Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
We kick off our boots and hang our jackets by the door. I toss my sketchbook on the table, and we eat without talking, hunched over our plates, scrolling on our phones like strangers.
“Who’s texting you?” Finished eating, I collect our empty plates.
She hesitates, then says, “Jag.”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t ask for details. She’ll just ignore me. But my anger rises fast, pressing under my skin.
“Want a drink?” I ask instead.
“Sure.”
I pour two vodkas, one of Kody’s latest infusions. Birch and spruce tip. Smoky. Earthy. Tastes like Alaska in a glass. I hand her a tumbler and lean against the counter, sipping from mine.
We stand in silence. The kitchen light hums overhead. Our shadows stretch across the floor, reaching for each other, trying to bridge the gap we don’t know how to cross.
“You drew today?” She turns her attention to my sketchbook.
“Yeah.”
“Anything good?”
I flip it open, the pages curling from being handled too much, and show her the latest ones.
Dark Disney princesses. Horror-style. Steampunk Belle with mechanical limbs and cracked porcelain skin. A reimagined Sleeping Beauty tangled in IV lines, trapped in an endless lucid dream. Snow White with broken mirror shards embedded in her skin, each one reflecting a different distorted version of her face.
Most of them look like Dove in some twisted way. The graceful shape of her features. The curve of her mouth. Her eyes, always angry or defiant.
“Wow.” She stares at the illustrations for a long time, flipping back and forth between them. “You’re insanely talented.”
“Thanks. It’s my take on the classic fairy tale heroines. They’re all tough in an unconventional and misunderstood way. They appear self-destructive, but some dark shit has happened to them, and they take matters into their own hands.”
Like someone else I know.
Her gaze flicks to mine.
She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch me. But she gifts me with her eyes. Steady, bright, curious eyes. It’s the most intimate thing she’s given me.
“Do you have tattoos?” Her gaze skips down my body and quickly returns to my face.
“You wanna check?”
She gives me a bland look.
The truth is I have too many scars. Deep, ugly scars that aren’t healed enough to cover with ink. I’m not sure they will ever heal.
“No tattoos.” I shrug. “You?”
“None.” She tips the glass back, swallows what’s left, and sets it down with a soft clink. “I always wanted ink. Know anyone good who works with difficult canvases?”
“Depends.” I lean in, making her blink. “I’d love to mark you. But not if you’re going to disappear the second it means something.”
Her breath catches, and she briefly closes her eyes. “I’m sorry I shut you out today.”
“I forgive you.”
“Don’t forgive me so fast.”
“Then be sorry slower.”
A soft breath pushes through her nose. If she were another woman, it could’ve been a laugh.
I finish my drink and rinse our glasses. “Tell me about your new job.”
“I can come and go whenever.” She rests a hip against the counter beside me. “Work as much or as little as I want. Paid by the job. No pressure.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I need to work as much as possible.”
“I go to Sitka every morning, catching a ride with Kody and Leo, or I take one of their yachts. You’re not trapped here. You can commute with me. Or Kai can take you whenever.”
She nods.
“I didn’t see Jag today.” I nod at her phone. “You’re talking to him?”
“He texts me. I don’t respond.”
Good to know the scary stepbrother isn’t getting better treatment than me.
I grab my sketchpad and head to the couch.
Shockingly, she curls up beside me, feet tucked under her, keeping her distance, but her eyes stay on mine.
“Jag will be back in Sitka tonight.” She draws in a slow breath. “What are you going to do about your job?”
“I’ll go in. I’ll draw. I’ll ink. And I’ll leave.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll deal with him.” I twist on the couch to face her. “Did he make you this way?”
“What way is that? Cold? Defensive? Distant?”
“You’re not cold. You’re armored.”
“And you?” She tilts her head. “What are you?”
“Charming.”
“And humble.” Her lips twitch.
I reach for her hand, and she tenses. But she doesn’t pull away. My thumb traces the calluses on her fingers, her palm warm and small against mine.
“You didn’t have to bring me lunch,” she whispers.
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because the thought of you going hungry makes me feel sick.”
She looks down at our hands.
Then she stands, walks to the stairs, and, without a backward glance, goes up. The door to her room closes. Not a slam. Just… Final.
I sit there, staring at the dent her body left in the couch cushion.
I’ve never felt more alone.
Everything inside me vibrates with the urge to chase her. To force her to talk. To ask her why she’s always halfway on the run from me.
But I don’t.
If I go up there, she’ll open the door only to shut it in my face.