Page 6

I notice how she’s specific in her choice of words, and the flicker of anger in his eyes.

I catch Starla watching us from across the room.

She sees through the act, I think.

Maybe they all do but are too polite to say anything.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid—another gift from Dylan, never knowing who to trust.

"Babe, can I talk to you for a second?" Dylan's hand finds my elbow, grip just tight enough to be a warning. "Outside? I left something in the car."

My stomach drops, but I nod, following him out.

The cold air hits my flushed cheeks as he leads me around the corner, out of sight from the windows.

My boots crunch on gravel, each step taking me further from safety.

"Three hours," he hisses the second we're alone. "Three fucking hours you ignored my texts."

"I was cooking. My hands were covered in flour?—"

The slap comes fast, sharp enough to snap my head to the side.

Not hard enough to leave a mark—Dylan's too smart for that.

He knows exactly how much force to use, has perfected the art of invisible abuse.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls. "I saw you through the window on my way back. Laughing with those bitches, acting like you don't have a boyfriend waiting for you."

"They're not?—"

"Shut up." He crowds me against the brick wall, cold seeping through my jacket. "You're mine, Everly. Don't forget that. Now we're going back inside, and you're going to smile and act normal. But first..."

His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist right where the old bruises throb. "Your brother's appointment is Tuesday at two. Physical therapy, then prosthetic fitting. No guards. The staff there are very helpful when you know how to ask. Remember that when you're tempted to open your mouth."

"Please—"

"Shh." He strokes my cheek where he just slapped it, gentle now.

The switch makes me feel crazy, unbalanced. "I love you, baby. I just worry when you spend so much time here. These people are dangerous. They'll get you killed just like they got Flora killed."

The irony would be laughable if I wasn't so scared.

These "dangerous" people have never laid a hand on me.

It's the clean-cut boyfriend with the good job who leaves marks.

"Now smile," he orders. "We're going back inside. And Everly? Next time I text, you answer within five minutes. Or we'll have a very different conversation."

I force my face into something resembling happiness as we return to the warmth.

No one seems to notice anything wrong, too busy with dinner preparations to pay attention to me.

Dylan's arm around my shoulders probably looks affectionate, not controlling.

The feast is beautiful when it's finally ready.

Three golden turkeys surrounded by every side dish imaginable, Aziza's perfect pies waiting on the counter.