I go in and close the door behind me. “Hi,” I say, as coolly as I can. “I thought you’d be at work.”
“I wanted to see you.” His blue eyes survey me. It’s difficult not to think of the wolf and its scary snarl.
I put all the boxes and bags on the floor except one, take it over to the shelves in the corner, and start packing away the paperbacks and knick-knacks. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“You’re really going to do this,” he says.
I stop for a moment, then carry on putting the books away. “Yes. You thought I’d changed my mind?”
He doesn’t reply. I move to the next shelf and pack away those things.
“The rent’s due next week,” he says. “You should pay half. It’s not fair that you haven’t given me any notice.”
I send him a wry look. He’s in finance, and he earns three times what I did as a secretary. But I just say, “Whatever.” I’m not going to argue with him. He’s smart and manipulative, and I’ve never won an argument with him.
After finishing with the shelves, I walk around him, collecting any bits and pieces of mine I can see—a couple of magazines, a pair of slippers, some jars of nail polish. I want to strip my presence from this flat.
I walk into the kitchen and start looking through the cupboards. There’s no point in taking any of the food, even though I’m the one who tends to go to the supermarket. We share the cooking. I bought a lovely wok and a set of saucepans just a few months ago, but suddenly I don’t want anything that’s going to remind me of Jude. I’ll take my personal items and that’s it.
“Want the milk cartons?” he says from behind me. “And I think there’s half a packet of pasta at the back.”
Refusing to be baited, I slip past him, pick up the rest of the boxes and bags I’ve brought, and go through to the bedroom. He follows me and stands in the doorway, leaning on the doorjamb, as I start to take my clothes out of the wardrobe.
“Go away,” I say eventually. “You’re making me nervous.” I glance over my shoulder at him, expecting to see him smirking at that. He’s not, though. He’s glaring at me.
I decide not to bother folding my clothes up and start stuffing everything in the bags. When the wardrobe’s empty, I turn to the chest of drawers. My underwear is in the top drawer. I can feel his gaze on me as I take out my bras and my cotton and lace underwear, and place it in the bag. When I retrieve the few silk and satin pieces of lingerie I own, he says, “I bought those.”
“I know.” I put them in the bag.
“Leave them,” he says.
I stare at him. “I don’t think they’ll fit you.”
He doesn’t laugh. Holy Goddess, he’s serious. My skin creeps. I look at the bag, then pull out the items, toss them onto the bed, and stuff everything else in.
Taking a cardboard box, I go into the bathroom. My hands are shaking now. As quickly as I can, I place all my bottles, brushes, and makeup into the box, then bring it out and take it through into the living room.
That’s it. It’s most of my personal effects. He can keep everything else.
I open the door and take the box down to the car. Returning to the flat, I pick up two of the bags. Jude stands in the middle of the room, mute and angry, refusing to help. I take the bags down and return for the final one.
As I pick it up and lift the strap onto my shoulder, he moves to stand in my way. “Don’t go.”
I stop. “Come on, Jude, this is already difficult, don’t make it worse.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“It’s not up to you.” I step right to go around him, but he matches my movement, staying in front of me.
My pulse picks up speed. I step to the left, and he moves again, like the wolf, blocking my exit.
“This isn’t fair,” he whispers. “I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“It’s not about doing something wrong. I’m just not happy,” I tell him. “I want to go.”
“No.”
I swallow hard. “Get out of my way.”
His icy blue eyes chill me. “No.”
Exasperation rises along with fear. “What’s your plan? Are you going to chain me to the kitchen sink?”
“Maybe.”
I can’t tell whether that’s a joke. “Jude, stop it, you’re scaring me.”
I see it then—a flicker in his eyes. That comment pleased him. He likes scaring me. Controlling me. That’s why he wants me. Because he thinks I’m a pushover. Because he thinks I’m not going to challenge him. He likes having the upper hand in our relationship, being the star of the show whenever we’re out together. Being dominant, even cruel, in bed. Well, I’m done.
“I’m leaving.” I step to the side again.
He moves to match me, and reaches out to hold me.
As he grips my upper arms, anger sears through me. How dare he treat me like this?
Something burns against my hip. The crystal I slipped in my pocket turns white-hot.
I place my palms on his chest. My hands sting, there’s a sharp bang, and Jude flies backward, crashing into the wall.
Despite my shock, I slip past him and run down the stairs. I leave the flat, throw the bag in the back of the car and shut the door, and get into the driver’s seat. He appears in the doorway, but I’m already starting the car, and within seconds I’m pulling away, heading along the road out of the city.
Once I know he’s not following me, I pull over for a moment. Leaving the car idling, I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m shaking, and I force myself to take deep breaths in and out.
My palms are still stinging a little. I dig my fingers into my pocket and retrieve the crystal. It’s turned from sparkling red and yellow to a dull gray now, the spell spent. Holy Goddess. I don’t know what Jude was going to do to me when he grabbed my arms, but I’m thankful the spell enabled me to escape.
I lean back, my heartbeat slowing. I feel an odd sense of pride at having saved myself. All my life I’ve been told I’m the quiet one and Tia is the strong one. People have always taken over and done things for me as if I’m not capable. But I am strong enough to cope on my own. The realization is like a window opening, letting in the sun. The remains of the energy from the spell runs through me, and my skin glows mother-of-pearl, while my fingers tingle. I hold my breath and enjoy the moment, exhaling only as the frisson dies away. Mm. I flex my fingers. That was a good feeling. I’m getting more powerful. Maybe it’s what happened to me in the river, perhaps it’s the Black Moon, or maybe it’s my newfound determination, but I like it, and now I know what I can do, I’m not going to let it go.
I had been planning to drive straight home, but, buoyed up by my success, I take the turnoff into the city and head into the center.
It’s busy, but I find a parking space in Queen Street, lock my stuff in the car, and walk toward Isca field unit. I know this is a long shot, but after Mac’s encouragement this morning, I’m willing to give it a try.
The field unit is attached to The Royal Albert Memorial Museum, a Gothic Revival building of local red sandstone. Isca Dumoniorum was a town in the Roman province of Britannia, and Roman remains still litter the town—a broken wall here, the corner of a fort there. I come to the museum a lot and know my way around. I go into the foyer, turn right, and enter the wing that houses the field unit.