“Fuck you!” I snatch the keys from the hook, angry he had planned this, too, bringing my car from where I left it at Rockford Manor three months ago.
Not waiting for the elevator, I flee his apartment, racing down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, each step carrying me further from the sanctuary I found in his arms last night.
The nape guard sits heavy around my neck, a reminder of what I’m leaving behind, and what will inevitably draw me back.
Because no matter how far or fast I run, Ezra has marked me as his own. And deep down, I know I’ve belonged to him since the moment we met.
16
Back at my own loft above my bookstore, I strip out of what’s left of my Knox attire and pull on a pair of flannel bottoms before I stride into the bathroom.
The bulbs flicker a couple of times thanks to the old wiring in a building that hasn’t seen much maintenance since it was built. Then light floods the space, bouncing off the white tile and amplifying every mark on my body.
Naked from the waist up, I grip the edges of the sink as I lean in to study the titanium band locked around my neck. My reflection stares back, wild with a panic I can’t afford, chest mottled with love bites in the distinct shape of Ezra’s mouth.
The purple-red marks bloom across my torso like paint splotches from collarbone to hip bones, evidence of his possession even without the collar. Some are already fading, while others are still fresh and tender when I press on them. But these marks will disappear.
The collar will not.
I trace the smooth edge of the nape guard, the metal cool and unyielding beneath my touch. Protecting the place where Ezra’s teeth will sink in during my Heat, binding us together.
My pulse hammers beneath the metal, my skin flushing, adding new color to the canvas of my body. No one has ever Marked me before, and I can’t ignore the way my body craves the sharp pressure, the pleasure-pain of broken skin, the swipe of tongue.
“Fuck.” My whisper echoes in the bathroom. “You are more than your biology.”
But where Ezra’s concerned, I don’t think I am.
“The collar is just a thing,” I say instead. “Things have weaknesses.”
The words steady me, a mantra from my grandfather during long nights of pick-pocketing practice.Everything manufactured has flaws, he’d say.Your job is to find them.
I push away from the sink, movements sharp with purpose as I stride to the kitchen. The knife drawer slides open with a groan, the wood swollen with age, revealing the neat row of handles lined within. I select the serrated bread knife, its teeth gleaming under the kitchen lights.
Back in the bathroom, I angle my chin up, exposing the collar to the overhead light. I set the knife’s teeth on the band and begin to saw, the sound of the blade scraping over the titanium setting my teeth on edge.
Nothing. Not even a scratch marks the surface when I pull the knife away to check my progress. The metal gleams, untouched, mocking me with its perfection.
I toss the knife into the sink with a clatter. “Dammit!”
I scan the bathroom and settle on my art supplies stacked on the shelf above the toilet. The razor I use for sharpening charcoals sits in its leather sleeve, blade thin enough to slide between pages without leaving a mark. I grab it, fingers trembling as I unsheathe the steel.
The edge catches the light as I turn it in my hand, examining its thinness. It might fit into spaces the knife couldn’t reach,find weaknesses invisible to the naked eye. I slip the blade along the collar’s underside, searching for any microscopic gap where metal meets metal.
My hand slips a fraction, and pain flares hot and bright as the razor slices into the soft skin of my neck. Blood wells, the thin crimson line trickling down to pool in the hollow of my collarbone.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, grabbing a hand towel from the rack and dabbing at the cut. It’s shallow, thank god, but the bright spot of pain acts as a warning. The collar remains unmarked, blood wiping away to reveal pristine titanium beneath.
The razor joins the knife in the sink, both failures. But I’m not done. Not by a long shot.
I rifle through the drawer beneath the sink, past toothpaste and spare soap until my fingers close around a hairpin. It’s a relic from Lorenzo’s days with longer hair, when he’d sweep it back into a small, elegant knot at formal events.
“Come on,” I mutter, bending the pin straight and inserting its tip into where I imagine a keyhole might be. My grandfather’s voice echoes in my mind with instructions from my childhood,“Feel for the tumblers. Listen for the click. Patience, always patience.”
I work the pin around the collar’s circumference, probing every millimeter, searching for any give, any indication of a mechanism within. Sweat beads on my forehead, dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision. I blink it away, refusing to stop even as my fingers cramp from holding the tiny metal rod.
Nothing. The collar remains as impenetrable as before.
With a roar of frustration, I hurl the hairpin across the bathroom. It pings off the shower door before disappearing behind the toilet. My reflection shows a man on the edge, hair wild, blood drying on his neck, chest heaving with exertion and rage.
