Her throat moves in a strained swallow. I can practically decipher the venomous words she wants to scream before she forces her mouth to stay shut. She will never allow herself to look like an insecure, unhinged psycho in front of Graham. She can’t risk him running away from her.
If she could speak her mind right now, she’d be screaming:You filthy little bitch, get your hands off him. He’s mine. You think an ordinary nobody like you can steal him away from me? He’s mine. Mine. You ugly bitch.
Instead, I watch the exact moment her face shifts, feigning shock and concern—when I know damn well that if she could choke the life out of me right here in front of him, she would.
“Oh no! Sweetheart, what happened? Are you okay?” she shrieks, her voice dripping with artificial warmth.
Her hips sway as she navigates the smoke, dropping down right at her husband’s side. She crouches low near him while I’mstill sprawled on the floor. She reaches out, trying to grab his hand, desperate to force his touch off my skin and onto her own.
He brushes her hand off without a second thought. Valeria’s right eye gives a microscopic twitch.
When I don’t immediately respond to her fake concern, the twitch in her eye becomes an erratic flutter. She is fighting a losing battle with the demons living inside her head. God help me when they finally claw their way out.
I will myself to speak, knowing I need to say something—anything—to appease the monster sitting in front of me, but my throat feels too dry, scorched by the ash and smoke.
“Her room caught fire,” Graham spits out. He moves his hand, caressing both my hair and my cheek now. Right under his wife’s gaze.
This has to be some sick game they are playing together. Because there is no way a human being can be this brazen.
Valeria brings a manicured hand to her chest, a perfect, dramatic gasp escaping her glossed mouth. “Oh my god! Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re okay. Did you forget a candle burning again?”
My brows furrow. I don’t even own a single scented candle. I grew up in poverty, for God’s sake, and that stinginess followed me into adulthood. I don’t buy anything that isn’t an absolute necessity. She knows exactly how this fire started. She's the one who set it.
But when the threatening look in her twitching eyes grows more persistent, demanding my compliance, I force myself to give her a small nod.
“It’s fine, Maya. Don’t worry about the mess,” Graham mutters. “There is another spare bedroom upstairs. The one right next to mine.”
I instantly shake my head. My mind starts racing, connecting the dots. Valeria and Graham sleep in separatebedrooms, completely opposite each other on entirely different wings of the mansion. What the fuck kind of game are they playing? He is placing me in a bedroom closer to his own than to his own wife’s.
Valeria’s face completely drops. But she catches herself, quickly scrambling to recover her poise.
“Oh, no, absolutely not,” she says. “That room hasn't been aired out properly, Graham. She can just sleep in my room until hers gets cleaned—”
“No,” Graham cuts her off.
His powerful arms slide beneath my back and under my knees, lifting me effortlessly. I gasp, my hands instinctively clutching at his broad shoulders for balance, and the moment my skin meets his, the tears track hot, wet lines down my ash-smeared cheeks.
I’m crying because I’m utterly terrified. What he’s doing right now is making my life a living hell. He is painting a target directly on my back.
Valeria doesn't say another word. As Graham turns his back to the doorway, I look over his shoulder.
Without her husband's eyes on her, I see it clear as day. The demon living inside her is staring right back at me. I know with absolute certainty that it won't be long before that devil returns to burn me to nothing but ash.
6
Maya
Aweek since he moved me into his space, and I can feel him every night.
This man comes to my room at midnight every fucking night, sits on my vanity chair, and just stares at me. I, of course, pretend to be asleep. But I have a sickening suspicion that he knows I’m awake. He walks into my room, lights a cigarette, pulls the vanity chair close to the edge of my bed, and watches.
Like I’m a priceless piece of art. Like I’m the view of an ocean in Italy through a small kitchen window. Like I’m something he’d die to possess.
No one has ever looked at me like that before, and I equal parts hate it and crave it. Because when he does it, I don’t feel like nothing. Or ordinary. Or about as interesting as a wall of wet paint drying. I feel like a siren. An enigma.
And that’s why this is getting dangerous.
No matter what or how my sister makes me feel, I’m not using her husband to pick up my broken pieces. That’s just low. Even if she did, at some point… try to kill me. I still can’t completely wrap my head around it. Did I confront her about the fire? No. Did she mention it again? No.
