Page 61 of Unholy Obsession

I did.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—I just ultimatum’d him.

Why did I do that?

I pace in frantic little circles, bouncing on my toes, phone clutched like it’s a grenade. My mind spins out:

Should I text back? Say I didn’t mean it? Play it cool?

Or grovel? Maybe grovel.

No. Fuck that!

But also, maybe yes, grovel.

Ugh, why am I like this?

“Say something!” I hiss at the phone.

But the screen stays stubbornly dark.

No dots.

Just me and my spiraling thoughts.

Minutes drag by, stretching into the unbearable. I consider typing another text—something cute, something flirty, something to undo the explosion I just caused—but the self-loathing bubbles up before I can.

Weak. Stupid. Naïve.

I hate that voice. But it’s mine.

Finally, the phonepings.

I fumble it like a greased-up football, scrambling to unlock the screen.

Bane: Fine. We’ll discuss this tonight.

Relief crashes over me in a tidal wave, but it’s bitter, mixed with dread. I glance up, catching my reflection in the cracked mirror above the grimy sink.

Oh. Shit.

I look like a street cat that’s just lost a turf war. Hair wild, smudged eyeliner from god-knows-when, janitor gloves still dangling from my pocket like sad little flags of defeat.

And I’ve just arranged for my very pissed-off, possibly-keeping-secrets-from-me dominant to meet my brother—who also happens to not be speaking to me—at one of the city’s swankiest yearly galas.

Oh, and I have nothing to wear.

I chuck my gloves into the janitorial bucket, wipe my palms down my jeans like that’ll help, and whip out my phone again.

Fuck. Who’s the fanciest person I know?

I text furiously.

Me: Kira, HELP. Fashion Emergency 911!

TWENTY-THREE

BANE

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