A tiny finger points to one of the men whose eyes are narrowed, covered in armor with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. “He looks like a Woahman, just like you.”
“It says his name is Ares.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Buthe looks like a Roman.” The ‘R’ still comes out as a ‘W.’
“It says he’s the God of War.”
Brown eyes peer at the writing, and her mouth moves like she’s sounding out the word. I don’t think she knows what it means.
I shrug. “Still don’t like it.”
She twists her lips, looking around our nook like she might find a response somewhere. Her attention lands on her toy, and I practically see the lightbulb go off in her head.
“How about Mickey?”
My lips twist into a scowl. “Are you calling me a rat?”
The hold she has on me the second she laughs is immediate. I’ve never heard anything like it. There’s joy in there, but something more. It’s like the feeling I have when I finally have a meal or when the sounds in my head stop.
“No, silly. He’s amouse. You can be Mickey, and I can be Minnie.” She sighs in wonder as she hugs the decrepit thing to her chest. “Mouses are my favorite.”
Mice,I think.
It’s fitting for her.
“What if I don’t want to call you Minnie? What can I call you then?”
The look that flushes her face is worse than getting kicked in the balls. I’ve disappointed her. I’m not sure why.
She chews her lip. “Isabella. But everyone calls me Isa.”
Her name triggers some distant memory. “I’ll call you Bella.” Because she’s the only person I’ve ever met who deserves to be called pretty. Even with her messed up hair and inside-out ripped t-shirt.
“But—"
I stop her before she tries to protest. “I like Bella.”
Her smile is bright enough to stop the sun, and with it, maybe even my plans of escaping this place.
Chapter 3
ISABELLA
Present
Roman pulls away once the bleary haze takes root in my bones, numbing me to my thoughts.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Where would I go? I wasn’t the one who left in the first place. I’m still caught in the web of our making, stuck under a roof where every breath feels like it could be used against me.
I barely register the feel of his lips pressed against my forehead before he leaves. I hardly hear the slap of boots hitting wood, leaving me to stare blankly at the line of scarlet splatter on the flyers stuck to the fridge.
It’s hard to think the fridge containing leftover dinner is in the same room as the man slaughtered by my childhood love. It doesn’t match the purge mask sitting in a pool of blood on the table, right next to yesterday’s newspaper, Millie’s cross-stitch supplies, and Greg’s severed fingers.
The dishes drying on the rack don't match the body hanging from the beam in the living room. Mundane things surrounded by broken parts, which are all out of place. It’s just like my hollow heart.
There was never any hope in this house. No one here saw a future beyond these walls, or the hardware store Greg and Millie own—owned.
