The punishment book waits on the desk beside the unpaid bills, its pages already filled with Quincy's precise entries for every infraction I've earned. I press my palms together hard enough to hurt, because admitting how much I need him to open it again feels like stepping off a cliff I can't climb back from. The thought of his corrections always leaves me both terrified and relieved in ways I refuse to examine.

Our arrangement has to stay hidden in this quiet neighborhood, but the risk of someone discovering the truth only sharpens the pull between us. His broad frame fills the doorway now, and I know the sound of his knuckles cracking will come before he speaks my name. Every glance between us carries the weight of what we cannot say aloud.

His hand settles on my shoulder without warning, and the weight of it roots me in place as we both hold our breath.

Henrietta Arnstad

Books