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Then I strip, balancing in the micro-aisle between the chipped vanity counter and the avocado-colored tub.
When the gown’s zipper sticks, I’d rather ask Bridget to braid my hair than ask the guys for help. I yank the torn skirt, cleansing myself with the riiip, riiiiiiip, riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip that reminds me how close I am to finally breaking free.
I pile my get-away items from the stash that’s been strapped to my thighs or shoved down the front of my gown.
Pistol. Cash. Fake makeup clutch of doom, hiding a poison payload.
The shower isn’t hot enough to fog the mirror, so I spot my nasty throat before I can duck behind the sunflower-print curtain.
Desperate to cover my body, I quick-wash, using the detachable shower head to avoid wetting my face.
I can’t scrape off my makeup layer.
I’ll die before I let the guys see me bare.
I don’t even dare let out my pheromones under the safety of the spray. But at least they’re not as wild after coming out to play.
Trying to erase the feel of lingering alpha hands, I flub and fling the bar of soap. It hits the tub like a bowling ball.
Booooong!
Before I can recover, Reese pounds the door. “Princess? You okay in there?”
“Fine.” I catch the soap before it flies away again. “Be out in a minute.”
Please don’t let him start calling me princess.
It’s worse than Serafina.
I’ve never been a princess.
Never even hoped for a crown.
I want to move beyond the old dreams I’ve given up and build a new me. Not a Darling, a Redfang, or even a flipping Moon.
Marisol no-last-name, who does what she wants and answers to no one.
To achieve that, I have to stop being soft.
I scrub myself raw, dragging out the clock.
I’m wondering if I can hang in the bathroom until dawn when I smell frying onions and spices, and my stomach starts to growl.
I haven’t eaten since those spa lettuce wraps.
After drying off, I slip into Dany’s sweats, then scowl. My makeup is looking melty, and even with a T-shirt underneath, the cropped jacket makes me feel ridiculously on display.
Should’ve gone with the potato sack.
I end up stealing Lisa’s mint green bathrobe, promising I’ll send the fam a gift card after I land somewhere safe.
That’s the last they’ll ever need to hear from me.
The food smell hits harder when I peek into the hall. Something sizzles in the kitchen, where three magnetic voices whisper back and forth.
“—can’t put salsa on hers. What if she doesn’t like spice?”
“Imagine? Tragedy.”
