Wretched (Never After Series)(12)

Zeke moves back in his seat, his brows hitting his hairline.

“You feel me?” I finish.

He’s silent as he stares down his nose at me, and I wait, my insides thrumming as blood rushes through my veins.

Finally, a grin breaks across his face. “Yeah, you lousy fuck. I feel you.”

Satisfaction drips through my insides. He played his part well.

Dorothy clears her throat. “Here.” She unclasps her necklace, placing it on the table in front of me. “Tell me about this.”

I look down at the large green emerald. My nerves tighten, making my muscles twitch; this is going exactly how I want. But I make sure to keep my facial features mundane and level.

Sighing, I reach up and scratch the corner of my ear before locking eyes with her again. “What about it?”

She gestures toward the piece of jewelry. “You tell me. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

I pick it up. The thin rose-gold chain feeling cool against my fingers as I inspect the jewel.

“You get this from that boyfriend?” I glance up at her, the left side of my mouth lifting.

She smiles. “From my daddy.”

“That what they’re calling it these days?”

Her eyes narrow. “My father, you fucking pervert.”

Chuckling, I look down at the necklace again before setting it back on the table. “Well, tell your daddy he should get a refund.”

Her face drops, and Zeke sits forward.

“Excuse me?” she sputters, her hand wrapping around the chain and bringing it to her chest.

I shrug. “It’s a nice rock, but it’s not real.”

“Then what is it?” she asks, staring down at the jewel like it’s poison.

“Synthetic? Fuck if I know.”

She scoffs. “I think I’d be able to tell.”

“Just because you think something doesn’t make it true.”

I reach out and grasp her hand in mine, hearing her sharp inhale of breath when I do. Drawing my finger across the surface of the jewel, I bring our palms up so it reflects off the light. “Look. See the way the stone is? It’s got yellow undertones.” I move our hands, allowing the “emerald” to shine. “Real emeralds have pure green or bluish hues. Never yellow.”

“But it looks flawless.” She tilts her head.

“And real emeralds have flaws, sweetheart. Just like the rest of us.”

Zeke coughs. “How do we know you’re tellin’ the truth?”

Peering over at him, I deliberately run my thumb over the back of Dorothy’s hand before dropping it to the table. “You don’t.”





6





EVELINE





Twenty-four feels different.

I stopped acknowledging my birthday a long time ago. After Nessa died, there wasn’t anyone left to force me to celebrate, no one who cared enough to even remember.

But technically today is the day.

It’s funny looking back on when I was just a kid. I’d spend my entire birthday trying to imagine what it was like when I was born; how my mother reacted when she brought me into the world.

Did she cry?

Did she pull me to her chest and feel our hearts sync up?

Was my father there holding her hand?

“How much longer?”

My dad’s gruff voice hits my ears and my shoulders tense at the intrusion. I don’t turn toward him, keeping my eyes locked on the flower pod in my hand. I turn it back and forth, inspecting the small crown at the top and making sure the ends aren’t curving downward, before taking my straightedge blade and slicing a shallow incision into the side.

“Hello, anyone home?” he barks. “I asked you a question.”

He’s in my peripheral vision, lounging against the wall of my greenhouse with his tattooed hands in his pockets and his silver hair slicked back.

“I heard you,” I mutter, cutting another small line.

“And?”

I release the poppy and tighten my fist around the handle of my straightedge as I turn to face him. “And?” I repeat. “Is that the only reason why you’re here? To check on my progress?”

An amused grin sneaks onto his face and I hate the way my heart skips when it does.

“Of course not, Bug.”

The nickname scrapes across my skin.

“I need you at Winkies tonight.”

And just like that, the sliver of hope shatters into a thousand broken pieces, searing through my stomach as they fall. Sighing, I turn back to my poppies and count down from ten in my head.

“Eveline. Don’t ign—”

“About half of them are ready,” I interrupt. “But it will be a week before I’m ready to start the chemical process.”

“A week?”

Another slice, this time on a new bud. “Maybe more.”

“That’s too long.”

“It is what it is.” I shrug, irritated that he’s coming into my space on my birthday and acting like I’m not doing enough. “And I’m not going to Winkies.”

He straightens. “You are.”

“No,” I say again. “I’m not.” My knuckles whiten as I grip the straightedge so tight it cuts off circulation.