The only sound in the studio is the soft shuffle of my feet against the floor, the slight gasped intake of breath as I power through to the end of the combination.
The mirrors reflect my flushed skin, the rise and fall of my chest. Sweat beads at my temple and trickles down my spine, but the exhaustion is actually a welcome distraction.
I gather up my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I should shower here, but it’s late and I don’t want to linger. Also, the thought of peeling my clothes off in an empty locker room sends an uneasy prickle down my spine for some reason. I’ll shower at home.
Home. The word still doesn’t feel real when applied to the Barone mansion.
I should hate it there. Part of me still does. The sheer scale of the house swallows me whole. And it still doesn’t feel like mine.
I’m not sure if it ever will.
But it’s not just the house.
It’s him.
Carmine.
I don’t know what to make of him. Of us. It’s not as simple anymore as him just being the monster who stormed into my life and tore it to shreds. The cold-blooded man who forced a ring onto my finger.
It’s that he makes me feel anchored.
And that scares me.
I shouldn’t feel this way when he’s capable of such violence and brutality. When I’ve seen past the figurative mask and glimpsed the devil lurking behind those cold blue eyes and that perfect bone structure.
But there’s something in the way he looks at me—like I belong to him and he’d raze the world if it was necessary to keep me.
I hate it, but I crave that.
But it’s not even just that, or the memory of his hands on me when he claimed me like he had every right.
It’s the way his presence lingers even when he’s not there. The way his absence feels like a game I don’t know the rules to.
He hasn’t touched me since that night. Hasn’t spoken to me. And yet, I feel him everywhere. My skin prickles when he walks into a room, my breath hitches when I catch him watching me.
Because that’s what he does. He watches.
And the worst part? I don’t know if I hate it.
I also don’t know if I want him to stay away, or force him to break the distance he’s put between us.
Don’t know if I want to run away entirely, or run so he will chase me again.
He makes me remember things I’ve tried to forget. Things I’ve buried so deep that I sometimes forget they’re even there—until they come roaring out in the blackest part of the night.
Dark things. Twisted things. Things I’ve always been ashamed of wanting.
But Carmine sees them, and he doesn’t let me hide from them.
And now, no matter how much I try to shove it down or try to tell myself that I shouldn’t want what I do—
I can’t unsee what’s inside me.
I can’t forget the way I responded to him.
And I sure as hell can’t pretend it isn’t still there, lurking beneath my skin, waiting for him to rip it out again to show it to me.
I tighten my grip on my bag and exhale decisively, forcing the thoughts away. I step outside into the cold night air, hoping it will clear my head. The alley is dark, just a dim glow of a flickering streetlamp cutting through the shadows. My breath fogs and I pull my coat tighter around me, shifting my bag on my shoulder.
Then I feel it.
The familiar, awful prickle of being watched—though it’s not the same sensation I get when it’s Carmine.
A figure steps out from the shadows, and my stomach clenches.
Marcus Chen smiles a sneering smile. “Hello, Lyra,” he says smoothly, like we’re old friends.
Of all the people to show up in the dead of night, it had to be Marcus; AKA the motherfucker who runs The Truth Report. The same asshole whose been peddling lies about me and my connections to my father’s crimes for years.
And he’s not alone. Chris Hodgkins lingers just behind him.
Heart-wrenching images of Jordana Hodgkins’ face in the newspapers flash through my mind, along with the nauseating headlines about atrocities that happened twenty feet beneath the floor of the very kitchen I ate in every night.
The pure, seething hatred on Chris’s face the night he found me in the bodega isn’t as sharp now. He’s tense, thoughtful, his fists curling and uncurling like he’s trying to make a decision. Like he’s not entirely convinced of what he’s about to do.
Marcus, though? He’s convinced.
He steps forward, blocking my path. “Late night?”
I stiffen, forcing a blank expression even as my blood turns to ice in my veins. “Get away from me, Marcus.” I swallow heavily. “You can’t be near me. Restraining order, remember?”
His lips curve. “Fuck the restraining order.” He glances back at Chris, then nods toward the street. “We have things to discuss. Some hard questions for you.”
I shift, my grip tightening on my bag. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Marcus’s smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I think you have everything to say to me.”
I take a step back. Suddenly, his one hand lands heavily on my shoulder. The other opens his coat just a bit.
I see the cold glint of metal.
A gun.
My breath catches. Marcus leans in, voice low. “I’d hate for this to get messy. But the people are done with your lies.”
A sharp pulse of fear zips through me. I glance at Chris. His jaw is tight, his eyes flicking between us.
He doesn’t like this.
Good. Maybe that will work in my favor.
“This way, Lyra. Move. Now.”
I’m shaking as Marcus leads me to a waiting car. The engine’s running, and there’s another guy behind the wheel—a swarthy, bearded man who glares pure hate at me.
“Get in the fucking car, monster.”
His words slam into me and I shudder as his eyes eviscerate me.
I’ve seen his type before. I’ve seen that same look of pure hatred and revulsion in the eyes of a dozen or so of Marcus’ more fervent followers over the years—men who read his blog, where he’d publicly post my address. Or listened to his podcast where he’d spew lies about me—that I lured the girls in and was in cahoots with my father.
Or the foulest lie of all: that I assisted in their torture and assault.
Nausea rises inside me. For a second, I reach for the phone in my pocket. But the second I pull it out, Marcus shakes his head and puts his meaty hand on my shoulder again.
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Lyra. Get in the car.”
