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They’re learning one another.

I take another of Simon’s cakes. He pretends to be occupied with folding his napkin into smaller and increasingly irritated squares. Jamie smiles into his tea. Oliver says nothing.

The pot has been sitting on the warmer since the first cup, so I reach to move it off. My fingers are nearly around the painted side when Simon lunges across the table.

“Don’t touch that. It’s hot.” His hand closes around my wrist and jerks it back before my skin reaches the porcelain. His fingers hook beneath the bracelet.

The old elastic snaps. Beads strike the table, the cups and the wooden floor. Orange rolls beneath the dollhouse. Pink disappears under the beanbag. Yellow spins between Oliver’s knees while two different greens scatter in opposite directions.

The translucent purple bead circles once beside Jamie’s boot before falling onto its side.

Nobody moves. Jamie stares at the beads across the floor while Simon’s hand remains locked around my wrist.

I look down at the empty place on my arm.

CHAPTER 39

Jamie

Beads scatter across the table and strike the cups, and Simon’s hand stays wrapped around Heather’s wrist after the last one reaches the floor. He looks at the place where the bracelet used to be instead of letting her go.

For one ugly second, I’m glad.

Simon spent nineteen days being useful. He cooks, behaves through his inspections and gets whatever private reward Heather gives him behind the red door. He stands in her kitchen acting like the house was waiting for somebody competent to arrive, and now his enormous fucking hand has destroyed the first thing I ever gave her.

Heather looks at his fingers around her wrist. “Let go of me.”

Simon releases her immediately. “You were about to burn yourself.”

She drives her fist into his mouth.

His head snaps back, and he catches himself against the table. The teapot rocks hard enough to spill tea across the white cloth. Simon puts one hand down to steady it, which leaves the rest of him open.

Heather hits him again.

He could stop her. His shoulders are wider than hers, and I’ve seen him lift a stockpot one-handed while she worked his cock beneath the apron. Instead, he lets her grab his shirt and pull him off balance. His knee strikes the floor first, followed by one shoulder when she twists him down beside the table.

The cups jump in their saucers. Oliver moves backward to keep Simon from landing across his legs. I stay exactly where Heather put me. Simon deserves this.

“You touched me.” Heather puts her knee between his shoulders and forces him flat. “You broke it.”

“It was an accident.” Blood shines on Simon’s mouth when he turns his face against the floor. “I stopped you from grabbing the fucking pot.”

Heather takes the baton from beneath her skirt and drives the dead end into his ribs. Simon curls around the pain as much as her weight allows, then goes loose again when she hits him a second time.

He doesn’t cover his head or try to catch the baton. He opens his hands against the floor and takes what she gives him. The third blow pulls a rough sound out of him, and his hips shift beneath her.

He enjoys this. The realization takes some of the pleasure out of watching.

Heather presses the switch. Blue light snaps between the contacts.

Oliver gets one hand around Heather’s forearm before she lowers the baton. “Enough.”

Heather turns and puts the live end against his stomach.

The crack fills the playroom. Oliver’s whole body locks, and his glasses fly off when he hits the floor beside the miniature table. One lens catches the light before the frame disappears beneath the edge of the beanbag.

Heather barely looks at him. She turns the baton off, catches Simon by the hair and rolls him onto his back.