Page 47 of Malice

Afterward, she sprawls on my chest, tracing the ink on my ribs, both of us slick with sweat and blissed out.

“So,” she murmurs. “That empty bookshelf.”

“Fill it with whatever you want.”

“Even the trashy ones?”

“Especially the trashy ones.”

Her laugh vibrates against my skin, and for the first time in forever, that tension in my chest finally lets go.

Chapter 13

A few days later

Trixie

I slide another book onto the shelf, the spine a smooth, solid weight in my hand. It’s a simple act, but it settles the tremor that’s lived in my hands for weeks. In the home Carter and I share, this quiet room, this growing collection—it’s mine. A place to breathe.

The reading room, with its built-in shelves, the soft leather chair, and the gentle afternoon light, feels like a promise. Like it’s okay for me to be soft again, to gather beautiful things in a space that won’t break.

“Mom,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket, “do you want to hit that little bookstore on Fifth? The one with the café upstairs?”

A genuine, unburdened smile spreads across her face, as if this is exactly what she’s been waiting for. “Are you kidding? I’ve been dying to see those shelves since Carter showed me the pictures.” She reaches across and squeezes my hand, her fingers warm and steady, soothing the tremor I’ve been fighting all morning. “We’re going to make it perfect, baby. Just like you deserve.”

The store smells like old paper and bergamot tea, and I lose myself among the stacks in no time. Carter and my father are by the entrance, close enough that Carter’s gaze feels like a hand resting on my neck, but far enough to look like two bored men waiting too long.

My father’s leaning on a bestsellers display, arms crossed, his leather cut catching the light. Carter stands a few feet away, jaw set, scanning the place with that precise focus that makes him seem like he’s casing it more than browsing.

I know they’re putting on this show for me, this distance, this act of normalcy. Carter’s trying hard not to hover, and my father plays along out of respect. It makes something ache beneath my ribs, this tender effort they’re making.

I pull a hardcover from the shelf, something dark and sprawling, the kind of book I’d lose a weekend to, and turn to find my mom. She’s a few aisles over, holding up two paperbacks like she’s weighing them, and I call out to get her take on my find.

The words die in my throat. There’s someone right next to me that’s too damn close. When I turn my head, expecting some clueless bookworm crowding my space, my gut does a nosedive into the fucking abyss.

This guy isn’t reaching for a book.

He’s got a black hood pulled low like he’s auditioning for some two-bit horror flick, and a mask covering everything but his gaze. Jesus, that stare—cold, pitiless, the kind that has already decided how this ends and isn’t losing any sleep over it. It’s a look I know too well. Seen it in places where hope goes to die in a trauma bay, a dingy holding cell, or the rearview of a car that wasn’t mine.

Run, you idiot.

But my feet won’t move, won’t even twitch, like my brain’s sending the signal and my legs just aren’t picking up. The scream bubbling up gets strangled somewhere behind my clenched teeth because the bastard’s already got his hand clamped around my arm, fingers digging in with a practiced, impersonal strength. He’s a pro, and I’m just a goddamn rookie at this game.

The book hits the floor with a pathetic thud.

“Mom.” I barely get it out, sounding like I’ve swallowed razors, and then his other hand slams over my mouth. He reeks of sweat and sour breath, and now he’s yanking me sideways, steering us toward the back like he’s just doing another day’s work, hiding us from prying eyes at the registers up front.

Mom turns, each degree of rotation feeling like it takes a full second. I see the moment it clicks for her. Smile shattered, eyes flipping from shock to fury in an instant. That wild switchblade rage runs deep in our blood.

“Hey!” she hollers, her voice cutting through the bookstore’s quiet like a shotgun blast. “Get your damn hands off her!”

And there she goes, tossing books like grenades, lunging through the shelves to reach me. But the prick doesn’t even flinch. He’s dragging me faster now, fingers sinking deeper, grip so tight I taste latex, and a wave of pure panic churns in my stomach. He’s got this all mapped out, the layout, timing, every damn blind spot.

The alarm screams when he crashes through the exit, sunlight blinding me for a second. Suddenly we’re outside, in the alley behind the mall, deserted except for the stench of dumpsters and cold, merciless concrete. My pulse hammers in my ears, louder than the alarm still shrieking behind us.

No. Fuck no. This shit ends here.

I’m done being afraid. Done with the fucking frozen terror that had me nailed to the floor, mouth open, doing nothing. I feel something crackling in my chest, hot and pissed off. A scorching, chemical burn of pure rage floods my veins, scorching the fear to ash. I bite down on the asshole’s gloved hand, hard enough to rip the latex. He lets out a screech, a panicked, high-pitched whine. His grip slips just enough.