Page 16 of Ladybirds

She’s never getting rid of him.

He folds himself into her life.

Tears apart the seams of her routine, stitches it back into something she can only barely recognize. She’s constantly looking for him, nerves singing as she expects to find him around the corner, across the street, lounging in her chair. It’s been weeks, but she still isn’t numb to the way he can blink in and out of her life—can’t shake the way her heart jumps in surprise every time she turns around to find him close.

She pulls the cork out of the bottle of wine, forgoing the glass to take a deep drink. It’s cheap—cheaper, even, than what she usually buys—but right now she doesn’t even care. Her nerves are wound so tight, she’s afraid she’ll snap. Just one night, she prays. Let him stay away for just one damn night so she can drink and pass out and—

“Having a party for one, are we?”

She jumps, the bottle slipping from her fingers and landing with a clunk on the floor. It’s a small miracle it doesn’t shatter, but she’s dismayed to see the red wine spilling across the floor.

“Damn it!” she hisses, grabbing the bottle by the neck and mourning the loss. It was just some cheap wine, but it was hers. But of course he just had to ruin that, too. She’s too angry, too tired, to remember to be afraid. The blood is roaring in her ears, the aftertaste of the wine sharp and bitter on her tongue. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Seth raises a brow, leaning against the counter. It’s the first time she’s seen him without his coat—the white sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, flashing the pale skin of his forearms. She misses the coat. Without it, he looks too casual. Too at home. “Far too much, I’m afraid.” His eyes flit to the bottle in her white-knuckled grip. “Though, I’m sad to say alcoholism isn’t one of them.”

She stills, the echoed memory of clinking glass bottles ringing like an accusation in her skull. “I don’t have an alcohol problem,” she says, the words hissed between her teeth.

“And yet you were eager enough to skip the glassware entirely.” His fingers curl around the edge of the counter at his back, his gaze dangerously intense. “It must be a truly special occasion.”

He’s wrong—she knows he is—but the accusation is a well-aimed blade striking one of her deepest fears. There’s a reason she doesn’t keep alcohol in the apartment; a reason why she will only buy one bottle of wine, one six pack of beer, at a time and only occasionally. She won’t risk letting herself trip into her father’s mistakes.

His gaze flits to the clenched fists at her sides, understanding darkening his eyes. “Ah, I see I’ve found a nerve.” He meets her glare, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cruel, teasing smirk. “Tell me, is it your mother or father you’re so terrified of becoming?”

Both, she thinks. She’s so furious she’s shaking. The glass neck of the bottle in her grip grows hot. “Shut up.”

His head tilts, smile sharp. “My, haven’t we grown brave?”

His words are a gunshot, her anger dropping from the sky like a bird full of lead. The tightness in her chest becomes a cold weight. The being in front of her doesn’t play by mortal rules—can travel without taking a single step, is invisible to all eyes but her own. Who knows what else he’s capable of?

Sara pales, taking a step back even though she knows it doesn’t matter. There’s no escaping him—she could run to the other end of the world and he’d only be a blink behind.

The serrated edge of his smile softens into a frown, irritation pulling at his brow. “Your fear is wasted.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He stalks toward her, and it’s only her stubbornness that keeps her feet planted. Sara has never felt short, but when he stands this close—when the space between them is inches instead of feet—he towers over her. In his shadow, she tilts her head up, refusing to drop her gaze even as her heart tattoos a warning against her ribcage.

He stares down at her, brow raised and hands sinking into his trouser pockets. “Have I not upheld my promise to bring you no harm?” he coaxes, the timbre of his voice an oil spill—suffocating and slick.

She grits her teeth, each word an enunciated hiss. “I. Don’t. Believe. You.”

“Stubborn thing,” he chastises, but there’s approval laced in his voice. And Sara realizes he wants her to challenge him. It’s not as comforting as it should be. “Very well. Hold out your hand.”

Her fingers clench the bottle, ready to swing. “Why?”

Seth huffs. “Because seeing is believing, and a sharp tongue is far more entertaining than a dull one.”

There’s an innuendo there, one that she absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

He raises his hand, palm facing her, and motions for her to do the same. There’s nothing threatening about it, but she still hesitates a few seconds before raising a trembling hand.

He smirks. “Now, was that so terrible?”

She bristles, biting her cheek. Whatever point he’s trying to make, he hasn’t finished making it.

Tsking, he shakes his head. “So serious.” When her glare doesn’t falter, he chuckles—that damn smirk of his widening. Then, before she can register his intentions, he presses his open palm against her own.

She stares at the way their hands are pressed. His fingers are long and tapered, his larger hand dwarfing her own, but it’s neither of those things that make her blood run cold and her body freeze.

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