Chapter Twelve
Desire
I collect my composure the best I can before I stiffly walk back toward my place in the craft fair, my legs barely moving me forward. A few eyes from shoppers and other vendors drift to mine but say nothing. I force a smile so as not to arouse too much suspicion.
“Hey, you.” Ethan, the Oddities and Eccentric vendor, calls me. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Contessa,” I murmur without looking at him.
He waves a handful of twenties and tens at me. “I sold two of your pieces while you were gone—the Impossible Possum and the Roger Rabbit.”
“What?” I gaze at the cash and then at him.
His hand grips my bicep loosely. “Hey, are you alright?”
I snatch the money from his grasp and move quickly around him. How dare he? I mean, who the hell does that?
The box I brought to carry my pieces slams onto the table, and I frantically place my remaining pieces inside, my hands shaking. There’s still a couple of hours to go, but I’m already over this fucking day.
Ethan appears in front of me. “Contessa? I’m sorry if I upset you. It’s just you were gone for so long, and I didn’t want you to miss out on any sales...” His voice trails off.
“It’s fine.” I wipe a stray tear forming in the corner of my eye and stuff my phone in my back pocket. “I have to go.”
He holds up a single finger and says, “Wait one second. I’ll be right back.” He jogs toward his table as I set the last piece inside the box, place it on my chair, and rip my tablecloth off, wadding it up into a ball before resting it on top of the pile.
An infinity scarf hovers in front of my face, perched on Ethan’s open palm.
“Here. It’s hand-sewn. A peace offering.
” I take the black scarf with deep crimson roses embroidered into it and run my fingers over the threading.
It’s tight and perfectly aligned without a stitch out of place.
It must have taken hours to create, and it’s absolutely gorgeous.
I raise my eyebrows. “It’s so beautiful and light. ”
“Nice, right?”
I loop it around my neck, adjusting the length so it’s even. “So?”
“It’s perfect for you.”
He needs to be paid for this; it can’t be a gift, or Mastyx may get the wrong idea. I reach into my strongbox and remove a twenty-dollar bill. Ethan pushes it back toward me when I offer it to him. “Oh, no. It’s a gift.”
“I can’t accept any gifts.” I slide the scarf off my head and drop it on the table. “Sorry.”
The scarf slides over to me. “Why? Will your boyfriend get mad?” He taps the scarf gently with his pointer, his face twisting with a concerned look. “Is that who did that to your face and left those marks on your neck?”
I cover my cheek with a trembling hand.
Ethan takes a step closer. “Is he here? Do you need me to walk you to your car?”
“No.” I grab my box and turn to walk away.
“Contessa, wait.” He runs in front of me with his hand up, holding the scarf. “Just take it. I’ll take the twenty you left on the table so you can say you bought it.”
“Fine.” I struggle to hold the box and reach for the scarf at the same time.
Before I have a chance to react, Ethan doubles the scarf, slides it over my head and adjusts its length.
“There. It hides most of the red marks on your neck, except the one by your jawline.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out another business card.
“Here’s my card again. If you need to get away, I can help. ”
I offer him a sheepish smile. His kindness takes me by surprise, and I hesitate, my hand hovering between us, before accepting the card. “Thanks.”
He turns away from me and glances back a few times over his shoulder as he makes his way back to his table.
I walk briskly back to my car, set the box on the ground and fight for my life to get the fucking trunk open.
Once it pries free, I rest my box inside, push the trunk closed, yank the driver’s side door of the Nova open and flop awkwardly into the seat, chattering my teeth and sending a sharp pain through my torso.
“Fuck,” I say to the space around me before slamming the door closed.
I take a few deep breaths before grabbing the visor and pulling it down with trembling hands.
The reflection staring back at me isn’t my own.
It belongs to someone who appears hauntingly older.
My hair looks like I fell asleep after a shower—a disheveled mess—and a piece of what seems to be wet toilet paper wraps around a lock of my hair.
I gag and cover my mouth before focusing on the darkening mark on my cheek.
It’s definitely going to bruise. Red marks dot my upper and lower arms from being manhandled by the rapist. I pull the scarf down gently and examine the ones on my neck. They’re going to bruise as well.
My parents will definitely notice.
Shit. What do I do? I rest my arms across the steering wheel and lean my forehead against them, blowing out a frustrated breath.
The sound of a siren wailing draws my eyes to the exit.
Racing into the lot is a fire truck followed by two state troopers.
They speed down the pathway, blaring their horns at a crowd of pedestrians dotting the road leading to the bleachers.
I climb out of the car and stand there holding the door by its frame.
Smoke billows into the sky like black clouds darkening the sun. Craft vendors and shoppers flock to the scene, trying to get a glimpse of the show that’s unfolding before their eyes. Little do they know they missed the main event.
A sense of relief and relaxation warms my body, even as the air turns chilly. Mastyx, although a demon and someone who caused me excruciating physical pain, comes with at least one perk.
Protection.
I feel the sheer terror I once felt morphing into something I shouldn’t feel.
Gratitude.
What the fuck is wrong with me? After everything he’s done to me, I’m actually considering trying to make this work because he saved me?
No. I can’t just accept this for what it is, can I? A relationship with a demon is something I can honestly say was never on my vision board for my future—lovely house, fancy car, and a hot husband, yes. But literally a hot demon boyfriend, definitely not.
I close my eyes and shake my head. Images of Mastyx’s face in non-human form force my eyes back open.
I’m going to have to get him a mask at the very least if he can’t keep a human one for every encounter.
It’s equal to meeting someone with a rocking hot body, but their face is a wreck, so you put a bag over it.
I bite the side of my thumbnail, my nerves getting the best of me.
It’s not the end of the world, I guess. I mean, our relationship, our agreement, no matter how painful and unconventional it is, could work.
What’s the alternative after all? Death?
Going to hell? I’m already fucking there.
Figuring out how to navigate my life with Mastyx is going to be a challenge, but hey, no pain, no gain, right?
A swarm of people, shoppers, and vendors pulling wagons and carrying bags approach the parking lot. The officials must be shutting the craft fair down early due to the fire and smoke. Well, at least I have an excuse now for being home early. The only problem is my face and arms.
My mind wanders to the Dollar General I drove by just down the road. I’ll stop there, grab some makeup and buy a long-sleeve shirt. That ought to cover all my bases.
I turn the key, and the Nova rumbles to a start.
My fingers curl around the shifter when the familiar feeling of being watched makes the hair on my neck rise.
I glance through the windshield and lock eyes with Jayce’s mom, a crowd of people filtering around her as she stands stationary, holding a wreath in one hand and a metal chair in the other.
Shit. I forgot she did crafts. I didn’t know she was here; there are so many vendors.
She speed-walks to my driver’s side window, dropping her wreath and tossing the chair on the ground before pounding on the glass with her fist and yelling through it. “Was this you?” She gestures with her head toward the blackened sky. “Who’d you kill this time?”
I quickly pull the shifter into drive and slam on the gas, my heart pounding, my head spinning with thoughts. Dirt flies up in the air, showering her with debris and rocks as I speed out of the parking lot and wedge into exiting traffic.
“Fuck.” I slam my hands on the steering wheel. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
This is bad. This is so bad. She’s going to start a rumor, I just know it.
I should have said no when she asked me if I had something to do with it before I took off.
Now, she’s going to tell everyone that I started the fire, or at least that she suspects I did.
And when the police find the predator’s body, all fingers will be pointed directly at me.
I need to get the fuck out of this town, this city, this fucking state, not only for my own sake, but for my parents.
I make a quick left into the Dollar General parking lot, ram the car in park and race inside.
I move swiftly up and down the makeup aisle, then the clothing section, where I find an all-black, lightweight, long-sleeved shirt.
Perfect.
The pile drops on the counter in front of the cashier, and I drum my fingers on the counter as she takes her time, ringing them up slowly. After paying, I decline my receipt and step outside just as a string of police cars tears down the road, lights and sirens blaring.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I toss the makeup I just bought onto the passenger seat, quickly pull my new shirt over my head and rip the tags off before answering. “Hello?”
“Tessa, are you okay? I heard there’s a fire at the fairgrounds.” Her voice echoes through the phone.
Man, news certainly travels fast in this town. “I’m okay. I stopped to use the bathroom at the store.” I lie. I just know she’s got her phone in her hand, tracking my movements. “I’ll be home as soon as I can get through all the traffic.”
Another lie. I really just need to buy a little time to throw on my faux face.
“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll be waiting for you.” She hangs up the phone before I can reply.
After spending fifteen minutes putting on makeup using my rearview mirror, I turn my head side to side and examine my face thoroughly.
The bruising is virtually gone. If I keep my head slightly tilted left, my parents will never see the bruise on my face.
The minor swelling may be a problem, but there isn’t much I can do about that at this point.
I roll out of the parking lot and join the slow-moving traffic coming from the fairgrounds. It would move faster if everyone weren’t rubbernecking and trying to catch a glimpse of the fire.
By the time I reach the highway, and traffic finally thins out, it’s been almost an hour since I talked to my mom.
I hit the gas and speed home, trying to make up time.
When I turn the corner onto our street, I slam on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt halt.
My core trembles and my knuckles whiten as my fingers grip the steering wheel tight.
Should I run? Just keep driving? I shake my head and blow out a staggering breath. No. It won’t matter. Besides, I did nothing wrong. I release the brake, press the gas, and steer the Nova behind the police cruiser parked in front of my parents’ house.