The image of Stavros pressing a gun to that man's forehead won't leave me. The coldness in his eyes. The absolute, homicidal rage. I’m shivering in my room, pacing the hardwood floor like a caged tiger. I still feel the phantom weight of his hand on my thigh, the ghost of his breath on my neck.
I can’t do this. I can’t marry a monster who threatens to paint walls with brains just because someone looked at me. I can’t be a trophy on a shelf.
I grab a hairpin from the vanity, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop it. I force myself to breathe. In. Out. I jam the metal into the window lock. I spent years locking myself out of cheap apartments in downtown Athens. I know how to jiggle a tumbler. It takes three tries, sweat stinging my eyes.
Click.
The sound is the sweetest thing I’ve ever
