Page 37 of Savage Vows
I take the phone that’s been left for me and step into the smaller room, closing the door behind me. It smells faintly of dust and cedar, like it hasn’t been used in years. I sit on the edge of the bed and turn the phone over in my hands. Black, older model, but not ancient.
When I power it on, the home screen is blank. No photos, no messages, no apps beyond the basics. Wiped clean.
Of course. He’s not stupid enough to hand me something I can use against him.
Still, it’s an iPhone. Same as my old one. There’s even a SIM already in it.
I type in my Apple ID and wait. The familiar login screen feels like a lifeline. The first thing I do is locate my old phone. The map shows it—still active, still at the brownstone. I swipe to erase it completely. If my father thought he could go through it, that chance is gone now.
Only then do I pull up the backup. I stare at the spinning icon for what feels like hours, but when the home screen fills with my old layout, my photos, my contacts, my messages, it feels like breathing after holding my breath too long.
I scroll through my contacts, stopping at a few familiar names. Bella. Julie. Julianne. A couple of numbers from my work that might still be useful.
This smaller bedroom doesn’t have a bathroom. I stare at the bare walls, then at the door that connects to his. I could wait until morning, but I don’t want to.
I turn the handle quietly and step inside.
Dante is sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to me, shirtless. The muscles in his shoulders shift as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Pale lines cross his skin—long, narrow, some faint, others more recent. They don’t look like accidents.
I stand there for a second too long, wondering what could have left marks like that.
“I—uh—I need to use the bathroom,” I say. My voice makes him turn, his eyes locking on mine. In the same motion, he reaches for a shirt draped over the bed and pulls it on.
“My room doesn’t have one,” I add, feeling sheepish now that I’ve been caught staring.
He just points toward the door across the room.
I cross quickly, close the bathroom door behind me, and take my time. When I come out, I’ve changed into the only clean top I have left from my bag—a faded pink Hello Kitty shirt I wear to sleep.
He glances up once, takes in the shirt, then goes back to his phone.
“Can I go see my friend tomorrow?” I ask.
Without looking at me, he says, “Why don’t you invite her here?”
It’s not an offer. It’s a reminder that in this place, my freedom still depends on him.
10
DANTE
I lie on my bed,one arm behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
She’s less than twenty feet away. I can feel it. The thin wall between our rooms doesn’t change that. I’m aware of her the way I’m aware of a loaded weapon—silent, but impossible to ignore.
I haven’t slept in this room in years. Not since I moved into my apartment in the city, where the noise outside belongs to strangers and no one knows my name. I like the quiet there. The distance.
Here, there’s no quiet. Not with her.
I know she saw my scars. She tried to hide it, but I could feel her eyes on my back before she said a word.
Most people ask about them. Or pretend not to notice while staring anyway. She didn’t ask. She looked, then looked away, like she already knew they were something she shouldn’t touch.
I’m not sure if I like that or hate it.
Her voice is still in my head from earlier. Asking about her friend. Standing in that doorway in a ridiculous pink shirt, looking like she doesn’t belong here and somehow fits at the same time.
I should stop thinking about her.
