Page 4 of The Viper's Wife

I drop onto the edge of a metal chair and huddle into Mei’s coat.

When I have my own place, I want a balcony just like this—with a nice view and brightly colored Christmas lights hanging from the roof. I’ll put potted plants with fat green leaves around the border and drink my coffee in silence while the sun rises and a shaggy dog rests at my feet.

The singular fantasy that’s protected me through all of my frustrations and struggles over the years, of myownplace, fades as I finger the slip of paper in my dress pocket.

Watch yourself.

Four days ago, I found the tiny paper scrap, placed on top of my art supplies and nightmarishly collaged together with magazine letters to tell me a single message—watch yourself.

Mom is the only person who might’ve left me a message like that, but usually when she gets in a fight with Dad and goes on one of her trips, she’ll send me a long, drawn-out text message about what a piece of shit Dad is, nothing like the ominous two-word warning in my pocket.

I’d just call her up and ask her, but she hasn’t beenanswering my calls. Not so strange, except for the other circumstances surrounding her departure.

Dad’s yacht party.

His punishment.

After what happened, he is not going to speak for a long time.

I blow out a stream of cloudy air.

The man turns and rests his elbows on the balcony railing. Despite the string lights over our heads, it’s dark this high up. The city glows against the man’s back, casting shadows across his features.

I make out high cheekbones and a sharp jaw as he squints at me past his cigarette’s burning spark. His hair is shaved down to the skull.

I’ve never understood what people meant when they say to wear your clothes and not let the clothes wear you, but I think I get it now.

He looks like he’s stepped off the pages of a GQ magazine. The oversized black jacket and dark jeans would swallow another man, but on him, they accent his athletic figure as he leans back with a cool, feline grace.

He hasn’t spoken yet. He just watches me, like I’m watching him.

The silence tips me into a decision.

I pull Mei’s coat around me a little tighter, extending my long legs and crossing them delicately at the ankles. I’ve been told they’re one of my best features.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask.

“Waiting for you.”

It should be cheesy—it is—but he says it with such sincerity in his low, raspy voice that it sparks a sudden warmth in my belly.

My boots point to the second door on the balcony. The one that leads to the guest bedroom.

“Well.” I lean back in the rickety patio chair, enjoying the weight of his dark gaze. I fight the urge to chatter my teeth in the cold, barely managing with the help of the jello shots and the heat slowly building inside me. “I’m here.”

The cigarette cherry burns bright red for a breath. His eyes glow orange. “You cold?”

I shrug. “A little.”

The man draws a black scarf out from under his jacket like a magician. As he stretches it long and wraps it around his wrist, he exposes an inky shadow along his neck.

Is he a tattoo artist? He has the quiet composure of someone who could sit for hours and focus on a single task. It makes sense, even as the thought stubbornly resists fitting into the puzzle I’m building of him. He’s probably a tattoo artist, I tell myself, even as my amygdala sits up and taps out a warning signal. He’s just a fuckboy on the prowl.

Two steps, and his black boots kiss the tips of mine. His are battered, with the patina of real leather. Mine are cheap Doc Martens knockoffs.

I scan up. His fingers are lean and strong, with an abstract design swirling over the back of his hand. His pants are tight enough to offer a promising glance at his bulge. Closer, I make out that the tattoo on his neck is a snake, rearing up with its fangs extended.

Angular jaw, full lips, and a sharp expression that hints at cruelty.