Page 77 of Pretty Little Threats

Dad nods and glances up at me with bloodshot eyes. “Good. We’ll find a way to get you out of there, Rosalynn. You know it’s not safe with him.”

I blow out a breath. “That’s all I want.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I study my dad, wishing Mom were here. When she died, I was too young to remember much of anything but the way she made me feel. I rub at my chest and clear my throat. “I need to get some work done to ensure Futurum opens on time.”

“Still my Miller girl,” Dad says with an affectionate grin. “I don’t say it enough, but I’m so very proud of you, Rosie.”

The words swell inside my chest. “Dad,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t have to say those things. I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I’m not saying it to win you over. I mean it. My daughter is single-handedly opening New York City’s largest art gallery. What father wouldn’t be proud?”

All this time, I thought he hated the idea. The appreciation and pride soothe the sting of yesterday’s incident.

“Thank you.” A watery smile breaks across my face. This gallery is four years in the making. It took two years to wear my dad down and get him to agree to be an official named supporter. It’s not a financial venture, but I really do hope that investing in the creative community will help local artists pursue their passions, even if I can’t pursue mine.

“Well.” Dad glances around. “I’ll leave you to it.” He heads to the door, pausing to glance over his shoulder. “Finish up with Futurum, but don’t forget the promise you made me, okay?”

“I’ll find what we need,” I assure him.

As soon as my office door closes, I sag against the desk, giving myself one moment to feel the conflict warring inside. Everything Dare’s done makes me wonder if he’s not as terrible as I always believed. But, of course, that’s probably his plan. Dare wants me to fall for his act. Who’s to say he isn’t trying to undermine my relationship with my dad? I shake my head, dispelling the thoughts.

Right now, I have to focus to ensure everything with Futurum is set in place.

There’s plenty of time to take Dare down.

twenty-four

ROSE

Three weeks pass.Thanks to Dare’s people, Eric is rumored to be off, partying. No one has questioned the story, and no cops have come kicking Dare’s door in. The story won’t last forever, but at least for now, I’m safe.

There was more work to be done with Futurum than I thought, and with the time that’s passed, my window to take Dare down is quickly narrowing. In the days since the incident with my dad, Dare has been distant. Which is fine by me. I was already planning to put up some walls. I only hate that he did it first.

He’s always one step ahead of me.

While there may be distance between us, some things remain the same.

Remy or some other body guard is around any time either of us goes out.

Dare’s food is delicious.

Every night, I go to sleep in the guest bedroom, and every morning, I wake up in Dare’s embrace.

Oddly enough, when he holds me, the nightmares don’t come. Maybe my subconscious understands there’s no point in tormenting me when Dare’s around, because the beast is frustrating enough to drive me mad.

Today, the last day of my weekend, I’m hiding in the guest room, sitting crisscross on the bed, sketchbook in hand. The sound of pencil scraping over the paper soothes the discontent inside of me. I lose myself in my work, almost compelled to draw, as if the monsters will come for me if I don’t get them out of my head and onto paper.

Doors slam in the primary bedroom, but I ignore them. He’s awake and annoyed I left him alone in bed. Good. Now he knows how I feel. Almost an hour passes before Dare’s footsteps slow outside of the bedroom.

Pausing, I glance at the shadows looming in the space between the door and the floor, holding my breath. My chest tightens, preparing for yet another round of verbal sparring, but after a moment, Dare continues on, leaving for work, even on a Sunday. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why Dare leaves his house every day. He doesn’t want to be around me longer than he has to.

I ignore the way my shoulders sag when the front door shuts and glance at what I’ve been drawing.

My mouth twists to the side.

It isn’t a monster looking back at me. It’s Dare. The hard lines of his face. The scar cutting through one eyebrow. The narrowed eyed look he seems to save just for me. He’s beautiful.

Scowling at the paper, I rip it out and crumple it up, tossing it toward the bin. So much for getting the monsters out of my head. I flip through the pages of my sketchbook and pause on a drawing of shadowed beasts hunting a woman. One figure stands out larger than the rest.

Inmy imagination, they have claws and fangs, but in my art, they’re clearly human. That’s the reality of it. The paranormal isn’t real. The person responsible for my mom’s murder is still out there.

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