ABIGAIL.
Three days passed before Oberin appeared again.
I’d started to think maybe it had all been a stress-induced hallucination.
Maybe I’d had a psychotic break and imagined the whole thing. But the mark on my arm remained, a dark reminder of the contract.
And Tate’s life had started falling apart in spectacular fashion.
His gallery show was vandalized. His car was totaled in a hit-and-run. His biggest patron suddenly pulled funding, citing ‘concerns about artistic integrity’. The art world was starting to whisper about him, questioning his work.
It was exactly what I wanted. So why did I feel so on edge?
I was in the shower when he came.
One moment I was alone, washing shampoo from my hair, the next a hand pressed against the tile beside my head.
I yelped, spinning around t
