I shove the last few bites into my mouth and spin the chair to face the wall behind me.
The wall is dark charcoal with a single large, framed photo—an abstract black-and-white cityscape. Cold. Distant. Beautiful.
There’s some shuffling behind me, the clatter of plates and cutlery.
Graham mews at my feet, and I scoop him up, settling him in my lap.
“I’ve missed you, baby,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears.
I should feel more afraid. Being here with someone so obviously unwell should terrify me. But I don’t think he’ll hurt me—not as long as I comply.
Still, I don’t know what he’ll do if I try to leave.
Not that I have anywhere to go. He took everything.
Speaking of—
“Where are the rest of my things?”
Silence.
“Everything you need is here,” he says, voice once again distorted.
“That’s not an answer.”
A long, weary sigh.
“I got rid of everything else.”
“What?!” I leap to my feet, spinning around.
Trust be damned.
He’s wearing the mask again.
“What do you mean yougot rid of it?” My voice rises, raw and shrill.
“You don’t need it anymore.”
“You don’t get to decide that! You can’t just erase parts of my life like they don’t matter!”
He stands and moves around the table, coming toward me. Those eyeless sockets pierce me. I tense as his hands find my waist, pulling me against him, chest to chest.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re right, Angel. I’m sorry,” he whispers, leaning in close enough that I feel the heat of his words lick against my skin.
I don’t know what to do.
I’m furious.
But my body leans into his, craving him like oxygen.
His scent wraps around me—warm cinnamon and something smoky.
Cinnamon.
The tattoos.
That’s where I know them from.