“Are you threatening me?” I bared my teeth.

“Yes,” Troy and Sam answered in unison, their voices flatlined.

The little she-devil knew how to work a deadly weapon with Olympic skill. If anyone needed protection in that goddamn apartment, it was me.

“If you think your precious Sailor is too good for my ass, then why am I here?”

More cars honked. A white Honda went for an ongoing blare, which ratcheted the pressure in my head to explosive magnitudes. I wanted to burn Boston down, starting with Troy, Sam, Sailor, and my immediate family (possibly sparing Aisling and her pet ferret, Shelly, if she still had it).

“You’re here because I heard all about your antics in California, and I don’t want my daughter to suffer because you’re slightly less civilized than a chimp. So I’m telling you now, no funny business, no tricks, no pranks. You keep the apartment nice and tidy, you don’t make any noise, and you stay polite and courteous to her. Neighborly. Understood?”

Troy looked nonchalant for someone who was currently blocking a busy street in Boston during rush hour. I wondered what it felt like to walk around with balls that weighed five tons each. Lots of back problems, I imagined.

I looked at him like he was insane. To be fair—he was.

Had Sailor spilled the beans to her daddy about my lack of organizational skills? She didn’t seem like the snitching type. Then again, what did I actually know about her?

That she can kill you. And that the thought appeals to her.

“I’m being neighborly as fuck, sir. I even gave her a gift card yesterday.”

And a foot massage, before she shat all over my plan, but I deducted the touching part out of concern for my balls.

“She doesn’t need gift cards. Give her the gift of not being an idiot. Because if you hurt her, I will have to kill you. And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. I will literally kill you.”

I stared at him, waiting for the laugh and slap on the back. It never came.

“Is he slow or shocked?” Sam asked from behind us, lighting a cigarette.

“Both,” Troy deadpanned.

“Just shocked,” I bit out. “It’s not every day people threaten to kill me.”

“That’s a surprise,” Troy noted sarcastically.

“It’s a promise if you cross the line,” Sam amended. “So, technically, not a threat per se.”

I was trying to figure out what I could say without sounding like a whiny douche. “I’m going to tell my old man.”

Damn, that wasn’t it. I sounded like a whiny douche and a sap.

“He already knows, and let’s just say he wouldn’t consider it a great loss.” Troy lifted an eyebrow.

Touché.

“I could tell the police,” I countered.

“They’re in our pocket,” Sam answered from behind my back, yawning provocatively. “Any other people you want to talk to about our conversation, or can you just grow a pair and be a decent fucking human?”

When they put it like that, I guess I really didn’t have much choice.

Also, was I being judged by a couple of murderers? I really should take a long, hard look at my life.

Troy resumed his driving, but not before some cars had driven up the curb to pass him. People yelled and flipped us the bird as they sped by. It was only when we got to the West End’s cock-shaped building where Sailor and I lived that I realized I hadn’t been breathing the entire duration of the drive.

I inhaled oxygen like I’d just come up from three minutes underwater as Troy unlocked the doors. I pushed mine open.

“Remember,” he said from the depths of his car, his face overcast with the street’s shadow. “Play nice.”

“And clean,” Sam’s voice boomed from behind.

“I’ll kill her with kindness,” I bit out grumpily.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve never met someone so eager to get punched,” Troy murmured. “Get out before I give you what you’re begging for.”

As I took the elevator up to the penthouse, I realized what the cherry on the shit cake this day had served me was: My father’s people had to have seen me getting into Troy’s car—they had eyes on me wherever I was—but they didn’t do a damn thing about it.

I really was alone in the world.

That week, my face was plastered on every bus in Boston. It was an old picture of me smiling to the camera while clutching my bow to my chest. It read: Boston’s Sailor Brennan for the Olympics!

Gerald Fitzpatrick’s doing. He was making good on his promise to grant me more exposure. He’d hired a team to maintain my neglected (read: nonexistent) social media accounts, including Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. He’d also assigned a PR manager for me. Her name was Crystal, and she had a thick, Long Island accent that rattled like she chained-smoked five packs of cigarettes a day.

I wanted to curl in on myself until I was the size of an apple every time I saw my face grinning maniacally on a bus, but I didn’t complain.

Then there was Hunter.

He’d spent the last five days ignoring my existence. At least he was being tidy and polite while doing so.

To be fair, there wasn’t much time for socializing for either of us. I left the house at six o’clock every morning to hit the gym, then headed to the archery club until nighttime, practicing or giving lessons. Hunter worked and studied from nine to eight.

When he got home, he took two plates of whatever the cook, Nora, had left on the stovetop to his room, armed with textbooks for his college courses, and slammed the door behind him with his foot. In the mornings, I’d find the plates washed and his bedroom door slightly ajar, the sound of him snoring softly seeping into the hallway.

It worried me that he didn’t take a break. Not that it should. Hunter wasn’t my business.

…only he kind of was.

Part of my job was to make sure he was okay. I wondered if I should email Gerald about Hunter’s mood. I was supposed to give the Fitzpatrick patriarch detailed, weekly updates, but they were of a technical nature, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about Hunter’s mental health.

I hadn’t talked to my parents about Hunter. I ignored all questions regarding him and focused on telling them about Junsu and my training, which was becoming more grueling by the day. My saving grace was knowing that come Saturday, Hunter and I were attending a Royal Pipelines fundraising event together. I could check on him then.

The Fitzpatricks had thought it best if we met them somewhere neutral so we could familiarize ourselves with each other before we started coming over for dinners. Little did they know, I had no qualms about meeting them in Antarctica or a filthy alleyway as long as I could show up in ripped jeans, sneakers, and a DriFit shirt. Since that was off the table at a 5k-per-head dinner party in the glitzy Roosevelt Hotel, I had to acquire an actual dress.

I owned exactly zero dresses. Belle and Persy, who were both much more voluptuous than me and therefore couldn’t lend me anything, jumped to my rescue. I thought they’d be dragging me through shops at the mall—my idea of torture—and had already braced myself for an afternoon from hell.

On Friday, right after they finished their college classes and Junsu dismissed me from training, Emmabelle sent me a message to meet them at a South End address. When I Google Mapped it, I found out it was a butcher. I decided asking questions would seem ungrateful, and I trusted they knew I wasn’t the kind of chick to make a weird fashion statement a la Lady Gaga’s meat dress.

I parked my car in front of a row of red-bricked buildings. One of them had a black metal door that obviously led to the butcher. I waited in my car, engine running, nibbling on the dead skin around my nails. “There’s No Home for You Here” by The White Stripes blared from the Bluetooth. It made me think of Hunter.

I considered bailing on the fundraiser. I hated parties, had never danced in my life, and there was a reason I never went shopping—I felt like a glorified coat hanger when I tried on fancy clothes. I could always see my ribcage poking through the fabric, the corpse-like outline of my sternum.

Still, the fighter in me had to see this through. Hunter’s family was counting on me, I needed his father’s endorsement, and besides—I owed it to Hunter, even if I disliked him.

A knock on my car window made me jump in surprise. For some stupid reason, I thought it’d be him. But no. Behind the glass, Belle flashed me a row of white, pearly teeth. She wiggled her light eyebrows, opening the door for me and offering me a little bow. Persephone was behind her, jumping up and down and squeaking in delight. I stepped out of the car, eyeing them with suspicion.

“A butcher, huh?” I yanked my brown leather satchel and hoisted it over my shoulder, frowning at their collective excitement.

“Keep an open mind, ho.” Belle grinned. “Bastard’s not going to know what hit him when he sees what a knockout you are under these rags.”

“Seriously, Hunter is going to die after we’re done with you.” Persy practically shoved me across the street to the mysterious black door.