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Chapter 60: Sarah

This is the National Gallery, I think. I can’t remember why we decided to come. Aiden’s hand is warm in mine as we wander through the corridors. Brian never did hold hands in public. Cartoon sketches fill every ornate and gilded frame, splashy and incomplete. Around the next corner should be the portrait gallery. When we turn to look, every painting is Cavendish, spray-painted onto the walls.

“It’s okay,” Aiden says. “He knows you’re mine now. You’ll be safe. Look, do you like them? I painted them myself.”

Cavendish’s eyes are everywhere, staring at me. I remember those eyes, looking through me, snaring my mind and my heart with their gaze. I wait for them to draw my soul out and bind me to him, to entice me to dance willingly to his whims and into his arms. I hate myself for the longing I feel, for wanting the freedom of giving myself up completely into the will of another.

It feels as if I have walked through a cold shower when nothing happens. The eyes are

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