His brows shrouded as he watched her undo the blood sticking to his hair and skin. Still lightly running the washcloth over the gash with the pad of her finger, her other hand lightly caressed him. Her eyes traveled him—the bruises, the cuts, the blood—and her face transformed in worry, but she stayed silent.
Anteros was transfixed as she dutifully cleaned away the blood. The white towel tinged pink, then red. He focused on her neck, noticing how she still wore the pendant he’d given her. She’d worn it the night she came for him, worn it the night he came to her. He wanted to poke and question why she still hadn’t taken it off, but that combined with the tender way she cleaned him made him too raw.
“What are you doing?” His voice was gruff, but for a different reason than the hurt from the bomb.
“I—” Frankie broke off, looking at the rag in her hands. “I don’t know.” She held the washcloth tighter, gripped it until the fibers came apart. “I’m already going to be in trouble with Lucia. She knows I was gone all night. What if we stayed here today and…” She placed her palm on his forearm. “And talked?” Frankie’s eyes were big and searching. She wanted to stay? With him? And fucking talk?
Anteros was rarely speechless in life, but at that moment he was. The urge to stay was practically ripping him to shreds. No one had ever wanted to simply talk to him, but the timing wasn’t right. He had to be back for the meeting. If he disappeared for the day, it would ruin everything. Crazy A would never believe another lie.
“We’ve never really been the type to talk before,” he said, pushing her off. A flit of emotion passed across her face, harsh and painful like a whip crack, and Anteros knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His hand shot out, but she pushed him away.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.” She set the rag down, shaking her head. Her eyes were rimmed red, making the blue even starker, the pain stark and bright like stars falling from the sky.
“Frankie—”
“I waited for you for hours,” she interrupted, eyebrows drawn. “God, I’m a fucking idiot.” She scoffed, but it wasn’t for him—she was upset with herself. Before he could react, she stood up, knocking over the bottle of water, and sprinted down the aisle. Frankie pushed open the double doors, disappearing before they’d shut.
“Fuck!” Anteros exhaled and slammed a hand into the pew. All he’d been trying to do was avoid risking her goddamn life, but instead he’d lost her entirely.
Four
I ran down the street, sure Anteros was going to break through the doors I’d slammed shut.
Wishing he would.
When nothing happened, I stopped, eyes stuck on the church. All I could do was focus on my breathing, count the breaths. One…people knocked into my shoulder. Two…someone uttered an insult under their breath, pissed that I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Three…the doors stayed closed. I still couldn’t move.
Even after everything he’d done to me, after the way he’d spoken to me, I hoped he would come after me.
It was late in the morning and the streets were flooded with New Yorkers going to work or starting their day. I was suffocated by them. With a groan, I pushed through a blur of hats and winter coats until I got to the street. I pulled out the phone, sending him a furious message.
That bottle of water was older than Jesus and the towel wasn’t sterilized. A second later I sent another. Enjoy your gangrene. Asshole.
I hated myself. I wished I could just leave him in silence and let him feel a little of the hurt I was feeling. By texting him on the phone he’d given me, I was letting him know how much I still wanted him, was giving him power.
The night before Anteros finally texted me to join him I’d gone to bed, stared at the faint cracks in the ceiling, certain he’d forgotten about me. That certainty had nearly crushed me. Then I’d waited all night in that church, wintry air blowing through the open roof. It should have been freezing, but somehow it wasn’t. I thought that was a sign—some kind of romantic bullshit. I was excited. Hopeful. Just like now, as I stared at texts that went without reply.
Laughter rang in my ear, two girls getting out of a cab. “Get off the street!” the cab driver yelled out the window as he pulled away and I jumped back onto the curb, the tires just barely missing my feet. Hair whipped my cheeks as I spun my head in all directions.
My breathing was labored, my arms felt like lead. I could feel it coming on—a flare-up, as my doctors called it—the moment when I couldn’t get out of bed. It was a miracle it hadn’t happened yet, but still, the tears in my eyes, the breath leaving my body in a rush—it was all for a completely different reason. I was always chasing him, searching him out. Carving my name into him as if that would get me closer to his heart.
I shouldn’t have texted him.
I should have just left.
He was probably pissed that I’d called him an asshole. Slaves need to be submissive and all that crap. I didn’t fucking care. I wasn’t a slave anymore, but he was still an asshole.
I elbowed through the mass of people, tears hot and thorny in my eyes when I reached the door to the club. Tall, black, and it should have been faceless, but a bunch of red flyers obscured it. The flyers were checkered with different images, alternating between one face and another.
THE PRINCESS IS A WHORE.
One face etched into the red paper was mine, the word ‘whore’ bold and outlined. I pulled the flyer off and flipped it over, finding that it wasn’t two
separate flyers, but one with a front and back. My eyebrows flew into my forehead when I recognized the other face. It was Gabby’s brother, Emilio De Luca, but beneath his face, the words were much kinder.
Choose Right, Choose The Prince.
I kept flipping the flyer over, not quite sure what I was seeing, when the door swung open to reveal a burly, gruff soldier.