The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer

“Swayed gently,” he said. “A great rustling. Tunnels in bedclothes, an unwrapping of parcels. Her face grew flushed—”

So did mine.

“Half asleep, she crept up close to the pillow and whispered in his ear, damp from—”

“That is not The Velveteen Rabbit,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Welcome back,” Noah said.

The husk of a girl not-named Mara stared back at me. I wondered how I would kill her.

“She looks so different,” my father said. “Where’d our girl go?”

“Are you sick, Mara?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything.”

But I was no longer the victim.

He was.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

I stared at his beautiful face and his beautiful mouth and I wanted nothing more than to taste it.

“I would kiss you back.”

You smell good,” he whispered into my neck. He was warm against me. Instinctively, I arched back into him and smiled.

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. Delicious. Like bacon.”

“You look like the Joker,” Noah said.

That was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.

I flicked my eyes to Noah and he held his hands up defensively. “Don’t look at me,” he said, then turned to Mr. Lukumi, “But if anything happens to her afterward,” he said carefully, “I will end you.”

Noah shrugged a shoulder. “He’s supremely talented,”

I looked at him with disapproval.

“What?” Noah asked. “Nobody’s perfect.”