“How did you get into spiders anyway?” I ask, perusing the tank. “They’re not exactly the most normal domestic pet.”
“My mentor was allergic to feathers and fur,” he shrugs. “And he liked things to be in very controlled environments. Not pissing and shitting all over the place. No odor. Contained.”
“Makes sense,” I murmur, taking in even more details. He put intention into this. Every time I look closer, I notice more. “You know, this reminds me a little of a doll house.”
His mouth quirks at one side. “Yeah?” he says.
“It’s… curated. You’ve planned everything down to the last tiny detail.”
He smirks now. “It is. That’s kind of my thing.”
My stomach tightens, and I’m not sure why.
One of the spiders walks past slowly, as if sensing my interest and showing off. “Which one is this?”
“That’s Pearl,” he says. “She’s a real bitch when she wants to be.”
I laugh. “Can I hold her?” The question comes out before I can think about it, instinctive.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Then a shadow passes across his face. “No.”
“Oh—” I say quickly, wondering what I did wrong and why his tone shifted so quickly.
“I’m—sorry,” I say. “I’m not really sure how spiders work. I’m more used to cats and dogs.”
“No, it’s okay,” he reaches out and touches my arm. “They’re not that type of spider.”
He pauses.
“And I don’t let anyone touch what’s mine.”
CHAPTER 12
IVY
“Imade us a dinner reservation,” says Soren. “Somewhere I think you’ll like.”
“Great!” I say, excited to be going out somewhere new.
Adrian had taken me around a few places in Miami, but it always felt like he was doing me a grand favor that I should be forever grateful for. Deigning to spend a few hours with me doing something I liked.
Then I remember my suitcase situation, and I look down. “Does it have a dress code? Are joggers going to cut it?”
He looks unfazed. “Take a look in the closet in the spare room,” he says, gesturing to a door partway down the hall.
I wander down the wide corridor and enter the room. It’s tastefully decorated, lots of dark and neutral tones. The kind of spare room you hope for when visiting friends or family—the type that makes you feel like you’re staying in an upscale hotel.
There’s a huge closet facing the bed. I slide the large doors open.
It’s completely full, every hanger filled.
And the contents aren’t mismatched or random.
Everything is black. Structured. Deliberate.
I run my hands over the fabric, and the hangers clink against the rail.