Page 102 of Salvatore

I don’t push though. I change the subject, eat my breakfast without causing drama, and then return to my room.

Salvatore

I heard you were such a good girl sitting at the adult table.

I scoff when I read his text that afternoon and curse at how my pulse misses a beat.

Ivy

Don’t you have better things to do, like practicing your sinister laugh while stroking a hairless cat?

Salvatore

The only hairless pussy I’m interested in is located in Virginia Beach.

Every time.

Every. Goddamn. Time.

His egotistical flirtation knows no bounds.

Ivy

Has anyone else ever mentioned that you have the confidence of a much taller man?

Salvatore

If you only knew how hard your insults make me…

Ivy

If only you knew how capable I am with a pair of scissors…

I picture him smirking, and it does absolutely nothing to lessen the speed of my pulse.

The next day I wake early, determined to make a positive improvement on my mental stability by ignoring my cell phone and the urge to message a certain dark-haired, dark-eyed criminal.

I’m in the middle of conquering how to use the ice-maker on the fridge when Catarina walks from the hall with a tray laden with what looks to be dirty crockery from a breakfast spread similar to what she used to delivered to my room.

“Oh.” She startles and stops her progression toward the kitchen. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“I’m trying to get into a routine. I hope you don’t mind me taking liberties with the orange juice.”

“No. Please make yourself at home.” She glances down at her tray, then back toward the hall as if contemplating an escape.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes. Of course.” She dons that forced sweet smile. “I just forgot what I was doing for a minute. Let me get you some breakfast.” She makes for the dishwasher and quickly stacks the crockery from her tray. “Would you prefer a cooked meal or fruit and yoghurt?”

“Fruit and yoghurt would be perfect.”

She works quietly. Washing. Peeling. Chopping.

“Do you feed the guards, too?” I wonder aloud as she places a bowl of Greek yoghurt in front of me topped with tropical fruit and accompanied by a jar of honey.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“The used meal tray you carried into the kitchen.”

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