Except I don't remember how to be normal anymore.
I move to the closet and start sorting through options. Everything's too big—Lorcan's tall, maybe six-two or six-three, broader through the shoulders than Giovanni. I find a faded gray henley that's soft from washing, a pair of black sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
My hands shake as I pull the henley over my head.
The fabric smells like laundry detergent .
I'm drowning in it.
The sleeves fall past my hands, the hem hits mid-thigh.
The sweatpants require rolling the waistband three times and cuffing the legs but at least they stay up.
I catch my reflection in a mirror mounted on the closet door.
I look ridiculous.
Like a child playing dress-up in her father's clothes.
The collar's still around my throat—black leather with the small silver O-ring. The one I've worn for weeks now, the one I forget I'm wearing until moments like this when I see it in the mirror and remember what itmeans.
Property.
Owned.
His.
I touch it with trembling fingers.
I should take it off.
That would be the normal thing to do.
Thesanething.
But my hands won't cooperate and my throat closes up at the thought and?—
Christ, I can't even remove a collar without permission.
What does that make me?
I force myself to leave the bedroom before I spiral further.
Lorcan's standing at the front door with his keys in hand, looking exactly like someone preparing to leave.
My stomach drops.
"Are you taking me back?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "To Giovanni?"
"No."
The word lands between us like a stone.
Lorcan turns to face me fully, and his expression is gentle but serious.
"Listen to me, Emmaleen. The LaRiccia family hired me to find dirt on Giovanni. They're lookin' for proof of what happened to their son." He pauses. Studies my face. "It was Rico who attacked you, yeah? Put you in hospital?"
I don't answer.
