I bring my hand back up and cover myself fully again, pressing my palm flat against my chest. I can feel my own heartbeat thumping against my palm. I tell the camera, “You’ve been watching me without my permission for days. So now, you watch on my terms. And my terms say you wait.”
I arch my head to the left and let my hair fall over one shoulder, exposing the other side of my neck, where Kir bit down hard enough to leave a bruise that I’ve been covering with turtlenecks and concealer all week. I turn so the lens can see it.
“You left this,” I scold lightly, brushing my fingertips over the fading mark. “I had to wear a scarf to work, you animal.”
I trail those same fingertips down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, and along the top of my other hand where it’s still covering my
