Page 28 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

She sits cross-legged in the center of the mattress. She wears one of my gray t-shirts, the collar slipping off one shoulder to expose the golden skin of her collarbone. Her dark hair forms a messy halo around her face. Her knees are pulled to her chest.

Her gaze sweeps over me the second I enter, wide and sharp.

"You're back," she says. Her voice sounds soft, thick with sleep and suffocating tension.

"I'm back."

I step fully into the room. The space is tiny, cramped, smelling of old paper and the lingering musk of what we did on that mattress yesterday. My muscles vibrate with the aftershocks of the adrenaline. The suppressed violence and the desperate need to claim her again tear at my control.

I toss the manila folder onto the milk crate next to the turntable.

I drop to my knees on the hardwood floor right at the edge of the mattress.

Words fail me. I just bury my face in the soft fabric of the shirt over her stomach. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her hips flush against my chest.

Mine.

I breathe her in. My lungs expand, taking in her scent, overriding the smell of cold asphalt, cheap cologne, and fear.

She doesn't pull away. She never pulls away from the monster. She drops her hands into my hair. Her fingers slide cool and firm against my scalp, grounding the static in my brain.

"Tyler," she whispers. Just my name. My real name. The only truth I have left in this world.

"I got him," I say into her stomach. My voice grates, a gravelly, broken ruin. I turn my head, resting my cheek against her thigh. "He's gone."

She goes completely still. Her fingers stop moving in my hair.

"Did you..." She swallows hard. "Is he dead?"

I look up at her. The amber lamplight casts deep shadows over the sharp angles of her face.

"I didn't touch him," I tell her, my tone dead serious. "I swear to God, Wendy. I didn't lay a hand on him."

I reach over to the milk crate. I grab the manila folder and drop it onto her lap.

"Open it."

She hesitates, her eyes darting between my face and the paper. She flips the cover back.

Her gaze drops to the photos. The grainy surveillance shots of her unlocking the front door. The meticulous notes on her daily schedule. The financial estimates of her mother’s estate.

Her lungs lock. The air vanishes from the room. Her hands start to tremble violently. The color drains from her cheeks, leaving her pale and horrified in the dim light.

"He’s been flagging you for seven months," I say. The feral rage bleeds back into my tone, dark and final. "Building a dossier. Documenting your routines. The extortion was just the beginning. They were waiting for the right moment to absorb the shop completely. To take the property. To take you."

She drops the folder like it’s laced with poison. It spills across the mattress, photos of her life scattering over the tangled blankets.

"Oh my God," she breathes, covering her mouth with both hands.

I grip her hips. Hard. Anchoring her to me. Anchoring me to her.

"I found that in his car tonight," I tell her, my voice dropping into a low register. "Nadia sold me his location. I sat in my car outside his apartment, Wendy. I had my combat knife in my hand. The instinct to walk up those stairs and slaughter him rang so loud in my head I couldn't see straight. I wanted to tear his throat out. I wanted to paint the walls with his blood for daring to look at what belongs to me."

She looks down at me. Her dark eyes are wide, searching my face. She sees the monster lurking right beneath my skin. She understands the scale of violence I’m capable of unleashing.

"But I didn't," I vow, my thumbs pressing into the soft dip of her waist. "Because if I killed him, the Syndicate would investigate. They would look for the leak. They would eventually look at the shop, and they would look at you. I refuse to put a target on your back. Being an animal wouldn't protect you."

I shift my grip, sliding my hands up her ribs, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed.