Page 27 of Widow's Walk

She’s struggling to remain conscious, but I need more. “Tell me about Royce.”

She doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, the chill in her voice is worse than her silence. “Someone should really put that dog down. He’s sick.”

I lean in even closer, my tone careful. “What did he do to you, Sinclair?”

The light in her eyes flickers as she yawns again, slow and heavy. Her eyelids droop, and I know my time with this docile version of Sinclair has ended. “Rest, Clair. We’ll talk more later.”

She flutters her lashes at me, and I can make out all the colors that make up her hazel eyes. “No one has ever called meClairbefore.”

That hits hard, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I squeeze at the back of my neck where the tension is building. “I don’t know where it came from,” I murmur.

“You have to have friends to have a nickname. I wasn’t allowed friends. Only a list of approved acquaintances. I hated all of them.” Her words are meant to be sharp, but they come out slurred.

I snort. “Yeah, I heard how you scared them all off.”

“It was certainly entertaining. Until it wasn’t.” She sighs. “I met your cousin Kamea once before our engagement party. Don’t tell her this, but I didn’t hate her.” Her lips are slightly curved, but her blinks grow slower.

“Wouldn’t want anyone to know there’s a heart in there.”

She stares back at me. “I could say the same for you. You don’t have to be here.”

“You’re my fiancée and my responsibility,” I say robotically.

She gives up the last of her energy to smile. “I fucking love your lies,” she slurs.

“Why?” I ask instead of what.

“Because it’s easy to see the truth beneath them.”

I’m silent as her eyes finally succumb to the fatigue, and her breathing has already evened out. But as soon as it’s quiet, I go back to plotting.

The only other thing I can seem to think about other than Sinclair lately is the sweet revenge I will have on her family. Plotting, fantasizing, mapping out their extermination.

Chapter eleven

Sinclair

Iconceal the cans, the bowl, and bottled water beneath my jacket like I’m smuggling drugs.

The hedge maze has become my refuge. I spent an entire day mapping it out. Now, it’s where I go to ditch my stalkers Blackwell still assigns to tail me most days. Dumbasses with pecs for brains. I’d hide behind hedges and watch in amusement as they wandered like overgrown toddlers.

Today, for whatever reason, I don’t have anyone following me. No shadows. No footsteps behind me. No one to lose as I breeze through the maze like I’ve done it a thousand times. There’s a bench deep inside, tucked in the heart of the greenery. It’s where the world feels far away, and I can pretend for five minutes I’m free.

It’s also where I met Blender. A cat who looks like she got tossed into a blender and barely survived. She’s mangy and may have the appearance only a mother could love, but she’s sweet and friendly, despite whatever she’s been through.

I sayherbecause I get a survivor vibe from her. Not a masochistic entitled asshole one.

She’s living proof of what people are capable of when there are no consequences. No accident could’ve carved wounds like hers. I would know. Her scars are forged with malice and intention.

Clicking my tongue and whistling softly, I call her name. She appears only seconds later, leaping from the undergrowth like a purring phantom. Hopping right up onto the bench, and to me, rubbing her dirty, skeletal body all over my legs.

I smile and hide the cringe when I run my hand along her spine, where I can feel every vertebra. “Hey, Blender,” I say softly. She keeps rubbing against me aggressively, purring. “Got a surprise for you.”

I pull out a can of wet food and she loses her shit. Circling, meowing, tripping over herself, trying to climb into my lap. I peel the can open and she barely lets me set the can down before diving in face-first.

“Whoa, whoa—slow down,” I say gently, trying to ease the can back. I did some research and learned that I shouldn’t feed her too much too soon. To give her a little at a time.

I vigilantly watch her as I open the bottle of water and pour some into a bowl. Once she devours half of the can, I take it away and try to slide the water to her. She protests immediately, clawing at my jacket sleeve, trying to scale me like a tree. “I know, Blender. I’d be pissed too. Go ahead and claw my eyes out.” She continues her tantrum. “I’m sorry, but no,” I say firmly, and raise the can over my head.

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