WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 9 | THE FIRST DEATH

TW: Violent Descriptions; Death

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[LOVEY]

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IT FELT STRANGE TO BE A TOURIST AGAIN.

I've known Paris for a long time, and after years of visiting, the novelty wore off bit by bit. Its beauty became second nature to me, though I hate to admit it. I often took it for granted now that my lifestyle lets me visit so often.

I glanced behind me as I walked, stifling a laugh. Creep was striding behind me, bags upon bags of my shopping items dangling off his arms. His lips were pressed so thinly together, I would have thought he had none at all. Clearly he didn't like that he had to carry all my things (especially after buying them on his card).

"Turn back around, Lovey," he said thinly, "remember the rules."

Don't acknowledge his presence in public.

I shrugged. "I hardly think the rules apply anymore."

"What makes you say that?"

"The past twenty-four hours."

"Unless there's something that I don't remember happening, I don't know what you're insinuating."

I stopped walking, the click of my heels against the pavement ceasing to echo. Creep stopped to stare at me, but I could tell he was truly confused. Good. That was my plan all along.

A few hours earlier, I fell asleep in that tiny, moldy safehouse, wishing I could be anywhere but with the man. He was boring, rude, and lacked any sense of compassion. Even though his job was to protect me from harm, I felt like the only thing he was there for was to start arguments with me. I can't recall a single civilized conversation.

So I decided to end the feud. On my side, at least. I'd play innocent—agree with everything he said, not care when he insulted me or my boyfriend, etc—and hopefully it would drive him absolutely insane to the point where he stopped trying to fight me.

It was working. I think. There was a strange moment in the department store, when I noticed the first sliver of emotion in his deadpanned eyes. I was standing in front of him, donning a bright red dress, and asking him how I looked. I was daring him to. He'd always made a point to look at my eyes, only my eyes, as if he was scared I'd accuse him of being a pervert (which he still could be, considering my theory that he watches me sleep). And he looked at me.

Not the kind of casual glance Percy gives me most days. Creep made me feel like he was seeing through me, counting every crease on my skin, and making a blueprint of my body in his mind. It felt invasive. It felt weird. It felt different.

But I didn't mind it. I just couldn't tolerate it.

"You say I'm supposed to pretend you don't exist," I said, taking a step closer to him, "but then you follow me into my friend's home, shove me into telephone booths, and take me shopping."

Creep narrowed his eyes. "Those situations left me with no other options."

"Just admit it, William."

His jaw clenched at the use of his first name.

"There's nothing to admit," he said.

"You enjoy being stuck with me, I know you do."