Set Me Free

Chapter Three

In my dream, the cheerful colors in Owen's portrait darkened, until he was as cold and forbidding as shadows on ice. His large hands gripped the sides of the frame; he pulled himself out of the painting and took hold of my shoulders. I arched my neck, hoping to feel his breath on my throat.

A shrill electronic beep rang out. Owen turned away. His body shrank and slimmed down, his hair turned from blond to auburn, his face became intimately familiar. Rhys—

I woke up with a stifled scream, fighting to escape from the blanket twined around my arms and legs. I was trapped—I was suffocating, and Rhys was—

No, I told myself, as I slowly recognized the gray fabric covering my car's back seat. And the little pile of Shakespeare plays on the floor mat, next to my shiny green flats. My car. My safe place. I was safe.

I'd been sleeping in my back seat most nights for the past three weeks, ever since I'd gotten the waitressing job at the Widow's Walk. The Viking's friend, Andy, was as energetic and upbeat as Owen was reserved and serious. And Andy was thrilled that a potential new hire had walked into their bar before they'd even posted the position. You must be psychic, he had said, while a slender, curly-haired waitress, Margot, scowled irritably at me from the corner. Just lucky, was my reply. I was lucky—I could have ended up anywhere, so directionless and desperate, but instead I'd come to this island, and had found the Artist's Lodge, and a muse in the form of the mysterious Suzanna White.

And now I had a job. Since then, I'd been putting a little more money on the prepaid debit card I'd gotten to pay my bills—only two now, just my car and my phone—and I didn't have to give a single cent to Rhys. That was enough to make me feel as rich as a queen.

Still... I was nowhere close to a month's rent, never mind a first, last, and security deposit. I'd been staying in a motel in the next closest town, Bellisle, to shower and sleep in a bed twice a week. Otherwise I used disposable, no-water face cloths and dry shampoo and tried to be patient. I was happy enough to trade more frequent showers and proper heat for a space that was solely my own.

I dug a compact mirror out of the side door pocket where I'd been storing my makeup. My eyes looked huge and dark, still hollow with my nightmare. My long, black hair lay in mats and tangles. But it was all right. I'd fixed myself up from worse.

I washed up and did my makeup. After I'd combed out my hair carefully, I pulled it back into a ponytail. Then I reached for my black work shirt, only to remember I had the day off. Too bad. I would rather be at work, making money. Assembling the building blocks of my new life.

Deciding to stick with my one indulgence on one of my rare days off—a visit with Claire, and a coffee—I grabbed my purse. My phone was flashing. The beep in my dream had come from real life.

I stared at the screen, sick with anxiety.

The one from this morning said: I miss you. He had probably sent it while he was walking to class, a stack of law books tucked in the crook of his arm, looking dapper in one of his sleek gray suits.

Below that was a new text from last night. I love you, Mira.

This one he'd probably sent from home—his home, now, though some of my clothes still hung in the closet, and the spring wreath I'd made still decorated our front door. In spite of myself, I wondered what Rhys had eaten for dinner last night—how much time he'd taken away from studying in order to deal with the nuisances of daily life.

Deliberately, I scrolled up to the text from earlier yesterday evening: Who the fuck do you think you are, leaving me like this?

He had been like this almost from the beginning—charm and rage lived in equal parts inside of him, as inextricably intertwined as strands of DNA.