Page 61 of Raziel
I snapped.
My hand moved before my brain caught up—grabbing her by the throat, backing her against the wall with a thud that knocked a picture frame loose.
“You running to him now?” I growled, voice shaking with rage. “Did you fuck him?”
Her eyes widened. She wasn’t scared, though. She was furious.“Let me go.”
I didn’t. My other hand yanked her dress down hard. “You wore no fucking underwear for him, Maya? You dressed like this for him?”
She slapped me. Full force. My face burned. Her eyes were wild now, daring me to retaliate.
I should have left. I should have walked out and tried again.
Instead, I glared down at her.
“If he touches you again,” I said, my voice barely audible, “I’ll break both his hands. Then I’ll make you watch me torture him.”
She shoved me hard in the chest, and I let her.
She ran down the hallway, into her room, the door slamming behind her.
I rolled my head on my neck. I felt more like myself than I had in a long time. I’d been living a life that didn’t fit me.
Now I just needed to acquaint Maya with the real me.
Chapter twenty five- Maya
The silence in my apartment was thick and heavy as a blanket. For three days, it had smothered everything. I wasn’t talking to him.
He hadn’t left.
And he was acting weird.
The first day, I’d been too numb to fight when he maneuvered me onto the couch, pulled me against his chest, and just held me. He turned onA Bronx Taleand buried his face in my hair while we watched. I lay there, stiff, staring at the screen. He held on like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff.
That afternoon, someone knocked at the door. He answered and disappeared for ten minutes. When he came back, he was holding the necklace I’d flushed—or one just like it—dangling from his fingers. It was clean, gleaming, no trace of its toilet-water baptism.
“Put it on,” he said, his voice rough. It wasn’t a request.
I refused, crossing my arms. A flash of that terrifying anger sparked in his eyes, but he banked it fast. He moved behind me, his body crowding mine, and clasped the cold metal around my neck himself. His fingers brushed my skin, and a traitorous shiver ran down my spine.
Not a time to be horny. I checked myself.
The second day was worse. He tried to be normal. It was the most unnerving thing I’d ever witnessed. He cooked. Cleaned. Served me. Gave me soft kisses and didn’t even try for sex.
His jealousy from that night never left; it was a constant. If my phone buzzed, his head would snap up from whatever he was pretending to read. Once, he picked it up off the coffee table, thumb hovering over the screen.
“Who’s Carla?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.
“My sponsor,” I said flatly, not looking up from the magazine I wasn’t reading. “Call her. Ask her about counseling. You need it, weirdo.”
He set the phone down slowly, his expression unreadable.
I put a code on it after that.
That night, he came in while I was brushing my teeth, holding the phone up like it was evidence in a murder trial.
“Why’d you put a fucking code on this?”
