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I held my breath.

But he just shrugged. Rolled his neck. “That explains it.” He didn’t ask again. It was easier for him to believe that version. He wanted to believe I was his, that I’d never betray him even if I hated his guts.

That’s what he needed more than the truth.

My stomach churned. I reached for a cracker on the counter, put it in my mouth, hoped chewing would buy me time. But the food made something inside me curl tight. A wave of nausea. I wanted to spit it out, but I forced myself to keep chewing, keep swallowing, be what he needed me to be.

He pressed his chest to my shoulder, breathing hard. “We’re going out today. You need clothes that fit.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

I’d learned to agree. It made things easier.

The car ride was quiet, except for the slam of his hand against the steering wheel when somebody cut him off. He didn’t like silence. He talked the whole way. “You’re not picking weird stuff this time. No black hoodies, no baggy pants. If you look like shit, I’ll throw it out.”

I nodded at the window.

Sunlight chased us down the two-lane highway. In the side mirror, a shape flickered. A car, maybe, far behind. I kept watching, trying not to let anxiety chew my stomach open.

We parked at a strip mall. I hovered by the door, lightheaded. My skin prickled all over. Brandon tugged my hand, impatient, like he was dragging a misbehaving child behind him. He moved fast, boots slamming the tiles.

We went to an ordinary clothing store. Rows of mannequins grinning with dead eyes, fluorescent lights turning everything washed out and sick. I thought I might throw up, right there on the floor.

He shoved a basket into my arms. “Try to pick things that fit. I’m not made of money.”

“Okay,” I whispered. The words stuck in my throat, coated in shame. My legs felt like noodles. My head hurt. I blinked hard, trying to see straight.

He hovered close as I fingered through the racks. A few times, I felt his eyes on my ass, then flicking around to see if anybody was watching. He liked to pretend we were normal, just a man shopping with his girl. I wondered what strangers saw when they looked at me. Could they smell the rot under my skin? Could they see the bruises? Could they see the wickedness inside of Brandon?

Every few minutes, Brandon checked his phone, getting annoyed if I wandered more than an arm’s length away. Once, I heard a noise in the aisle behind us—a shuffle, a scrape. My head snapped up. For a second, I thought I saw something move, a shadow drifting between racks. My heart kicked. I waited for it to happen again, but the aisle stayed empty, nothing but abandoned sweaters and a trashcan filled with plastic wrap.

Brandon pressed a pile of shirts into my hands. “Start with these, then pick out a few jeans, maybe something nice for a change.”

He led me toward the changing rooms, hand gripping my arm. “Don’t take all fucking day.”

I tried to smile. My hands curled around the clothes, knuckles white. Blood pounded behind my eyes.

Inside the dressing room, I sat down hard, breathing through my mouth. Trying not to throw up. My whole body shook with exhaustion. There were four shirts and three pairs of jeans. Nothing I wanted, but that didn’t matter. I stripped, folding my clothes over the tiny bench. I slid into a clean t-shirt. It clung to my ribs. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, sunken cheeks.

There was a noise outside of the curtain. I froze. A rush of terror ran through me. I waited for his voice. Silence.

The curtain opened a crack. Just wide enough for a shadow to slip in.

He didn’t say my name. Didn’t say anything at all. Just slipped inside. Something dark over his head—a mask. Burlap. Ragged, stitched. His breath rasped through the holes.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out at first.

Then, “Malakar?” My voice so thin it nearly disappeared.

He put a gloved finger to the mouth of the mask. His eyes burned through me.

“Be good.” The words, muffled by burlap, barely more than a whisper.

I was a statue. Petrified, buzzing, hollow with terror and want. I saw him in the mirror, hulking behind me. I blinked. He was more nightmare than man.

He bent me over the little dressing bench, shoving my face into the mirror. I saw myself reflected—a girl with wild hair and terrified eyes.

“Don’t make a sound.”