Property Of A Monster

What's Mine

Chapter 5

The room went utterly silent except for the ringing echo of the gunshot still ricocheting off marble. Lorenzo crossed the space in three strides and slammed the man back against the wall Mary had just been pinned to, forearm crushing into his throat.

"You dare touch what's mine." His voice came out low, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse than shouting would have. His face had gone perfectly still, and that stillness was the most frightening thing Mary had seen all night, more frightening than the gun, more frightening than the blood. He turned that same flat, chilling gaze on the other two men still frozen on the couch, cigarettes forgotten between their fingers. "Anyone else confused about the rules of this house?"

Nobody answered. Nobody breathed, as far as Mary could tell.

He released the man, who slid down the wall like his legs had simply stopped working, and crossed back to where Mary stood shaking against the pillar. He didn't touch her right away. He studied her first, the way he always did, cataloguing every tremor in her hands, before he leaned down, close enough that his breath stirred the loose hair at her temple.

"No one touches what is mine." The words landed soft against her ear, private, meant only for her, and somehow that intimacy scared her more than if he'd said it to the whole room.

Mary's whole body trembled, though whether from fear or fury or something she refused to name, she couldn't tell anymore. "I'm not yours," she managed, barely above a whisper.

"You will be." He straightened, already turning from her like the matter was settled, already moving on to the next order of business. "The wedding is in a few days. Get ready."

"A few days? You can't just, "

"I can." He didn't even glance back.

The dress shop was hushed and gleaming, all soft lighting and racks of silk that cost more than Mary's monthly rent. She stood on a raised platform in front of three mirrors while a sales attendant fussed with pins, and Lorenzo sat in a velvet chair across the room like a king holding court, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching every dress she tried with the same unreadable patience.

The fourth gown was a deep wine red, fitted through the bodice, a slit climbing one thigh. Mary actually liked this one, the first thing in days that had felt like it belonged to her rather than to him.

"Too bright." Lorenzo's voice cut through the fitting room without him even fully looking up. "Too tight."

"It's a wedding dress, Lorenzo, not a nun's habit."

"I don't want people staring at what's mine." He finally lifted his eyes to hers, grey and unblinking, and something about the way he said it made heat crawl up her neck despite herself. "Something else."

Mary's jaw tightened so hard it ached. She stepped down off the platform without a word, grabbed the next gown off the rack the attendant offered, and stalked back into the fitting room, yanking the curtain shut behind her hard enough that the rings rattled.

"Grumpy doesn't suit you either," he called after her, and she was fairly sure she heard something almost like amusement under the words.

She ignored him, working her way out of the wine-red silk and into the new dress, a soft ivory thing with a zip that ran the length of her spine. She reached back, fingers straining between her shoulder blades, and felt the metal catch halfway up, snagged on a thread, refusing to move another inch in either direction.

"Great." She twisted, trying to reach it from a different angle, and only made it worse. The fabric pulled tight across her ribs, trapping her half in, half out of the dress. "Excuse me? Can I get some help in here?"

No answer came from beyond the curtain. She called again, louder this time, straining to hear footsteps, the attendant's voice, anything.

Silence. Then, close behind her, close enough to raise every hair on her arms, she heard it, low and even and unmistakably not the sales attendant's.

A breath.