Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Prove it.” Her voice drops to embers.
I tremble as I reach back and unclasp the hood. I rip the mask off, my breathing labored. Cool air rushes over my skin, and I watch her pupils dilate as my face emerges.
Her breath leaves in a shudder. “Arrow.”
One word, soft as prayer. Then she’s moving—hands threading into my hair, tugging my mouth down to hers. The kiss detonates. It’s hot, desperate, and every minute of secrecy igniting at once. I groan against her lips, arms locking around her waist, crushing leather and cotton together.
She tastes like cinnamon coffee and burnt adrenaline. Her teeth nip my lower lip, and I answer with a hungry tilt, grazing her tongue. She gasps, the sound vibrating through both of us. My hands roam—up her back, over her tense shoulder blades, settling at the base of her skull where I cradle her like something precious.
She breaks away just far enough to speak. “You owe me years of honesty, Arrow.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life paying.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the sensitive patch below her ear. She shivers violently.
“You kissed me with rubber,” she pants. “Kiss me for real.”
I obey, my mouth crushing hers, deeper, giving and taking. Her fingers sweep beneath my hoodie hem, skimming my flank, and my pulse stutters so hard I nearly stumble. She presses forward, body pinning mine against the desk edge until hard wood digs into my thighs. The monitors rattle, their screen savers flickering like distant fireworks.
“Wait,” she whispers, pushing me away.
“What?”
She waves her hand like she’s putting clues together in her head. “How?”
I stumble over my thoughts as I answer, “How what?”
“How did you know I had gone on the dark web and—” She pauses. “—how did you know?”
Fuck. This is something I wasn’t looking forward to explaining. “Let’s go back to the kissing,” I say, trying to lay on my charm, but she’s not having any of it.
“I’m serious, Arrow. How?” She parks both hands on her hips in a way that lets me know I need to answer her now or lose her forever.
I take a step back, breathing in deep. “Spyware on your computer.”
She gasps, like a literal gasp. “What does this mean? Like can you see me through my computer?”
“No, nothing like that… well, technically, but no.”
Her eyes blow wide as she steps back. “You’ve been spying on me? Reading my emails? And god knows what else.”
“I did it to keep you safe.” No, this is all going wrong. “I did it to protect you.”
She moves to the other side of the room. Quickly. Too quickly. “I can’t believe you, Arrow. You don’t think I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
“Well, you’re not.” Oops. I can tell this was the wrong thing to say by the look on her face.
“I’m not?” she whispers, and I cross the room to touch her in some small way, reaching out my hand, but she blocks it. “Don’t touch me. Arrow, I’ve never been more mad in my life.”
“Juno, listen, your sister was murdered… we have no idea who did it, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t next.”
“So, you spied on me.” She moves toward the door. “No, I get it. Spy on me and make sure I’m good. Read my emails. Would you like me to install cameras so you can watch me?”
“Well, you already have Ring cameras,” I remind her, and somehow I think I’ve said the wrong thing again.
“And what… you can just hack my Ring, right?”
“Well, technically…” I need to stop with the honesty. I should definitely not tell her I’ve known her passcode to her Ring account for years, and no… I’ve never logged in. Not once.
“I hate you,” she says with conviction.
“That’s harsh.” I step back like she’s slapped me.
“I do…” she looks like she wants to say more, but instead she just hangs her head low and walks out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
And the silence she leaves behind in her wake is deafening.
19
Juno
The mandala on page forty-three is supposed to be about balance. Symmetry. A thousand tiny petals all taking turns being the center. My therapist would say that’s a metaphor. I say it’s a lie. Nothing in my life is symmetrical right now. Not grief. Not love. Certainly not trust.
It’s been three days since the fight.
Three days since Arrow—my Arrow, my Hoover, my everything-I-didn’t-know-I-wanted—said “I’m sorry” for the spyware he installed on my laptop, and I said “I hate you,” and the words ricocheted around the loft until both of us flinched. Three days of texts I haven’t answered. Three days of me pacing my apartment like a cat that hasn’t decided whether to scratch or curl up and purr.
The pencil in my hand snaps. I drop the broken half into the mess on my coffee table—coloring book, scattered receipts, a half-eaten cranberry muffin that tastes like guilt—and scrub my face with my palms. On my phone: a row of unread messages.