I stare at her, the words sliding past my ears without really landing. It's like my brain can't believe the shit that comes out of her mouth.
“You could be very pretty, Willow,” she continues, lips pursed in mock thoughtfulness. “The one good thing I ever gave youwas your looks. Thank goodness you didn't get your father's. Honestly, I don't even know what I saw in him.”
My vision goes black, and rage fills me; it's overpowering, as if I'm watching myself from outside my body, and I hit her.
The sound cracks through the room. My palm stings from the force of it, and I don't regret it for a second. Her head snaps to the side, a red mark already blooming on her cheek. She brings her hand up, eyes wide in shock.
I don't stay to hear whatever poison she's about to spit back or return the favour.
As I turn to leave, Sassy bounds after me, her collar jingling with each step. At the front door, I quickly slip on a pair of shoes—any that I can find, without a second thought or regard for appearance. Dressed in my Spider-Man pyjama shorts and a tank top, I feel indifferent to how I look, and I just need to leave. I swipe at the tears streaming down my cheeks, more filled with anger than anything else, as I fumble with the key to unlock the door.
I don't even realise she followed me until her hand clamps around my arm.
Her nails dig in hard, forcing me to turn back to her. Pain flares up in my arm as it tightens.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” she snarls. “You should be thanking me. I gave you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me?” Her grip tightens more. “Get the hell out of my house. You don't have a home here.”
Peering down, blood wells where her sharp nails have broken skin, right next to the cuts on my wrist from last night—still angry and red.
Something in me goes cold.
Pushing her away, she stumbles back, off balance in her ridiculous heels and goes down hard. Her head hits the side of the wall.
“With pleasure,” I mutter, voice broken.
I scoop Sassy into my arms, step outside, and slam the door behind me. I start walking with no destination in mind, just forward.
Anywhere is better than that fucking house.
Chapter 10
Elijah
It's pissing down outside, and I'm already later than I wanted to be. All I meant to do was grab some food for Willow—quick in, quick out—but of course, fate had other plans. Mrs Wilson, the older lady who lives around the corner, somehow spotted me in the shop and immediately cornered me about an “emergency” with her car.
I wanted nothing more than to get home, feed Willow, and maybe take her for a quick spin on my bike to show her there are quiet corners of the city that aren't entirely chaotic. But I had to help her because she makes the best damn lasagna and has a heart of gold, so I find myself standing there nodding like a fool and letting her lead me to her car.
Turns out the hissing sound is coming from her engine, which could be a fluid leak or the engine overheating. Either way, I had to call one of my guys to send a tow truck to pick it up and take it to the garage. That left me stuck with dropping Mrs Harrison at her house.
She wouldn't let me leave without tea and biscuits, launching into a long tirade about some cat that keeps sneaking into her garden and shitting in her plants. I found it hilarious. She did not.
Eventually, she let me go—but not before planting a wet kiss on my cheek and giving my ass a firm slap on the way out. The woman always had a thing for me—probably had a crush since before her husband died—and she can't resist stroking my armsor poking at my dimples in my cheeks every time I smile. She's well, she's mad. Completely mad, but I don’t mind her.
Climbing back into my car to make the trek to the shop for the second time, I tap the steering wheel absentmindedly as the rain lashes down harder, turning the streets into blurred reflections of yellow streetlights. All I can think about is her. It's probably unhealthy how often she's on my mind these days—but I don't care. Why fight something that actually makes me feel happy, even if she doesn't like me.
The streets are strikingly quiet for a summer afternoon, the typical English drizzle driving most people indoors. I turn onto a narrow, tree-lined street, and through the sheets of rain, I catch sight of a figure beneath the sprawling branches of a large oak tree in a small park. As I draw nearer, I realise they are cradling a small, drenched cat in their arms.
“Shit.” I know exactly who it is. Red hair plastered to her face, her cute superhero pyjamas clinging to her skin. There's no mistaking her.
I swerve the car onto the side of the road, ignoring the no-parking signs, and bolt towards her. “Willow!” I call, yanking the zipper down on my jacket as I close the distance.
Her head lifts slowly. Pale, shivering, her hair clung to her face, eyes bright and shiny from crying. My chest pounds. Kneeling in front of her, I notice the small cuts on her arm. They aren't deep, thank fuck, but it guts me that she felt the need to hurt herself.
I hope, desperately, that it's not what I think it is.
“What are you doing out here?” My voice softens, reaching out to wrap my jacket around her shoulders. It's big enough to swallow both her and her cat, who is stubbornly refusing to move, even though it looks pissed off to be here.
“I couldn't be in that house.” She croaks out, small and broken.
