Page 59 of Shattered In Darkness

He spreads a napkin on his lap, careful, precise. “You have errands today. Stop at the bank, the jeweler, my tailor. Ask for Mark. Don’t waste time, don’t lose receipts.” Every word is cold. “If you fuck around, I’ll hear about it. I always do.”

My mouth goes dry. “Yes, Marcus.”

He leans in. Slow. Coldness shining in his eyes. “And you will be home by six.”

I nod. There’s no right answer. He’s already made up his mind. A little god at the head of a dead breakfast table.

I stand and move. Don’t let him see you flinch. I gather my purse along with the little list he shoved into my palm. Bank. Jeweler. Tailor. Simple, right? But nothing is ever simple. Every door out of this house leads right back to him.

The air burns cold when I step outside. My knees almost buckle, but I keep moving. I always do.

I get in the car and lock the doors. My hands shake on the wheel, too weak to grip. When I check the rearview, I see a face I don’t even recognize. Blue-black makeup settling in a bruise beneath one eye, foundation barely covering it. Dead-girl lips. A fucked up doll.

Drive. Try not to look back, but I always check the mirror. Always. There’s that same black car from earlier. Parked on the wrong side of the street. Engine running. Probably nothing. Probably just my brain unraveling with fear.

I pull out. The car waits two beats then follows. Slow. Obvious.

Fuck.

First stop is the bank. I don’t make eye contact with the teller, just slide the slip under the glass and wait for the cash. She looks at my ID and then at my face. I smile the way I’m supposed to. Sweet and blank.

She hands me the envelope. Thick, heavy. It’s not my money, not my name. I tuck it in my purse like a bomb. When I glance out the glass, the black car is there. Creeping through the drive-thru, one lane over. I see a flash of white. A man’s arm, sleeve rolled up. Then a baseball cap. The window’s up, but I can feel his eyes. I bail as fast as I can, nearly tripping on the curb.

Groceries next. I don’t wander. I stick to the list. Eggs, cheese, coffee. Milk for him. Soup for me, just in case he lets me eat. Everywhere I move, I feel watched. Eyes move down my back, linger on my chest. The men in the aisles see only the parts of me they want to own.

I catch a man in a hat by the self-checkout. He pretends to look at gum, but it’s me he’s watching. I clutch my bag and run for the exit, heart hammering. I try to text Sophie. Just a string of letters. Help me. I’m scared. But my thumb deletes it before I can hit send. Marcus checks my phone. He always knows. He always finds out.

I want to cry, but there’s nothing left.

Outside, the black car is across the street. Waiting. Always waiting. Next is the dry cleaner. In and out. Nobody speaks. At the crosswalk, I freeze, because there, leaning against a streetlight, is Brody.

He sees me instantly. No smile, no hello. Just those wolf eyes, pinning me open, picking me apart from forty feet away. I want to look away but I can’t. It’s like gravity. Brody’s eyes, cold and endless. I feel it all up and down my spine. That deep, sick thrill of being seen by the one man who doesn’t blink.

I cross the street anyway, keeping my chin up, shoulders back, ass tight, like he’s not the only predator watching. Black car is idling three spaces up. I can hear the low drone of the engine. I walk fast, the world spins around me.

Finally, I pull into the drive. The house is exactly the same, except now it’s full of him. Marcus. I feel his shadow in the bricks before I step inside. When I do, the stench of aftershave hits first. Then coffee. It’s a mask. Everything here is a mask.

Marcus sits in the living room with two men. All suits, all hungry. I don’t know their names, and I don’t want to.

He gestures at me with something that isn’t quite a smile. “Come in, Lola. I was just telling our guests about your little job today.”

I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk slowly, knees nauseous, and make sure my skirt doesn’t ride up too high. He likes to punish me for that, if there’s an audience.

Marcus snaps his fingers. “Coffee for the table, sweetheart.”

I fetch it and pour, steadying the cup on the tray even when my hands want to shake. When I lean over to set the cup on the glass table, one of the men stares straight at my tits. Not even subtle.

Marcus sees. Of course he does. His hand finds my arm, right above the wrist, and squeezes.

His smile never falters. “She’s my pride and joy,” he jokes. “Always so eager to do what she’s told. Aren’t you, Lola?”

He twists my wrist and I nearly drop the coffee. My voice shakes, but I keep it steady. “Yes. Always.”

The men laugh. It’s not human. Just noise. They talk about money, expansion, the usual Marcus crap. Sometimes they reference me by name, but never for anything real. Just the shape I make. Their greed augments. And underneath it, another feeling. Hunger. Like I’m meat, and they’re just waiting for the signal to bite.

The men talk numbers, then logistics. I stop listening. I slip out of myself, float up to the ceiling. They don’t need me here. Not really. Only Marcus does. He watches the men. Watches me. His gaze licks along my skin, cold and bored, pretending I’m nothing at all.

Then it’s over. Chairs scrape, hands shake, goodbyes barked rough. The men drift out, fumble sloppy with the door, coughing and laughing, back to whatever rut in the city they crawled from.