Chapter 3: New Room, New Rules

Marcus took me to a woman’s apartment on the third floor of an old brick walk-up, where the stairs creaked and every door wore its own chipped paint job. The air smelled of strong coffee and incense the moment we stepped inside.

She gave me a once-over, smirking like she already had me pegged. Red lipstick, leopard leggings, and a Led Zeppelin tee—she looked like she could talk her way out of a speeding ticket or into a dive bar’s VIP room.

"Bringing a woman to my place, Marcus? You sure about this?" she teased, leaning against the doorframe, voice smoky and playful.

Marcus blocked me from her, voice low. "This is my wife. You’d better behave."

She waved him off, eyes twinkling. "Alright, I have standards."

She took my hand. "Come in, little white rabbit."

Her grip was warm, her apartment cluttered with thrift-store treasures and sunlit plants.

Marcus glared, possessive streak blazing. "Don’t touch her."

She laughed, making a show of wiping her hands. "So stingy. Not even allowed to touch."

Her name was Harley, and she looked at me like I was an interesting stray. She pinched my cheek—heat crept up my neck. I never knew what to do when people got handsy—especially women like Harley, who seemed to run on pure confidence.

She cooed, "So fair and soft—just like a porcelain doll. No wonder Marcus works so hard."

Tears pricked my eyes at the unexpected attention. Harley backed off, whistling. "Wow, I barely touched you! You really are delicate."

Marcus rolled his eyes as Harley teased, "So Marcus likes this kind—so delicate."

Harley’s guest room was cozy, mismatched quilts and paperback stacks by the window. "If you need anything, just knock," she said, pointing to the door with a wink.

I nodded and burrowed under the covers, drifting into the best sleep I’d had in days.