Page 56

The word felt dangerous and stupid, but I let it out anyway. Wives stayed. Wives loved you even when you were bad. Wives forgave.

She looked unsure, but I saw the hunger under her skin. A flicker, a tiny pulse of hope. She missed things like dinner, tables, normalcy. I could give her that. I could be that, if I just tried hard enough.

“Alright,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I’ll have dinner with you. Just…don’t hurt me, Malakar. Please.”

My heart twisted. I nodded, frantic, yanking her up. She winced. I loosened my grip. “Sorry. Sorry, bluebird. Just—come on. You’ll see. I’ll be so good. I’ll be perfect.”

I led her upstairs, every step was a battlefield in my head. Fog and broken glass, voices whispering in the corners, my father’s laughter, my mother’s humming. I forced it all down. Tonight, I would be good. I had to be. Otherwise, she’d leave. Otherwise, I’d snap her wings and hate myself for it.

The kitchen looked cleaner than usual. I kept it that way. My father liked clean kitchens. Messes got you beat. I opened the fridge, fingers trembling, pretending the silence between us wasn’t made of knives.

“Sit,” I ordered. I softened. “Please, Starla. Sit. I’ll cook.”

She sat, arms wrapped tight around herself. Watched me. I could feel her eyes on my back, crawling up my neck and into my skull. I kept my movements careful, measured, like maybe I could trick her into believing I was harmless.

I cracked eggs. Sliced bread. Pan sizzled, butter hissing, the only music in the room. My hands shook, but I kept them busy. Busy hands don’t break things. I made her tea. Chamomile, because she said she liked it. My mother used to drink it too.

I set the table, two plates, two forks, bread, eggs, tea. I stared at it. For a second, it looked normal. For a second, I believed we were normal.

“Come here, bluebird. Sit with me.”

She obeyed. Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed. She looked like she might vanish if I blinked. I hated that. I wanted to tie her down, keep her here. No, not now. I had to be good.

I sat across from her, folded my hands. “Eat,” I said. “It’ll get cold.”

She picked at the food, wary at first, then hungrier. I watched, greed rising in my chest. I loved feeding her, seeing her mouth move, throat work, life seeping back into her face. I barely touched my own plate.

“It’s good,” she whispered.

My pulse spiked. “You mean it?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

I warmed all over.

We ate in silence. The house creaked, pipes groaned, ghosts shuffled in the attic. I kept my eyes on her, soaking her in. That’s all I needed. Her at my table, eating my food, thanking me. I could live on that.

I watched her chew, her eyes fixed on the eggs, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. She looked too thin, too breakable. My bluebird. My wife for tonight. If I could just keep her here, keep her eating, keep her soft and warm and safe, maybe the darkness would starve and die for once. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight so hard.

The fork trembled in my hand. I tried to match her bites, but I barely tasted anything. I watched her swallow, watched her lips press together, watched her tongue dart out to catch a drop of tea at the corner of her mouth.

I wanted to lean across the table and kiss her. I wanted to reach for her hand to feel her pulse. I wanted to believe I could be good, just once, just long enough for her to really see me.

Her hand crept across the table. She was reaching for the mug of tea. I smiled at her, tried to make it gentle. “Careful, bluebird, it’s hot.”

But her fingers slipped. The mug tilted, wobbled, and then—crash. It hit the edge of the table and tumbled down, shattering on the floor. Hot tea splattered across her feet, mine, the shards glittering like bones in the yellow light.

I went still. My body locked up, the fork falling from my hand, and clattering to the plate. The sound echoed. I stared at the mess, the brown tea seeping out in a jagged halo.

“Shit—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she stammered, voice frantic. She dropped to her knees beside the table, snatching at shards, trying to clean up the mess before it spread.

Something splintered inside me.

My mother dropped a glass once. I could still hear the sound. The crash, the silence that followed, the way my father’s face twisted up and he grabbed her hair and slammed her into the counter. Clean it up, bitch. Don’t make a mess. Useless. Useless.

I pressed my hands to my thighs so I wouldn’t hit anything. My heartbeat was a drum in my skull. I watched Starla gather the pieces, her hands shaking, her hair falling across her cheeks. She was moving too fast, panic coloring her breath. She knew. She knew what happened to girls who made a mess.

Blood bloomed on her palm. A shard sliced across her skin. She gasped, dropping the glass, clutching her hand to her chest.