Page 27 of Until Mayhem

I’d get away.

I’d clean my apartment, replacing what I could and mourning what was lost.

And I’d move on.

Wiping my face, I had a lot of fight in me but my body was exhausted. However many lifetimes I’d lived in that day caught up to me at once, and I needed to rest. I’d be no good if an escape opportunity presented itself and I was too tired to move.

“I’d like to go to bed,” I said.

Psycho’s hand at my hip tightened, making me realize he had an arm wrapped low around my waist. It also made me realize that my own hand was gripping his tee at his abs.

“You okay?” He shook his head. “That’s a fuckin’ stupid question, I know, but you were crying then you hit the off switch.”

“You… you know what you did. And my gorgeous apartment that I had set up perfectly is destroyed. Even if I could fix it exactly how it was, which I can’t, I’ll still have to move. You got in. Whoever else got in. I’ll never feel safe, and it’ll never feel like my home again. My privacy and security were both destroyed. No, they were taken out, beaten, dismembered, torched, then the ashes gathered to be torched again before being spread to the far corners of the earth.”

“Damn, princess, remind me to come to you when I need torture ideas.”

Pushing the fact he’d said when and not if to the back of my mind, I tilted my head to answer his question. “So, no, I’m not okay. But it’s just stuff, and I’ll figure it out. Crying will only give me a headache, and I’m too tired to deal with that. So, like I said, I want to go to bed.”

He held my eyes before giving me a slow nod and releasing his hold on me. I did the same with my death grip on his shirt and stepped away.

“The lock is deactivated. Remember where the bathroom is?”

I nodded and headed for the doorway.

“O.”

I glared at him over my shoulder. “Don’t call me that.”

“I didn’t grab any of your soap or shit ‘cause most of it was dumped. And what wasn’t,” he glowered, “don’t think you’ll wanna keep.” He picked up a massive bag and thrust it at me. “Dunno if any of this shit is what you use, but the chick in the store had a fuckin’ field day draggin’ me around.”

Turning around fully, I didn’t grab the fancy-schmancy paper bag with its intricately embossed logo, satiny black ribbons, and glittery pink tissue paper—like the dream present of any beauty guru.

He shook it, and my gaze went from the bag to him.

I was a woman who liked beauty products. I didn’t shop high-end exclusively and usually scoured Instagram stories and YouTube for dupes of all my favorite pricey items. But every once in a while, after a long week or one loaded with overtime, I treated myself.

Face masks.

Hair masks.

Serums.

Cleansers.

Bath bombs, bubbles, oils.

The newest palettes, primers, mascaras, or whatever else was hot and fun and in demand.

But even as a woman who liked all things self-care, I’d never ventured into the store that had the fancy-schmancy bags with its intricately embossed logo, satiny black ribbons, and glittery pink tissue paper.

Because one look at their website had confirmed that it’d take a whole lot of overtime to shop there—and even then, I’d likely only be able to afford one thing at a time. With my luck, it’d be the best thing I’d ever tried, and there was nothing worse than finding a product I loved and knowing I couldn’t afford it on the regular.

So I really wanted that bag. I wanted to dive into it like a kid at Christmas, uncovering treasure after exquisite treasure.

But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

Accepting anything from Psycho was insane. He was a stranger. My captor.

---