I thought you and your family enjoyed living in a safe, peaceful neighborhood. Keep running your mouth, and it won’t stay that way for long.”
Mara stiffens at the barely concealed threat. Her fingers tighten around my wrist. Tighten…
“Though, you know what? Call the pigs,” the man goads, his laughter cold. “I hear a few even like girls like you, too. Ask around. Or maybe you can go work for Gino and learn firsthand? At least then you’d get paid for it.”
Mara’s face pales as she lets me go. “You’ll be fine, Hannah,” she insists, but she hurries from the enclosed section without me. “I’ll be watching. I won’t take my eyes off you. I promise.”
As she fades from my peripheral vision, my brain does that thing again. Shuts off. Focuses on the most important actions to perform at this moment—breathing. Standing. Staring.
The younger man is still watching me, his head cocked as his fingers continue to molest the pages of my journal. That violation stings more than any other. He’s carelessly wandering over words he couldn’t possibly understand. Mutilating phrases that have literal blood, sweat, and tears mingled within the ink. He’s mauling me with every swipe of his fingers.
And I can’t even look away. His eyes hold me captive, sparkling the more my irritation grows. Like he knows every thought I’m thinking. The hate I’m feeling.
And he’s relishing in all of it.
“Go.” He inclines his head, but again, he isn’t speaking to me.
The two men beside him share a look, but they stand, shaking their heads incredulously. “Damn. You always did have the weirdest fucking taste,” the one with the goatee murmurs, barely audible above the music.
The other man isn’t as subtle. He raises an eyebrow and looks me over, then he cranes his neck to seek out Mara standing along a nearby wall. “You traded that piece of ass for this?”
“I said, fuck off.” The younger man doesn’t take his eyes off me. His tongue traces his lower lip in a quick strike. A threat? Or a warning?
“Go,” he repeats without shifting his focus. “And leave the Chan girl to me.”
The goatee man hisses through his teeth. “Greedy fucker. You want them both?”
“You heard me.” He utilizes that iron tone again and doesn’t move an inch until the two men finally leave the section. Then he sits back and crooks one finger at me. “Come here.”
I don’t move. There’s something about being trapped like a deer in the headlights. When every muscle contracts, paralyzing you, it’s impossible to react logically. Or think. At least until something more alarming snaps you from the daze.
Like him literally snapping his fingers. Thwack!
I flinch, but my body obeys my commands again. I cross my arms and square my stance, making myself as small of a target as possible. I should run, but I can’t. My eyes won’t leave my bag. My journal. My conscience.
It’s the one possession I can’t bear to give up.
“G-Give it back.”
“She speaks.” Amusement flickers through his angular features, making me jump. His eyes are more expressive than most people’s. Like a predator’s. It’s almost too easy to tell what he’s thinking, but you’re only ever seeing half of the tale. Hunger, yes, but its presence alone is no predictor as to when he’ll finally pounce.
“Hop this way, bunny.” Again, he crooks his finger, but the motion carries a swiftness that wasn’t there before—a command lurking in the deliberate twitch of his knuckle. “Come here. Unless you want me to call your little friend back over.”
I sense it’s not a threat. He means it. He’ll dangle Mara’s welfare like a shiny toy, expecting me to jump for it.
Because I will. My feet are already propelling me toward him. Maybe it’s genetic, this inherent cowardice. This need I can’t shake to always go along with any plan, no matter how terrifying. Always.
I’m the girl perpetually depicted in horror movies. Gullible, manipulated by everyone.
By Branden.
By strangers.
By these instincts hardwired within my psyche.
To approach the figurative killer without making a sound. To find the safest spot away from him and sit, not that he seems to mind. He copies the posture of his friend, sprawled out, unconcerned. I notice he’s wearing the same dark, unremarkable clothing as the others, but one detail makes his ensemble stand out in a way theirs didn’t. My gaze fixates on his left arm, bared by a short sleeve, and I realize why.
Colors drip over the pronounced muscle, embedded in his skin. Ink? Reds. Indigo. Black. They