her whole demeanor changes as if someone flipped a switch. She knots her fingers in her lap, her lips tug into a shy little smile, eyes dull until there’s nothing left of her.
I gouge my nails into the leather armrest until it creaks, because that smile... it’sgenuine.
Cold sweat slithers down my spine, my breath shallowing.
She’s pretending. This is what he expects. She’s just acting.
Is she though?
Fuck, I can’t tell.
“Oh, look at you, petal. You look so pretty today. I wish it were me dressing you this morning.”
“Me too,” she whispers.
“But you did beautifully, lovely girl. Did Octavius help you with the buttons?”
“Only a little.”
“Is he behaving himself around you?” he presses, his tone firmer. “No touching? No bad words?”
I think I’m going to throw up, or shoot the phone. Maybe both. What kind of mind-fuckery is this? He’s talking to an almost twenty-year-old woman like she’s two, and she’s... Christ, she’sglowingunder his words as if she missed them.
“No touching,” Leilani confirms softly, her face lighting up.
“Good, that’s good. You tell me if he upsets you, okay?”
I watch her face, that blank expression, those dull eyes framed by a genuine smile, and I can barely keep my ass down.
“Stand up, petal,” he orders. “Turn around for me.”
Two tiny wrinkles pinch her forehead before she smooths them away. She rises, twirls, the dress flaring.
“Slowly, sweetie.”
How many fucking nicknames does he have for her?
She twirls again, brushing her hair over one shoulder, her voice syrupy sweet. “Do you like my hair?”
My pulse spikes again. I don’t think she’s acting anymore... I think he’s lured her back into his world, into that version of herself she’s been trying to destroy.
