“I’ve already got a tenant lined up for the place, so I’m gonna need you to give me notice when you’re out if you want your deposit back. Got it?”
Somehow, I manage to nod, and he grunts, turning away. “You must be in some hurry to leave, girlie. I’ve never had anyone pay out a full year’s rent just to get out of a lease.”
He makes it sound amusing.
But it’s not. His incredulous laughter is the sound of my fragile wings being clipped, one by one. I’m not like Rafe’s invincible dragon. I’m just a pathetic moth, incapable of breathing fire to protect itself.
And where does such an insect inevitably end up?
Crushed underfoot.
Chapter Nineteen
I get to work over an hour late. By the time I do arrive, a man is exiting the shop carrying an armful of tools, and the storefront is home to a brand-new, crystal clear window.
“We can do a soft reopen today,” Mr. Zhang says when I enter the shop to find him standing at the counter, flashing a rare grin. “You’re on the register. I’m going to head to the printer shop for banners. Maybe some flyers. I think a sale would be a good start, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, matching his smile.
He starts for the door and pauses. “Won’t you be hot in that? It’s supposed to warm up later today?” He nods at my neck, and the woolen scarf I have draped around it.
I shrug. “Fashion statement.”
“Okay, then.”
When he finally leaves, I find myself pacing the center of the showroom, struggling to adjust to the bright, newly lightened interior. I had forgotten how beautiful this place could seem once cleaned and whole. If only my life could be repaired with something as simple as replacing a window.
But it can’t. The gaping holes stretch too far, too big to ever fill—or cover up with an itchy green scarf. And when a shadow falls over me from behind, I realize that any pathetic attempts to erase that reality have been like putting Band-Aids over a gaping stab wound.
I turn around slowly, just in time to catch a figure pass the storefront and enter through the main door. Two of them.
“This isn’t what I had in mind when you said you’d take me shopping,” a blond woman chirps in a high-pitched and breathy voice. Loose curls spill down her shoulders, complementing her beautiful features and heavy makeup. A black tank top strains over her cleavage, and her skirt puts Mara’s “fuck-me jeans” to shame.
“Really, Rafe?” Her blue eyes dart around the shop with disinterest, and she sighs, playfully swatting at the man who practically looms above her because he’s so much taller. “What about that shoe store I like?”
He shrugs her off. “I’m looking for something.” He takes his time scanning the store—everywhere but in my direction. I might as well cease to exist. Matter.
As if he isn’t the cause for the scarf around my neck in eighty-degree weather.
As if he didn’t leave my apartment hours earlier.
As if everything that happened between us was nothing more than a game.
“I’m bored,” the blond whines, eyeing her pink nails. “You said we’d have fun—”
“Go wait in the car then,” Rafe snaps, seemingly enthralled by a shelf containing gardening books. He runs his finger down the spine of one, but the second she’s gone, he pivots toward my corner.
His steps land over the floor, slow and deliberate, giving me every chance to run before he comes close. When I don’t, he pins me in against the wall. His fingers brush my chin but then change direction, teasing the end of my scarf instead.
My lips flutter apart, a plea to stop lurking on my tongue, but I never voice it. Holding my gaze, he tugs once. Twice. Again. Each successive yank succeeds in unraveling more of the scarf’s opposite end. More. After what feels like an eternity, the last bit of wool slips away, exposing the flesh of my throat beneath.
His eyes widen, raking over his handiwork—the marks I’d faced with horror in the mirror hours after he left. I expect him to puff up smugly. Boast. Taunt.
His nostrils flare instead, his exhale harsh. “How long until he finds out, bunny?” he wonders. “How long?”
His eyes flick up to mine, blazing with an emotion so unexpected I gasp in the face of it. More than rage. More than anger. Whatever it is glows white-hot as his fingers find my chin again, lifting it.