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356 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 30, 2021
“If you’re not my captive, then what are you?” I think about it for a moment. “I don’t love labels, but if you need to call me something, you can just call me your queen.”
My voice climbs in panic. “Oh god. Am I brain damaged?”
He arches one dark eyebrow. “You mean more than you were before?”
“Hey. Gangster.” He closes his eyes, makes a growling noise, and tightens his hand on my neck. “Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm Syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?”
“How many times did your parents beg you to run away from home?”
“That’s what I always tell myself when I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Remember who you are.” I can tell he doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him.
“And who are you?”
“The only one of me who ever has been or ever will be. Same as you. In a word: irreplaceable.”
His lips part. He gazes at me for a long, silent moment. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to bathe you. Then feed you. Then fuck you, in that order. No, close your mouth. No talking.”
“You own me, Sloane. Every corner of my worthless black soul. Every piece of my corrupt black heart. You own it all, and you always will. I’m your slave, not the other way around. Never forget it.”
How the hell does a twenty-something yoga instructor who barely scraped through college, has never had a long-term boyfriend, and looks like she buys her clothes at a Tinker Bell estate sale get so confident?
“Oh god. Am I brain damaged?”
He arches one dark eyebrow. “You mean more than you were before?”
“I think you just wanted an excuse to come back in here and see me.”
“And I think calling you an idiot would be giving you far too much credit.”
I laugh. “Good one. How long did it take you to figure out how to use the internet to look that up, Grandpa?”
“Your parents are brother and sister, aren’t they?”
“Oh, look, we finally have something in common!”
“Oh god. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Aye. Subdural hematoma. There’s at least a fifty percent chance you’ll die.”
After a beat, she says, “Gee, don’t sugarcoat it.”
In a life full of unforgiveable sins, sleeping with the enemy would be the absolute worst.
Men say they love a strong woman, right up until they meet one.
I’m not the girl who gets butterflies. I’m not the girl who swoons or begs. I’m the one who moves on before things get complicated, who keeps moving on relentlessly without looking back, like a shark that has to keep swimming forward its whole life or it will die. I’m the one who doesn’t fall. Who doesn’t feel. Who doesn’t get attached.
I’m probably going to die with only you for company. Can you blame me for being upset?” His eyes are narrowed, doubtful, arctic blue.
I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not invincible!”
“So that deal you made with the devil for the power to kill with run-on sentences didn’t include immortality?”
In this moment, all I want is to let him run me over. To let him break me, savage me, tear me apart.
“I don’t love labels, but if you need to call me something, you can just call me your queen.”
“I don’t keep boyfriends. They’re way too high-maintenance. Too much of a commitment. ”
“They’re [Cats] furry little serial killers who can give you brain-eating amoebas from their poo, but that’s not my point.”
“Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm Syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?”
“I’m a cat.”
“A cat?”
“You know. Aloof. Unreadable.”
“Men pulling guns on each other because a woman smiled in the wrong direction is caused by their infantile egos, unchecked aggression, and overinflated sense of entitlement, not by her.”
“You’re bipolar. Right? That’s the root cause of all your mystifying behavior. Bipolar disorder.”
“No.”
“Too bad. If you’d said yes, I would’ve been nicer to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because mental health problems aren’t a choice. You, on the other hand, are deliberately an asshole.”
“Men say they love a strong woman, right up until they meet one.”
“I’m not a man-hater. I think men are pleasant distractions. If the rest of my life is the main course, men are desserts. Enjoyable, forgettable treats.”
“Hey. Gangster.”
He closes his eyes, makes a growling noise, and tightens his hand on my neck.
“Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm Syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?”
He shakes his head in disgust, then leans down and pulls a small black pistol from a holder around his ankle.
He hands it to me.
“If we’re separated, use it on anyone who approaches you, even if they seem friendly. Even if it’s a little old lady, shoot that bitch between the eyes.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide.
“Although I hate Declan, my coochie thinks that bastard is divine.”
"Then I kiss her, holding her close, filled with joy when I feel how hard her heart beats against my chest. It’s beating at the same pace as mine"
“No. I think you look like Rockefeller Center at Christmas, Japan in cherry blossom season, and the thousand vivid shades of green in the wild moors of Northern Ireland, all rolled into one."