Page 35 of Painted Scars
I zero in on the women’s conversation and anticipate a string of death threats, plans to slash tires, or contact the boss’ wife. Wrong. They’re talking about me. Gushing about red flags. Worshipping me. I’m not surprised, given the direction of their book club.
Kate toys with her lip, and I’ve never envied a finger more. “He’s sweet. Grumpy. My dark stalker.”
“No, cupcake. You want the red flags, not green ones.” Murder Spice grins like it’s the best news she’s heard all year.
Kate presses her hands to her chest. “I just know I’m one step away from severed fingers in a gift box.”
I cough and choke. What in the fresh hell? Definitely no love declarations like that happening anytime soon.
They clink wine glasses together.
“To sexy, grumpy stalkers!” Kate toasts.
“To red flags!” Murder Spice cheers, and they laugh, celebrate me and write fanfiction about our future.
One part of me wants to melt. The other wonders why they don’t call the cops instead. Kate should run screaming, not clapand down wine based on the list of actual crimes I’ve committed just on her behalf—trespassing, illegal surveillance, threats of violence, obstruction of Harry’s property. Luckily for me, she’s unaware.
Murder Spice plays with her lip ring. “Can I wear black at your wedding?”
Jesus.I haven’t even proposed “surveillance with benefits,” and they’re choosing the floral arrangements. Better get out my tux. And a shovel.
The girls get carried away for another hour, waving red flag victory banners, until she falls asleep on the sofa and Murder Spice retires for the evening, ascending the stars with PJ3 trailing behind her.
I check in on other Spartacus operations for over forty minutes, and Kate wakes, trailing up the stairs.
Bark bites into my gloves as I scale a tree to maintain my vigil. Boots wedged into the grooves of the old oak, I climb another branch, and it groans under my weight but holds. Two more pulls get me high enough to leap onto the roof tiles with a dull thump. Years of chasing down scumbags across commercial rooftops gave me plenty of practice, though none of those jobs were glitter bomb distractions that made me scale faster than I ever have before.
Fuck, she’s alone in her room and drops the mask, leaning on the door, swiping away a tear and sniffing. She stays there until her legs find the will to move forward. Her room is pristine and spotless, but she kicks off her shoes and leaves them on the carpet, and tosses her coat on the edge of the bed.
At the drawer mirror, she takes herself in, flinching at the sight of the bruises on her wrist where that bastard grabbed her. She grazes them absently and sits on the bed, spine curved, shoulders dropped. Her face smooths into the blank expressionvictims get when they climb into an ambulance, their body stuck in the fight, their mind in the loop of terror.
I want to break the latch on her window and crawl through, wrap her in my arms, and tell her she’s safe. I can’t. She needs space to fall apart without an audience, and I let her have it, even if it kills me.
I count the seconds until she blinks and breathes. Eventually she finds the strength to rise, and fumbles to pop the clasp on her earrings and remove them. She lights a candle on her nightstand. A comfort or control ritual.
She disappears into the bathroom and changes into silky gold pajamas that hug every curve. Hair flows in waves over her shoulders as she mechanically brushes it. She pulls on a long kimono robe, cinches it tight, and reclines on her bed. For a long moment, she just breathes and stares at the candle.
The moment breaks and she picks up her phone. The screen’s soft glow banishes the shadows on her face. Her forefinger flicks the screen as if she scrolls her social media feed. A small smile returns. And just like that, she’s back. Fine, but not untouched. Rebuilding after the thunderstorm.
“Oh, yeah! Daddy, come to Mama.” Her voice carries through the glass as she types in a reply.
The words hit me hard and hot.
Who the fuck is she texting?
My phone vibrates. A new comment post on Katar’s Instagram feed from Smut $lut. Kate’s handle. Grayson connected me to the account to monitor her activity.
Kate: I volunteer as tribute Tattoo your name into my skin with your knife @Pierced&Possesive.
Flames lick up my spine. I don’t know what this feeling is. Jealousy? Anger. Possessiveness. My fingers hover over the damn reply button.
I start typingAre you mad?Delete that—it’s not something the psychotic antihero she craves would say. I summon my best Katar flirty and unhinged response and type back to her.
Me: I’ll carve my name into your heart.
What. The. Fuck. Did. I. Just. Do?
Her scream echoes in her room.
