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“You get a kick out of that?” the Marine asked, voice low but laced with heat. His eyes, the color of midnight sky, glowed censure. “You see something good starting, and you just can’t leave it alone?” His animosity negated the smooth Southern twang.
Felicity blinked, taken aback by the sheer gall of the man. Her temper kicked in, quick and sharp like it always did when someone poked at the raw parts. “You don’t know me,” she uttered, low and controlled.
“No,” he said, arms crossed tight, jaw working. “But I know your type.”
That one hit. Harder than she let show.
“Oliver and Sunny deserve a second chance at love.”
“Love?” she spat. “It’s a mere illusion. A fairy tale. A foolish notion that ends in tears and drama.”
He blinked — just once — but didn’t move. Neither did she. The music had changed, but the tension between them hadn’t.
“My wife,” he said quietly, “is six thousand miles away. I miss her. Every day. So, I don’t get to pretend love isn’t real. Or that it doesn’t hurt like hell to be away from her. But I wouldn’t trade loving her for anything in this world.”
Felicity’s throat tightened, but her voice stayed cool. “Good for you. But some of us don’t believe in bedtime stories.”
“No,” he said. “Some of you stopped reading them too young.”
He turned then, without fanfare or flourish, and joined his friends again. Walked away as easily as he’d approached, like none of it had rattled him.
Felicity stood there for a long time, staring at the space he’d occupied. Her skin felt tight, strangely tingly, as though his presence had left something behind. She rubbed her arms, irritated with the sensation.
And even more irritated with herself that she couldn’t seem to shake it.
The music swelled behind her, another sugar-spun love song for people who didn’t know any better.
She reached for a cigarette, lit it, and stomped off into the dark.
Alone.
She was at her best alone.
*
“It ends tonight,” she said, pointing the gun at the monster.
The monster laughed. “Don’t be silly, girl.” He rose from the chair with lazy ease, amused at her sudden spurt of bravado.
“I mean it,” she said, backing away. But her arm betrayed her — shaking, weak, the barrel of the gun bobbing.
His humor vanished. “Coward,” he spat, ripping the weapon from her grasp like it was nothing, and struck her hard across the face.
Pain burst through her skull. Her body hit the floor. Distantly, she heard the gun cock.
“Whore,” he snarled, standing over her, weapon now in his hand, watching her cower like an animal.
Then his voice changed — almost casual, bored even. He turned his gaze to her sister. “Come here, Inessa,” he said. “Or I will shoot your weakling bitch of a sister.”
Weakling. Coward.
The words echoed in her skull, in sync with the pounding behind her eyes.
She looked up, dazed, as he seized a fistful of her sister’s hair.
Inessa whimpered.
“On your knees,” he said, jerking her downward.
