She nods, frantic.
“Then tell me who.”
Her head shakes, and her eyes begin to water as she mouths “Phone. My phone.”
Her hands scramble toward her pockets, but she’s too busy trying to catch her breath, so I fish it out for her. She opens it quickly as I loosen my hold, and when I turn the screen around, bile rises in my throat.
A familiar sequence is playing out on the screen.
An anonymous number, an explicit picture, in this case a nude photo of an oblivious Tara—Gods, that’s sick—and a string of messages with very clear instructions.
They detail a time and a place (Valorath Rd), attire, and a simple mission statement—“Convince him to leave her.”
“Oh my gods…” I mutter.
My fingers unfurl, and I lower Tara to her feet as I bow my head in recognition of my wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please forgive me.”
She bows in acceptance, still coughing as she straightens.
“I’m…fine…”
Why do they all keep saying that?
It wouldn’t be so irritating if it were true, but I’m starting to think it’s just a phrase they’ve learned to parrot like the pack mutts who learn to survive by keeping their heads low.
“You have no idea who this is?” I ask, knowing what her answer will be.
“No,” she says, rubbing at her throat.
I can already see the bruise blossoming beneath her peachy skin, and my anger for our mysterious friend mounts.
“That picture was taken in here,” she rasps. “But I thought I was alone. I didn’t even smell him.”
“Him?”
My brow peaks at the surety with which she says it, and she shakes her head.
“You really think a woman would do that?”
Maybe. Although the odds seem low.
“If he contacts you again. You come straight to me, do you understand? Don’t tell anyone else.”
She nods, and I back away, stumbling toward the door.
The adrenaline of this encounter is beginning to wear off, and I’m afraid that if I don’t go now, I may end up sleeping in the hall with my shoes on.
I all but crash through my door, barely managing to keep my legs from slipping out from under me before I make it to the bed, where I collapse, face down.
But there is a fragrance buried here, rich and smoky.
She wasn’t joking when she said she made a mess. A part of the sheets is still damp from her feed this afternoon. But I wasn’t joking either when I told her to leave it.
“Enghhh,” I groan, fisting the fabric.
The scent is divine. Sweet and salty.
