I took the stairs and stopped dead when my boot slipped over the marbled surface. I looked down. Blood. There were drops of blood trickling down from the second floor.

Shit.

“Papa?” I called, gripping the bannisters so I wouldn’t slip again, taking the stairs two at a time. “Are you all right?”

It wasn’t just drops. The stairs were smeared with blood, with traces of bloodied fingertips crawling up the white granite, like in a horror movie. It occurred to me that maybe I should call the police, but I was too panicked with the prospect that something had happened to Dad or Poppy.

I climbed up to the second floor and realized the blood prints led to the bathroom closest to my room. I flung the door open and immediately had to suck in a breath. The entire expanse of crème ceramic was painted red. Nearly every inch of it. Vaughn Spencer was sprawled in my bathtub, clothed in a black V-neck shirt and black skinny jeans, dangling one army boot over the edge and smoking a joint. He bobbed his head back and forth, his face covered in cuts—like he’d just fought a rabid housecat—and that’s when I realized he was listening to my CD player. I yanked the earbuds from his ears, my heart beating so fast and wild I felt nauseous with adrenaline.

“Spencer!” I cried.

He looked up, finished the remainder of his joint, and tossed it to the floor. The blood killed the ember with a vicious hiss. Vaughn exhaled a ribbon of twisted smoke into my face, slow and deliberate, forever a connoisseur of cruelty.

“Lenora.”

“Forgive me for being so dense, but could you please enlighten me as to what you are doing in my bathtub, bleeding to death?” I exhaled slowly, shaking with anger and, yes, fear, too. His dark shirt was soaked with blood, reminding me that he was human, after all. Something worse than the scratches on his face lay under there.

He needed to go to the hospital. Immediately. I yanked my phone out of my leather jacket’s pocket, but he shook his head.

“Stitch me up, Buttercup.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen your Tree in Fall piece. You know your way around a needle.”

My Tree in Fall assemblage was a lone tree I’d found in a Hampstead Heath park. It had been completely naked of leaves. It looked cold. I’d stitched a garment on it from scratch, then hung clothing items, like leaves, on its thin, bare branches. By the time I was done, the tree looked a bit like a ghost. I loved that it went from looking weak and helpless to fearsome and Goth-like.

I wondered how Vaughn had seen it, since I’d only posted it on my Instagram, and he didn’t have any social media accounts. But now wasn’t the time to ponder this question.

At any rate, Vaughn was right. Mum had taught me how to sew, stitch, and crochet.

That didn’t mean I was going to play the role of his devoted nurse, though.

I started dialing. Screw him. I wasn’t helping him beyond what the law required: tossing his ass into an ambulance.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said calmly.

I stopped, looked up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The first words we’d spoken to each other in weeks, and he was already getting on my nerves. Vaughn Spencer had the uncanny ability to make me feel twisty, like if he didn’t touch me with his icy fingers, I’d burn. But I was also repelled by his behavior.

“I came here to offer you the assistant’s job, and I just might withdraw if you’re already being such a bad sport,” he drawled.

Wanker.

He’d left me hanging for weeks, and in that time I’d come to terms with my bitter loss to him. I found myself waiting to be approached. His plan had worked. Now he dangled it in my face, asking favors in return.

“Don’t make decisions with your ego.” My father’s voice pierced the red fog of my fury.

“I don’t want to be your anything,” I croaked.

It was the naked truth and most terrible lie I’d ever told anyone. I didn’t want to explore what I thought or felt toward Vaughn. I wanted to serve him a nice dose of pain, as he had me.

“Liar,” he said.

“Congrats on using your last name to get the gig.”

It wasn’t the right time for small talk, but if Vaughn dropped dead in my bathroom, the only part I’d hate about it would be testifying to the police and the paperwork that came with it. Anyway, he didn’t seem terribly bothered by his state, either.

“Eh, jealousy. Bitterness’ oldest companion. It’s not easy being a genius, let me tell ya. One is the loneliest number.”

“There are literally two of you, Mr. Shit-for-Brains. Rafferty Pope got the internship, too. In fact, I could be his assistant.”