My eyes hone in on the fact that Savage is still wearing my black hair tie—from one night of weakness—where he’d slipped it off my hair and onto his own wrist. Oddly, that same hand is also holding a fluro pink handbag. It’s tiny, glossy, looks expensive, and is ridiculous hanging off his large, tattooed hand. Completely out of my control, my traitorous anima lets out a silent, sad cry. All three heads snap towards me. Dear Wild Mother, I’m so dead.
