Текст книги "The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer"

Автор книги: Michelle Hodkin

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

22

MARA DYER?” THE RECEPTIONIST CALLED OUT. I shot up. The magazine I’d been not-reading fell to the floor, open to an NC-17 photograph of two naked models straddling a handsomely suited actor. Rather racy for a psychiatrist’s office. I picked up the magazine and set it on the coffee table, then walked over to the door the smiling receptionist was pointing at. I went in.

The psychiatrist took off her glasses and set them on her desk as she rose. “Mara, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca Maillard.”

We shook hands. I stared at the seating options. An armchair. The obligatory couch. A desk chair. Probably some kind of test. I chose the armchair.

Dr. Maillard smiled and crossed her legs. She was thin. My mother’s age. Maybe they even knew each other. “So, what brings you here today, Mara?” she asked.

I held out my bandaged arm. Dr. Maillard raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to speak. So I did.

“I burned myself.”

“Do you mean, you were burned, or you burned yourself?”

She was quick, this one. “I was burned, but my mother thinks I burned myself.”

“How did it happen?”

I took a deep breath and told her about the earrings and the bathtub. But not the unlocked front door. Or the box in my closet that I didn’t remember taking down. One thing at a time.

“Has anything like that happened before?”

“Like what?” I scanned the books on her shelves; the diagnostic manual, pharmacological volumes, journals. Nothing interesting or unusual. It could have been anyone’s office. There was no personality.

Dr. Maillard paused before answering. “Was last night the first time you’ve been in the hospital?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. She sounded more like a lawyer than a psychiatrist. “Why ask if you already know the answer?”

“I don’t already know the answer,” Dr. Maillard said, unruffled.

“My mother didn’t tell you?”

“She told me that you moved here recently because you experienced a trauma back in Rhode Island, but I didn’t get a chance to speak with her for very long. I had to switch one of my other patients to see you on such short notice.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Dr. Maillard furrowed her eyebrows. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Mara. I just hope I can help.”

I hoped so too, but I was starting to doubt it. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, you can start by telling me if you’ve ever been in the hospital before,” she said, clasping her hands in her lap. I nodded.

“What for?” She looked at me with only casual interest. She wrote nothing down.

“My friends died in an accident. My best friend. I was there, but I wasn’t hurt.”

She looked confused. “Why were you in the hospital, then?”

“I was unconscious for three days.” My mouth didn’t seem to want to form the word “coma.”

“Your friends,” she said slowly. “How did they die?”

I tried to answer her, to repeat what my mother had told me, but had trouble with the words. They were buried in my throat, just beyond my reach. The silence grew more and more awkward as I struggled to pull them out.

Dr. Maillard leaned in. “It’s okay, Mara,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t remember how they died, honestly.”

She nodded her head. A strand of dark blond hair fell over her forehead. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I shot her a skeptical look. “Just like that?”

Dr. Maillard smiled softly, her brown eyes kind. “Just like that. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about in this room.”

I bristled a bit. “I don’t mind talking about it. I just don’t remember.”

“And that’s okay. Sometimes, the mind has a way of protecting us from things until we’re ready to deal with them.”

Her assumption bothered me, more than it should have. “I feel ready to deal with it.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “That’s fine too. When did all of this happen?”

I thought for a minute—it was so hard to keep track of time. “A few months ago? December?”

For the first time, Dr. Maillard’s demeanor changed. She seemed surprised. “That’s pretty recent.”

I shrugged and looked away. My eyes fell on a plastic-looking plant in the corner of the room that had caught the sunlight. I wondered if it was real.

“So how have you been doing since the move?”

A slight smile twitched at the corner of my mouth. “Aside from the burn, you mean?”

Dr. Maillard grinned back. “Aside from that.”

The conversation could play out a hundred different ways. Dr. Maillard was being paid to listen to me—it was her job. Just a job. When she went home to her family, she wouldn’t be Dr. Maillard. She’d be Mom. Becca, maybe. Someone else, just like my mother. And she wouldn’t think about me until I saw her next.

But I was there for a reason. The flashbacks—the dreams—I could handle. The hallucinations, I could deal with. But the burn upped the ante. I thought of Joseph, looking so scared and small and lost in the hospital. I never wanted to see him look that way again.

I swallowed hard and went for it. “I think something’s happening to me.” My grand declaration.

Her expression didn’t change. “What do you think is happening to you?”

“I don’t know.” I felt the urge to sigh and rake my hands through my hair, but resisted. I didn’t know what kind of signal it would send, and didn’t want to send the wrong one.

“All right, let’s back up for a minute. Why do you think something is happening to you? What makes you think that?”

I struggled to maintain eye contact with her. “Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.”

“What kinds of things?”

Where to begin? I decided to go in reverse chronological order. “Well, like I told you, I thought the earrings my mother lent me fell in the bathtub, but they were in my ears.”

Dr. Maillard nodded. “Go on.”

“And before I went to the party last night, I saw one of my dead friends in the mirror.” Zing.

“What kind of party was it?”

If Dr. Maillard was shocked by my revelation, she didn’t show it.

“A—a costume party?” I didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.

“Did you go with anyone?”

I nodded. “My brother, but he was meeting someone else.” The room started to feel warm.

“So you were alone?”

An image of Noah whispering to the fairy girl flashed before my eyes. Alone, indeed. “Yes.”

“Have you gone out much since you’ve moved?”

I shook my head. “Last night was the first time.”

Dr. Maillard smiled slightly. “Sounds like it could be stressful.”

At that, I snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Compared to what?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You tell me.”

“Compared to having your best friend die? Or moving away from everyone you’ve ever known? Or starting at a new school so late in the year?”

Or finding out your father is representing an alleged murderer of a teenage girl? The thought appeared in my mind without warning. Without precedent. I pushed it away. Dad’s work was not going to be a problem for me. I couldn’t let myself be that damaged—if my mother noticed me stressing about it, she might make him drop the case, his first one since we moved. And with three kids in private school now, they probably needed the money. I’d screwed up their lives enough already. I decided not to mention it to Dr. Maillard. What we said was confidential, but still.

Her face was serious when she spoke. “You’re right,” she said, shifting back in her chair. “Let me ask you this: Was last night the first time you saw something, or someone, that wasn’t there?”

I shook my head, somewhat relieved that the focus of the conversation had shifted.

“Do you feel comfortable telling me about other things you’ve seen?”

Not particularly. I picked idly at the thread in my worn jeans, knowing how crazy I would sound. How crazy I already sounded. I said it anyway.

“I saw my old boyfriend, Jude, at school, once.”

“When?”

“My first day.” After I saw my Algebra classroom collapse. After Claire first appeared in the mirror. I bit my lip.

“So, you were already pretty stressed out.”

I nodded.

“Do you miss him?”

Her question caught me off guard. How did I answer that? When I was awake, I barely thought about Jude. And when I dreamed—it wasn’t exactly pleasant. I lowered my eyes, hoping Dr. Maillard wouldn’t notice my burning face, the only evidence of my shame. I was a bad person.

“Sometimes these things are complicated, Mara,” she said. Guess she noticed after all. “When we lose people who were important to us, there’s a whole range of emotions we might experience.”

I shifted in my seat. “Can we talk about something else?”

“We can, but I’d really like to stay with this for a little while. Can you tell me a little bit about your relationship?”

I closed my eyes. “It wasn’t much of one. We were only together for a couple of months.”

“Was it a good couple of months?”

I thought about it.

“Okay,” Dr. Maillard said, moving on. The answer must have been written all over my face. “How about your relationship with your best friend? You saw her since she died too, right?”

I shook my head. “That was Claire. She only moved to Laurelton last year. She was Jude—my boyfriend’s—sister. She was close with Rachel.”

Dr. Maillard’s eyes narrowed. “Rachel. Your best friend?”

I nodded.

“But she wasn’t close with you?”

“Not so much.”

“And you haven’t seen Rachel.”

I shook my head.

“Is there anything else? Anything you’ve seen that you shouldn’t have? Anything you’ve heard that you shouldn’t have?”

My eyes narrowed. “Like voices?” She definitely thought I was crazy.

She shrugged. “Like anything.”

I looked at my lap and tried to stifle a yawn. I failed. “Sometimes. Sometimes I hear my name being called.”

Dr. Maillard nodded. “How do you sleep?”

“Not so great,” I admitted.

“Nightmares?”

You could call them that. “Yes.”

“Do you remember any of them?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Sometimes. Sometimes I dream about that night.”

“I think you’re pretty brave to be telling me all of this.” She didn’t sound patronizing when she said it.

“I don’t want to be crazy,” I told her. Truthfully.

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“So it’s normal to see things that aren’t there?”

“When someone’s been through a traumatic event, yes.” “Even though I don’t remember it?”

Dr. Maillard raised an eyebrow. “Any of it?”

I rubbed my forehead, then pulled the hair off the back of my neck into a knot. I said nothing.

“I think you are starting to remember it,” she said. “Slowly, and in a way that it doesn’t hurt your mind too much to process. And even though I want to explore this more if you decide to see me again, I think it’s possible that you seeing Jude and Claire could be your mind’s way of expressing the unresolved feelings you have about them.”

“So what do I do? To make it stop?” I asked her.

“Well, if you think you’d like to see me again, we can talk about making a plan for therapy.”

“No drugs?” I figured my mother had taken me to a psychiatrist for a reason. Probably figured she needed to bring out the big guns. And after last night, I couldn’t exactly argue with her.

“Well, I do usually prescribe medication to be used in conjunction with therapy. But it’s your choice. I can recommend you to a psychologist if you don’t want to pursue medication just yet, or we can give it a try. See how you do.”

The things that had been happening since we moved—the dreams, the hallucinations—I wondered if a pill could really make it go away. “Do you think it will help?”

“On its own? Maybe. But with cognitive behavioral therapy, chances are higher that you’d feel better sooner, although it’s definitely a long-term process.”

“Cognitive behavioral therapy?”

Dr. Maillard nodded. “It changes your way of thinking about things. How to deal with what you’ve been seeing. What you’re feeling. It will also help with the nightmares you’ve been having.”

“The memories,” I corrected her. And then a thought materialized. “What if—what if I just need to remember?”

She leaned forward in her chair slightly. “That could be part of it, Mara. But it’s not something you can force. Your mind is already working on it, in its own way.”

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “So, we won’t be doing any hypnotherapy or anything here?”

Dr. Maillard grinned. “I’m afraid not,” she said.

I nodded. “My mother doesn’t believe in it either.”

Dr. Maillard took a pad off of her desk and wrote something on it. She tore a piece of paper off and handed it to me. “Have your mother fill this. If you want to take it, great. If not, that’s okay too. It might not kick in for a few weeks, though. Or it might kick in a few days after you start. Everyone’s different.”

I couldn’t read Dr. Maillard’s handwriting. “Zoloft?”

She shook her head. “I don’t like to prescribe SSRIs for teenagers.”

“How come?”

Dr. Maillard’s eyes scanned the calendar on her desk. “There have been some studies that show a link between SSRIs and suicide in adolescents. Can you meet next Thursday?”

The dates flew by in my mind. “Actually, I have exams coming up. Huge chunk of my grade.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

I barked out a laugh. “Yeah. I guess so.”

She picked up her glasses and put them back on. “Mara, have you ever thought about taking some time off from school?”

I stood up. “So I can sit around and think about how much I miss Rachel all day? Screw up my chance to graduate on time? Ruin my transcripts?”

“Point taken.” Dr. Maillard smiled and stood. She extended her hand, and I shook it but couldn’t meet her eyes. I was too embarrassed by my impromptu pity party.

“Try to watch the stress, though,” she said, then shrugged. “As much as you can. PTSD episodes tend to be triggered by moments of it. And call me when exams are over, especially if you decide to start taking the medication. Or before, if you need me.” She handed me her card. “It was nice to meet you, Mara. I’m glad you came in.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.

My mother was waiting for me outside when the appointment ended. Surprisingly, she didn’t pry. I handed her the prescription and her face tensed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” she said, and faced the road. We stopped at a pharmacy on the way home. She placed the bag in the center console.

I opened it and looked at the pill bottle. “Zyprexa,” I read out loud. “What is it?”

“It should help make things a little easier to deal with,” my mother said, still staring ahead. A non-answer. She said nothing else on the way home.

My mother took the bag in the house with her, and I went to my room. I turned on my computer and typed “Zyprexa” into Google. I clicked on the first website I found, and my mouth went dry.

It was an antipsychotic.

23

I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO REACT TO NOAH IN CLASS the next day. The costume party seemed like a lifetime ago, but my humiliation was fresh. I was grateful for the long-sleeved dress shirt I had to wear—it minimized the impact of the bandage on my left arm, at least. My mother had become the Keeper of the Pills, and she doled out the Tylenol with codeine before I left that morning. I ached all over but I didn’t take it, and didn’t plan on starting the Zyprexa just yet, either. I needed a clear head.

When I walked into English, Noah was already there. Our eyes met for a second before I dropped my gaze and walked past him. I had to find out about Mabel—was it only a week since I’d taken her?—and figure out how to spring her on my parents now, considering what had happened. But I didn’t know how to bring it up to Noah, how to talk to him after the party. I sat down at a desk on the other side of the room, but he stood and followed me, sitting behind my chair. As Ms. Leib began her lecture, I found myself tapping my pencil on my desk. Noah cracked his knuckles behind me, setting my teeth on edge.

When the bell rang, I threaded through the students, eager for Algebra for the first time in my life. Noah drove girls crazy, and I was already crazy. I needed to let it go. Let him go. As Jamie had so astutely said, I had enough problems.

I was so relieved to see Jamie in Algebra that I might have actually smiled. With teeth. But the glimmer of my good mood didn’t last; Noah caught up with me as soon as the bell rang.

“Hey,” he said, as he fell into a graceful lope beside me.

“Hey.” I gave him the stare-ahead. Ask about the dog. Ask about the dog. I tried to find the words but clenched my teeth instead.

“Mabel isn’t doing so well,” Noah said, his voice even.

My stomach dropped and I slowed my pace by a fraction. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Think so, but it’s probably better if she stays with us for a while. So my mother can care for her,” he said, as he ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Do you mind?”

“No,” I said, shifting the weight of my bag on my shoulder as I approached my next class. “That’s probably the best thing.”

“I wanted to ask—” Noah started, then lifted a hand to his hair, twisting the strands. “My mother wanted to know if maybe we could keep her? She’s gotten attached.”

I tilted my head sideways to see him. He either didn’t notice my bandaged hand or was ignoring it. He seemed indifferent to everything. Remote. His words didn’t match his tone.

“I mean, she’s your dog,” he said, “whatever you want we’ll do—”

“It’s okay,” I cut him off. I remembered the way Mabel had curled into his chest as he carried her. She’d be better off with him. Definitely. “Tell your mom I said it’s fine.”

“I was going to ask you when I saw you at the party, but you left.”

“I had somewhere else to be,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“Right. What’s wrong?” he asked, still sounding utterly disinterested.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.” Not true.

“All right. Have lunch with me, then,” he said casually.

I paused, torn between yes and no. “No,” I said finally.

“Why not?”

“I have a study date,” I said. Hopefully Jamie would oblige.

“With who?”

“Why do you care?” I asked with an edge. We could have been discussing molecular physics for all the interest he seemed to be paying to the conversation.

“I’m starting to wonder that myself,” Noah said, and walked away. He didn’t look back.

Fine.

I drew my bandaged hand in Art, even though we were supposed to be working on faces. And when lunch arrived, I didn’t look for Jamie, choosing solitude instead. I withdrew the banana I brought, peeled it, and took a slow bite as I wandered to my locker, letting my teeth graze against the flesh. I was glad to be free of Noah. Relieved, even, as I went to exchange my books.

Until I saw the note.

Folded so that it fit through the slats of my locker, innocently perched on a tower of my books. A thick piece of paper with my name on it.

Acid free, bright white paper.

Sketchbook paper.

I unfolded the note and recognized one of my drawings of Noah immediately. The other side simply said:

I HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO YOU.

MEET AT THE VENDING MACHINES AT LUNCH IF YOU WANT IT BACK.

A rush of heat ignited my skin. Did Noah steal my sketchbook? My sudden fury surprised me. I’d never punched anyone before, but there was a first time for everything. I punctuated the thought with a ringing, metallic slam of my locker door.

I don’t remember how I got to the bottom of the stairs. One minute I was by my locker, and the next minute I was rounding the corner by the vending machines. And then a horrible thought occurred to me; what if it wasn’t Noah? What if it was someone else? Like—oh, no. Like Anna. I imagined her dissolving into a fit of giggles as she showed my sketches of Noah to her friends.

Sure enough, when I arrived, Anna stood waiting with a smug, satisfied sneer on her generically pretty face. Flanked by Aiden, they blocked my way, dripping with gloat.

When I saw them there, I was still confident I could handle it. I’d almost come to expect her bullshit.

What I didn’t expect were the dozens of students assembled to watch this train wreck unfold.

And what sent a piercing scream through my spine was the sight of Noah, centered in a halo of admirers, male and female.

At that moment, the magnitude of Anna’s machinations insulted my mind. My stomach turned as it all snapped into place; why everyone was there, why Noah was there. Anna had been constructing this three-ring circus since Noah first spoke to me on day one. It was her black Mercedes I almost hit last week—she saw me get out of Noah’s car. And now, all she needed to complete her ringmaster role was a top hat and a monocle.

Oh, Anna. I underestimated you.

All eyes were on me. My move. If I played.

My eyes scanned the assembled students as I stood there, debating. Finally, I simply looked at Anna and dared her to speak. She who speaks first loses. She didn’t disappoint.

“Looking for this?” she chirped innocently, as she held up my sketchbook.

I reached for it but she snatched it away. “You crotch-pheasant,” I said through gritted teeth.

Anna feigned shock. “My, my, Mara. What language! I’m simply returning a lost item to its rightful owner. You are the rightful owner, aren’t you?” she asked, as she flipped the sketchbook open to the inside cover. “ ‘Mara Dyer,’ “ she read loudly. “That’s you,” she added with emphasis, punctuating the declaration with a sneer. I said nothing. “Aiden here was nice enough to pick it up when you left it in Algebra by mistake.”

Aiden smiled on cue. He must have snatched it from my bag.

“Actually, he stole it.”

“I’m afraid not, Mara. You must have carelessly misplaced it,” she said, and tsked.

Now that she had set the stage, Anna began to flip through my sketchbook. If I hit her, Aiden would snatch the sketchbook and Noah would still see what I’d drawn. And let’s be honest, I’ve never hit anyone in my life. There would be nothing I could say to minimize the damage, either. The sketches were so accurate, snapshots of him so adoringly rendered that they’d betray my obsessive infatuation the second they were revealed. The humiliation would be perfect, and she knew it.

Defeat bloomed in my cheeks, staining my throat and my collarbone. I could do nothing but suffer through the emotional skinning and stand there, flayed before the entire school until Anna was drunk on her overdose of cruelty.

And collect my sketchbook when she was finished. Because it was mine, and I would get it back.

I didn’t want to see Noah’s face when Anna finally turned to the page where he made his first appearance. Seeing him smirk or smile or laugh or roll his eyes would undo me and I could not cry here today. So I fixed my stare on Anna’s face, and watched her tremble with gleeful malice as she held the sketchbook and made her way over to him. The crowd shifted from a rough semicircle into a wedge, with Noah at the point.

“Noah?” she cooed.

“Anna,” he replied flatly.

She flipped from page to page and I could hear the whispers rise into a murmur and could hear a ringing laugh somewhere from the far side of the tiki hut, but it died down. Anna turned the pages slowly for effect, and like some demonic schoolmarm, held the book at an angle to provide maximum exposure to the assembled crowd. Everyone needed to have the opportunity to catch a long, languorous glimpse of my disgrace.

“This looks so much like you,” she said to Noah, pressing her body against his.

“My girl is talented,” Noah said.

My heart stopped beating.

Anna’s heart stopped beating.

Everyone’s heart stopped beating. The buzzing of a solitary gnat would have sounded obscene in the stillness.

“Bullshit,” Anna whispered finally, but it was loud enough for everyone to hear. She hadn’t moved an inch.

Noah shrugged. “I’m a vain bastard, and Mara indulges me.” After a pause, he added, “I’m just glad you didn’t get your greedy little claws on the other sketchbook. That would have been embarrassing.” His lips curved into a sly smile as he slid from the picnic table he’d been sitting on. “Now, get the fuck off me,” he said calmly to a dumbfounded, speechless Anna as he pushed past her, plucking the sketchbook roughly from her hands.

And walked over to me.

“Let’s go,” Noah ordered gently, once he was at my side. His body brushed the line of my shoulder and arm protectively. And then he held out his hand.

I wanted to take it and I wanted to spit in Anna’s face and I wanted to kiss him and I wanted to knee Aiden Davis in the groin. Civilization won out, and I willed each individual nerve to respond to the signal I sent with my brain and placed my fingers in his. A current traveled from my fingertips through to the hollow where my stomach used to be.

And just like that, I was completely, utterly, and entirely,

His.

Neither of us spoke until we were out of earshot and out of sight of the shocked and awed student body. We were standing next to a bench by the basketball court when Noah stopped, finally letting go of my hand. It felt empty, but I barely had time to process the loss.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

I nodded, staring past him. My tongue felt numb.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded again.

“Are you positive?”

I glared at him. “I’m fine,” I said.

“That’s my girl.”

“I am not your girl,” I said, with more venom than I intended.

“Right, then,” Noah said, and looked at me with a curious stare. He raised an eyebrow. “About that.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“You like me,” he finally said. “You like me, like me.” He was trying not to smile.

“No. I hate you,” I said, hoping that saying it would make it so.

“And yet, you draw me.” Noah was still smug, completely undeterred by my declaration.

This was torture; worse somehow than what just happened, even though it was only the two of us. Or because it was only the two of us.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” What could I say? Noah, despite you being an asshole, or maybe because of it, I’d like to rip off your clothes and have your babies. Don’t tell.

“Why everything,” he continued. “Start with why you hate me. And then continue until you get to the part about the drawings.”

“I don’t really hate you,” I said in defeat.

“I know.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I wanted you to admit it,” he said, grinning crookedly.

“Done,” I said, feeling hopeless. “Are we finished?”

“You’re the most ungrateful person alive,” he mused.

“You’re right,” I said, my voice flat. “Thanks for the save. I should go.” I started to walk away.

“Not so fast.” Noah reached for my good wrist. He took it gently and I turned around. My heart was sickeningly aflutter. “We still have a problem.”

I looked at him, uncomprehending. He was still holding my wrist and the contact interfered with my cerebral functioning.

“Everyone thinks we’re together,” Noah said.

Oh. Noah needed a way out. Of course he did; we weren’t, in fact, together. I was just—I don’t know what I was to him. I looked at the ground, digging the toe of my sneaker into the paved walkway like a sullen child while I thought about what to say.

“Tell your friends you dumped me on Monday,” I said finally.

Noah let go of my wrist, and looked genuinely confused. “What?”

“If you tell them that you broke up with me over the weekend, everyone will forget about this eventually. Tell them I was too needy or something,” I said.

Noah arched his eyebrows slightly. “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Fine,” I said, confused myself. “I’ll go along with whatever you want, okay?”

“Sunday.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want Sunday. My parents are having a thing on Saturday, but Sunday I’m free.”

I didn’t understand. “And?”

“And you’re going to spend the day with me.”

That was not what I expected. “I am?” “Yes. You owe me,” he said. And he was right; I did. Noah wouldn’t have had to do anything to make Anna’s dream and my nightmare come true. He could have sat there and shrugged and stared, and it would have been enough to perfect my school-wide humiliation.

But he didn’t. He saved me, and I could not fathom why.

“Is there any point asking what you’re going to make me do on Sunday?”

“Not really.”

Okay. “Is there any point asking what you’re going to do to me?”

He grinned wickedly. “Not really.”

Fabulous. “Does it involve the use of a safe word?”

“That will depend entirely on you.” Noah moved impossibly closer, just inches away. A few freckles disappeared into the scruff on his jaw. “I’ll be gentle,” Noah added. My breath caught in my throat as he looked at me from beneath those lashes, ruining me.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re evil.”

In response, Noah smiled, and raised his finger to gently tap the tip of my nose.

“And you’re mine,” he said, then walked away.