“Down, boy.” Laughing, I pitch everything onto the couch and lean down to scratch his ears.
He doesn’t go down easy when he’s so invested in licking my hand.
He never does.
He’s like a toddler on a mammoth sugar high, only with slightly worse verbal skills. He’s still quite chatty as he follows me into the bedroom, making chirpy little growls and yips like he’s filling me in on all of the dog toys he chewed up throughout the day.
I settle him down with a few treats and a good round of belly rubs, then send him trotting back out into the living room with a giant bone wider than his entire body in his mouth. I stand there looking after him with a smile, shaking my head.
That dog, I swear.
I take a quick shower, though I’m tempted to linger when my mind’s stuck on Alaska and my body feels too warm. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the creeping summer heat.
I’m a lot warmer than even the steamy condensation should warrant, and when I slide my hands over myself, slick with soap, my skin shivers with frenzied anticipation.
Easy.
I need to get my overactive mind under control.
Nothing’s happening tonight.
Alaska’s just doing his duty, his due diligence, going above and beyond by trying to push me into a little well-deserved fun.
That’s it.
End of story.
Still, I’m nearly walking on sunshine by the time I finish pinning my hair up in a cascading twist and finding a sundress in lavender and white checks with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt.
I line my eyes with a little kohl, gloss my lips pink, then head into the living room to grab my shoes. There’s been a persistent squeak coming from the hall while I was getting dressed, but I ignored it with the same kind of specialized deafness parents develop.
Shrub’s always gnawing away on something that makes the silliest noises.
That’s kinda his thing.
But I pause, stopping just short of tripping over him.
He’s curled up on his side, pawing at a bright-yellow rubber duck with big red blotches on its cheeks. It must be brand new because he hasn’t managed to chew the color off or punch little holes in it yet—and I know I didn’t buy it.
Yikes.
Something isn’t right here.
Maybe I should’ve listened to my instincts after all.
With ice-cold fear lodged in the back of my throat and a pit in my stomach, I step toward the living room, flattening myself against the wall and trying to be invisible as I peer around the edge.
Only to jerk back with a stifled scream under my tongue.
Paisley.
Oh, Jesus.
She’s just sitting there in my living room recliner, smirking and pretty as a little picture in a doll-like pink dress covered in ruffles of white lace, stockings with neon-pink ribbons around the tops, and Mary Jane shoes.
There’s something seriously warped about her arrested development fashion sense. It makes her look more like a badly behaved teenager than an adult running a criminal enterprise. And it’s twice as twisted by the fact that she’s got her switchblade clutched in her hand.
She’s using the tip of it to flick through individual bills in the sheaf of money she’s taken from the empty cash bag tossed on my living room floor.
I close my eyes, holding my breath, hoping she can’t hear my heart thumping fit to punch through the wall behind me.
I could run.
She probably thinks I’m still in the bedroom, waiting to surprise me when I come out.
I’m half surprised that vicious little viper didn’t rush me while I was naked, trapping me in the shower like that scene from every slasher flick. But if I’m quiet enough I could creep back that way, slip out the window, and—
“How long are you going to stand there?” she lilts, sweet as candy. “I don’t have all night, you know. And I’m very, very disappointed in you, Fe-lic-i-tee.” She clucks her tongue. “For shame, holding out on me, and I don’t mean this piddling bit of money, either. I thought we had an understanding, but I guess I was wrong. You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
Fuck.
My heart bottoms out somewhere around my ankles.
If I try to run now, she’ll just catch me and slit me down the middle with that hell-knife.
There’s probably at least two men outside, if not more.
The princess never travels without her entourage of brutes.
God, who am I kidding?
Even if she hadn’t seen me, those guys would’ve caught me anyway.
I’ve been up the creek with a bad luck paddle ever since I ignored that bootprint outside my door.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But it’s even dumber making her wait.
She’s always looking for an excuse to use that knife.
Shaking with disgust, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, praying for strength. I push myself away from the wall and step reluctantly into the living room.
“Paisley,” I mutter. “What do you want?”
“I’ve told you a million times over the years, haven’t I? I wonder what kind of dum-dum you are to forget.”
Gah, she even talks like this is a playground fight.
If only that horrible blade were a lollipop. She bounces to her feet, swaying side to side like a little girl dancing on her Mary Janes, twirling with her skirt flaring around her—and that knife flashing silver, glinting with bloodlust.
“Paye—” I venture, but she cuts me off.
“Ah-ah! All these years, and you’ve never bothered sniffing around after what your darling daddy was up to, did you? But something’s changed lately, hasn’t it?”
She stops abruptly, her last pirouette taking her to me in a rush so swift I barely see her coming until she’s on me, frozen in front of me, staring into me with too-wide psycho eyes, their green glittering like shards of jade.
The tip of the knife flashes under my chin, its point so close to my skin. I hiss and flinch back, fear rattling my bones, slithering inside me.
“You see, this is a nosy little town, and nosy people talk,” she whispers, her mouth splitting in an eerie grin. “And what those dirty little gossips told me is that you’ve been snooping around, you busy little bee. Suddenly you’re oh-so-curious about what your daddy used to do for us. Now, why ever would that be, Fe-li-ci-teeeee?”
I can’t think quick enough to come up with a lie.
Not one she’ll believe.
Not when she’s hissing my own butchered name like a cobra.
But I’m thinking quick enough to look for a defensive weapon.
My gaze shudders left. Right.
There, on a small decorative table against the wall just next to me—one of the very first mugs I’d had made, a sample piece before I started selling them. It’s not all that heavy, but if I could grab it, swing it, smash it over her head...
It might disorient her long enough for me to get away—or at least long enough to give me a fighting chance against those bulldog guards outside.
I have to get to Alaska.
That’s all I can think about.
I’ll only be safe with him.
I risk the knife and lunge—and nearly scream when I feel its tip grazing my throat and jaw like a lover’s tongue—but I’ve only got one shot.
I snatch the mug by the handle, swing it around—
And yelp, nearly dropping it as Paisley hits me like a cannonball and bodyslams me face-first into the wall.