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“I have a bucket.” I nudge my head to the bathroom he referenced. “It is above the w-washing machine.” Thebrokenwashing machine.
Ark moves forward too quickly for my stunned head.
I flinch, and I hate myself for it.
The devastation in his eyes cuts like a knife, as does the sheer actuality beaming from them when he says, “I won’t hurt you, Mara.”
I knowsits on the tip of my tongue, but it remains entombed in my throat no matter how often I try to fire it off. It could be because my fear doesn’t center around myself. Stopping Tillie from facing the demons of my past is the only thing of importance to me right now.
As if he heard my silent pledge that this isn’t about him or me, Ark dips his chin in understanding before he slips past me.
The hairs on my nape prickle when he murmurs, “I will leave the bucket by the door before waiting for you in the kitchen. That way, none of the exits are blocked.”
I should tell him to leave, to let us be, but instead, my lungs inhale a shaky breath before I nod. I don’t want him to leave any more than I wish I were brave enough not to run from him Friday night.
Even with Tillie sitting between us, sick and clammy, the crackling of energy was undeniable during our cab ride across Myasnikov. Even Tillie’s dour mood perked up a smidge after feeding off it.
I can’t see Ark’s face since my eyes are locked on the emergency escape exit hidden behind tattered curtains. I don’t need to. The warmth of his grin makes heating unnecessary. It dots my nape with sweat and has me concerned Tillie’s stomach issues are more sinister than her enjoying too many sugary treats.
Her cheeks are the color of beets.
I learn why when a second after Ark exits her room, partly closing the door behind him, she jackknifes into a half-seated position and adopts a look of shock. She did the same thing when John Pearce replaced the previous Purple Wiggle.
The Wigglesare an Australian children’s program that Tillie fell in love with several years ago. When I announced the reason behind her Australian name, she became Aussie-obsessed. At the start, she watched shows likeThe WigglesandBluey. Now,she devours daytime soaps with Mrs. Lichard every afternoon after school.
Although she outgrew her Wiggles hysteria three years ago, her fascination with John has yet to release its hold.
She is too young to have a boyfriend, so I’ve never discouraged her crush.
I may regret that decision now.
John lives in Australia.
Ark, on the other hand, is only a handful of miles away.
This crush will be more difficult to deter, and I’m not entirely sure I am the right woman for the job. I hardly know the man rummaging through my limited bathroom supplies, yet panic isn’t the only thing slicking my skin with sweat. Excitement is there as well.
After placing my keys on a chest of drawers near Tillie’s door—and having a stern talking-to myself to get with the program—I walk to her bedside. She’s staring at her bedroom door with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. If we were a cartoon, love hearts would be bouncing from her eyes.
“Tillie Malenkov. If Mrs. Pasnov finds out you were pretending to be sick to get an early mark from school, you’ll get detention for a week.”
Her mouth falls open before it snaps shut. “I’m not pretending.” Her voice relays the honesty of her reply, much less the greening of her gills. “I’ve had a sore stomach all day.” Her lovey-dovey expression is back, though not as strong as it was in the cab. “But not even the worst tummy ache would have me missing how pretty he is.”
“Men are not pretty. They’re handsome.”
I unknowingly walk straight into her trap. “So youdidnotice how handsome he is.”
Embarrassed that I’m such an awkward gawker that my ten-year-old noticed, I ruffle her hair before endeavoring to keepmy focus on the cause of her stomachache. “Your tummy is sore because you ate birthday cake for breakfast.” I push back her curls and check her for a temperature to be sure a gluttonous diet is the cause of her sickness. Her forehead feels warm but not scorching hot. “I told you too much sugar is bad for you.”
She folds her arms in front of her chest and huffs. “Mrs. Lichard said the same thing when I packed leftover cake for lunch.”
“Tillie…”
“It was fresher than the bread, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.” Portions of the child I raised hide behind the glint of indulgence in her eyes when she adds, “I know how much you spent on it. I saw the price list at the bakery last week when Mrs. Lichard paid the final payment for you.” Her chin balances on her chest, her loved-up gleam nowhere to be seen. “You shouldn’t have spent so much on me.”
Her quivering bottom lip breaks my heart. “But you loved that cake.”
“I did…” She grips her stomach as the color her cheeks have held for only half a minute drains. “But it doesn’t taste as good coming up as it did going down.”