Page 14 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
“Walks home alone every night,” he continued, his voice moving with him, shifting around me, forcing me to turn slightly to keep track of him. “No escort. No protection. No fear.”
He moved behind me.
I felt it instantly—the change in the air, the subtle pressure of his presence at my back.
Too close.
My shoulders tensed, every muscle locking as instinct screamed at me to move, to create distance—but I forced myself to stay still.
Running would only excite him.
“And lives all by herself...” he added, his voice dropping lower, closer to my ear now. “...in this quiet little apartment.”
My pulse spiked.
“...like she’s normal.”
The word landed like a slap.
He stepped in front of me again, so close I could feel the heat of his body.
Then—
Click.
The sharp sound of a lighter flicking open cut through the silence.
A second later, the faint crackle of flame.
Then the inhale.
Deep. Slow.
And the smell hit me almost instantly.
Smoke.
Thick. Acrid. Suffocating.
It curled around me, seeping into my hair, my clothes, my lungs. My eyes—useless as they were—still stung reflexively.
I refused to react.
Refused to cough.
Refused to give him even that.
Bruno exhaled slowly, deliberately—right in front of my face.
I felt it.
Warm. Violating.
Like he was marking space that wasn’t his.
“Well, well, well...” he murmured, satisfaction threading through his voice. “I see you are still standing. Still clinging to your pride.”
A pause.
