“About which problem?” I ask, kissing her lightly, trying to find some semblance of normalcy.
She tilts her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Let’s start with… sex.”
I blink, then a real, rough laugh escapes me. “The world is literally burning down around us and that’s your priority?”
“A girl has her needs,” she says, unbothered.
I shake my head, my own smirk turning predatory. “Until we figure out what the fuck is happening to me, you’re on your own. I wouldn’t mind a private dance performance. Or…”
“Or what?” she challenges, her eyes glinting.
“We can move to plan B. Hole A.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “We should have done that before the piercings.”
I grab her face, my voice turning into a low growl. “We’ll take one rung at a time.”
Her breath hitches.
“Do you trust me?”
She nods, eyes wide.
“Good,” I murmur against her lips. “Because the ladder was your idea, and I’m going to make you feel every single step of the way up.”
“What was I thinking?” she laughs, shaking her head. “Clearly, Lola has issues.”
She stands with a tired groan. “I need a hot shower, and then we can talk about this.”
She tugs her sweatshirt up and over her head, then grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it off. And my breath goes with it. “Sisk.”
She pauses. “What?”
I step closer, my hand reaching out. “What’s this?”
I point at her stomach. A thin black vein runs beneath her skin, dark and unnatural.
Her brow furrows as she looks down. “Oh.” She shrugs, completely unconcerned. “Probably pulled something dancing.”
“That’s not a bruise,” I say, my voice tight.
“Well,” she says casually, “maybe another mark from the tar. This one here hasn’t faded either.” She taps the spot on her chest.
My entire world narrows to her skin and the thin black vein running beneath it. I sink to my knees in sudden understanding as the tar’s voice echoes in my head, loud and clear, a triumphant roar.
THE HEIR.
Seventy
THEN | SISK
“Istill don’t get why you wanted to come here,” Lou says, kicking a crushed beer can out of his path as he sidesteps a puddle. “Look at this shit.”
A few feet away, a girl with pink hair is spray-painting a massive, dripping eyeball on the wall.
“It’s perfect,” I shout back.
Lou snorts, pointing with his chin toward a corner where a couple is practically devouring each other against the wall. “You need therapy. Or a job. That’s your alternative.”
