Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Tillie looks so calm when Ark places her on her bed. She doesn’t even flinch when he tugs up the covers on her bed like she isn’t wearing shoes.
I’m not surprised he’s missed them. Her gym shoes are so soleless that she may as well not be wearing any.
“Do you have a bucket? Or are you happy for her to continue using your purse?”
When Ark spins around to witness my response to his witty comment, his eyes lower to the key I’m clutching as a makeshift shiv before they lift to my face. His lips arch at one side as if he’s happy I’ve prepared for a battle, before he glances past me.
“The bathroom is close, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. It isn’t hard to remove vomit from carpet, but the smell takes ages to go away.” He sounds as if he is speaking from experience, and it eases my hesitation by a smidge.
“I have a bucket.” I nudge my head to the bathroom he referenced. “It is above the w-washing machine.” The broken washing machine.
Ark moves forward too quickly for my stunned head.
I flinch, and I hate myself for it.
The devastation in his eyes cuts like a knife, as does the sheer actuality beaming from them when he says, “I won’t hurt you, Mara.”
I know sits on the tip of my tongue, but it remains entombed in my throat no matter how often I try to fire it off. It could be because my fear doesn’t center around myself. Stopping Tillie from facing the demons of my past is the only thing of importance to me right now.
As if he heard my silent pledge that this isn’t about him or me, Ark dips his chin in understanding before he slips past me.
The hairs on my nape prickle when he murmurs, “I will leave the bucket by the door before waiting for you in the kitchen. That way, none of the exits are blocked.”
I should tell him to leave, to let us be, but instead, my lungs inhale a shaky breath before I nod. I don’t want him to leave any more than I wish I were brave enough not to run from him Friday night.
Even with Tillie sitting between us, sick and clammy, the crackling of energy was undeniable during our cab ride across Myasnikov. Even Tillie’s dour mood perked up a smidge after feeding off it.
I can’t see Ark’s face since my eyes are locked on the emergency escape exit hidden behind tattered curtains. I don’t need to. The warmth of his grin makes heating unnecessary. It dots my nape with sweat and has me concerned Tillie’s stomach issues are more sinister than her enjoying too many sugary treats.
Her cheeks are the color of beets.
I learn why when a second after Ark exits her room, partly closing the door behind him, she jackknifes into a half-seated position and adopts a look of shock. She did the same thing when John Pearce replaced the previous Purple Wiggle.
The Wiggles are an Australian children’s program that Tillie fell in love with several years ago. When I announced the reason behind her Australian name, she became Aussie-obsessed. At the start, she watched shows like The Wiggles and Bluey. Now, she devours daytime soaps with Mrs. Lichard every afternoon after school.
Although she outgrew her Wiggles hysteria three years ago, her fascination with John has yet to release its hold.
She is too young to have a boyfriend, so I’ve never discouraged her crush.
I may regret that decision now.
John lives in Australia.
Ark, on the other hand, is only a handful of miles away.
This crush will be more difficult to deter, and I’m not entirely sure I am the right woman for the job. I hardly know the man rummaging through my limited bathroom supplies, yet panic isn’t the only thing slicking my skin with sweat. Excitement is there as well.
After placing my keys on a chest of drawers near Tillie’s door—and having a stern talking-to myself to get with the program—I walk to her bedside. She’s staring at her bedroom door with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. If we were a cartoon, love hearts would be bouncing from her eyes.
“Tillie Malenkov. If Mrs. Pasnov finds out you were pretending to be sick to get an early mark from school, you’ll get detention for a week.”
Her mouth falls open before it snaps shut. “I’m not pretending.” Her voice relays the honesty of her reply, much less the greening of her gills. “I’ve had a sore stomach all day.” Her lovey-dovey expression is back, though not as strong as it was in the cab. “But not even the worst tummy ache would have me missing how pretty he is.”
“Men are not pretty. They’re handsome.”
I unknowingly walk straight into her trap. “So you did notice how handsome he is.”