Page 24 of Moth
I frown in confusion. Is he implying he covered the tab himself?
Without explaining, he steps inside and props the door open with his knee. Then he slaps something onto the topmost half of it above the welcome sign.
“What are you doing?” I skirt the counter and creep forward as close as I dare. On top of the peeling emerald paint is a small circular red sticker. It’s surprisingly detailed with a black fire-breathing dragon in the center.
“I’m keeping my word,” he says, letting the door slam shut. But he’s on the wrong side of it, spinning around to face me. His mouth twists into something that could be a smile, but it just illuminates the dark circles lurking underneath his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, bunny,” he chides. “This place is still under my protection. And I expect it to earn back every penny.” He runs a hand through his hair, turning to the nearest lopsided bookshelf. “I also expect the workers here to do their fucking jobs.”
As I watch, he crosses to the fallen shelf and lifts it easily, attempting to slot it back into place. He grunts, his forearms straining with the effort, but eventually, he assembles it properly.
Then he crosses to a stack of salvaged books.
It’s almost surreal to watch him place them haphazardly onto the shelf in the wrong positions. There’s no method to his madness, and when he arranges a popular romance novel next to a critically acclaimed thriller, pride can no longer keep me silent.
“That goes over here,” I blurt out before moving the book to its correct spot on the other side of the shop.
Either he doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t really care, seeing as how he never stops his careless stacking. I don’t know why I find myself following in his wake to either tweak the placement or to stare in shock when he manages to place something in the right spot.
Soon, one stack becomes several. He reassembles more shelving units, and eventually, we’ve restocked the rest of the undamaged merchandise.
“Why are you here?” I direct the question from over my shoulder, hoping he won’t answer.
Because he’ll leave.
“I’m asking you the same question.”
“Iworkhere.”
“For how long? All things considered, I own this shop now, rabbit. I prefer my employees to have more spine.”
With a sigh, I turn to face him. The shadows paint his skin, turning him into a patchwork creation of darkness and light. My eyes don’t know which part of him to settle on first—or how to interpret this man who’s made up of so many contradicting hues of ivory, silver, and ebony.
In the end, I pick his hair, as the pure, harmless black seems to be the least threatening element to focus on.
“Ask me what youreallywant to know,” he demands. His voice catches me off guard. It’s too guttural, his breath searing the nape of my neck as I turn my attention to the opposite end of the room. Anywhere but him. “Ask it.”
“You said I owe you a debt,” I croak. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” He takes a step closer, but there’s a dangerous edge to his tone—a demand he hasn’t uttered out loud—yet.
I lick my lips, desperate to stall. Combat him. Anything. “I think you want to annoy me. What are you, some kind of criminal?”
I look back just in time to catch his eyes narrowing—it’s not the question he expected. Nonetheless, he has an answer ready. “Maybe I am, rabbit. But that wouldn’t scare you, would it? No…” He leans in, his nostrils flaring as if he can smell the truth on my skin. “You love knowing that I’m some dirty little fiend you can sneer down your nose at. It makes it easier to play with fire if youknowyou’ll get burned.”
I turn away, hissing through my teeth. “You don’t know me—”
“Don’t have to. It’s written all over that pretty face,” he interjects. “You can never hide who you really are for long,Hannah.”
I glance back to find his eyes on my name tag pinned to my sweater. It’s the first time he’s actually called me by my real name, but his voice catches over the syllables, distorting the pronunciation. Harmless Hannah transforms into something else. Something guttural and dangerous.
“But judging from the shit you wear, that’s all you’re good at doing. Hiding.”
I self-consciously finger the hem of my sweater. It’s even thicker than my bunny one. “So now you’re a criminalanda fashion expert.”
“Better,” he corrects. Another step and his shadow cuts my body in half. “I’m a criminal who can fucking read.”
He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an item he either carries around for moments like this, or he brought with the sole intent to seek me out—my journal.
“Give it back.” I reach for it, but he dangles it just beyond my reach, letting the pages sway.
