MY DREADFUL DARLING

HOLLOW GRAVES DYET

BOOK 1

H. D. CARLTON

My Dreadful Darling Copyright © 2026 by H. D. Carlton

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Opulent Swag & Designs

Formatting: Designs by Charly

First Edition: April 2026

To the people who publicly hate me but are secretly reading this right now,

I love you, too, pookie.

PLAYLIST

Memphis May Fire- The Other Side

James the Seventh- Trauma Olympics

Kami Kehoe- DOPAMINE

NOTHING MORE- Déjà Vu

Thousand Below- Palace Of Dread

Yung’cid, Maxx Xero- Endless Nightmare

Sleep Token- Dangerous

Nevertel- Good Intentions

Bad Omens- Specter

Dayseeker- Pale Moonlight

Caskets- Make Me A Martyr

Fit For a King- Shelter

Isaac Dunbar- pharmacy

Gracie Abrams- I know it won't work

Sleep Token- Gethsemane

LIMBS- Oxygen

Colorblind- Ghosts

Sleep Token- Descending

elijah- lowest

PI3RCE- FINAL GIRL (too pretty to die)

The Home Team- Walk This World With Me

IMPORTANT NOTE

This is a dark romance and contains triggering content. It is not suited for anyone under 18.

Some of the triggers include pregnancy loss/miscarriage, major depressive disorder with peripartum onset with psychotic features, attempted murder by parent, parental loss, suicide (act isn't depicted on page but is spoken about in detail), mocking of suicide, suicide ideation, stalking, kidnapping, graphic violence, graphic murder, extreme psychological abuse, extreme bullying, victim blaming, mentions of rape and sexual assault, revenge porn, blackmail, sexual assault/harassment, graphic sex, dub-con and coercion (between main characters), sexual acts involving human remains, and drink spiking.

Some kinks included are degradation, masochism, choking, filming of sexual acts, denied orgasm, and forced orgasm/overstimulation.

If any of these triggers become too much for you, please put the book down. Your mental health matters.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The serial killer in this book is not based on or inspired by a real-life serial killer. Any similarities are purely coincidence and unintentional.

Liberties were taken with the judicial system that may not accurately represent laws and regulations. So, if you know better—no, you don’t winking face

After speaking with several sensitivity readers and medical professionals, I made the decision to refer to Regina’s diagnosis as “postpartum psychosis” to separate her psychotic symptoms from depression and postpartum depression. PPD is widely misunderstood as it is, and I felt this was best to avoid perpetuating harmful stereotypes of PPD and depression, as having either of these disorders does not turn someone into a bad or evil person. Women who experience PPD are not “crazy”, they’re not bad mothers, it is not their fault, and what they’re feeling is not in their control. They deserve grace, support, love, and time.

FOREWORD

Postpartum Depression Helpline:

National Maternal Mental Health Hotline: Call or text 1-833-TLC-MAMA (1-833-852-6262)

Postpartum Support International (PSI): Call 1-800-944-4773 or text "Help" to 800-944-4773 (English), 971-203-7773 (Español)

Suicide Crisis Helpline:

If you are feeling suicidal, you are not alone and you deserve to feel supported.

Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988.

Please refer to the International Crisis Lifeline (IASP) for numbers to text or call based on your country.

If you know a young person who does not feel safe for any reason, there are people who can help them:

Safe Place: Text “SAFE” + your location (city, state, or zip) to 44357 for resources or text “2Chat” to 44357 to speak to a trained mental health professional.

PROLOGUE

REVERIE

Freshman Year

August 2021

There are a lot of ways my mother could’ve tried to kill me, but I’ve always been grateful she chose a method that left me with only internal scars. That was the first kindness she offered me in life.

The last was hanging herself seven months ago.

I sit on the edge of the massive indoor pool at the campus sports center, cool water reaching halfway up my calves, but it might as well be the death grip of the Grim Reaper preparing to drag me to hell. My heart pounds against my rib cage, desperate to evacuate from this stupid body, and I grip the cement edge until my knuckles bleach white. No matter how hard I work to still the tremors in my stiff muscles, they rebel against my desperate command.

Just stay calm, Rev.

Stay calm.

You’re safe, you’re still breathing, you’re barely even wet.

This is why I’m here—this is why I do this to myself. I don’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life, breaking out into a cold sweat every time I step into a shower or hyperventilating when I walk near a pool.

I’ve had enough of living in fear.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, though the oxygen sputters into my lungs like an engine out of gas. Sweat dots my hairline and coats my nape and back. A slight breeze would feel like heaven right now, though heaven is the one place I’m trying my best to avoid.

I think I’m failing.

It feels like I’m drowning again, and the heavy weight of a hand on the back of my head grows until I’m convinced someone is physically pushing me down toward the water.

It wouldn’t surprise me if it were my mother’s ghost returning from hell to finish what she started fourteen years ago. Regina D’Amour is fucking persistent, and I’d be deluding myself if I reasoned away all the times I caught her staring at me, as if she wished my father never walked in on us and stopped her.

After all, she wouldn’t have slipped and fell while pregnant if not for me.

She wouldn’t have given birth to a stillborn baby boy later that night.

She wouldn’t have lost herself to grief and postpartum psychosis.

And ultimately, she wouldn’t have tried to drown me for killing her son.

However, my brother isn’t the only death I’m responsible for, and my mother isn’t the first to want me dead.

I jump when I hear the door behind me swing open. It’s nearly closing time. I’ve been here for an hour, but I only just talked myself into dipping my legs in the pool five minutes ago.

I promised myself when I arrived at Hollow Canyon University, I would do everything in my power to overcome my fear. It’s only the second day since classes started, and already, I’m about to make myself look like a freak. I came here because I knew I’d be alone, and I could comfortably have a panic attack in peace.

I guess I didn’t think of staff coming in to kick me out.

“I’m leaving,” I croak, wincing when the words sound like they went through a cheese grater.

“No need, darling. I quite like you where you are.”

My spine snaps straight as shock rips through me, followed by denial. Maybe a little grief, too.

Every single atom in my body comes to a screeching halt. If my body housed Earth itself, it would be spiraling into absolute chaos. Cells crashing into one another like cars before bursting into flames. My blood freezing into solid ice and trapping cells within its glaciers. My organs powering down and falling from the sky like airplanes.

Carnage, death, and destruction wreaking havoc on me in a matter of seconds.

All from hearing a voice both familiar and new.

I’ve heard it on TV many times, typically from interviews on ESPN or other sport channels. The last time I heard it in person, though, it sounded nothing like it does now. We were both nine years old, standing outside a courthouse, dozens of reporters and photographers with flashing cameras, all tripping over themselves to get close to us. His pale, icy blue eyes glowered at me from beneath thick brows, his murderous thoughts as apparent as his hatred for me.

My mom stood beside me, clutching my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. She was crying and hurling insults at him for what he did to our family—for successfully convincing the jury to find my father guilty, subsequently ripping our family apart, leaving her without a husband and me without a dad.

And that little boy stood alone, without a single ounce of guilt.

He had already lost his own father years prior, but now, he was without his mom, too. She lay six feet under, next to her husband.

And it was my father who put her there.

But successfully putting his mother’s killer behind bars was hardly a victory when nearly the entire world thought he lied to do it. After all, it was his testimony that ultimately convinced the jury—and his testimony alone. No one else believed my dad was guilty of murdering Katherine Sharpe.

Except me.

But I never got to tell him that. As my mom dragged me away from him, three words were only seconds away from spilling from my tongue—I believe you.

He spoke before I could, though, effectively silencing me.

“One day, I will make you suffer. I will make you wish you were dead.”

Back then, he sounded like a boy. Now, he sounds like a man.

My heart pounds, and I'm almost convinced my nightmares have begun to manifest. I must be hallucinating them now.

Because there's no fucking way he's here.

Slowly, I crane my head over my shoulder to meet those blue eyes, stands of obsidian hair teasing his long eyelashes.

My racing heart shrivels the moment our stares collide.

Kellan Sharpe.

Right before me, in the fucking flesh.

The smart thing to do would be to run, but I'm paralyzed. So instead, I only gawk at him with rounded eyes and a slack jaw.

When he’s a few feet away, he crouches behind me, his elbows casually resting on his spread knees, that same burning hatred radiating from his every pore. It creates a smog so dense, it clogs my throat until I’m practically choking on it.

My mouth dries, and for several moments, I’m at a loss for words. Actions. Feelings. All I can do is gape at him, my shock quickly transitioning into fear.

Unimpressed, he raises his right brow, a thin white scar slashing through the arch. I always wondered how he got it, but I never had a chance to ask before he decided he hated me.

To this day, I don’t blame him.

I clear my throat before squeaking out, “Kellan.”

God, he already looked cold, but the second his name falls from my lips, his stare becomes frigid enough to burn.

“Don’t call me that,” he clips. “My name is Dread.”

I knew that, but only from the news. He’s a prodigal swimmer who broke several records and holds the most Olympic gold medals for his age. The public considers Kellan a legend—a walking, talking fish out of water. After breaking his first record at fifteen, he told an interviewer how he got the nickname. Apparently, his coach gifted it to him when he was ten, claiming it’s the feeling he instills in his competitors when he steps onto the diving block. The name stuck, and the world quickly learned he only answers to Dreadful Sharpe.

At eighteen years old, he’s practically a celebrity.

Which is why I can’t figure out why the fuck he’s here, at my college, several states away from where we grew up.

“What… what are you doing here?”

He grins, and the sight makes it hard to swallow. There’s a hint of amusement embedded in the curl of his mouth, but it falls into the shadows of something sinister. Evil. He doesn’t smile to portray his happiness, but his darkness.

“I attend school here,” he answers simply.

I blink and shake my head in both surprise and confusion.

“W-why?” I whisper.

He cocks his head, his gaze almost inquisitive as it traces my form. I’m wearing a loose T-shirt with black leggings rolled up to my knees, yet beneath his stare, I feel naked. I suppress a shiver as he meets my eyes again.

“I promised you I was going to make you suffer, Reverie. I promised to make you wish you were dead.”

Oh, no.

His lips curl wider this time, and frost corrodes my bones and settles deep in my stomach, creating a pit filled with a distinct feeling. It isn’t until he speaks that I’m able to put a name to it.

“I’ve come here to keep my promise.”

Dread.

That’s the feeling currently making a home inside my body.

It’s dread.

CHAPTER 1

REVERIE

Senior Year

January 2025

The Locksmith sliced his victim’s throats open from ear to ear—that was how he killed them.

But not before torturing them. Raping them. Brutalizing them. Slashing their jugulars. Then ripping out a chunk of their hair for his macabre collection before chopping them into pieces and disposing of them.

He was the reaper of Silent Mist, California. In some ways, he still is.

Special Agent Barry Jones and his partner, Jeff Lakes, suspect he murdered over a hundred women, despite recovering only twenty-three bodies. All those women went missing within the same areas, during the same time frame. However, if the investigators believe he could’ve killed that many women, not many would agree.

My heart thuds heavily against my rib cage, and sweat coats my trembling palms. I see nothing, hear nothing, just a quiet ringing in my ears.

“…Reverie. Reverie.”

I blink. All my senses reopen, except now, everything is too loud—too bright.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry,” I rush out, my tongue feeling heavy and resistant to forming words. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t remove the rock lodged in my windpipe. I can’t breathe, I can’t think—all I can do is feel the soul-crushing weight of dread.

Truthfully, I can’t recall a time I’ve felt anything else.

“Listen, both of us were hoping this would never happen,” Barry begins, his gentle voice emitting through my phone’s speaker, coercing tears to prick at the backs of my eyes. He’s the only one in the world who talks to me that way, and I hate it. Once I hang up, I’m back to the cruel reality of my life. “But you know I’ll do everything in my power to protect you from him.”

What a lonely task, one that will ultimately be wasted.

As much as I want Barry’s words to be true, he can’t protect me. Not from the monster reentering society, and not from the other monster plaguing my every waking hour—even in my nightmares.

I appreciate him for trying, though, considering he and his wife, Brenda, are the few people who care enough.

The day the judge sentenced my father and officers carted him off to prison, Barry came looking for me. My mother nearly burst a blood vessel screaming at him to stay away from us, so Barry gave me a look I’ll never forget—one that made me feel safe—and told us to reach out if we ever needed anything.

Mom scoffed, but I held on to that offer with a white-knuckled grip until I was thirteen.

It was the day I left the prison’s visitation center and told my mom I was never returning the moment she got in the car. She lost her mind, and I needed a real adult. One who might understand how fucked my life was.

I googled Barry, called his office, and left a voicemail. He returned the call within five minutes, and from then on, he and Brenda introduced me to what a family is supposed to be like. They never could have kids of their own, so I felt like the daughter they never had. They cared for me, provided me with a safe haven when my mother made home a nightmare.

Barry admitted he sought me out that day in court because he felt partially responsible for destroying my life. It’s why he held nothing against me when my mom and I publicly discredited him as an investigator back then.

But, in reality, he saved me.

He even saved my mother, though she never knew it.

I rake a trembling hand through my hair, the strands quickly tangling in my damp fingers. I barely feel the sting across my scalp as I fist them tightly. It’s a sad attempt not to panic, but vomit is climbing up my throat, and my vision isn’t just blurred—it’s tripled.

My world teeters, and what sounds like a swarm of bees circles around in my brain, as if sunflowers have sprouted from it. Quickly, I sit on the edge of my bed in my dorm room before I eat the thin, cheap carpet.

“I’ll be okay,” I mumble, but I don’t know who I’m reassuring. Honestly, I’m not convincing anyone. I haven’t been okay since I was four years old.

“Have you sent him any letters?”

I release my hair and swipe my hand across my jeans to remove a few strands tangled around my fingers. “You know I haven’t. The only letter I sent was the…” Blood instantly drains from my face.

“The character statement,” he sighs. Three simple words that undoubtedly earned me my father’s wrath and sealed my fate.

I broke a promise when I wrote it, and he’s going to fucking kill me for it.

Lionel’s parole hearing was last month, the very beginning of December. He knew Dread would show up and make his victim impact statement, which is exactly what he did. So, to combat it, Lionel expected me to send in a fucking character statement praising what a wonderful father he is, to remind them I stood by him once, and that, thirteen years later, my loyalty remains.

He thought I was still that six-year-old girl who discovered something I should’ve never seen, who was terrified of him following through with his promise if I so much as breathed a word of it. It kept me quiet two years later, when he was charged for the murder of Katherine Sharpe, and even still during his trial. He also thought it’d keep me quiet now that I’m almost twenty-two.

But he can’t keep that promise anymore. And I’m not that little girl, either.

I risked everything by sending in that character statement detailing what I saw that night. I had nothing to lose, other than gaining the wrath of my father, but it was worth it if it meant him staying in prison until I could finish college and move out of the country.

But it didn’t work.

“Why didn’t it work?” I croak, staring sightlessly at the worn gray carpet. “Dread’s impact statement—that meant nothing to them, either?”

Barry hesitates. “Honey, you know they weren’t going to just take Dread’s statement at face value when so many believe he lied and put away an innocent man.”

“Okay, what about mine?” I demand.

Again, he hesitates, and then, with another disappointed sigh, he quietly says, “The warden.”

My head jerks back, bewildered. “The warden?” I echo, shaking my head as I attempt to compute that.

“Your father had the warden so convinced of his character, he sent in a letter to the board, pleading for them to see how deserving Lionel is of being released.” My mouth falls open, and the tears I fought so hard to keep back spill over my lashes in rivulets. Still, I stare down at the carpet, silenced by my devastation.

The judge sentenced him fifteen years to life with the possibility of parole for second-degree murder—not even first degree. Coupled with a fifteen-percent good-time credit on top of his seven months served before sentencing, Lionel became eligible for release after serving only twelve years and four months.

Barry and I were hoping he’d serve the entire fifteen, giving me enough time to graduate college and get the fuck out of the country. Best case scenario: he never makes parole at all. But we knew that was wishful thinking.

Barry warned me it was possible Lionel’s good behavior could sway the board, but I never considered it’d sway the warden, too.

Though I suppose I should’ve. Lionel is the smartest man I know. He spent those years locked up proving he is everything the public believes him to be. A stand-up man—the type who would give you the shirt off his back and take a bullet for you. He led a church group in prison, created a nonprofit that provided prisoners with a job, shelter, and food while they reacclimate into society after release, and, therefore, avoid falling back into old patterns.

“His letter made mine look fucking pitiful, didn’t it?” I ask, though I already know the answer. It’s fucking obvious, considering Lionel will be a free man soon.

Yet again, Barry hesitates.

“Barry,” I grit out through clenched teeth, pushing for an answer.

“Lionel’s lawyer informed the board of your estranged relationship, that you haven't seen him since you were thirteen and never wrote to him. They concluded that there may have been…” He huffs, struggling to say the words. “That… there may have been ulterior motives behind your letter. They found it suspicious you never spoke a single word of what you witnessed before, so they questioned why you’re speaking up now.”

A flash of fury turns my vision red.

“So, what? They think I’m just a bitter daughter who turned on her father and made up lies to punish him?” I spit, my voice cracking.

“Sweetheart—”

“They’re releasing a fucking serial killer into society, and I just dug my own fucking grave, Barry!” I shout, barely getting the words out before a sob bubbles from my throat.

Squeezing my eyes tight, I slap my hand over my mouth, violently trembling as I attempt to calm myself.

“Listen, honey, I know you took a big risk, and it didn’t pay off,” Barry begins gently. “But he doesn’t know where you are, and he can’t leave the state without approval. If the fucker dares to try, he'll be back in prison before his toe can cross state lines.”

When has Lionel ever given a fuck about approval? Or following the law? He’s a goddamn serial killer, and a good one at that. If he crosses state lines, he won't be stupid enough to get caught.

I don’t bother voicing that aloud, though.

Whether Barry admits it or not, he already knows that.

“So, it’s decided then,” I state plainly. “He’s actually getting out.”

After the hearing, the board said they needed to consider additional information—whatever that fucking means—and they’d submit a decision within one hundred twenty days.

This entire past month, I’ve been begging the universe to do me a solid for once in my life and let them deny it.

Obviously, the universe and I have serious beef with one another.

“It’s decided,” Barry confirms solemnly.

“Did they set a date for his release?”

He sighs. “February 5th.”

Three weeks.

Three fucking weeks from now, Lionel D’Amour will be a free citizen again.

Free.

My hand flies to the pendant dangling around my neck, and I nervously slide it back and forth along the gold chain. It’s a North Star, gifted to me by Barry on my fifteenth birthday.

“You’re my North Star. No matter where you are, I will always find you.”

I’ve held tight to those words, just as I do now as the threat of Lionel coming to find me becomes very fucking real.

“Has it made the news yet?” I ask, sniffling and releasing the pendant to wipe away the snot gathering at the tip of my nose with the back of my hand.

“No, not yet. From what I’m being told, they're treating his case very differently and keeping his release private. Usually, the CDCR releases parole decisions on their website weekly, but they're holding off until the following week of his release. Since the news of his parole hearing broke, the media has become out of hand, and Lionel’s lawyer claims there’s some group out there who believe he’s the Locksmith and have made threats to his life should the board approve his parole, so they’re taking extra precautions. Not to mention his case being very high profile, so it’s guaranteed to incite chaos on prison grounds between the media and public to witness him getting out.”

Of course he gets special treatment.

I’m not even surprised.

“And Dread?” I ask, my voice faint. “If you know, then he probably knows now, too, right?”

“He will soon. I have a contact at the prison who let me know ahead of time, and I called you the moment I found out. Victim Services will mail out a letter to him and his attorney within the week.”

I hang my head as the urge to vomit strengthens.

The day Dread finds out… the last four years are going to look like fucking Disney World. Somehow, I’m going to be blamed for Lionel’s release, and if I dare to imagine how furious Dread will be, it’ll look more like a fucking night terror.

“We knew this was a possibility with the copycat still on the loose,” Barry says quietly. “We only hoped it wouldn’t be for another few years.”

I grit my teeth. I hate the fucking copycat murderer almost as much as my father.

Four months after Lionel went to prison, some sick fuck started emulating the Locksmith’s murders. Barry suspects they’re either a fan of Lionel or a friend carrying them out in order to discredit Dread, but it’s impossible to know for sure.

Barry and Jeff have insisted to the public the murderer’s a copycat and not the real Locksmith, but to the world, it just looks like they’re trying to save face because they put away the wrong man.

“And anyway,” Barry continues, “no one expected Lionel to be found guilty in the first place, and we knew public perception could play a hand in their decision.”

No one expected it because there was almost no hard evidence against him. No DNA. No murder weapons. All Barry and Jeff had was circumstantial evidence. The day of Katherine’s disappearance, security cameras recorded him in a gas station three blocks away from Katherine’s house. They also had cell phone tower pings and footage from one traffic cam. But nothing put him directly at her house, and that’s where reasonable doubt set in.

The only reason the jury changed their minds was because of eyewitness testimony from Dread, Katherine’s son. Not only did he recount a man coming to his front door wearing exactly what Lionel wore in the gas station footage that day, but he could describe a child’s drawing of angel wings tattooed behind Lionel’s ear in perfect detail—none of which he could’ve possibly known unless he saw Lionel like he claimed.

However, while the jury may have found Lionel guilty of Katherine’s murder, that wasn’t a decision the public agreed with.

No, because earlier that same day, Katherine had taken Dread to Lionel’s car dealership in Silent Mist, and it’s widely believed that’s where Dread actually saw him. It didn’t matter that Katherine had texted a friend that she met a ‘handsome car salesman’ the week prior when she got her oil changed, or that she had only gone to the dealership that day to sneak in a kiss before their date later that night. Dread had said Katherine parked the car, leaving him in it while she snuck around to the back of the dealership, only to return about three minutes later to drive them home. Then, she left for a date five hours later, and she never came home.

To the world, Katherine could’ve been dating any one of the six car salesmen who worked there, though they all denied it. And because she didn’t go inside the building, there was no footage or witnesses who saw her there with Lionel specifically. But there was still a possibility Dread somehow saw Lionel at the dealership, and that was enough to cast him as a liar.

I don’t think even the judge believed him, based on the disappointed look that crossed her wrinkled face when the foreman gave the verdict, which is why she gave Lionel the lightest sentence she could.

California doesn’t have the death penalty any longer, but I wish he would’ve gotten it, anyway.

He deserves nothing less.

Instead, the man accused of the most infamous crime in modern history is being released from prison, and, undoubtedly, the world is going to lose their minds.

Once again, I’ll be back in the spotlight. People will wonder where I am and if I’ll reunite with him. Sleuths will come looking for me, speculations will arise, and it will be easy for them. Thanks to the second worst man to be born, most of Hollow Canyon University knows exactly who the hell I am, despite changing my legal name once I turned eighteen.

They'll also go looking for Dread, too, wanting his opinion about his mother's alleged murderer being released. Obviously, it'll lead them to our college, and once the public discovers we go to the same university, they'll have an even bigger heyday.

Even worse, Dread isn't the only person in Hollow Canyon related to a Locksmith victim. Soon after I learned Dread was attending HCU, I found out Olive Benderman followed him here. Her mother, Olivia, was murdered in August of 2009, though Lionel has never been charged or convicted of any other murders outside of Katherine's. It's only known Olivia and the other victims were murdered by the Locksmith, but alas, most people don't believe the serial killer and Lionel are one and the same. I don't know all the details of Dread and Olive’s friendship, only that they got close over the years and are best friends.

In conclusion, my father won’t have to go searching for me because the media will do all the fucking work for him.

It’s not a matter of if Lionel will find me, but when.

A cold sweat blooms across the back of my neck, and nausea swirls in my stomach. I feel feverish, and I can’t tell if I need to vomit or lie down.

“Try not to stress, sweetheart,” Barry soothes. “Lionel can’t get to you. You’re safe. I know the media will hound you, so just keep away from Kellan and give them as little to work with as possible. Eventually, they’ll lose interest.”

I almost laugh at the irony. He’s so fucking wrong, it hurts.

“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I lie, my voice hushed.

“Call me if anything comes up. I’ll be in touch. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too,” I whisper.

The line goes silent, and I immediately drop the phone on the bed to bend forward, tucking my head between my knees as the panic in my system peaks.

My old therapist taught me breathing techniques when the media attention became too overwhelming. Right now, though, I can’t even remember how to think, let alone recall her instructions.

My body sways, and after a few moments, I manage to suck in a deep breath.

I can survive this. I’ve survived under the roof of a monster, and I’m surviving under the reign of another.

If the Locksmith comes to collect, I’ll just do what I’ve always done.

Run.

I need to get the fuck out of this country.

Like now.

Except, transferring schools to study abroad the second semester of my senior year is going to be fucking hell, and truthfully, the chances of another college accepting me is very low.

I've already scheduled an appointment with my academic advisor, Kendra, but the earliest I can see her is next Monday, which is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. However, given the circumstances and limited time frame, Kendra made an exception.

Fuck.

It still feels so far away.

The pit of anxiety bubbling in my stomach rises, worsening the sickening urge to vomit. It’s our first day back from Christmas break, and the only reason I didn’t skip my ancient history class was because of the stupid fucking syllabus quiz worth five percent of my grade. It was sheer luck I overheard another student in this class complaining about it in my dorm hallway this morning as I was heading to shower.

But now that I sit here, sightlessly staring at my laptop screen, I wish I would’ve just taken the hit to my grade. I’m going to fucking fail it anyway. I haven’t absorbed a single question, and I’m nearly finished with it.

A tickle on the back of my head tears me from my erratic thoughts. Instinctively, my shoulders tense, and my eyes close in frustration.

“I can see why your father liked hair, you know,” a deep, rough voice whispers from behind me. He grips a small chunk of my dirty blonde tresses, lifting it for his inspection.

Because, of course, Dread ensured he’d sit right behind me. How the fuck else would he torment me so readily?

I tighten my lips into a thin line and look up, hoping Professor Downry noticed and will assume he’s copying my answers, but he’s leaning back in his chair as his thumbs angrily fly over his phone, his brow furrowed as he silently mouths the words as he types. It looks like he’s fighting with someone, which means he isn’t paying a single ounce of attention to us.

I lean forward, yanking the strands out of Dread’s grip, evoking a low chuckle from his throat. I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around it and ensure he can never make another sound, but I suppose that would make me just like my father.

And make Dread just like his mother.

Gritting my teeth, I seethe at my laptop and inhale a deep breath, a pathetically useless attempt to calm myself. Ignoring him doesn’t work, but I’m too exhausted to fight with him. Since Barry broke the news last night, I haven’t gotten more than an hour of sleep.

“Focus on your test, Dread. You might actually learn something other than what your own voice sounds like,” I respond dryly.

He grabs my hair again, this time pulling on it sharply, jerking my head back and eliciting a sharp hiss from between my teeth.

“Careful, darling. I might think you have a thing for my voice,” he purrs.

I roll my eyes and raise my hand. When the professor doesn’t notice, still engaging in phone-based warfare, I clear my throat loudly. Downry jumps, his head snapping up and his gaze finding me instantly. I’d imagine the bifocals over his eyes make it impossible for him not to see me.

“Ms. Adams? Is there an issue?”

Over fifty heads snap to me, but I don’t bristle beneath their attention. I’ve gotten quite used to being stared at.

“Yes,” I say, lowering my hand and straightening my spine. One sure way to piss off Dread is by using his real name—a feat most wouldn't dare do.

But I do.

“Kellan is sexually harassing me.”

Instantly, I feel him drop my hair, and I stifle my satisfied smile as his chair creaks, likely him settling back into it. It’s still a mystery how the thing doesn’t snap beneath his behemoth body.

If I peeked over my shoulder, I’m positive I’d find him grinning, but the sight would be as welcome as peering into the gaping mouth of a rattlesnake. Truthfully, I’m just as terrified of Dread as the rest of the campus, but I do my best to pretend otherwise.

Downry sighs and flicks an annoyed glance my way. It’s not the first time I’ve accused Dread of sexual harassment, and, just like every other instance, nothing’s done about it.

“Mr. Sharpe, please refrain from interacting with Ms. Adams. I would hate to report you to the dean for your behavior,” he says robotically.

What a fucking dick.

He’s said the same thing a hundred times over, yet here he is, still not reporting his behavior to the dean.

Only Dread receives a goddamn warning for a sexual harassment accusation—likely because he alone brings in hundreds of thousands of dollars in funding, so he’s treated like the king of Hollow Canyon University. Being the captain of the college swim team and a now two-time Olympic gold medalist will have that effect, I guess. He became one of the most prolific swimmers during his first Olympic Games at seventeen, and, after competing at the Games last year and still maintaining his record for the most gold medals at his age, he's almost untouchable at this school now.

“I’m sorry. Are you referring to Ms. D’Amour?” Dread asks, feigning confusion.

I roll my eyes as the professor glances at me, appearing uncomfortable. The moment I turned eighteen, I changed my full name from Charlotte D’Amour to Reverie Adams—partially to make it harder for my father to find me should he ever come looking and partially because I wanted nothing to do with the D’Amour last name, a stain I was desperate to bleach.

But just like I refuse to completely drop Dread’s real first name, he refuses to let go of my last.

“I-I believe Ms. Adams is correct,” Downry says awkwardly.

“Ah, I apologize. I still get confused sometimes,” Dread drawls, humor coloring his tone. “I caught Reverie researching how to dispose of a body after chopping them into pieces. I figured her father would’ve taught her that, but you know… not everyone is a fast learner.”

I grind my molars, refusing to look at him, though I can picture him leaning casually back in his seat, legs spread wide, an arm slung around the back of the chair beside him as he smirks devilishly.

Several snickers arise while my cheeks heat. Though the slightest tremor travels through my hands, I refrain from clenching them into tight fists and allowing Dread to see the effect he has on me. Instead, I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at the quiz still on my screen.

Vitriol gathers on my tongue, but, as tempted as I am to spew it at him, I won’t give him the satisfaction. He wants me to flip out on him, which would only condemn me, proving to everyone I’m just like my father.

Crazed and violent.

I paste on a fake smile and meet our teacher’s flat stare. “I apologize for Kellan’s confusion, Professor. We all know he can’t read very well and gets confused. All the chlorine has eroded his brain.”

Dread responds with another deep chuckle. The sound slithers through my pores and grates across my nerves. Every. Fucking. One of them.

I hate that sound. It always precedes another one of his cruel remarks.

“Murderers are charming. Don’t let that pretty smile fool you,” he retorts, his voice reminiscent of the devil himself. “She learned it from her daddy. I’m sure he’s taught her all kinds of skills.”

My control snaps. Snarling, I whip my head to the side, just enough for his profile to loom in my peripheral.

I was right.

His sickeningly tall body overflows in the small chair, the brittle plastic likely straining beneath his weight as he leans back, appearing every bit like the asshole he is.

Long, coal black tresses fall over his eyes, messy and parted in the middle, though he keeps the rest of his hair cropped shorter—just enough to grip. I only know because I’ve seen women do exactly that many times while his tongue is shoved down their throats.

For Halloween last year, he dressed as Billy from Scream and went around licking fake blood off his fingers. A wicked smirk curled his lips as women practically got on their knees, begging him to fuck them. The slit cutting through his right brow and the small silver hoops in his ears and nose only made them more feral.

All I wanted to do was break his fucking face.

The irony of him cosplaying a serial killer wasn’t lost on me, either.

Dread stares down at me with that same smirk, waiting for my reaction. It takes monumental effort to face forward again without snapping back. I can hardly stand to look at him. Not only does he represent almost every reason my life is miserable, but staring at Dreadful Sharpe is no less dangerous than staring into the sun. At least, that's what any person unfortunate enough to be attracted to the male species claims. According to them, one glance from his pale, piercing blue eyes will burn through you, only to leave you desperate for their return. Without them, you’re so fucking cold.

But he’s always had the opposite effect on me, considering he’s been hell-bent on destroying me since the moment he stepped foot on this campus.

No, his stare is a dead star, chilling me to my core. It's only when he looks away that I feel warm again.

I would do anything to be invisible to him.

Professor Downry sighs, his exasperation heightening. “I would appreciate it if you could keep to yourselves and get back to the quiz. Must I remind you it’s five percent of your grade? I’d hate for you two to fail and have to retake the class.”

The dryness lining his words proves he truly would hate that, and I couldn’t think of anything worse than enduring another class with Dread.

Biting my tongue, I can only manage a nod.

Downry returns his attention to his phone, and for the remaining thirty minutes of class, Dread’s blissfully silent.

But a moment before we're dismissed, I feel his breath heat the back of my neck. The little hairs covering my body stand on end, and I suppress the urge to shiver.

“I hope you did enough research, darling. You’re going to need it for tomorrow night,” he whispers. A beat passes before he tacks on, “Or maybe you can just call your daddy to help you.”

Before I can process what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, the room seems to explode around me as students get to their feet, packing up and rushing out the door. The sudden chaos jolts me out of my head, leaving my thoughts scattered.

By the time I turn to ask Dread what the hell he’s talking about, he’s gone.

Confused, I find him already walking out, pausing just long enough to peer over his shoulder and aim that cold stare on me, a sinister smirk gracing his lips before he turns and disappears.

Fuck.

What the hell does he have planned now?

CHAPTER 2

REVERIE

“He’s going to do something awful,” I tell my only friend in the world, anxiously biting the skin around my thumbnail.

I’ve been doing it since my history class with Dread yesterday—I’ve constantly been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment he strikes. I’ve already covered my left thumb in little tears, so I’ve moved on to the other.

Sable dabs her thin brush in the rose-pink lipstick on her palette, gliding it across the corpse’s thin, white lips. I’ve already seen the old woman’s finger twitch, and I’ve been eyeing her shrewdly to ensure she doesn’t magically become a zombie and eat me alive.

“When hasn’t he?” she mutters snidely, casting a disgruntled look my way before refocusing on her task.

Freshman year, I was desperately looking for a job, and the only place hiring was Eterna Requiem, a Puerto Rican family-owned funeral home in Hollow Canyon. Juan, the owner and Sable’s father, took pity on me and hired me as an assistant. He and his wife, Isa, are funeral directors. They handle the grieving families while Sable, as their mortician, works with the dead.

I met Sabela Vázquez my first day working here, when I got lost in the sprawling building and accidentally walked in on her mid-embalming. Having seen a lot worse, I asked if I could watch, and we became best friends overnight, bonding over the fear of how we’d die, rather than death itself.

Sometimes, when I’m really bored, she lets me put makeup on the bodies, too—though if her father found out, he’d subject us both to an hour-long lecture, and there’s nothing worse than a Juan Vázquez lecture.

I lean against the metal table the dead woman lies on, crossing my feet at the ankles, one arm over my stomach with my elbow resting on the other, aimlessly sliding my pendant back and forth on its chain as I stare off into space.

The woman died at ninety-six of heart failure, alone in a nursing home, where only the nurses grieved her death. Apparently, she has four kids, but none of them showed until it was time to make arrangements and collect their portion of her life insurance.

If people thought drama ended in death, they’re sorely mistaken.

“This time just feels… worse than usual,” I say, distracted, my eyes beginning to burn from not blinking.

The woman’s face blurs, and the pit of foreboding in my stomach deepens. “I can’t explain why. Just the way he said to call my father for help…” I trail off and shake my head, tearing my focus away from Sable’s work.

Anxiety has long since made a home in my nervous system. If I could push it out as expertly as I do the memories it feeds on, I might consider myself a functional human.

Sable sets down her makeup brush and gives me her full attention, drawing my reluctant gaze to her deep chestnut brown eyes and her perfectly arched brows, which are currently pinched with concern, creasing her golden tawny brown skin. At twenty-six, she’s only four years older than me, so the age difference is hardly noticeable—except for times like this, when she feels more like an older, protective sister than my best friend.

“First, stop torturing your lip,” she starts. My jaw stills—I hadn’t even realized I was chewing it into nonexistence. Slowly, I release it from between my teeth. “Second, I wish you would just report him to the media or something before he does something that will seriously hurt you.”

I tip my head back with a heavy sigh. “It’s not that easy and you know it, Sabela.” She gives me a pointed, unamused look. Only her parents call her by her full name, and only when she's in trouble, which is, unsurprisingly, often. “He’s literally the god of Hollow Canyon and can do no wrong. Last time I tried going to the dean, he said he’d have me expelled for spreading lies and jeopardizing Dread’s future as an Olympic swimmer.”

I roll my head back to her, where she stares at me with a disgusted look, and rightfully so. She hates Dread nearly as much as I do.

“He's also just a straight white male,” she mutters derisively.

“Exactly. Plus, something tells me the authorities would take his word over the daughter of an infamous serial killer, especially when he has an entire university kissing his feet.”

She scoffs and drops her glare to the body, her hair falling around her face as she stews over the harsh reality of my life. She’s perfected the art of styling her dark brown curls into smooth, glossy ringlets, cut into a long bob that just reaches her shoulders, parted on the side. With a frustrated sigh, she tucks the thinner half behind her ear and then refocuses on her work, her movements stilted as she picks up a brush and harshly dabs it into a palette of light pink blush.

“Who fucking cares if he can swim like a fish?” she mutters beneath her breath as she lightly brushes the makeup on the woman’s pale cheeks.

I tighten my lips, opting not to answer that question. We both know the entirety of Hollow Canyon cares. They have a legend in their midst, and it makes them feel special.

She glances at me. “Stay with me tonight, or however many nights until you’re safe again.”

I should. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stayed at Sable’s house instead of sleeping alone in my dorm to escape Dread’s plans. Yet, I still returned to some form of torment. Rather than escaping his twisted games, I only delayed them.

Just like cancer, he’s learned to adapt. If I'm not where I'm supposed to be, he finds some fucked-up way to get me there. Like when he hot-wired my car so he could drive it to the top of a slope with a ravine at the bottom, put it in neutral, and let it slowly roll down toward the edge until I stopped it in time. Or when he unleashed a family of raccoons in my dorm room—I still don't know how he managed to catch them. Or one of the hundred other creative ways he's come up with to force my hand to his demands.

Meaning—it's useless.

Dread will get to me one way or another, and I’m better off walking into his trap than hoping he’s somehow forgotten I exist.

If only I could be so fucking lucky.

The dorm halls are completely silent as I cautiously edge through them, my eyes pinballing over the half-white, half-wood paneled walls, as if a viper is lying in wait to bite.

It’s after midnight, and I’ve just finished my shift at the funeral home. After Sable assured me I could escape to her place if Dread pulls something especially heinous tonight, I finished cleaning the viewing room from an earlier service and clocked out.

My heart thuds heavily against my rib cage, and adrenaline courses through my bloodstream.

Normally, I’d adopt a completely casual approach, refusing to let others view me as weak. But I’m alone, and my true feelings are on full display.

Dread scares me, but I’ve slept under the same roof as bigger monsters. However, I have an annoying will to live, self-preservation, yet a stubbornness that insists I step on the bear trap just to say I could. Unfortunately for me, I would rather let him kill me than show him just how deeply he affects me.

I stop at my door, eyeing the handle as if it’s coated in poison.

An oily, sticky feeling coats my insides like tar, and I know with every atom in my being that whatever is on the other side, I’m going to hate it.

Just get it over with, Reverie.

Inhaling deeply, I grip the gold knob, twist, and barge into the room before I can talk myself out of it.

Instantly, a sharp gasp rips from my throat. My eyes widen into saucers, and my jaw drops, my heart following suit and sinking into the acidic well in my stomach. Vomit rises in my throat, and I cover my mouth as I take in the scene, shaking my head in denial.

There’s no way this is real. Yet, the longer I stare, the more real it becomes.

A bloody woman lies on the floor in the middle of my room, a heap of severed arms, legs, and her head. Even from here, I can see the chunk of blonde hair missing from her scalp. Deep crimson darkens the grotesque ends of her limbs down to the cherrywood beneath her, the pool creeping along the floor until just before the area rug.

This… I don’t think this was Dread’s doing, and that’s a far more terrifying thought.

No, this looks like my father.

I quickly scramble inside and shut the door behind me. For several beats, all I can do is stare at the sight with wide eyes, my chest heaving.

Was Lionel released already? But how, when he isn’t supposed to get out for another three weeks?

Or, fuck, maybe he wasn’t, but Dread got the letter and found out Lionel will be soon, and this is him fucking with me?

I glance at the body piled a few feet from me, and immediately gag.

Yeah, that looks fucking real.

“Oh my God,” I whimper, leaning heavily against the door. “Shit, shit, fucking shit.”

My hand moves to my forehead as I stare at my feet with rounded eyes, attempting to get my racing thoughts in order, but I’m struggling to untangle them in my head when there's a torrential downpour of panic circulating my system. It’s dizzying, and even with the door holding all my weight, my knees threaten to collapse. My stomach churns, but if this is Lionel’s doing, the last thing I need is more of my DNA all over the crime scene. At least, not more than it already is, considering the woman is dead in my fucking room. My DNA is everywhere.

Jesus Christ, am I going to go to prison over this? One D’Amour gets out, just for the other to go in.

My wild stare bounces around the room, at a loss of what to do for several paralyzing moments. I’m not thinking straight—I can’t think straight—but I need to… Fuck, I need to fucking think.

As if my brain needed a direct order to function properly, a light bulb goes off in my head, and I mutter a string of curses at myself for being an idiot.

Check the goddamn CDCR site, dumbass.

That’ll confirm whether Lionel’s out of custody.

Barry said they’re not posting their weekly updates, but once a prisoner is released, the system automatically updates within twenty-four hours. So, if someone looks him up on the site, it will still show if he’s in custody or not.

I scramble for my phone tucked in my coat pocket. My hands tremble violently from the overflow of adrenaline in my system, making my movements erratic and uncoordinated, and it slips from my fingers and hits the floor.

“Fuck!” I shout, growing frustrated with myself. “Fucking shit, motherfucker, fucking fuck.” I mutter the insults as I angrily snatch up the stupid fucking phone, my chest aching from how hard my heart beats.

It takes a second for the biometrics to recognize my thumbprint, only amping up my impatience. I smash my thumb on the internet app, but the tremors cause me to hit the wrong one, opening my contact list instead.

“Oh, my fucking GOD,” I bark, vowing to punch myself in the face later.

I get the browser open and quickly type in the web address to the CDCR, frustrated tears building in my eyes from repeatedly tapping the wrong letters. Finally, I get the site open and search Lionel’s name, and the moment the page loads, my eyes drop to Lionel’s location.

Scarlett Bay Correctional Facility

He's still in custody, like he should be.

So, then who⁠—?

Realization dawns, and every ounce of blood drains from my face.

The copycat.

Of fucking course, it’s the copycat. Lionel wouldn’t be stupid enough to plant a murder victim in his daughter’s dorm after being released from prison. That would implicate him in a heartbeat.

However, Barry said it’s possible the copycat and Lionel are working together, which means if they’re here, leaving a fucking chopped-up body in my dorm, then this is a very clear message from Lionel.

He knows I know he’s getting out, and I didn’t keep my promise, so he’s showing me my fate while keeping his own hands clean.

My palm slaps over my mouth, my vision blurring as tears spill over the ridge of my bottom lashes. It feels like my world is crashing down around me at my feet, and all I can do is just watch it happen, helpless to stop it from shattering into dust.

Obviously, I need to call the police and report it, but I’m paralyzed from the onslaught of emotions. They’re flooding my system with a force powerful enough to scatter my bones, rendering them completely useless.

The first sob breaks free right when an abrupt, violent bang rattles the door against my back. My heart lurches, and a startled scream tears from my throat. I flinch just as violently, sending my phone tumbling from my hand yet again.

Hand over my heaving chest, I stare at the door with rounded eyes as whoever they are pounds on the door a second time, causing me to flinch yet again.

“Police! Open up, or we’re coming in!” Another vicious knock accompanies the angry, deep voice, and it finally snaps me out of my shock.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, my hands flying to cover my mouth as tears rush to my eyes. I glance between the door and the body, my panic intensifying. My heart hammers against my rib cage so hard, it physically aches, vomit teasing the back of my tongue.

Who the fuck even called them?

When the door rattles a fourth time, I blurt out, “Okay, okay! I’m coming!”

Hopefully, they let me explain first before deciding I’m guilty.

I attempt to inhale before opening the door, but I can’t get a breath in. The door busts open, knocking into my shoulder and sending me flying back onto my ass. Lightning dashes across my vision, and a breathtaking pain shoots up my tailbone and down my arm as two police officers storm the room. They stop short when they notice me on the floor, my face twisted in agony while I cradle my throbbing shoulder.

I can't get a good look at them through my blurred vision and hysteria, only that they briefly turn their heads to one another then immediately direct their attention to the chopped-up woman behind me.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” one of them bellows.

“It wasn’t me,” I say quickly, the words breathless and garbled on my heavy tongue. I can barely manage a coherent thought beyond the pain and panic scrambling my brain.

“You’re under arrest,” the second officer barks, stomping toward me. “Get up.”

“Wait, no!” I gasp. “I didn’t—” A yelp interrupts my plea when he grabs my bicep and hauls me to my feet. The world around me spins, and vomit teases the back of my throat again.

“Charlotte D’Amour, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…” The rest of his words get lost in my adrenaline and confusion.

“W-what? No, that's not even my name anymore! I-I didn't do this!”

“Then why is she in your room?” one retorts snidely, but I flounder, not having an answer.

Someone obviously called them, but did they already know the woman was in here? Maybe they finally caught my father, and he told them where to find the body. Fucking hell, did he tell them I did it?

It wouldn’t surprise me if my father framed me to avoid blame. I’ve ignored his letters since I walked out on him in that damn prison, and his penciled words have long since grown angry for turning my back on him when he ‘needed me most.’

Typical fucking narcissist, somehow making himself the victim and me the bad guy.

The officer forces my wrists to my back, clipping metal handcuffs around them before grabbing my bicep and roughly jerking me after him, sending another jolt of pain through my shoulder.

I stumble, struggling to stay in step as he drags me down the hallway. Several girls already have their heads peeking out of their rooms, likely having heard them practically kicking my door down, while others swing theirs open as I pass, brow furrowed and eyes wide. Whispers circulate around me, already tossing around misinformation and rumors.

“What did she do?”

“I dunno. Was anyone recording at least?”

“No, fuck! I forgot my damn phone.”

“Wait, I thought I heard them say something about a warrant for her arrest?”

“Oh my God, she’s a criminal, too?”

“I thought everyone knew she has a record.”

“Did one of them say something about a murder? Or am I insane?”

“What? She killed someone?”

“I don't know, maybe! Go check her dorm or something.”

“No, you! I don’t want to see that shit if she did.”

“You guys are such pussies. I’ll go look.”

I close my eyes in defeat, tears slipping through my eyelashes as I’m dragged down the stairs to the main floor. Someone yelps from down the hallway, presumably having seen the carnage in my room, followed by various people asking what she sees, only for them to gasp in horror.

“Why are you letting people in there?” I snap, glaring between the two men on either side of me. “That’s literally a crime scene!”

The one holding on to me jerks my arm, and barks, “Just keep walking.”

What the fuck?

They shouldn’t allow anyone to fucking see that. I don’t understand why there aren’t more officers flooding the dorms and taping off the room. At the very least, why haven’t they called anyone? Just as the questions tease my tongue, the second officer pushes open the exit, inviting a rush of freezing air to smack me in the face. It’s cold enough to turn the tears on my cheeks to ice if I stand out here long enough.

It’s the middle of January, and several inches of snow coat the ground. Fresh flurries dance through the air, stirred by an invasive breeze that worms beneath my winter coat.

“Can you at least listen to me for a fucking second?” I try again, hysteria heightening my voice as my head swivels back and forth, desperate for one of them to just listen to me. “It—it wasn’t me who did that!”

They promptly ignore me, leading me off the sidewalk directly into the courtyard ahead of the building. I frown and attempt to slow my steps as I process what exactly I’m seeing.

Which is nothing.

They jerk me forward, snapping at me to keep up, but I barely hear them.

Cars fill the parking lot ahead of the courtyard, but there isn’t a single police vehicle in sight. No flashing lights, just darkness, save for the tiny lights lining either side of the sidewalk to my dorm and a few fixtures in the lot.

As I glance around and take in the utter stillness of the night, a slimy foreboding feeling penetrates the anxiety, settling heavily in the pit of my stomach.

Once again, the officer jerks my arm and snaps at me to keep walking. But now, I’m really not listening. Narrowing my eyes, I focus on the officers, scrutinizing their side profiles. Now that the tears are drying and clarity is setting in, I can get a better look at them. They’re both young. However, it’s not their ages that set me off, but their familiarity. The officer walking beside me is incredibly tall with a lankier build, though he certainly isn’t lacking in muscle. His short, dark strands peek out from the hat at his nape, and though it’s too dark to see the exact shade, I have the sinking feeling it’s a deep auburn. The officer dragging me through the yard is the same height, with a slightly bulkier build, his hair shaved close to the scalp. But what confirms my fears is the tattoos covering his hands and the barbel in his left eyebrow glinting in the moonlight. A horrifying realization overcomes me, and my mouth drops.

Fuck.

Me.

“Keep up,” the officer with shaved hair snaps again, keeping his eyes pointed forward.

Except he's not really a fucking officer. Far from it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screech, digging my heels into the ground. I gain no traction, though, sliding across the snowcapped grass.

Now, my heart pumps for an entirely different reason. Because, like a fucking idiot, I now realize I’m not being dragged out of my dorm by police officers, but by two other college students who happen to be best friends with the one man who wants to see me suffer.

This was Dread’s doing.

And I’m too fucking pissed to be relieved about it.

Too distracted by the utter panic from finding a dead woman in my room, the possibility of it being my father, and then thinking I was being arrested for murder, I didn’t register their faces or their goddamn voices.

You’re such an idiot.

Fucking Rogue Cameron has a hold of me. He's Dread's teammate on the swim team and the smart-ass of the three. He exudes a punk rock vibe with his buzz cut, eyebrow and cartilage piercings, and tattoos covering the majority of his body. But while his attitude is carefree and he prefers to spend his days partying and cracking jokes, he has no qualms about dishing out cruelty on Dread’s command, usually doing so with a grin on his face.

Beside me is Severen Fox. He’s the softer, quieter one, though not any less enigmatic than his friends. I've seen too many women trip over their own feet when they catch sight of his deep auburn hair, amber eyes, and the dimples on either side of his killer smile. When he’s not helping his best friends torture me, he has his nose shoved in a romance novel, which has always been really fucking confusing to me. Being both a romantic and a bully makes no goddamn sense.

“Let me go,” I snap, harshly tugging at my arm in Rogue’s grip and ignoring the sharp pain flaring in my shoulder.

“So she finally comes to her senses,” he croons, dropping the act and aiming a smirk my way.

“Rogue, I’m serious! Let me the fuck go!”

“Not gonna happen, little murderess,” he sings.

My survival instincts kick in full force, and I thrash against him, digging my heels in.

“We got a live one, Sev! And she's a fighter!” Rogue shouts, laughing as he does.

He and Severen easily pull me forward, despite my efforts.

“Stop it!” I squeal.

I can’t do much with my hands in cuffs behind my back, so I throw my body around like a wrecking ball, but my struggle only heightens as they both drag me toward a flagpole in the middle of the courtyard.

My eyes blow wide, and I instantly know what they’re planning. I’m shaking my head, chanting “No” over and over as we near it. It doesn’t matter how deep I dig my heels in or thrash against them, their holds only tighten to bruising levels, and an amused chuckle releases from Rogue’s throat.

“Let me go!” I screech, tripping over my toes. They keep me from face-planting, but it’s a fate much preferred over what they have planned.

We reach the flagpole, and Rogue holds my biceps while Severen disappears behind my back to unlock my handcuffs. I stare up at Rogue pleadingly. His rugged features make him look like he belongs in a motorcycle club, with his strong jawline, a nose with the slightest bump at the bridge, hinting at a past break, and his unsettling raven eyes.

“Please, don’t do this,” I croak, unable to mask the desperation in my tone.

He smirks, not a single ounce of sympathy within his amused stare.

The metal around my wrists loosens, drawing my attention. Severen quickly retightens one cuff around my wrist then swings it toward the flagpole.

“Severen, stop,” I rush out, jerking on my arm.

He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he fastens the other cuff to the pole, effectively chaining me to it.

“Sorry, sweet cheeks,” Rogue drawls lazily. “That dummy up there went through some pretty brutal torture, and I’d hate for all my hard work to go to waste.”

My wild gaze darts around, hopelessly searching for someone to help me. But we’re alone out here, and despite the girls’ curiosity in the dorm, none of them come out to check on me. No police cars pull up from one of them calling, so they must’ve realized the body was fake, that it was yet another cruel trick being played on me.

I’m sure they’re all used to my torment after nearly four fucking years of it.

I keep shaking my head, clinging to my denial that they’re actually going to leave me out here.

“It’s like five fucking degrees outside, Rogue,” I snap. My lungs feel tight, as if the chill has reached the depths of my body, shriveling my organs. It’s getting harder to breathe, and I’m once again overdosing on adrenaline. “Please, guys! You got me, okay? I absolutely panicked and thought this whole thing was real. Dread wins. You don’t have to chain me up outside to prove that point!”

Rogue rests a hand on my shoulder, his stare condescending as he speaks. “Look, babe. There are consequences to accusing our swim team captain of sexual assault in a classroom full of people. What did you expect? You could've cost him the next Olympics Games if they had taken you seriously.”

“But no one fucking does!” I argue heatedly, a humorless laugh sneaking out. “No one has ever taken me fucking seriously, and you know it.”

“Sorry, babe.”

He doesn't sound sorry at all.

I grit my teeth and glower at him, my nostrils flaring as I shove down the tears burning the backs of my eyes. They won’t see me cry again.

With one last smile, Rogue turns to walk away without a backward glance. Severen spares me one, though his expression is as blank as the sheet of snow beneath my feet. Then, he turns away, too.

Just like that, they disappear into the parking lot. Within minutes, they’re driving away in Rogue’s car, leaving me standing here alone, completely helpless to the unforgiving elements.

Now that they’re gone, I let the tears well, once more blurring my vision. My chin trembles as I slide the handcuff down the pole and settle on the cold, hard ground. I slump against the icy metal, bringing my knees to my chest and tucking my free hand between my thighs and stomach. Instantly, the snow soaks through my jeans, turning my ass numb. My shoulder throbs, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the howling wind seeping beneath my clothing into my pores, goosebumps rising and shivers racking my body. My teeth chatter, and I rest my forehead on my bent knees, letting loose a single sob before forcing myself to suck the rest back in.

He wants to break me, but I won’t let him.

I didn’t survive all these years for nothing.

I will get back at Dread for this. As long as I survive the night, he’s going to fucking pay. I just might make a liar out of myself and commit real murder. Lord knows he’d fucking deserve it.

But instead of leaving him to freeze, the fucker will burn.

CHAPTER 3

DREAD

Aping on my phone jerks me out of the restless sleep I forced myself into. Only thirty minutes after Rogue confirmed Reverie came back from her shift, he sent another text recounting how she damn near lost her mind when she discovered the mutilated dummy—even more so when they faked her arrest and then cuffed her to the flagpole for extra measure.

Three hours have passed since, and I haven’t been able to settle. My bed is incredibly fucking comfortable, so there’s no excuse for the restlessness clinging to my bones.

I slap my hand over the phone on my bedside table, the bright light piercing my eyes. Squinting, I find a deluge of texts waiting for me. I get them all fucking day, and it doesn’t matter how many times I change my number, it somehow always gets leaked. Which is why I’m terrible about checking them and often avoid them.

Most are from other students inviting me to parties or girls asking to hang out. However, one from my lawyer, Mark, catches my eye. He sent it earlier today, and I’d forgotten about it.

Mark: I’m here if you need to talk.

I don’t have the capacity to contemplate that message right now, so I find the most recent text from Severen.

Severen: Blizzard hit. She’s probably turning blue by now.

Reading those words is like taking a shot of heroin, except I’m high on satisfaction. As tempted as I am to leave her out there until her lungs finally freeze, I couldn’t possibly live without her. If she dies, I have no one to take my endless wrath out on, and that just won’t fucking do.

Me: I’ll get her.

I have the other set of keys to her cuffs. I didn’t intend to use them for another few hours, but admittedly, I didn’t bother to check the forecast.

Oops, I guess.

Sighing, I flip on the lamp on my nightstand and quickly get dressed in thick sweatpants and a hoodie. I swipe the car keys from next to the lamp as I head out the door to make the short drive to her dorm. There’s a niggling feeling in my bones urging me to pick up the pace, but I keep my steps steady and casual.

She deserves to feel worse. So much worse.

That impenetrable cold forming icicles on every one of her nerves—it’s a feeling I’ve carried with me since I sat on my couch, staring at the window for hours, waiting for my mom to come home. Except she never did.

Because she was dead, and when those FBI agents showed up at my doorstep instead to tell me and my grandmother that she wasn't coming home, I vowed to make the D’Amours pay.

When I arrive at her dorm, I park in the lot, squinting toward the courtyard. In the span of the two-minute drive here, the blizzard worsened tenfold. Heavy sheets of snow fall from the sky, making it hard to see more than ten feet ahead. The top of the flagpole peeks out from the storm, the fabric violently flapping against the dark sky, only for the bottom half to disappear into the white blanket.

I swing open the door, the chill like a punch to the face. The wind rages like a hungry beast, slithering beneath my hoodie and prodding at my bones with sharp teeth. Cursing beneath my breath, I jog toward the flagpole, her small body coming into view only when I’m nearly on top of her. A thick layer of snow already coats her form, turning nearly the entirety of her body bone white. She tucked her knees beneath her chin and slid her thick coat over them, only the bottom half of her legs popping out from beneath the fabric. I know it does little to protect her from the elements. One sleeve is empty, her arm cradled against her stomach inside the coat, while she presses the hand chained to the pole as firmly against her side as possible—which isn’t much.

She trembles so intensely, she almost appears still. However, even the howling wind isn’t loud enough to completely shadow the clicking of her chattering teeth.

Ignoring how fucking freezing I am, I cock my head, observing her closely while I sort through the emotions churning inside me at the sight of her.

My chest tightens uncomfortably, and a burning sensation simmers in my stomach. That restlessness still clings to my bones, making it feel as if I need to… just move. The longer I stand here, the more it intensifies. Grinding my teeth, I coax the satisfaction back to the forefront, and it’s the only one I bother to acknowledge from thereon as I bend at the knees and blow on the side of her head.

Reverie jerks, as if I roused her from sleep. She stirs for a beat and then slowly turns her head toward me, though she doesn't open her eyes quite yet. Her thin, dirty blonde bangs fall away from her forehead, offering a rare view of her entire face. I take a moment to study her closely, ignoring the urge to wrap my fingers around her throat. Long, thick lashes fan across her pale, moonlit cheeks, mingling with the light dusting of freckles that span across the bridge of her nose. A dainty gold hoop pierces her left nostril, and another with little diamonds on it loops through her septum, pointing toward her cracked, full lips. Pale blue tints her skin, and her mouth has taken on a purple hue. They’re usually a deep, rosy pink, but I think I like the look of death on her more.

It's so fucking pretty, and it’s unfortunate it can’t stay.

Her eyes crack open, vacant and lethargic, only to fall shut again when I come into view.

She says nothing. Only turns her head back in and curls into herself deeper. Truthfully, I don’t think she processed it’s me before her or what’s happening.

Funny that even subconsciously, she finds the frigid weather more inviting than my presence.

That’d hurt if I gave a fuck.

Slipping the key out of my pocket, I insert it into the small hole in the cuff. The metal falls away from the pole, but I quickly grab it and use it to tug her arm out from between her body so I can unlock the cuff around her wrist, too. That seems to jerk her into full consciousness. She snaps upright, flailing no more gracefully than a newborn fawn while I tuck the cuffs into my hoodie pocket.

Her wide eyes land on me before derision instantly twists her features. She scoots away from me, though her movements are sluggish.

“Get away from me,” she slurs, the words barely distinguishable.

There she is.

I missed that look.

“How many people watched my friends drag you out of your dorm tonight? And not a single one came to check on you? Help you?”

Even with the blizzard swirling around us, the black sky darkens her unusual copper brown eyes, yet I can see the emotion flash across them as clearly as a comet. Fury.

If I were to ignore her tar-like insides, I could acknowledge she’s fucking beautiful—and somehow, she’s prettiest when she wants to kill me. But it’s damn near impossible to care when all I can focus on is how badly I want to kill her.

The spawn of the man who murdered my mother, and who offered nothing but unwavering support for him, despite my pleading for her and her mother, Regina, to believe me.

They never fucking did.

But I suppose they felt they didn’t have to when the copycat murderer popped up, further cementing me as the boy who put away the wrong man.

It drove me fucking insane watching them feel so validated. Even to this day, I can’t put into words what that did to me—knowing what I saw and fighting tooth and nail to get people to believe me, only for a fucking copycat to further make me look like a liar.

Special Agents Barry Jones and Jeff Lakes publicly insisted they are two different murderers, but it didn’t matter, to the D’Amours or the world. The investigators lost their credibility, and everyone made up their minds—Kellan Sharpe is a fucking liar.

How Barry can stand to have a close relationship with Reverie and treat her as his daughter, I’ll never understand. They keep their relationship out of the public eye, so they don’t know I’m aware of it. I suspect he’s forgiven her because she was so young and went along with whatever Regina wanted, and I could understand that, too.

However, to this day, Reverie still refuses to acknowledge Lionel as the real Locksmith, just like she refuses to acknowledge his victims or their families.

She’s never even acknowledged what her family did to me, and that, more than anything, is what enrages me.

As kids, I was the one who lost everything, yet it was her who got everything.

After Lionel went to prison, she and Regina lived with the public sympathizing over her father’s wrongful imprisonment while lavishing them with food, gifts, and unwavering support. After the copycat emerged, they went on TV for several interviews, boasting that they were right—I put away the wrong man. All the while, I sat alone in a cold, dark house, listening to the soft sounds of my grandmother weeping, and eating the bland hot dogs and ramen noodles her abysmal social security check barely afforded. I was ridiculed and bullied endlessly, both online and in school. People vandalized my home, sent death threats, and spread awful rumors about my mother and me.

Katherine Sharpe stopped being a victim of the Locksmith and became the woman who failed as a mother.

Reverie was the poor girl without her daddy.

I was the evil boy who put him away.

But Reverie will eventually get her father back.

My mom will never come home.

And I hate her for that.

However, at Hollow Canyon, the roles have finally reversed. Whether or not the students here believe me doesn’t even matter. They’re too starstruck to call me a liar, and they condemn Reverie simply because I do. I’m sure, deep down, many of them still believe Lionel to be innocent, but they’ll never say, and I don’t care to be believed anymore.

I just want her to suffer.

“T-they’re all t-t-t-oo sc-scared of-f yo-you,” she stutters, slipping her knees out from under her coat and attempting to get to her feet. She loses her balance, falling onto her knees with a thump.

Embarrassing.

A chuckle bubbles from my throat, and she flicks a nasty glare my way, then tries again. This time, she’s barely successful—only for her to take a single step and lose her balance again. Her limbs are numb, and I’ll grow old by the time she manages to make it halfway to the door, give up, and stay there until she croaks.

I stand, and though my teeth are on the verge of chattering, I let my rage warm my blood. I whistle a low tune, watching her struggle to her feet a third time, only to fall once again.

“You’re pathetic,” I tell her, a grin curling one side of my lips when she spits an insult over her shoulder.

No fucking idea what she said, but I can’t imagine it was that creative, anyway.

After a few more attempts, I grow bored and trail after her. Before she can wrangle up the energy to try again, I scoop her into my arms. It takes effort not to think about how she feels tucked into my elbows. If I do, I’ll want to drop her, and despite how amusing that’d be, I’m tired as shit, and the cold has officially begun to hurt my face.

Her muscles tense, her struggles weak as she wriggles in my hold. “L-l-let m-me g-go!” she screeches, planking her body.

Growling, I tuck her further into my chest, wishing I didn’t enjoy torturing her so much and could just let her die out here.

I should carry her up to her dorm and leave her there, but I’m not confident she can bring herself back from the edge of death. So, unless I want a goddamn murder charge on my hands, I need to ensure she doesn’t croak.

Between my exhaustion, having to get up early, her tiny-ass twin bed, and the mess Rogue and Severen created in her dorm earlier, I have no desire to stay in her room until she warms up.

Which means she’s coming back with me instead.

“You’ll sooner die before you make it to your room, and I have better things to do than answer questions about your untimely death.”

“A-a-asshole,” she snarls, her fist thumping against my chest. I grin, and she hisses from the impact against her numb skin.

I bask in the peaceful two seconds of silence before her struggling renews, noticing I’m not walking toward her dorm, but the parking lot.

“Dr-Dread, l-let me g-go.”

I ignore her, my eyes beginning to burn from the lack of sleep and frigid air. I’m more than ready for bed, and I’ll be damned if I let her delay that any longer than necessary.

When I make it to my car, I practically toss her in the passenger seat. She goes to scramble back out, but she’s far too sluggish, and I have the seat belt around her and clicked into place before she can manage to poke a foot out.

“Dr—” I slam the door in her face.

By the time I’m sitting in the driver’s seat and finding instant relief from the hot air blasting through the vents, she’s unclipping the seat belt.

Rolling my eyes, I grab the buckle before it can slide back and pin her with a glare. My annoyance only heightens when she whines like a puppy being deprived of a treat.

“Keep it up, and I’ll fucking strangle you with it,” I snap.

She looks on the verge of crying, and while I’m happy to have a front-row seat, I’d be even happier to be lying in my bed again.

I click the buckle a second time then turn down the air so the rapid change in temperature doesn't send her into shock. Then, I quickly pull out of the parking space and slowly drive back toward the road.

I make it five goddamn feet before she goes for the buckle again, I grab her frigid hand and squeeze it until she squeals from the pain. It’s jarring how icy her skin is, but I shove any thoughts or feelings on the matter out of my head.

She attempts to pull it out of my grip, but I hold tight. She’s fucking insane to think I’d ever let her go.

Trapping her with one hand, I maneuver the car with my other. It’s nearly impossible to see through the white wall of snow, forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace.

It’s slippery as hell out, and it requires every ounce of my attention to ensure I don’t crash.

Yet, most of it is still on her.

“P-please,” she whispers.

Such a rare word to hear from her mouth. I've seen her near her breaking point many times these past several years, but she was always too stubborn to beg for mercy.

My pranks started off smaller—spreading a variety of rumors, from her helping Lionel with the murders to cannibalism—but they got more intense as time went on. Waiting until she got in the shower before stealing her entire wardrobe and burning them in a bonfire at a party. Hijacking her car and letting it roll toward the edge of a cliff, forcing her to get in and stop it just before it crested the edge. Among other things.

I suppose this is the first time I pushed her this close to the brink of death, though.

After a few long seconds, she deflates, giving up the notion of escaping me tonight.

The drive back to my dorm goes from a two-minute drive to ten. Meanwhile, she turned her body toward the door, curling into it as the heat slowly defrosts her.

If only it could reach her heart. But I don’t know if a fire-breathing dragon would even have the strength to thaw that shit out.

By the time I’m parked outside my dorm, rounding the car to the passenger side and scooping her out of it, I’m thoroughly irritated. Especially because I’m on the second floor and have to carry her up the goddamn stairs.

Just as I kick the door shut behind me, she makes another attempt to dislodge herself from my hold, so I let her, loosening my grip and chuckling when she flops to the floor with an unceremonious thunk.

She whimpers and weakly sits up while I kick off my snow-caked shoes. A lingering chill still clings to my bones, but it’s a feeling I’ve grown used to in her presence.

The snow that covered Reverie’s body has melted, turning her wet hair a light brown from the moisture. Icy droplets cling to her skin, the grayish-blue pallor making her look closer to a zombie. Yet, as I stare at her, I feel nothing but contempt for the barely human being on my floor.

The twinge in my chest sharpens, as if to prove me wrong, but I ignore it as easily as I have since the moment I laid eyes on her chained to the flagpole like a dog.

And now, she trembles like one on the floor.

“Take your clothes off, darling, or else you’ll freeze to death,” I tell her casually, my tone bored as I pull my hoodie over my head.

I’m tempted to just take her to the showers to warm up, but I’m too goddamn exhausted to deal with carrying her there and back.

Which means I need to warm her up myself.

My upper lip curls. The thought of sharing a bed with her—let alone touching her—makes my skin crawl. However, her hatred for it might make it worth it.

Anything that makes her miserable makes me feel damn good.

“S-stop c-calling me th-that,” she slurs.

“How about Ms. D’Amour?”

“F-f-fuck yo-ou.”

I grin. “Is that what you want? For me to fuck you?”

“I’d r-rather fr-freeze to d-d-death.”

Except by the time I circle around to stand before her, one look at her face confirms she’s far past the point of freezing, now going into shock. She’s on the verge of nodding off, her eyes half lidded, and she’s no longer shivering nearly as badly as she was a few minutes ago.

Fuck.

Adrenaline surges through my bloodstream, and all thought snuffs from my brain. I move on pure instinct when I drop to a crouch and unzip her coat. She swats at my hand, but it’s sloppy and weak.

“I’m not R-Regina,” she mutters as I practically rip the coat down her arms. It takes a few extra seconds to decipher what she said, but when I do, I frown.

“What?”

She groans when I move on to her feet and tug off her heeled leather boots and socks. She’s still in her fancy attire from work, so her clothing has done nothing to protect her from the snow.

“You c-called me darling. I-I’m not Regina.”

I shake my head and grab for the bottom of her shirt, not having the mental capacity to deal with whatever the hell she’s trying to say. She’s slurring more than stuttering now, and I don’t have time to decode her fucking point.

“Arms up,” I clip, attempting to pull up her black, long-sleeved shirt, the gauzy material sliding off with ease. But even in hypothermic shock, she tries to push at my hands and curl her body inward.

“God fucking dammit, Reverie. Don’t make me tear your fucking clothes off,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.

She mumbles something but ultimately allows me to yank the damp material over her head, though not without whining about it. I don’t process the expanse of gray-blue skin on display, or how frigid and clammy it feels, even when I reach around and unclip her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Instinctively, she covers herself, though not very well.

Pointedly ignoring her chest, I move on to her black jeans, quickly unfastening them before grabbing the waistband on either side of her hips and roughly jerking them down. She squeaks and topples backward, unable to even catch herself.

“Lift up,” I snap.

Sloppily, she lifts her hips, giving me just enough room to tug them down past her ass. They’re soaking wet and adhered to her skin, making it difficult to peel them off her legs. By the time I wrangle them off, she’s laying down completely, her eyes glazed over.

I don’t even bother being nice about her panties and just give them one firm tug, ripping them from her body and evoking another whimper from her throat.

Then, I stand and march over to my closet, where I keep extra blankets, and grab one before hurrying back to her. She’s heavy and limp as I grab her hands and pull her into an upright position. She groans, and I make quick work of tightly wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

I don’t think about what I’m doing as I scoop her into my arms and climb onto my bed. I switch off the lamp, plunging us into darkness before putting my back to the wall and her back to me as I pull her against my chest. She’s maybe around five-six, which is significantly smaller than my six-five height, but she feels even smaller pressed up against me, the bed far too big.

Her hair is soaking into my arm and the sheets, and like an infectious disease, the frost clinging to her sinks into my pores. While I’m used to plunging my body into a pool filled with ice for training, it’s only made me hate the cold more.

It’s fitting she’s the reason ice is corroding my veins.

She slurs something, but I’m too focused on ensuring she’s completely bundled inside the blanket to care. For good measure, I tug her into my arms before covering us both with my comforter.

I have no idea how much time passes while I concentrate on the feeling of the steady rise and fall of her chest against my arm, though it's enough for her violent tremors to calm. All the while, I keep my stare locked on the back of her head, my brain empty and operating on instinct alone.

Eventually, she shifts against me as if she’s stirring from a deep slumber. I lift my head to see her better right as her eyes creak open. Moonlight spears through the blinds on the backside of the room, the beams casting across her face just right, illuminating the caution and panic subtly twisting her features. Awareness must sink in, and her body stiffens to solid stone. The shift of emotion on her face is like a bomb detonating at the bottom of a dam. Now that she’s no longer on the brink of death, my contempt comes bursting back in, flooding my chest until my upper lip curls with distaste.

She hasn’t said a single word, and I’m already regretting saving her.

Most days, I hate that she’s even alive. But leaving her out to die would’ve implicated Rogue and Severen as well, and while I often grapple with throwing my life away to snuff hers, I refuse to ruin my friends’ lives, too.

“Can I go now?” she asks quietly, an edge to her tone.

While I’d love nothing more than for her to get the fuck out of my bed, something feels inherently wrong with just… letting her go. It feels too simple, too easy to let her walk away from me.

She nearly died, but now, she’s alive and breathing perfectly fine, and I really fucking resent that.

I sit up and lean on the arm beneath her head, staring down at her side profile while I contemplate how to answer. She keeps her face turned forward as her eyes slide toward me.

The anxiety rolling off her is one of my favorite perfumes. I love when she’s nervous—scared.

She’s both my greatest addiction and deepest affliction.

My stare wanders down her bundled form, and an idea sparks in my head.

“Nah. I’m nowhere close to being finished with you.”

She scoffs, and a small, lingering shiver racks her body.

“You’ve tortured me in every possible way the last four years, and you’ve succeeded in almost killing me now,” she says, her voice hoarse. “What more is there to do to me?”

That makes me laugh.

Acid drips from my tone as I say, “Baby, I’m just getting started.”

Her upper lip curls—the same reaction she gives every time I call her ‘darling.’ She hates it more than anything, and nothing makes me happier than pissing her off.

“Just let me lea—” She chokes on the last word when I reach over her and blindly grab my phone from the nightstand. I squint when I tap the screen, the bright light harsh in the darkness, pricking my eyes. Reverie winces, turning her face into my forearm while I click on my flashlight.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her tone deepening with caution and concern.

Ignoring her, I aim the light on my nightstand, where several writing utensils are scattered. I grin when I locate a Sharpie amongst them, snatching it from the table and dropping it onto the bed. Then, I switch off the flashlight, open my camera app, and hit the swivel button to face the camera toward us.

She takes one look at the screen and immediately goes to scramble off the bed.

“Uh-uh,” I berate.

My left arm trapped beneath her snaps up to circle around her throat before jerking her back against me, keeping myself balanced on that elbow. The blanket around her has slid down, allowing her icy skin to press into my chest, sending a chill down my spine. Except it does nothing to dampen the fire burning in the pit of my stomach.

A breathless chuckle escapes when she bucks against me. “Where you goin’, huh? Stay right there, baby, you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

“Dread,” she snaps, her voice wobbling and body tensing impossibly further. She brings both hands up to grip my forearm barred around her throat, digging her nails in deep. The bite of pain makes my heart pump faster with excitement. “Let me the fuck go!”

I hum, pleased by her panic. “Keep saying my name, darlin’. The more scared you are, the sweeter it sounds,” I purr.

Setting my phone on the bed, I kick the comforter off us, then tug at the blanket loosely wrapped around her until it unravels, exposing her naked body. She surges forward a second time, attempting to thrash out of my hold, but I keep her trapped simply by tightening my arm around her throat.

With only the abysmal light emanating from my phone, I can’t see much, but what I can make out has my cock stiffening.

I grit my teeth, willing my body to stop reacting. But it doesn't, especially when she pleads, “Dread.”

Her voice sounds a thousand miles away as I trace my eyes down her thin waist that flares out into wide hips, over her perfect fucking belly button. I’ve never noticed any other woman’s, yet my mouth waters with the urge to dip my tongue into hers before trailing it down to the tempting V between her thick thighs. My fingers twitch and my blood heats. I grind my molars, attempting to force my body not to react to her once again.

It proves pointless when my cock pulses beneath my sweatpants instead.

The cooler air coerces goosebumps to rise on her pale skin, pebbling her deep rosy nipples into hard peaks. Her tits are fucking beautiful. They’re not huge but plenty big enough to fill my hands and fit my cock in between.

Fuck.

I grind my teeth harder, enough to crack bone. I’m not fucking blind to Reverie’s beauty, but I’ve tried my best over the years to not let it affect me. I didn’t always succeed, but now more than ever, I’m failing fucking drastically. I’ve never seen her naked before now, and a large part of me is regretting all of this.

I need to control myself.

Think of someone else. Anyone else.

Exhaling a slow breath through my nose, I drag my eyes to the ceiling and force myself to recall the blonde I fucked a while back, picturing her tits instead. I’m fairly certain they were smaller. Or bigger? Fuck, no, bigger nipples and smaller tits. They were just as bitable as any other pair, at least from what I can remember, which is admittedly, almost nothing. But as Reverie twists against me in another attempt to wiggle from my hold, it draws my stare back down to her, and I’m having trouble remembering any woman’s breasts right now when hers are demanding my attention.

Her chest pumps wildly, and her trembling intensifies, though I suspect it derives more from fear than being cold now. It only makes my cock throb harder, almost to the point of pain.

“Dread, please,” she tries again, the words cracking in her throat. The sound travels straight between my legs, making my hips scream with the urge to grind against her.

Instead, I drop my lips against her ear, brushing them over the soft shell before whispering, “I love it when you beg.”

That stuns her long enough for me to pick up my phone again, click on the video option, and hit record.

“You’re going to be a good girl and stay still for me, yeah?” I rasp, keeping my voice low and encouraging. I keep my eyes on the phone, panning the camera down her lithe body caged against mine.

The sight is fucking mouthwatering. Drool pools around my tongue as I take in her curves, toned stomach, and full tits squished between her arms, putting those pretty nipples on full display. All the while, she trembles, only adding to the eroticism of it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I close my eyes, taking a moment to regain the control that’s quickly slipping through my grasp.

She may be a fucking vision on the outside, but on the inside, she’s like a rot that decays my teeth. Only a goddamn root canal could get her out.

“I’ll fucking scream,” she threatens shakily.

“Yeah? You want to know what will happen if you do?” I ask, my focus on the side of her face illuminated by the screen, providing a clear view of the deep crease between her brows, those watery eyes, and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth to keep it from trembling.

I grin before delivering a sharp nip to the soft lobe of her ear. “You’ll force me to cover your mouth, and my hands are big, you know?” I whisper. “I might cover your nose, too, and I won’t let go until you’re incapable of making a sound. I might even wait until you stop moving, just to be sure.”

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she shakes her head helplessly, a single tear sliding across her nose and dripping onto the sheets. My mouth parts, and I nearly groan.

It might be the first time I’ve seen her cry, which proves that this time, I’ve almost broken her. Delight stirs in my stomach, and I hope she gives me another tear. I’ll make sure to catch it on my tongue if she does.

“Tell me you’ll be a good girl,” I demand softly.

She shakes her head, and I tighten my arm against her throat, causing her eyes to snap open again. Her nails sink deeper into my skin, evoking a low growl to rumble deep in my chest.

“Let me hear you say it, Reverie.” The demand is rougher this time, less patient.

A whimper escapes her throat, an internal battle rendering her silent for another few moments.

“As a reward, I may keep your face out of it,” I say. “But I need to hear you’ll be a good girl for me.”

A harsh breath exhales from her nose, and her tone is clipped but breathless as she bites out, “Fine. I’ll be a good girl, Dread.”

I hum again, forcing myself to ignore how erotic it is to hear those words on her tongue. Not because she’s acquiescing, but because I’ve heard a hundred women utter similar words, and they’ve never sounded so goddamn alluring.

“That’s it,” I murmur in approval. “Now, roll onto your back, put your hands above your head, and keep them there.”

I drop my arm from her throat and lay it flat, allowing her the room to do as I say. After a moment of hesitation, she tightens her lips into a firm line and turns onto her back, my forearm fitting into the curve of her nape. My abdomen contracts from the thrill of watching her lift her hands above her head, threading her fingers together and clutching tightly.

Biting back a grin, I switch the phone into my left hand right beside her face, freeing the other.

Picking up the Sharpie next to her side, I remove the cap with my teeth and spit it onto the bed.

Residual shivers cling to her bones, her limbs twitching every so often while she aims her focus toward the screen, carefully watching my every move. Even through the camera, a blueish tint still lingers in her skin, though it’s not quite as prominent as before. I keep my promise, ensuring the camera stays below her throat, showing her tits, stomach, and the bare V between her legs.

Truthfully, I don’t need to show her face. If I were to share this video with anyone and say it’s her, they would take my word for it without question.

“You going to write insults all over me?” she snips, settling a fiery glare on me. “I can only imagine how fucking creative they’ll be.”

“I only want to write the truth,” I whisper.

She frowns, but I’m already searching for the perfect spot to start. Trading between watching the screen and watching my hand, I press the tip of the Sharpie right beneath her breast and ink the first truth onto her skin.

03/18/11.

She inhales sharply when I’m finished, recognizing the date immediately.

“The day Lionel took my mother,” I say, “and the last day I saw her alive before he scattered her remains in a fucking junkyard like trash.”

A high-pitched sound of distress emits from her throat, but I hardly hear it beneath the darkness sinking into the divots of my brain. Before those memories can resurface, I move on to the next truth, carefully writing it over her sternum, an inch lower than the first date.

02/26/09.

“Stop it,” she hisses.

“Do you remember her name?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. “Your father wasn’t charged with her murder, of course, but we both know he did it. Her name is Macy Brown, and she went missing on this date. The police discovered her body months later, strewn across a middle school’s soccer field, her head placed on the center mark like it was a fucking ball.”

She whines again, and her stomach quivers, but I hardly notice as I move a little farther down her stomach, over the left side of her ribs.

06/29/09.

“What about her name?”

“Dread, s-stop,” she begs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Wrong,” I say. “It’s Jolene Roberts. They didn’t find the first of her remains until a year after she went missing on this date. He scattered them across three lakes, and it took law enforcement a couple of years before they pieced all of them together. Most of them were found by families out on their boats during the summer.”

I move the tip to the right of her belly button.

07/02/10.

Then, directly below it, I write: 08/08/10.

As I finish, she goes to drop her arms, likely to stop me.

“Don’t,” I bark, my glare snapping up to her.

She pauses, her face twisted in agony.

But why? Because I’m accusing her daddy of atrocious crimes? Or because, deep down, she knows he’s guilty and doesn’t want to face it?

“P-please,” she whispers, visibly fighting back her pathetic tears.

The sight of them only deepens the darkness clouding my vision, growing denser and harder to see through.

“You said you’d be a good girl,” I remind her, my voice devoid of emotion.

Her lips part, but I return my attention to the camera before she responds.

“Savannah Little. The youngest of those discovered.” I flick a glance at her. “But not the youngest of his suspected victims. Your father raped and murdered her when she was only seventeen. Her remains were discovered in an abandoned factory only a week after she went missing. A homeless man found them—Robert Fawks. It fucked him up so badly, darling.” My voice cracks, and it takes several seconds before I regain control over my tumultuous emotions. “On the second date, authorities discovered his body hanging above the exact spot he found Savannah’s.”

Her head shakes, as if to physically thrash my voice out of her head, but it’s no use. I move the marker below her belly button, sparing the camera a glance to ensure I’m still within view before writing the next truth.

10/21/10.

“Sandra Carmichael. Two nine-year-old boys found her head in a park, right at the top of the slide.” Her stomach shudders violently, a sob ripping past her throat. I turn my eyes back up to her, seeing her face yet not processing any of her features. “Their mothers reached out to me after the trial, and I still call them every so often to check in. Both kids were extremely traumatized, as you can imagine.” I cock my head. “Can you imagine?”

I don't wait for her to answer and write the next date below it.

11/13/16.

“One of the boys, Lewis, killed himself on the day he and Jacob found Sandra, six years later. Jacob, on the other hand, is a drug addict, living on the streets. I paid for a few rounds of rehab to help him, but he keeps leaving. He’s got hepatitis C and is refusing treatment for that, too. He told his mom he prefers to die on the streets with heroin in his veins than live a sober life remembering Sandra Carmichael’s head on the top of the slide.”

“Stop,” she squeaks desperately.

“Just one more,” I whisper as I write another date over her left hip.

There are so many more I could stain into her skin, but I feel her reckless energy mounting, and I’m on limited time before she snaps.

06/17/08.

“Margaret Lever,” I say quietly. “The public hasn’t treated her well. On this fateful day, she sent her little boy away to his grandmother’s so she could invite over a mystery man for dinner. She wouldn’t tell anyone who it was, of course, only that he was married and needed to keep his identity a secret until he was ready to leave his wife. Regardless, the media painted her as a homewrecker, a whore, and a terrible mother. A couple of days later, a woman found her remains in a garbage bag outside of a domestic violence shelter. No one knows why that location, but it led to many assuming her ex-husband was abusive toward her. That speculation has been a dark cloud hanging over his head, and I hear he’s a recluse because of it.”

“Enough,” she spits, her voice wobbling. “I’ll scream, and I don’t fucking care if you kill me, Dread. You’re done.”

While I’m tempted to test that threat, Reverie has proven time and time again that she has a spine of steel, even if it’s not always in her best interest.

However, what truly stops me is the dark place my head is quickly spiraling to. It's been a long time since I've lost myself in that abyss, and I'd rather not pay it a visit tonight.

My thoughts are quiet as I grab the cap and slide it back on the marker before tossing it to the floor. Then, I move the phone back to my right hand so I can pan the camera over her stained body, though I keep her face out of it, just like I promised.

When I’m finished, I end the recording before switching the screen back to portrait mode. I aim the camera so it captures the two of us clearly while I lean on my elbow and crowd over her.

“Look at me,” I order, focusing on her face.

“N—”

“Now, Reverie.”

Snarling, she turns toward me just as a tear slips down her cheek. I dart forward, catching it on the tip of my tongue, and instinctively snap a photo of us.

“Dread,” she hisses, jerking away before turning and pressing her forehead into my bicep as hard as she can, as if she’s merely an apparition capable of sinking through a solid form. “Delete that now. You said you’d keep my face out.”

“I said I’d keep it out of the video,” I retort casually.

I open the photo, drawing both of our focus. My blood heats as I take in the side view of her face tilted up toward mine, mouth parted, eyes leveled on me. My tongue glides along her cheek, several strands of my hair concealing part of my face. Her arms are still hiked above her head, and her tits are perfectly visible, though the date written beneath them is just out of view.

The picture belongs on a goddamn porn site, and even though the ghosts of her father’s sins bury any rational thought or emotion, I can appreciate how fucking sexy it is.

But the thought curdles in my stomach like spoiled milk, and I return my stare to the black ink written on various parts of her flesh.

She’s shown unwavering support for the man who committed those crimes, for the man who has ruined so many lives beyond the women he sliced into pieces. He not only has their blood on his hands, but that of innocent people unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My upper lip curls in derision, though I can’t decide who I’m more disgusted with—her, or myself for finding her alluring for even a fucking second.

She’s a terrible human being. Fuck, she’s not even human, and she shares the blood of two goddamn monsters. Her mother’s just as guilty.

The entire family deserves a fate worse than death.

I exit out of the photo and turn off the screen, plunging us back into a darkness where my outside world reflects my insides. I toss the phone on my nightstand, grab the blankets at our feet, and lie back down, covering the two of us beneath them.

Tucking her arms against her body, she rolls on her side, her back to me once more. She keeps silent, likely sensing I’m walking a fine line, split between the side of me with a slice of humanity and the side who’d love nothing more than to make her swallow her fucking teeth.

Bitterness coats my tongue, and resentment churns in my chest, replacing the heart her father broke almost fourteen years ago.

It keeps me awake, even as Reverie’s breaths even out after a few minutes. The storm inside my head muddles anything coherent, so when an idea flits across my mind, I don’t stop to consider what I’m doing. I roll to my side and press my chest against her back as I reach for my phone again. Then I take one more picture of us that’s sure to piss her off. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet or if I’ll ever even use it, but I like having it just in case.

For the second time, I set my phone back on the nightstand and settle in. Despite the anger simmering in my blood, it doesn’t take long for me to drift off, floating somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness. At some point, I’m vaguely aware of her body warming against mine and her shivering ceasing completely. As if my consciousness was holding on until that moment, I pass out afterward. I don’t remember a single thing past her languid form melting into mine.

CHAPTER 4

REVERIE

I’m in hell.

Whatever I did in my past life, it must’ve been fucking atrocious to deserve this one.

Because being trapped in Dread’s arms is one hundred percent hell, even if his amber and sandalwood scent is a little intoxicating. He’s like a sauna radiating enough heat to rival the ass end of a space rocket, and while it’s better than the bone-chilling cold from last night, it’s not very welcoming, either.

Mainly because, of all people, it’s Dreadful fucking Sharpe molded into my back, sleeping soundly with his hard dick firmly tucked in the crevice of my ass and his hand clutching my boob like it’s his childhood teddy bear.

Jesus, is this how all his one-night stands wake up? This is some hardcore snuggling, so I can see why it'd make them feel special.

I, however, feel the complete opposite.

I hate it here. Oh my God, I hate it here so much.

His phone lies on the corner of the nightstand, so I carefully flip it up and tap the screen. The time reads a few minutes before six o’clock in the morning. It's still pitch-black outside, just as dark as it was when my eyes fell shut.

I’ve no idea how early he needs to be up today, but I’m not sticking around to find out.

Carefully, I set his phone down, face up, offering me a dim glow, then grab his wrist and gently remove it from my breast. I attempt to slyly maneuver out from his hold, moving my legs toward the edge of the bed before slowly sliding out the rest of my body. I’m halfway to success when he groans, his arm snapping around me like a steel band and dragging me back against his chest. Instantly, his hand returns straight to my boob, squeezing it for extra measure.

Jesus fucking Christ.

With tightened lips, I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, working to gather the patience and serenity to get myself out of this situation without waking the beast.

If I can get out of this bed and dress as quickly and quietly as possible, then maybe I can escape Dread’s presence unscathed.

Truly, that’s all I want for my birthday this year.

Well—that, and for Lionel to never be released from prison, but I digress.

He came so close to breaking me this time. Too close. After last night and the initial turmoil, thinking my father had killed someone, to believing I was being framed for his crime and actually getting arrested, to being left out in a goddamn blizzard then ending up in Dread’s bed—all I want to do is crawl into my own bed and sob for about thirty solid minutes. After that, I want to take the hottest shower known to man and scrub off the dates he stained onto my skin, as if they weren't already carved into my brain.

I’ve never experienced a whiplash of emotional and physical torture within such a short span. There was no time for relief when I realized it was only Dread playing another cruel prank on me, no time to calm myself before being thrust into a deep cold that sunk its way into my bones and wrapped around me with a strength that was quite literally breathtaking. There sure as fuck was no time to prepare for him stripping me naked and bringing me back from the brink of death.

And it hurt. The feeling slowly creeping back into my extremities set my entire body on fire. Every single movement was agony. Every twitch, every brush of skin, set my nerves ablaze.

To be so numb yet drowning in agony is a torment I never want to experience again. And, of course, the cause of that torment is wrapped around me like a fucking python.

God, I hate him.

I hate him so fucking much, it brings tears to my eyes, even now.

I hold on to that loathing as I carefully grab his wrist and, once again, lift it away from my tit to slide out from beneath it.

This time, I’m successful, and I sigh a soft breath of relief—only to choke on it when he shifts behind me. I freeze, every one of my muscles locked tight as adrenaline floods my system.

Heart pounding, I wait for him to say something, but as seconds tick by in silence, I risk glancing over my shoulder.

He’s still sleeping, but he’s lying on his back now, his head turned away from me.

My eyes roll from the utter relief.

Thank. Fucking. God.

The light from his phone shuts off, so I tap it again to relight it and then carefully swing my legs off the edge of the bed. I spare another glance over my shoulder, only for my heart to wither as I take in his sleeping form.

I feel like a photographer out in the wild, recording a rare sight of the most dangerous animal in the world—hidden in the shadows, terrified of the sleeping beast catching sight of me, yet locked in place, too riveted to do the smart thing and run for my life.

Like most swimmers, his body is egregiously long, with hands that could cover the entirety of my face, feet that likely need custom shoes, and muscles that have no business even existing. His shoulders are broad, biceps incredibly large and toned, his sculpted waist tapered.

Dozens of black, fine-line tattoos cover the expanse of his exposed skin. All of them are smaller yet expertly placed, creating a single art piece altogether. Two hands reach for one another, their fingers scarcely touching, stretching across his chest. A compass on his left bicep has the word ‘saudade’ scribed vertically next to it. Several small stone sculptures of Greek gods are scattered across his arms, some of them depicting only half of their faces while the other half are different celestial designs. I can also make out a few geometric shapes and an outline of a meditating figure with Saturn for a head, along with various lines, dots, and swirls that somehow make it all come together cohesively. He has one tattoo beside his hipbone—a simple outline of what appears to be a heart-shaped flower.

Except, his physique isn’t the most dangerous part of him. No, it’s his smile—his real smile. His eyes heavily crinkle at the corners, creating deep divots that curve downward and deep dimples on his upper cheekbones. It transforms a stone-cold face into a sight capable of withering lungs. Those smiles are incredibly rare, and I’ve only glimpsed them a few times from afar.

As much as I can’t stand the sight of him, I also understand why everyone falls at his feet.

Forcing myself out of that dangerous thought process, I face forward and quietly creep to the pile of clothes on his floor, keeping my movements slow and careful as I dress, the material still damp and freezing cold from last night. It’s god-awful. Sliding on each piece feels like wrapping myself in death, but it’s a small price to pay to cover the black ink staining my skin and get the fuck out of here.

Several times, I have to relight his phone so I can see until I’m completely clothed and violently shivering once more.

The second I’m finished, I glance at him, and though it's still too dark to make out a defined feature, his soft breathing lets me know he's still peacefully asleep.

He doesn’t deserve to feel peace.

And because he has every intention of wrecking what little I have, I gun straight for his phone. My heart pounds as I quickly tap the screen, praying to Jesus he has facial recognition to unlock it. I’m instantly disappointed. Instead, his password requires a fucking pattern.

The goddamn psychopath.

I had a chance if it was his thumbprint, face, maybe even a code, but a pattern?

I desperately attempt a few anyway, any shred of hope quickly sizzling away. After one last try, I get the notification that, due to too many failed attempts, his phone is locked for two minutes.

Fuck me so fucking hard.

Frustrated tears gather along the ridge of my bottom lashes, but there’s clearly nothing I can do about that video and picture right now. I’m not giving up on somehow deleting them, but I need to get the hell out of here.

Setting his phone on the nightstand again, I go to open the door, but a small voice in the back of my head screams at me to stop.

After what he did to you last night, you’re just going to leave?

Sunlight is just beginning to creep into the darkness, casting a deep blue glow over the room. I glance around his room, my brain spinning, though it’s like standing outside a locked door, listening to the muffled voices on the other side but unable to make sense of them.

As seniors, we’re given single dorms, which are fairly large, though unlike the rest of our class, he has a full-sized bed. It's unsurprising he'd get that privilege—not that a twin bed could even handle his behemoth body, anyway.

My stare snags on his display cases full of gold medals and trophies. Some of them are so large, he had to rearrange the shelving to make room. If I could, I’d break every fucking one of them, but something tells me Dread doesn’t put a whole lot of value in his medals.

During the Olympics, I caught glimpses of him on TV after beating yet another record or securing a medal. He never smiled, never cheered for himself, had no reaction other than boredom—something journalists and sportscasters had an absolute field day with. Even standing on the podium in his USA outfit and wearing several gold fucking medals around his neck, the best he could offer was mild interest.

A soft snore snaps me out of my completely pointless thoughts, and I go back to searching his room.

I quickly scan over the mini fridge and microwave toward the back left of the room, an organized desk in the corner, and over to a door leading to his half bathroom on the right, a few feet in front of the foot of his bed and perpendicular to a large closet full of neatly arranged clothes.

Unlike most men, he keeps his space tidy, which makes it easy to tiptoe to a large whiteboard calendar nailed to the wall by his desk. I squint as I read over the words, the room just light enough to make them out if I concentrate.

It’s fucking full.

It’s a goddamn wonder this man has any time to make my life a living hell.

I locate today’s date, noting the two classes he has this morning and early afternoon—he likely won’t be waking for another hour, thank God—and then Swim Meet written below for this afternoon. His scrawl is neat, which is further proof he’s a psychopath. Any man who doesn’t adopt chicken scratch as handwriting can’t be trusted.

My gaze drops to his mini fridge, and my lips purse as I cock my head, an idea brewing.

Dread’s all over sports news and featured on ESPN often. I’ve heard he typically has reporters at his swim meets, and though I haven’t cared enough to search him on the internet, it’s easy to guess he has quite an online presence.

Which means he’s under an immense amount of pressure. All eyes are on him, expecting him to qualify for the Olympics again in three years. If he were to, say, fuck up badly at a swim meet, it would likely make headlines.

Biting my bottom lip, I quietly scurry into his bathroom before I can fully think through what I’m doing. Or, rather, talk myself out of it. I pull open the mirror hanging above the sink, revealing the medicine cabinet behind it, where several bottles of melatonin line one row, one of them opened and nearly empty. I raise my brow, but it doesn’t surprise me he has trouble sleeping. I do, too.

However, while I wasn't exactly expecting to find a goddamn drug store, I was hoping to find some type of sleeping aid.

Casting a quick peek over my shoulder first, I take out the opened bottle, along with a brand new one, and quickly get to work. Quietly, I empty the first bottle onto the edge of the sink and add in another generous helping from the second. Then, I use the empty one to crush the pills into a fine powder.

All the while, my heart races a mile a minute, praying to whatever god still pities me not to let him wake up.

Once they’re all crushed, I deftly scoop the powder back into the empty bottle and return the other one to the cabinet, praying he doesn’t notice the difference until it’s too late.

Exhaling a shaky breath, I sneak back into the room, my stare bouncing around until it lands on nail clippers on his desk. I quietly creep over and snatch them up, grinning when I confirm it has a thin, metal nail file attached before aiming straight for his mini fridge.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Dread, it’s that the man always has a bottle of Gatorade on him. I have no doubt he downs at least one or two of them before his swim meets.

Biting my bottom lip, I carefully open the fridge and damn near squeal from excitement when I find it loaded with an array of different flavors.

I check over my shoulder once more, confirming he’s still asleep, then grab the first bottle and twist the cap right before it cracks. Then, I take the Sharpie and bend back the clip until it juts upright. Very carefully, I wiggle it beneath the cap and the seal and maneuver it around the entire rim until the cap pops off the bottle, the seal still intact.

My hands tremble from the adrenaline rush as I dump about half a teaspoon of powder inside and gently swirl it until it’s dissolved. Afterward, I push the cap back down onto the bottle and pray when he opens it, it cracks the seal instead of coming completely off again.

I risk spiking the first two rows, which is only six bottles, but plenty to ensure he grabs a laced one.

I have no idea if any of this will work. The powder could settle at the bottom because it's too cold to dissolve completely and catch his attention before he drinks it. Or maybe he’ll notice the caps were tampered with somehow.

I don't know. All I can fucking do is hope it works and then brace myself for impact when he inevitably realizes I drugged him.

Most people would duck their heads and try not to evoke their bully’s wrath, but he's going to torment me whether I fight back or not. The least I could do is have some goddamn dignity and make the fucker kiss my ass.

When I’m finished, I waste no time shoving the empty melatonin bottle in my coat pocket, replacing the nail clippers exactly where I found it, then bolting toward the door.

Except just as I reach for the doorknob, I catch sight of a small stack of mail on the nightstand right beside it. As I go to look away, the word ‘victim’ written on one of the letters catches my attention. My heart drops as my eyes snap right back to the pile.

The corner of a white envelope peeks out from beneath a couple others, just enough to confirm I saw correctly.

Slowly, I reach over and slide the envelope out from the stack, quickly reading over the letterhead.

Office of Victim and Survivor Rights and Services

California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation

Fuck.

It’s the letter informing Dread about my father’s parole being accepted and his set release date.

He must not have noticed it yet. Otherwise, he would’ve opened it immediately.

A short horror film plays in my mind’s eye of Dread opening the letter, his light blue eyes skimming over the words, confirming his mother’s killer will be set free in three short weeks. Then, in a matter of seconds, pitch-black consumes the entirety of his corneas, five-inch talons sprout from his fingers, and he shreds off his human skin, revealing cherry red flesh beneath. In all his glory stands a demon the size of a baby T-Rex, with horns curving out of his big head, sharp, pointy teeth, and hooves for feet.

It's only a slightly dramatic depiction of what will happen.

God, and I really don’t want to find out what he’ll do next.

My heart lurches, and I don’t stop long enough to think about what I’m doing. I fold the envelope in half and stuff it in my coat pocket before I haul ass out of his room, shutting his door behind me as quietly as possible.

Shame and anxiety battle for the throne in the pit of my stomach as I bolt out of his dorm, ignoring the strange looks from a few of the students in the hallway. For half a second, I consider turning back around and putting the letter back where I found it, but I’m unable to convince my legs to obey.

Dread finding out is inevitable. There’s no escaping it.

But there’s delaying it.

When I plunge out into the frigid January air, it feels like a fucking relief—like I can breathe properly for the first time since I arrived at my room last night.

It isn’t until I’m walking down the hallway in my own dorm that I receive suspicious looks from several students going to and from their rooms. I almost forgot many of them watched two men dressed as police officers haul my ass outside in handcuffs last night and then saw the chopped-up dummy in my room. By now, I’m positive they’ve guessed it’s fake, but it doesn’t stop them from sending me sidelong glances, deliberately stepping away from me as I pass.

No one speaks to me, instead choosing to follow in Dread’s footsteps and treat me like a pariah, though none of them dares to bully me themselves, not since the last girl stuck a foot out and tripped me. I made her eat my fist, and no one bothered me again.

Funnily enough, they probably wouldn’t have minded befriending me if Dread wasn’t here. It wasn’t until I attended this college that people treated me terribly.

Maybe that's why part of me doesn’t entirely mind. It doesn't hurt my feelings that none of them want anything to do with me when it feels deserved, like I’m receiving the treatment I should’ve been getting since the moment Barry arrested my father.

Because Lionel is guilty, and the public should’ve hated him. The public should’ve hated my mother and me for supporting the monster, too.

So, I ignore their stares and stop before my room. Except, when I reach for the handle, I hesitate. I hadn’t exactly forgotten the dummy was inside, but it was something I didn’t let myself think about too hard.

Now, I have no other choice but to focus on it. Instantly, my heart pumps faster and harder, and a cold sweat blooms across my nape before spreading to my toes. I try to swallow, but it’s as achievable as doing so with a fist gripping my throat and squeezing until it’s crushed into a noodle.

The body is fake.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

It’s. Not. Real.

Eyes burn into the sides of my face, students scrutinizing and openly staring at the freak show standing outside her door like there’s a dead body inside. Their unwanted attention isn’t enough to curb my rising panic, but it’s enough to get me to grip the handle with a trembling, sweaty hand and rush into the room before slamming it behind me.

I inhale deeply, forcing oxygen into my lungs—though it rushes right back out again when I face the chopped-up dummy on the floor, fake blood pooled beneath it.

The sight is a punch to the gut, and I immediately drop into a crouch, tucking my chin against my chest and threading my fingers over the back of my head.

In my mind, I’m walking myself through the steps on how to breathe. Yet, my body doesn’t comply with my demands. I can’t get a breath in, and my body sways, growing lightheaded.

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.

Except the chant running on repeat in my head doesn’t keep the panic from rising further, nor does it stop my heart from pounding in my chest hard enough to fucking bruise.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper aloud, my voice cracking. I shake my head, repeating the same words again and again.

I manage to lift my head enough to look around for my phone. At some point, I dropped it—I think when they busted through the door. I never got the chance to grab it again. Otherwise, I would’ve called Sable to rescue me and avoid sleeping naked in Dread’s bed last night.

God, even thinking that sentence is enough to make me feel like I need to be institutionalized.

Through swimming vision, I get on all fours and search around, finally locating it halfway beneath my bed. I unlock it and find several missed calls from Sable.

I always text her to let her know when I’m home, and considering she knew something was going to happen, I'm sure she's been losing her mind. She’s going to lose it even more when she hears what he’s done.

My hands shake as I click on her name and call her.

It doesn’t make it through the second ring before she’s picking up.

“¿Por qué carajo no me has contestado?” she barks through the phone.

I groan and crawl closer to the bed before dropping my forehead onto the mattress.

“Don’t make me think, Sable.”

On a good day, I can understand most of her Spanish, but right now, I can barely understand my own thoughts. They’re racing too fast for me to decipher. All I can do is feel pure fucking anxiety because of the pile of plastic body parts behind me.

It’s like my lungs have grown paranoid and revere oxygen as toxic, battling with my brain on accepting the poison.

“I’m coming to you now,” she says sharply, likely sensing the turmoil in my voice. “Are you in your room?”

“Mhm. Dummy chopped up. Bring stuff,” I mumble, hoping like hell she can figure out what the fuck I mean.

“Are you fucking kid—” She cuts herself off to go on a tirade in Spanish with the occasional English word mixed in.

I don’t bother paying attention, and instead, I put all my focus on coercing my lungs to just fucking expand.

At some point, she clips out that she’s on her way, then the line goes dead.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I force myself to stand on shaky legs and open the CDCR website, my heart thudding heavily. It only takes thirty seconds to get to the site and type in his inmate number.

In custody.

Somewhere deep down, I’m relieved. But despondence encases my brain, like a thick shell squeezing it and rendering it incapable of feeling anything else.

I’m just… so fucking sad.

Defeated, I toss the phone on my bed, then peel off the cold, damp clothing from last night, wrap a robe around my shivering, clammy body, and trudge to the showers.

The second I’m standing beneath the hot water, I tackle the Sharpie staining my skin, scrubbing at the numbers until my flesh is bright red and rubbed raw. Even with only faint remnants of the ink remaining, the dates are just as bold as when he first wrote them.

Inhaling a shuddering breath, I lift my face to the stream and hold my breath. Except, the silence invites in the events of last night. My throat tightens as I try to wrestle away the memories and focus on counting. However, I'm unable to control the sob from bubbling up my throat, bursting my control and causing me to release my breath after only seventy-eight seconds.

I slap a hand over my mouth, desperately trying to breathe through the unbending urge to bawl my eyes out. My sinuses burn, and my body jerks from the sobs forcing their way to the surface until I have no choice but to give in, my face crumpling as low whimpers leak through my clenched teeth and into my palm.

I drop into a crouch, holding my stomach with one arm while my other hand continues to firmly cup my mouth. Then I bow my head and cry.

For how long, I'm unsure, too lost in agony and turmoil to have any bearing on the time.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, awareness of my surroundings creeps in, and I pray no one walks in and hears me. It triggers my instincts to battle down the storm of emotions and bloody memories plaguing me until I can shove them all into a dusty bin in the backside of my brain where they can fester in the darkness with the rest of my trauma. It takes a few minutes until I'm successful, but once the tears recede, I drop my hand as I lift my head back toward the spray, inhaling one last time before I restart my count.

My lips continue to wobble, like the emotions left behind a stain, but I make it to two hundred and two before my lungs burn, and I'm physically unable to hold it any longer without instincts taking over.

I release my breath, my head spinning as I tilt my face away from the water so I can focus on breathing.

I beat my previous record, but it feels abysmal when I realize I have Dread to thank for it.

Defeated, I stand and wash my hair before stepping out and quickly scurrying back to my dorm, a towel wrapped around my damp body. It's a small win no one came into the showers or lingered in the halls to see my red, puffy eyes.

I step into my room, keeping the mess firmly out of my vision as I slip on fleece-lined sweatpants and a matching pullover sweater.

I’ve just sat on the side of my bed and finished pulling on fuzzy socks when Sable comes flying into my room. I jump, my heart practically flying into outer space.

Admittedly, the suddenness of her arrival is slightly triggering after last night, which only amplifies the dangerous cocktail of anxiety and adrenaline swirling in my veins. I bring my knees up to my chest, tuck my head down, and wrap my arms around them, rocking back and forth as I try not to descend into another panic attack.

She didn't even bust through the door aggressively, but I'm so on edge, an actual fly buzzing in probably would've sent me into a spiral just as easily.

Vaguely, I hear Sable’s sharp intake of breath, a few curse words, and then her footsteps rushing toward me.

“Come here, cariño,” she coos, stopping before me and bringing me into her warm embrace, my forehead resting against her stomach as her orange blossom scent envelops me.

“You know what to do. Breathe in, and breathe out,” she coaches softly.

My body struggles to comply, though, prompting her to step back and gently tug at my arms.

“Look at me, Rev. Breathe in.”

I lift my head to see her bent at the waist so she's eye level with me, concern pinching her brows. I rest my chin on the tops of my knees, my chest finally expanding enough to draw in a deep breath.

“Good,” she whispers soothingly. “Now, breathe out.”

I do, and after a few more minutes of her guiding me through the exercise, my heart rate slows, and my lungs finally realize they’re not being poisoned.

Her features sharpen as my vision clears. She cups my face in her warm palms, studying my face carefully with a frown. Gently, her thumbs wipe away a couple of tears that broke free.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, fighting back a fresh round teasing the edges of my eyes. “It’s not even real.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she clips, though her rage is reserved only for Dread. She doesn’t even have to ask who did it.

It’s always him.

“I couldn't fucking sleep last night,” she tells me, her voice trembling. “I tried to come check on you, but I couldn't get out of my goddamn driveway. Mi papá just finished helping me plow my driveway five minutes before you called, so if you hadn't, I would've shown up within the next ten minutes, anyway.”

I shake my head, and whisper, “It's okay.”

I almost tell her I wasn't even home, but I can't get myself to focus on much outside of that fucking dummy.

“I-I thought it was the copycat who did it at first,” I admit, my voice cracking. “He knows what I wrote in that letter to the board, so I thought maybe he is working with the copycat and had him send me a message. It doesn’t even matter it wasn’t Lionel this time, because he's still going to kill me when he gets⁠—”

“Hey, hey. He can’t get to you here, okay?” Sable quickly cuts in. “You’re safe, and Dread’s just a sick fucking asshole.”

I nod, though her words do little to assure me.

Sophomore year, I was dating my first college boyfriend, Matt, and he’d just broken up with me. I got too drunk, made Sable come pick me up, and proceeded to spill the fucking beans about… well, everything. But especially the promise I made Lionel when I was six.

I held on to that secret for so long, and I needed to tell someone. My volatile emotions from the breakup lit the match, and the near-poisonous amount of alcohol sloshing around in my stomach made it go boom. The truth exploded out of me, and there was no stopping it.

Afterward, I fully expected Sable to judge me. Instead, she held me while I cried, transforming her from a best friend to my second emergency contact.

Naturally, I told her about Lionel getting out of prison. There’s no one else to tell but her.

While I absolutely adore both her parents, who treat me like a second daughter, they’re some of the few people who know little about the Locksmith and his crimes, let alone that he’s my father. Sable insists they’d never hold it against me, but I’m not willing to risk them looking at me differently.

When someone learns about the Locksmith, it’s inevitable they learn about me and my mother, too, and they either share the public’s opinion, or they believe he’s guilty. Which means they either stand by my public support of him, or they believe me to be complicit. Both options fucking suck.

Either way, I am complicit.

“Did Dread find out about your father getting released yet?”

It’s impossible to contain the guilt creeping into my features. Noticing, she gives me a stern ‘what the fuck did you do now?’ look.

“No,” I say, my voice small.

I grab the letter from my nightstand, where I set it before I undressed earlier, and hesitantly hand it to her.

Frowning, she sits on the bed beside me, and as she reads over the mailing and return address, several emotions play across her face: confusion, shock, denial, and ultimately, horror.

“Is this… is this a letter informing him of Lionel’s release?” she asks cautiously as she looks up at me, like she doesn't truly want to know the answer.

I tighten my lips into a firm line, giving away my answer, and she gasps.

“Reverie, you didn’t,” she whispers, her eyes rounding.

Cringing, I bare my teeth in a dramatized, guilty smile. Her hand flies to her forehead, and she looks down at the letter as if it holds my death date.

Oddly, it kind of does.

“It was in a pile of mail,” I explain quickly. “I don’t think he even saw it yet, and I don’t know… I just panicked and took it. He’s going to lose his shit when he finds out and… I don’t know! I thought about this shit—” I angrily wave toward the bloody dummy. “—and this was before he knew my father’s getting released. He’s going to do something worse when he finds out, and I guess I just wanted more time before that happens.”

She waves her hands in front of her rapidly, her brow furrowing as she shakes her head in confusion. “Wait, wait, wait. How did you steal this? Were you in his room?”

I groan. “Yes? Look, I'll give you all the details later, but he chained me to the flagpole in the courtyard and left me outside in the blizzard for⁠—”

“WHAT?!”

Quickly, I drop my feet to the floor and desperately grab her arms, planting her ass back down on the mattress just as she goes to fly off it.

“Don't get upset right now, Sable, please. I'm alive, and while that's definitely on a fucking timer right now, it's fine, okay?”

That's definitely a lie—it's not fine. Dread has a video of me naked on his bed, skin covered in missing persons’ dates of several Locksmith victims. Not to mention the photo of him licking my tear from my cheek like a psychopath.

Nothing about that is fine.

With a defeated sigh, Sable's shoulders slump, her face twisting in both sympathy and apprehension.

“Shit, Rev. He’s going to lose it even more if he finds out you stole this letter.”

I bite my lip, my stomach twisting with anxiety at the mere thought of it.

“I know,” I say weakly.

She exhales again and looks toward the dummy with a shake of her head. I look down at my hands instead, twiddling my fingers anxiously.

“He’s going to find out, anyway,” I state quietly, drawing Sable’s attention again. “I could’ve told him last night, but I was too fucking scared because once he knows, he’s going to—” I cut myself off, inhaling deeply, though it does little to calm my racing heart. After a few beats, I force myself to calmly say, “He’s going to make my life even more miserable. I need to transfer schools, but I'd have to go out of the country, and the chances of being accepted are low, so I don't even know if I can, and I’m⁠—”

“Hey,” she says gently, stopping me before I spiral any further. She leans her forehead against mine again, frustration spilling from her pores. “You can still go out of state. Get away from him and start fresh somewhere else⁠—”

“Just for him to follow me, anyway?” I snap, leaning back to settle a glare on her, though it lacks real heat. “This university has the best criminology program in the country. What’s the point of giving that up for another college in the States with a shittier program, just for him to track me down again?”

She knows Dread has already made it very clear that no matter where I run, he'll follow. His schooling, his swim team, the Olympics be damned. He might even follow me across the world, but at least then, it'd be a lot harder to find me.

“Just because he threatens it doesn’t mean he will. Or that he’s as capable as he wants you to think,” she argues, her voice rising. “I just want you to be safe, and I’m not a student here, so I can’t watch your back most days. I can’t protect you from him, Rev!”

It’s not anger in her voice or written across her face. It’s fear.

My frustration diffuses, and this time, I’m cupping her face. “I’m not asking you to,” I say quietly. “I would never want you to, either. In fact, I’d prefer he not know you even exist—actually, I’d prefer neither of them know you exist.”

She slumps, closing her eyes and appearing just as helpless as I feel.

I know she doesn’t fully believe Dread’s capable of finding me if I were to run, but I do. She hasn’t looked him in the eye and seen the depths of his hatred. She hasn’t seen the face of a man who would do anything to make me miserable.

He’s not going to just… let me go.

That much, I’m sure of.

“I don’t lie down and take his shit, and you know it,” I remind her. “If I can’t study abroad, I will have to fight. That’s what I’ve always done, and he’s going to be reminded of that very soon.”

Her eyes slowly creak open then narrow, trepidation reflecting at me a second time.

“What else did you do?”

This time, there isn't an ounce of shame or regret.

I grin and shrug innocently. “He has a swim meet today, and he might get a little sleepy, that’s all.”

Her mouth drops. “Rev, you drugged him?”

I shrug again, the corners of my lips stretching wider.

“You’re going to give me all the fucking details, you hear me?” she orders, pointing a finger at me. “But first, I need to clean this shit up.”

She turns her attention to the mess Rogue and Severen made while I avert my stare to the first thing it lands on, which is the large tote bag by my door, various cleaning bottles, paper towels, and what looks like a roll of thick garbage bags peeking out from the top. I suspect it’s also filled with sponges and rags, too.

It becomes the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen, because if I look to where Sable is currently inspecting, I won’t see a chopped-up dummy, but someone entirely different.

But I’m not really in the mood for Georgia Farrell’s ghost paying me any visits tonight.

CHAPTER 5

DREAD

Five seconds.

That's all I get to enjoy the blissful heaviness weighing my body down after waking from the deepest sleep I’ve ever had. On the sixth second, a pressing emptiness creeps in—except the weight of it is fucking crushing. I sit up so quickly, I crack my hip, my eyes whipping around the room in search of her.

Fuck.

She’s gone.

I’m immediately fucking pissed.

I’m not sure what infuriates me more—that I didn’t wake up when she did, or that I was more affected than her and slept like a goddamn rock.

I’ve no idea how long ago she left, but it doesn’t matter.

She was awake.

In my fucking room.

While I was dead to the world.

And that has my skin crawling.

I reach for my phone, note the time as seven o’clock, then turn on my camera to inspect myself, ensuring she didn’t pull some stupid shit and draw on my face with the Sharpie.

Once I find nothing, I study every inch of my room to see if there’s anything amiss, searching for even the smallest of changes. But I find nothing, and my suspicions deepen.

I can’t recall a single moment when Reverie hasn’t struck back after I fucked with her, or at least found some way to piss me off all over again. She’s a cancerous cell that keeps growing back.

So I don’t trust for a single moment that she just left.

I must’ve accidentally clicked the gallery in the corner of the camera app, because when I glance back at my phone, I’m met with the picture I took last night.

The effect is instantaneous.

Lava replaces every blood cell in my body, warming my insides to catastrophic levels. My dick swells, hardening to the point of pain, and my mouth waters.

Exhaling harshly, I settle back on both elbows, tip my head back, and close my eyes, attempting to erase the image from my mind—except it’s burned into the backs of my fucking retinas. Even in the dark, I can see her beautiful tits, her blonde hair splayed across my pillow, her half-lidded eyes peering up at me from beneath her bangs while I licked that tear from her cheek.

Any rational thought boils and dissipates into smoke. My free hand roughly shoves down my sweatpants before fisting my cock, a low groan releasing from my throat at the acute sensation as I slowly stroke from base to tip.

“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth, dropping my chin to my chest and returning my gaze to the picture.

One look evokes another shot of ecstasy straight down my length, my balls tightening painfully. A bead of pre-cum gathers on the swollen tip, leaking down to my hand before being swept up as lubrication.

My hand twists, and my vision blurs at the edges, yet the image of Reverie stays perfectly clear. I see nothing outside of it, can think of nothing other than her trapped in my hold, helpless and crying, the salty taste of her tear on my tongue and her shuddering body, even her trembling voice as she pleaded with me to stop. Except it wasn’t my touch she shied away from, but the black ink staining her skin.

Would she have let me dip my hand between her pale thighs? Let me feel if she was wet and burning for me despite the chill corroding her insides? Would her pleas have changed from asking me to stop to begging for more? How would they have sounded?

My stomach tightens as I conjure a different plea I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing. The euphoria builds far too quickly, and I force my hand to release myself, my swollen cock harder than it has ever been.

“God fucking dammit, Rev,” I growl beneath my breath, my hips involuntarily flexing, seeking the pleasure I deny myself.

Every muscle in my body is tight and on the verge of combusting. The veins roping throughout my neck and arms are no better off, stretching my skin until it feels like the monster inside my chest is breaking free. It’s winning, and I’m fucking helpless to stop it.

Gritting my teeth, I relent and grab my cock again, roughly twisting my hand up and down, my grip punishing. But the pain is impossible to separate from the pleasure, doing little to keep me from barreling toward the edge of sanity.

I lose all sense of control. My gaze locks on my phone, and I replay that little gasp she made the moment the tip of my tongue touched the soft flesh of her cheek. My brain amplifies it, twists it, turns it into a soft moan, a whimper, a breathless cry. Sounds she’s never made for me, yet they are as real as the pleasure consuming me. Sounds that, at this moment, I’d give anything to fucking hear.

God, the things I’d do to her just to draw them out. I wouldn’t give a fuck if it took pleasure or pain. I’d give her both until she felt what I feel now—a dangerous cocktail of fire and ice swirling together in the perfect storm.

Kellan.

I thrash my head, an attempt to banish the erotic whisper moaning a name she has no fucking right to. Instead, it echoes, and I can’t stop it from intensifying, demanding my pleasure as fiercely as my hand.

Kellan!

My vision blackens, and I choke on a groan. I squeeze my eyes shut from the euphoria rocketing through my body, forcing it to contort and seize. Vaguely, I’m aware of cum exploding from my cock, covering my stomach and chest in hot ribbons. But the pleasure sweeping through me and wreaking carnage on my insides is a force powerful enough to hold me hostage.

I feel, hear, see nothing except the apparition of a woman I was helpless to exorcize.

It takes too long to release me from its clutches. By the time its claws retract, my head is swimming, and I can’t fucking breathe.

Aftershocks rack my loosening muscles, seizing and releasing. Lungs tight, I melt into the bed, my bones, muscles, and organs liquefying until I’m nothing more than gelatin soaking into cotton sheets.

Lazily, my head lolls to the side, finding the phone lying on the bed haphazardly, the screen dim but the picture still visible.

At the height of pleasure, that’s when we become our most depraved, especially when we’re alone. The excitement, the thrill of it—it’s a drug that descends us into madness. But the second the orgasm fades, reality sinks in that we’re watching a fucked-up porn video or got off to disgusting things we’d never find appealing otherwise. What was the sexiest fantasy mere moments ago now brings utter disinterest, if not disgust.

It’s a reaction I expect the second I set eyes on the photo—and it hits full force.

Revulsion swirls in my stomach, except not from the picture itself. Rather, it’s with myself, because I don’t find it revolting. There’s not a single goddamn ounce of me that finds anything about the photo deplorable, and if I stare long enough, I’ll end up with my hand wrapped around my cock all over again.

It feels like a betrayal to my mother, to the women her father senselessly murdered. And that… that’s what has shame sliding down my throat, blackening my insides like I’ve swallowed oil.

My alarm blares, snapping me out of my darkening thoughts.

Growling, I smash my thumb on the dismiss button and get up to clean the evidence off me. My mood plummets, lost somewhere within the nine levels of hell.

I’ll delete the fucking photo and erase this moment from my memory.

Because the last thing I’ll ever do is betray my mother for someone who shares the blood of her goddamn murderer.

I’ve been here for hours, journalist after journalist in my face while other teams swim, and I’m fucking tired. Beyond fucking tired.

With being on both the college team for Hollow Canyon and Team USA for the Olympics, I’m used to the back-to-back practices, training, and meets. Saturdays are for the college team, and they’re typically a lot calmer than competitions with the USA team. Not as many journalists or fans in the bleachers.

Except today, it feels like the reporters have tripled and the crowd is larger, though it’s entirely possible that’s because I’m seeing three of everything.

It also feels like I haven’t slept in years.

The worst part of meets is how long it takes to get to your turn again, but usually, I put on a pair of headphones and zone out. If I do that now, though, I’ll pass the fuck out, and the second Coach notices, I might swallow his fist alongside a few teeth.

In the beginning, I could push past it and get through my first set. I didn’t break any records, but I finished one point eight seconds before anyone else, and that was enough to have my team roaring.

But now, it’s becoming more and more impossible to resist the siren’s call of sleep. It feels like I have goddamn dumbbells for eyelids, and as each second passes, I grow weaker in the battle to keep them open.

“Dread, you good?”

The voice is familiar, but it sounds fucking light years away, barely penetrating the fog clouding my head.

“Mmm?” I mumble, turning my chin toward the sound and cracking open my eyes a millimeter. Even that takes an immense amount of effort.

“Bro, you’re up in twenty minutes.”

Someone grips my shoulder and jostles me, snapping me out of the deep void I'd unknowingly fallen into again. Again, I open my eyes, finding Rogue sitting on the bench beside me, his brow furrowed with confusion and lips downcast.

“The fuck is going on with you?”

Rogue’s on the college team with me, though he doesn’t swim for Team USA. He had no interest in going to the Olympics, mainly because he said it was too much time spent getting wet by something that wasn’t pussy, and he’d rather listen to a woman moan his name than strangers cheer it. Gold medals never meant shit to him.

Not that they ever meant much to me, either. I don’t swim for the attention or notoriety. I swim because it’s the only thing keeping me from murdering someone most days, and being chained down by a strict schedule isn’t so bad when I don’t have to sleep behind bars at night. Training for the Olympics keeps me busy.

I need to stay busy.

Except right now.

Right now, I need to fucking sleep.

“Dread,” Rogue growls impatiently, shoving my arm again and jostling me.

I creak open my eyes. When the hell did I even close them?

Rogue’s features are blurring, and I kind of want to deck him for disturbing me. Except, the thought of even lifting my fist sounds like too much goddamn work.

“Just shleepy,” I slur, my mouth too tired to form the words properly.

The crease in his forehead deepens, concern saturating his features. It’s an irritating sight.

“Dread,” he snaps louder, jerking my shoulder with more force. I snap open my eyes again, having no recollection of even closing them.

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck did you take? You can’t swim like this, dude.”

“S’kay. I just gotta rest my eyes…” Another jerk, and I’m opening my eyes again. They’re starting to burn now. “Jush for a shecond.”

“Dude, you have three fucking news stations here watching you like a hawk, and this is literally live on ESPN. You’re going to drown on fucking live television if you swim,” he berates, his voice sounding closer to a growl.

I glance around, searching for the cameras, but Rogue positioned his large body right in front of me, cutting me off from the world and, I guess, cutting the world off from me.

“If you don’t drown, then people are going to think you’re getting into hard drugs. Shit will come crashing down on your head faster than you can open your fucking eyes right now.”

“I have to shwim,” I argue weakly.

He scoffs, his frustration as potent as the chlorine in the air. “Did you take something? Are you on drugs?”

The accusation is enough to get my unfocused stare pinned to him for all of point-four seconds. “Fuck off, ashhole. You know I don’do that shit.”

His features twist with impatience. “Tell me what you ate and drank today.”

I shrug sloppily. “Jush my power bars and Gat’rade.”

I’m not sure how much time passes before he’s shaking my shoulder again, but it must’ve only been a few moments, long enough for me to let out a soft snore.

He’s holding up the Gatorade bottle I chugged earlier, as if it’s evidence of a murder scene. “Who had access to your Gatorade? You bring some chick into your room lately?”

“Rev,” I mumble.

His silence is loud—so much so, it’s successful in drawing my attention.

“There’s white residue at the bottom of your Gatorade,” he tells me, his tone grave. “How many did you drink today?”

“Three.”

His hand fists the bottle roughly, the plastic crinkling loudly from the force.

“Fuck, dude. Fuck!” he whisper-shouts. “Why the fuck was she in your room?”

I sigh and thump my head back against the wall. Somewhere beneath all the exhaustion weighing down my bones, there’s anger churning beneath. It’s just enough to keep my eyes open for longer than ten seconds at a time.

“She was getting hypo—hypo… therma.” I groan. “Not like we can jush kill her, so ’ad to warm ’er up.”

I peek at Rogue to find him staring at me incredulously.

“You fuck her?”

“Fuck no,” I spit. “Didn’t even touch ’er tits. She snuck out on me before I woke up.”

Rogue releases a heavy, frustrated sigh and runs a palm over his closely shaved hair roughly. “She fucking drugged you. I knew this last prank was too far, man. She always bites back—every fucking time. Remember last time, when she put fucking red dye in our goddamn body wash? Our skin was stained red for fucking days, bro. Or the time before that, when she put sugar water in your gas tank? You had to get a whole new car.”

I nod along, growing annoyed with the reminders of only a few ways Reverie’s retaliated over the past several years.

“Dude. Weren't their seals broken? How did you not notice that?”

I scrunch my brows. I think I remember hearing them crack, but maybe I didn’t—I don't fucking know.

I made the mistake of opening that picture this morning and succumbing to a moment of weakness that still hasn’t released me. It distracted me all goddamn day, throughout both of my classes and up to this very fucking second.

I said I’d delete the picture, but I haven’t.

Every time I opened it, I could only stare at it, my thumb hovering over the trash can button yet never following through with clicking it.

Eventually, I went to open it again for the millionth time to delete it, and it was my goddamn screen saver.

When I did that, I don't even fucking know, but I haven't changed it, either.

My never-ending war with myself kept me thoroughly distracted. I barely remember drinking the first Gatorade, let alone the next two.

I clench my fists, though I release them just as quickly, too weak to hold on. It’s my own fault for bringing her into my room. Not for one second did I think I wouldn’t wake up when she did.

Fuuuuck.

I’ve never slept well—not since I was eight years old. I figured I’d sleep even worse with a snake coiled at my side. I was convinced I’d show up to this meet tired as hell, but at least without her untimely death on my hands.

Mission fucking accomplished, but only because the goddamn bitch drugged me.

Athletes and drugs have never not exploded in the media, and if officials think I’m doped up on national television, I can kiss the Olympics goodbye. They take this shit seriously. It doesn’t matter that they’ll drug test me and find my shit clean, or if I tell them the stress and pressure got to my head and that I stupidly mistook my sleep meds for a simple pain reliever. If I try to compete and make an embarrassment of myself, not only will I not qualify anyway, my reputation will never be the same, and this shit will forever stain my career.

A tendril of blackness swirls throughout my insides and licks every inch of me until I’m saturated in it.

One corner of my mouth lifts, a lazy chuckle shaking my shoulders.

“I’m gonna fucking kill ’er,” I mumble with another humorless laugh.

Rogue slaps my shoulder roughly. “No felonies for you, my guy. But we can sure as hell make her suffer.”

“Get Coash. Let ’im know what’sh happenin’,” I say. The harder I attempt not to slur, the worse I sound, but he understands me well enough to nod and head straight toward Coach.

He’s going to kick my fucking ass and put me through a grueling practice that will surely have me puking in the corner, but I’m losing consciousness every few moments, and I will literally die if I try to swim right now.

“Kellan.” I flinch at the gruff voice snapping my name with the disappointment of a thousand neglectful fathers who have unreasonably high expectations of their offspring.

Immediately, a shot of adrenaline floods my bloodstream, and it’s enough to not only get my eyes open, but keep them open.

At least, I think they’re open.

“I shwear, thish shit isn’t my fault,” I say, forcing my blurred gaze to Coach.

He’s the only person alive who not only can scream in my face and not get decked in the fucking mouth, but who can actually make me hang my head in shame.

He’s always been a tall, burly man—one of the few people who match my height. Forty years ago, he was an Olympic gold medalist. Now, his muscles have softened, and he has a bit of a potbelly, but I know even at his ripe old age, he could kick my ass.

Currently, he’s eye level with me, bent at the waist, hands on his knees. An olive green hat sits atop his head that reads Master Baiter—his good luck charm—and his sharp, gray eyes study me carefully beneath knitted, bushy, white and gray brows. The second he takes in my unfocused stare, he curses beneath his breath.

“You looked fine when you came in earlier. The fuck happened?” he asks, his weathered voice cracking like a whip.

“I meant to take shome Tylenawl. I think I took my mela-stonin inshtead by acshident,” I explain.

He’s always had pale skin with ruddy red cheeks, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen his entire face turn as red as lava until now. Tomato red, maybe, but fuck, he’s starting to turn purple.

“You goddamn fucking idiot, Kellan Sharpe. Do you know how many people are here to see you compete? Fucking ESPN is here— You know what? You’re going to give me a fucking stroke,” he rants, standing straight to swing his arms about during his tirade. Just barely, he manages to keep his voice from traveling across the entire arena, but if we were alone, the goddamn astronauts in space would hear him.

I swear, the asshole loves me, but his delivery has always been blunt and harsh.

It’s what also makes him one of the best swim coaches in the nation, which is exactly why he was selected as head coach for the next Olympics. He doesn’t pull any punches, and he knows exactly how to torture someone until they swim up to his standards.

He parks one hand on his hip and the other over his mouth as he glowers down at me, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepening.

“Tell ’em I have a migraine,” I say. “Real bad one. Goin’ blind and shit.” I wave my hand to emphasize my point, but my hand just flops around like all my bones have turned to Jell-O.

“Jesus Christ, put your goddamn hand down and quit makin’ yourself look like a fucking nincompoop.”

Rogue quickly dips his head, releasing a quiet snort, his shoulders shaking, while I frown. “A what?”

He ignores me. “You and I are going to have a long fucking talk about this tomorrow, you hear me, boy?”

He points a sausage finger at me, which I’ve had in my face more times than pussy at this point.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

“You got anyone to take your ass home?”

“Olive and Junie are here,” I mumble.

Olive, my only other best friend, and her four-year-old daughter, Juniper.

“Rogue, get their attention and take Dread out of here. And for fuck’s sake, keep his state hidden as much as possible,” Coach orders. “I don’t need my captain subjected to a goddamn investigation mid-season. I’m already goin’ to have to deal with reporters up my ass asking about you all goddamn day now,” he complains, spearing the two of us with a glare. His finger is back in my face. “And don’t think I won’t be piss-testing you anyway.”

I’m too tired to do anything other than nod.

Rogue’s already locked eyes with Olive and subtly nods toward the doors while Coach angrily stomps away. Then, Rogue’s face is in mine, his hand tapping my cheek roughly.

“Get up, fucker. Hold your stomach and act like you got the shits or something. Better than looking high off your fucking rocker,” he says, muttering the last part.

I’m not going to do that, but I do get to my feet and manage to keep my eyes open as I walk out of the pool. Vaguely, I hear muttering from behind me, people likely wondering why I’m leaving.

It doesn’t take long for Olive to come rushing through the doors, her daughter’s hand gripped in hers, her brow pinched with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks, stopping before me and firmly grabbing my jowls, squishing my cheeks together as she jerks my head left then right.

“Drugged on a fuck ton of sleeping pills,” Rogue supplies quickly, ensuring only she hears. “You got him? Or you need my help walking him to the car?”

“I got him,” Olive grumbles, releasing my face with an annoyed sigh. She’s glaring at me, and it’s so much fucking worse when there are three sets of eyes doing it.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with Uncle Kelly?” Junie asks quietly, staring up at me with concern.

“He’s just sleepy, sweetheart. Like how you get when you haven’t napped all day.”

“Ohhh,” she says quietly. She pauses for a beat, then says, “Yeah, this is serious then.”

“Tell me about it,” Olive mutters beneath her breath.

I grin sloppily. Junie’s known for having quite a few epic meltdowns when she gets tired.

Olive lifts my heavy arm and drops it over her shoulders, only to grunt and mutter a curse beneath her breath at the weight. She walks my sluggish body toward the exit while Junie’s little hand wraps around my fingers on the other side of me. I think she thinks she’s helping carry me, and it’s too cute to tell her otherwise.

I clock a few whispers on the short walk. There are families and people from the other teams milling about, and I’m positive several of them are theorizing what’s wrong with me. It’s definitely going to spread across campus and social media, which really pisses me the hell off.

“You gotta stop messin’ with that girl, Kellan,” Olive admonishes, keeping her voice low.

“Why?” I ask, putting all my attention toward keeping my feet from stumbling. “Your mother ish dead becaush of her father, too.”

“I know that, Kellan,” she snaps, shooting me a cross look.

I wince, instantly feeling like a dick. “Sorry,” I mumble.

Olive was nine years old when the Locksmith killed her mother, Olivia Benderman.

She, of course, heard about me when he murdered mine less than two years later and I accused Lionel of being the Locksmith. She admitted to being skeptical of him at first, especially when the copycat murders began after Lionel went to prison.

However, when I was twelve and started getting media attention for swimming, she grew more curious about me. Our mothers were definitively murdered by the same man, and she, like all the other Locksmith families, wanted justice, too. So, she needed to see for herself if I was lying about Lionel being the man who took her mother from her, or if I put away the wrong man like the rest of the world believed.

So one day, she showed up at one of my swim meets, watched me compete, then cornered me as I was coming out of the locker room after the competition.

It scared the shit out of me, and all I could do was stare wide-eyed at the fifteen-year-old girl with strawberry blonde hair and a pale face full of freckles looking through me with her cornflower blue eyes as if she had X-ray vision.

“Tell me the truth. Is Lionel D’Amour really the Locksmith? The one who killed my mother.”

She almost appeared angry, like she was daring me to lie to her.

“Yes.”

My voice was quiet and scared, but it was the truth. Because the truth was all I had to give.

She stared at me silently for a few long, tense moments. Then, she seemed to deflate, and her expression became sad.

“I believe you.”

According to her, she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about my response. She just knew I wasn’t lying. She knew it as confidently as she knew the color of her hair.

After that day, she loudly proclaimed to the world that she, too, believed Lionel D’Amour to be the Locksmith. As it stands, there's too little evidence to charge him with Olivia Benderman’s murder, but Olive has never had an issue accusing him of it, anyway.

We stayed in touch throughout the years, and when I decided to follow Reverie to Colorado, Olive had just found out she was pregnant by a man who raped her at a party.

She was a single, broke, twenty-one-year-old working a shit job at a call center, absolutely terrified of having a baby but insistent on keeping it. There was nothing left in California for her but trauma, so I convinced her to follow me to Colorado for a fresh start. Brand deals were rolling in, so I had the means to set her up in a modest house in Hollow Canyon.

When Olive gave birth to Junie only a month after moving here, she chose Kelly as her middle name to honor me and asked me to be the godfather.

I fucking cried.

Olive exhales heavily, calming herself and bringing me back to the conversation.

Then, she says evenly, “You two have been going at this for four years now, and she always kicks your ass right back. Is this the kind of example you want to set for Junie?”

I groan long and loud, not having the mental capacity to deal with another one of her lectures.

She snorts. “You’re such a child.”

“Whatever. She desherves it.”

Olive releases another soft sigh, this one laden with sadness.

“I don’t know if she does, Kellan,” she says softly.

But I don’t hear her, not really. In this moment, the only things I can think about are murdering Reverie and sleep.

But sleep first.

Then I’ll get my revenge.

CHAPTER 6

REVERIE

One hundred eighty-three…

One hundred eighty-four…

One hundred eighty-five…

The burning in my lungs mixed with the panic shooting straight through my chest has me stepping out of the stream of water just as my lungs are about to burst. I instinctively go through the motions my old therapist taught me.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It’s only oxygen going into your lungs, not water.

Except it’s not my therapist's voice ringing through my mind, but my father's.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing it out of my head. It used to bring me comfort. At one time, he was the only parent who made me feel safe. Protected.

My mom was twenty-eight weeks pregnant when I spilled my apple juice on the floor, causing her to slip and fall.

She landed on her stomach.

Placental abruption is what the doctor called it, but all Regina heard was that she lost my baby brother. Completely preventable, had I not spilled that juice.

It sent her into a spiral of grief, rage, and severe postpartum psychosis.

Mostly because it was my fault.

Lionel had once told me that, for several weeks leading up to the night she drowned me, she vacillated between wanting to reunite with her baby boy and wanting to get rid of the child who took him away from her.

I don’t remember those weeks, though. I don’t even remember spilling the apple juice.

Fighting for my life is my very first memory.

I remember the iron grip on the back of my head as she held me underwater. The fire in my chest and lungs as I inhaled water. The absolute terror that consumed me so greatly, it would’ve killed me if the water hadn’t first.

Then came the warm blanket of peace as my vision faded, and all my pain went away, replaced by a cocoon of warmth. I’d never felt such serenity, and it was odd how, in that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe, only to be abruptly pulled from the water and for everything to come barreling back in.

The terror.

The pain.

And the utter confusion as to why my mommy held me underwater like that.

What came after was a whirlwind of her screaming to let her finish killing the demon who murdered her child and my father wrestling her away from me sprawled on the floor, coughing and vomiting up water.

Then, his deep voice. Soothing me. Telling me everything’s going to be okay. That I’m safe now.

But he lied to me—I just didn’t know it.

Even back then, I wasn't angry with my mom for what happened. Maybe it’s because I didn't understand how to be, or even why. I forgave her because I didn’t know what else to do as a child, but eighteen years later, I still do.

No—I never blamed my mother for trying to kill me. It was the fact she never made me feel safe in all the years following that I still struggle to forgive her for.

Nevertheless, Lionel saved my life that night and then continued to save me while I worked through the trauma.

For two years, I clung to his soothing voice with a grip far stronger than my mother’s. He was my safe place when my mom went to a psychiatric hospital for treatment, during CPS's involvement afterward and the threat of being put into the foster system, and even still when my mom came home, profusely apologizing and hugging me until I felt a familiar burn in my lungs.

The only one I could run to for safety was Lionel D’Amour.

Only for him to shatter that, too.

I turn off the water and stand there for a moment, residual anxiety clinging to my bones.

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I could finally take a shower—maybe twelve. Even though it was a bath she drowned me in, they were the only way I could stand to be in water. I couldn’t handle the feeling of it running over my face. It felt like being submerged, and I’d panic and think I was drowning again.

To this day, I struggle with them, but they’ve gotten a lot easier. When I was sixteen, I started training myself. It became therapeutic to stand beneath the shower stream as the water beat over my face, holding my breath until I couldn't anymore. Pushing myself to hold it longer and longer.

I’ve gotten to over three minutes now, and each time, I hold it a second or two longer, granting me a little more of my power back, as if I’m one second closer to never being able to drown again.

Logically, I know that’s impossible, but in my fucked-up head, it feels that way.

It feels like taking away the power Lionel had for saving my life and giving it to myself instead.

I can save myself.

Feminine voices break through my trance, bringing me back to the shower room.

Wringing out my hair, I grab a towel, twist it around the sopping strands, and knot it on top of my head, then quickly dry off with another.

“Did you hear Dread’s going to be at Craig’s party tonight?” one of them asks.

It sounds like Victoria—she has a distinct, nasally voice.

“Who hasn’t?” her friend answers.

Lynn, maybe?

I don’t pay the girls in my dorm much attention, only enough to learn their names and faces should they ever become accomplices for Dread.

“He almost never goes to them, so I’m going to finally give him my number,” Victoria says, practically squealing the last few words. “I heard he hasn’t been with any girls in a long time.”

Excitement saturates her tone, as if him attending a party means he’s going to break his alleged dry spell.

Shit, maybe it does. I wouldn't fucking know, and I really don't care.

I move back the curtain and step out with my shower caddy, holding my towel firmly against my chest. Both of them turn toward me, surprise and then aversion flashing across their faces.

Typical bitches. They don’t like me simply because Dread doesn’t like me.

No thoughts for themselves.

They stay silent, though their stares burn. Sometimes, I think they only watch me because they’re hoping to give Dread some type of ammo.

One day, she farted so loud, I thought we were getting bombed. I literally thought we were going to die.

She doesn’t even shave her legs. It literally looks like she’s wearing thigh-high socks.

She came out of the shower with a huge bush. Literally an actual jungle with animals and everything. Pretty sure I saw a bug, too.

None of those things have happened, but I imagine that’s the type of shit they’d say, and I’d never live it down if they did.

Except maybe for the last one, considering Dread knows exactly what I look like naked now and can confirm that I do not, in fact, have a bush with animals and insects living in it.

God, the reminder that he saw me naked makes me sick, and it takes monumental effort to push that out of my brain.

“Don’t wear green and then ride him. The last girl who did, he nicknamed Grasshopper,” I say as I pass by them, ignoring their probing stares.

They don’t respond, but I hear Lynn whisper beneath her breath, “That’s why we call her Grasshopper?”

Shaking my head, I scoff as I push through the exit door and head back to my room, my flip-flops squeaking from the excess water.

I shouldn’t be surprised they blindly followed along with the nickname. I only heard the story because of Rogue’s loud-ass mouth talking about it in the cafeteria one day, though I’m pretty sure the girl wears it like a badge of honor, anyway. Even if it’s degrading, it still means she got to fuck Dread, and that’s enough for most of the women here.

By the time I make it back to my dorm, I’m contemplating if I should heat a mac ’n’ cheese bowl or just go straight to bed. It’s after nine p.m., and between work and glancing over my shoulder every two seconds, waiting for Dread to pounce since I drugged him two days ago, I’m exhausted and want my bed. But the moment I get my door unlocked and pushed open, any semblance of hunger dissipates, replaced by a stomach-churning nausea.

The shower caddy slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, my jaw following suit. My soap bottles roll out, and a lid pops open on one of them, baby pink body wash squirting across my floor.

However, hardly anything registers beyond my tunnel vision. The only thing I see is the noose strung up on the ceiling fan. It wasn’t there when I left to shower only twenty minutes ago.

Disbelief renders me incapable of doing anything but shuffling the rest of the way into the room and slamming the door behind me.

Obviously, this was Dread’s doing.

And unsurprisingly, it’s fucking cruel.

For several seconds, all I can do is stand there and stare at it, stunned and lost in the memories it invokes.

Until I blink, and fury comes rushing in, alongside a little devastation.

I stomp toward the rope and angrily rip it off the fan blade.

Fucking asshole.

The tremors racking my body are turbulent, and the panic attack creeping into my system feels just as imminent as if I were on a plane nosediving straight toward the ocean.

My sinuses burn. Then, a few tears slip over my bottom lashes, but I quickly wipe them away. Even though he can’t see me, crying still feels like letting him win.

He knows exactly how to hurt me, especially when so many of my tragedies were broadcast all over the news.

Breaking News: Regina D’Amour Found Dead at 39 After Apparent Suicide.

There was nothing ‘apparent’ about it, though. She tied a rope around her neck and hung herself from a rafter in the garage on my eighteenth birthday.

I left for school that morning, a foreboding feeling in the pit of my stomach. For the first time since Lionel went to prison, she was chipper.

His sentencing sent her into a deep depression, and for the following years, she was nothing more than a shell. The episodes would come in waves, but even when she was on the upswing, she didn’t care for me very well. I learned to cook, clean, and function by myself, as most days, she opted for rocking in her husband’s recliner and staring out the window instead.

Luckily, Lionel was very good at selling cars and paid off the house a few years prior to his arrest. He also had a pretty substantial savings that kept us afloat until I turned fifteen and got a job. I used my meager income to pay the bills so we didn't eat through the rest of the savings. I'd hoped one day, she'd snap out of it and would have less reason to resent me when she realized she wasn't left with no money.

But that never happened, and she never stopped resenting me. In fact, she hated that I was still alive. She wasn’t a monster for having postpartum psychosis and hurting me, but she became one when Lionel was taken away from her.

And those moments… those are harder to forgive.

However, that morning, she met my stare, a strange glimmer in her dull blue eyes. Then, she wished me a happy birthday and told me she loved me.

It was the first time she said that to me in over a decade. Except it didn’t make me happy. It was deeply unsettling.

I felt off that entire day, despite my friends trying their best to keep me distracted. They planned a party for me that night, and I was supposed to go straight to one of their houses to get ready for it.

But I insisted on going home first, claiming I forgot my birthday outfit.

Returning to an eerily quiet house wasn’t out of the ordinary, but that day, the emptiness was screaming at me. There was a noticeable shift in the energy, and I knew instantly my mom was gone. The door leading to the garage was within sight of the front entrance, slightly cracked open, and, like a ship called to a beacon, I walked to it in a trance.

She was long dead when I saw her hanging there, the rope creaking as she swayed ever so slightly. And while I could do nothing more than stare, part of me was relieved.

Even before Lionel went to prison, I don’t know that I’d ever seen such peace on her face. It reminded me of what I felt when she drowned me.

I was happy for her, even a little jealous.

I was definitely relieved.

But it undoubtedly broke me, too.

She was all I had left.

That was four years ago to the very day—January seventeenth.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

Sniffling, I bundle up the rope and toss it into a small trash can before slumping on the edge of my bed and bowing my head into my hands. Dread didn’t hang up the rope to threaten me. He hung it to mock me for my mother’s suicide.

She isn’t exempt from his hatred, even in death. Not only did she not believe Dread, but she happily told the world—in many interviews—about what a liar he was. And when strangers lavished us with gifts and sympathy cards after Lionel’s imprisonment, she lapped it up.

I think it was the only thing that gave her life meaning when she wasn't chained to that recliner.

In some ways, she was nearly as bad as Lionel. She may not have killed Dread's mom with her own hands, but she certainly went out of her way to kill his spirit afterward. She damn near did everything in her power to, in fact.

Yet, knowing all of that doesn’t make this shit hurt any less.

I resented her. I judged her. I pitied her. I hated her a little, too.

But I also loved her, even if she still fucking terrified me most days.

My heart aches as tears stream down my cheeks, but I force my lungs to continue inhaling and exhaling, warring against a panic attack until, eventually, I feel it ebb.

My phone buzzes on the bed beside me, where I carelessly threw it before going to shower. I startle from the unexpected sound, hand over my racing heart as I stare at the lit screen.

It’s probably Sable texting me about making birthday plans again. She’s been harassing me all day, trying to see me, but I couldn’t bring myself to go out. Despite my mother’s eloquent timing, the last birthday I celebrated was before Lionel went to prison.

Today hasn’t been a day of celebration for a long time, and truthfully, I think I prefer it that way now.

Sighing, I pick up the phone and glance at the screen, only to do a double take when I glimpse the number.

I don’t recognize it, and the lock screen indicates the message is an image. My stomach flips with unease.

Warily, I open the message to find a still shot of my naked body with black Sharpie all over it—ink I’ve only just fully scrubbed out of my skin.

My heart sinks, and I feel my face bleach of color.

There’s an address written below the photo, and nothing else.

But I know exactly who it’s from and what he wants.

Dread doesn’t need to put his threat into words. His message is perfectly clear: come, or he releases the video—and I only need one guess that he’s given me the address to Craig’s party.

I close my eyes, attempting to bargain with my insides and keep the vomit down.

He’s going to murder me this time, I’m sure of it.

News has spread across campus about Dread’s odd behavior at his swim meet a couple of days ago, about him having to leave early due to ‘feeling under the weather.’ At least, that’s what all the official reports claim.

But I know better, and I know he knows what I did.

Exhaling a heavy breath, I hang my head, defeated. I knew he was going to get his revenge, and while I’ve grown used to it, it doesn’t make it any less shitty.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should just lie down and take it when he abuses me, stop retaliating. He’d probably leave me alone more often, but it’d be a lot harder to live with myself if I didn’t at least make his life harder, too.

Whatever.

Let’s just get this shit over with, you spiteful bitch.

Maybe I’ll let Victoria know I’ll see her there. If she takes my advice to avoid wearing green, maybe she’ll listen if I tell her to stay away from the tip of Dread’s Sharpie, too.

I don’t belong here, but everyone already knows that.

Especially me.

Craig Matthews was born and raised in Hollow Canyon and is the mayor’s son—which means he doesn’t just stay in a normal condo or apartment off campus, but a huge fucking house.

I’ve always wondered why Dread opted out of staying off campus, too, but it’s never something I cared enough to ask. Not that I’ve had a whole lot of opportunity to between his sadistic pranks and cruel insults.

I know he’s got a full ride and that the college is paying for his housing, but with all of his brand deals, there’s no doubt he can afford to live somewhere just like Craig’s.

The house is modern and currently packed full of students. Not exactly as lavish as I expected for a mayor’s son, but it’s definitely outside of the average American tax bracket.

The entrance leads directly into the living area, with cream walls complemented by a mix of black and oak furniture. The area is massive and provides plenty of seating, allowing for students to crowd inside.

A heavy bass rattles the light wood floor as I hesitantly make my way through the living room, glancing over the sea of different faces and hoping none of them are Dread. He’s nowhere to be seen, so I head into the equally large kitchen, where liquor bottles, beer cans, and red Solo cups litter every available surface.

On the left is an open concept, a lone counter stretching out and curving into a half circle, allowing me to see beyond it. It's a huge open area with a staircase in the middle, splitting one massive room into two separate areas.

The breakfast table is on the other side of the counter and is currently being used for beer pong, where most of the noise originates from—a mix of loud cheering, groaning, people placing bets, and side conversations about random shit.

And, of course, standing on one end, against the back wall, is Dread.

He leans down toward a short brunette standing next to him and points toward a cup, his mouth moving as he seems to direct her. She’s facing him, her back to me, so I can only glimpse her side profile when she looks toward the cups, but I think it’s Stacy Clark. I assume she’s his partner, because she shoots her ball toward the cup he pointed to and promptly misses.

Her shoulders sag in disappointment but quickly perk up when he grins down at her, those crinkles forming beneath his eyes as he says something that looks like “Good try.” Then, he holds up his ball to her lips.

I don’t need to see her face to know she stares up at him with a giddy smile before she leans forward to kiss it. Dread mouths something to her that causes her to giggle, and then he throws the ball.

It’s no surprise he makes it.

People roar their excitement while Dread declares he’s on fire. One guy on the opposing team shouts out a curse and tosses the ball right back to him while his partner shakes his head and removes the cup. There’s only one cup remaining on their side now, while Dread’s only missing four.

I don’t know either of the guys standing on the opposite end, but they’re the standard jock type. Muscular builds, though shorter and stockier than Dread. Both are blond, clean-shaven, and carry themselves like they shit platinum rods—and both are drunk as hell.

While the two of them take several swallows out of their beer bottles, Dread winks at Stacy and likely says something flirty. Her shoulders shake with another giggle while she twists a strand of hair around her forefinger.

I, on the other hand, just want to puke and then leave. In that order.

Only the devil knows why the hell he wants me here and what he has planned, but it doesn’t take an expert to know I’m going to hate him even more by the time the night’s over.

I chew on my bottom lip, tempted to test my luck and see if I can drug him again. One of his friends can take him home, and I can go back to my dorm and fucking sleep.

Ideally, that’d be my best-case scenario, but it’s also incredibly unlikely, especially because his eyes have just slid above Stacy’s head to clash with mine. They instantly turn ice cold and blast me with a chill that has frost gathering on my bones.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and it feels as if a centipede is crawling down my spine, leaving a repulsive feeling in its wake.

He jerks his chin, motioning for me to come to him.

My stomach twists, and Stacy peers over her shoulder to see who he’s nodding to. Her upper lip curls with distaste when she catches sight of me, and while I’d love nothing more than to spend my night asking her why she doesn’t like me, I, unfortunately, have to run instead.

Because Dread looks a little more murderous than usual.

I’m not the praying type, but in this moment, I beg the universe for just about any miracle to happen right now.

A black hole to swallow the entire planet. An asteroid to hit and destroy all of humanity. A solar flare to break through the ozone layer and cook us alive. Maybe a stray planet somehow flinging into our solar system and colliding into us.

I’d even accept an alien invasion, as long as they harvest us for our organs and revitalize this planet to what it once was before humans cursed it with our existence.

Anything, really.

Seconds tick by, no miracles occur, and my fate is promptly sealed.

My heart pounds, and my hands and feet tingle from the building anxiety in my nervous system. Every one of my instincts is telling me to turn back and run, but if he does something especially cruel, at least there will be a couple dozen witnesses. I might even get lucky, and one of them will be brave enough to take my side.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I shoulder my way through the crowd. Once people catch sight of me, they give me a wide berth, as if skin-to-skin contact with me will cause a flesh-eating disease.

Another miracle that won’t ever come to fruition, unfortunately.

As I round the counter, I glimpse Dread’s smug grin, as if he’s already humiliated me. I frown, not understanding his expression until I get a full view of Stacy. I instantly freeze, my attention zeroing in on her neck then down to her homemade white shirt.

A thin crimson line slashes across the front of her throat, as if it’s been slit open, with rivulets of fake blood trailing past her collarbone and into her T-shirt. She trimmed it into a crop top, a few inches of her midriff on display, and sheared the collar into a V-neck that dips incredibly low past her cleavage. But that’s not what has my blood boiling. Written directly over her chest, in black Sharpie, is a familiar date.

06/18/09.

Georgia Farrell.

My father’s third victim and the one who haunts my dreams, though Dread couldn't possibly know that.

He'd have killed me already if he did, because that would mean he knows why.

Seeing the date, along with Stacy’s bloodied throat, is a punch to the fucking chest. It physically aches, like a fist pressing into my rib cage, slowly splintering the bone until it cracks apart. My sinuses burn, tears threatening to rise while I tirelessly shove them back down. I won’t cry. Not here, not now.

But fuck, I really, truly, actually, undoubtedly, to the depths of my soul, fucking hate him.

Stacy’s smile lifts into a wicked grin, seeming very pleased with herself. It makes her look demonic, which is very on brand, considering she’s cosplaying as a fucking murder victim.

I work to keep my face smooth as I meet Dread’s eyes again. They look like frosted ice glimmering beneath moonlight—darkened, cold, and sparkling with mirth.

“Let’s go, man!” one of his opponents calls, splaying his arms out. I jump, almost having forgotten we’re in the middle of a party. “Your balls shriveling up under pressure? I got a vacuum if you need help sucking them back out again.”

Dread slowly slides his stare from mine to meet his opponent’s. Without a word, he holds the ball to Stacy’s lips again. She kisses it. He shoots…

Obviously, he makes it.

Bystanders explode in celebration, and a few even run up and practically body-slam him while obnoxiously cheering.

I roll my eyes. They all act like he just slayed a dragon and saved the world. Too bad the dickhead is the dragon.

Even Stacy squeals, jumping up and down on her feet, completely forgetting about me.

At least I thought so, until she levels a smug glance my way then turns back to Dread, leaping in his arms. He barely catches her, his arm banding underneath her butt, but she’s already wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss right on his lips.

Black strands fall over eyes that instantly find mine, my heart fluttering in response. Then, he parts his lips and dives his tongue into her mouth. She moves her hands to tangle in his hair, clutching it tightly as she deepens the kiss. All the while, he watches me watch him, something dark and insidious swirling in his gaze.

I force myself to swallow down the disgust burning a path up my throat, but I don't bother to stop my upper lip from curling. If either of them expect me to be jealous, I’d be happy to vomit in both of their mouths to prove otherwise.

Truthfully, I pity her.

I, personally, would hate to stick my tongue in something so rotten.

Regardless, the game's over, which means once he’s done making out with Stacy, he’ll likely turn the spotlight back on me somehow, and I’d prefer to avoid that at all costs.

I break free from his stare and turn to make my way back through the kitchen before he can untangle his tongue from hers. I’m sure it’ll take at least a few minutes to undo that knot.

“Since when did you start fuckin’ brunettes?” someone calls loudly from behind me. Someone who sounds exactly like Rogue, but I pay him no mind.

I reenter the living room, only to stop short for a second time.

On the couch are two girls in the same ensemble as Stacy. Bloody necks, but with different dates written across their white T-shirts.

09/04/09. Eleanor Lamb.

02/27/10. Johanna Rivers.

They weren’t sitting there when I passed through the first time, which means there are likely more girls around wearing the same shit.

The bitter taste of ash coats my tongue, and I swallow down my revulsion. The two women aren't even aware of me, too concerned with drinking from their Solo cups and chattering to the people surrounding them, oblivious to the absolute punch to the gut they’ve just delivered without even noticing.

They wouldn’t care, anyway.

I don’t know if they understand why they’re dressed the way they are, what those dates mean, or if they’re just following orders simply because Dread demanded it. Either way, it’s fucking sick.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket, instantly sending a shot of adrenaline through my bloodstream. My heart thuds heavily as I slip it out, unlock the screen, and view the new message from Dread.

The Antichrist: Don’t run too far, darling. I’d hate to give you a reason to come crawling back.

My upper lip curls again, hatred compounding in my veins. Refusing to spare the two girls another glance, I tuck my phone into my back pocket again and charge toward an entryway on the other side of the living room. It opens to another staircase against the wall and a long hallway to my right. Past the staircase, several doors sit on either side of it, but one on the left has a long line outside of it—I assume a bathroom. Men and women lean against the wall, waiting for their turn, though most of them are speaking animatedly, resulting in several people hanging outside the line and in my fucking way.

I shoulder my way through until it dead ends into another hallway. Down the left side are a few more doors, one cracked open at the very end, offering a partial view of a bed. Based on the way it’s methodically thumping against the wall, I would hazard a guess two people are fucking on it.

To my right is another entryway leading to a large dining room. I’m now on the opposite side of the kitchen, the staircase in the middle separating the two areas. Which means if Dread is still playing beer pong, he’s right on the other side of the steps.

Before me, more students use the dining table for a different game. They’re all circled around it, their respective drinks in their hands, watching one person spin a quarter on the wooden surface before hurriedly chugging a drink. I’m not sure what exactly they’re playing, but an array of cans and Solo cups litter the table in sporadic places, and I think I hear someone say something about a landmine.

Amongst them is yet another girl wearing the fake blood and white T-shirt.

04/02/09.

Rebecca Jenkins.

My throat threatens to close, so I shift my focus past her toward where they’re playing beer pong. I can't see anything past the staircase, so I strain my ears. I don’t hear people cheering for Dread anymore, but it’s hard to tell for sure.

Regardless, he’s obviously somewhere close, and I’d like to delay my confrontation. If he wanted me here just to see what he put his minions up to, fine, I can handle that. But if he has more planned…

Maybe if I wait him out long enough, he'll get too drunk to carry it out.

Muffled noises bring my attention to the room’s corner, where a sliding glass door leads to the backyard.

There’s a huge hot tub situated off to the right, several people packed inside, their behavior just as raucous and obnoxious as the rest of the partygoers.

I quietly head toward the door, sparing a glance at the table. I’m relieved none of them seem to pay me any attention.

When I get closer to the glass, I glimpse a pool house to the left. Only a couple lights are on, and I don't see any people through the windows. It seems like a safe enough place to hide for now. I’ll wait out there for an hour or two, hopefully while Dread gets shit-faced, and then slip out if I hear nothing.

I came, I saw, I hid, I left.

Sparing one last glance over my shoulder to ensure he’s not lurking behind me, I slip out the sliding door with little notice from the people in the dining room. As I gun for the pool house, though, several eyes flick my way from the hot tub.

None of them are Dread, and none of the girls sport bloody necks. That’s all that matters to me.

No one stops me as I slink through the shadows. The freezing night air slithers beneath my jacket and nips at my skin, but the adrenaline pounding through my system eases the discomfort.

When I reach the door on the back end of the smaller house, I don’t hesitate to slink inside, instantly greeted by warm air. I quietly shut the door behind me and exhale a relieved breath as I glance around.

The living area is huge, the color scheme identical to the main house. To my left, a bartop table sits below a large server window that offers a direct view into the kitchen. Next to it is a dark, uninviting hallway, shadows creeping out from the depths.

Open windows line the other three walls—behind me, to my right, and straight ahead—at least ten of them total, with the blinds pulled up to reveal the pool right outside. If I turn around, I can clearly see the other students partying in the hot tub from the window beside the door.

I take a single step when a distinct, low noise freezes my muscles for the hundredth time. It’s coming from hidden speakers throughout the room, but the source is a TV mounted on the wall straight ahead. When I slowly slide my gaze to the screen, the hair on the back of my neck stands, and my blood runs cold.

“I must ask, what do you truly think about these accusations against your husband, Mrs. D’Amour? I mean, it can’t be easy hearing he’s being accused of such heinous crimes.”

I recognize the man’s voice instantly. Connor Boredman.

At the time, he was a young talk show host, eager to carve out his place in the world through Lionel. And he was smart to do so. His ratings skyrocketed, and he became one of the most famous hosts after successfully conducting the first and only interview of the entire D’Amour family following Lionel’s arrest.

After all, the world regarded the Locksmith as a modern-day Ted Bundy. So, when an eight-year-old boy claimed Lionel D’Amour was a prolific serial killer, his trial and the case of Katherine Sharpe became an international sensation. We couldn’t take a single step without a reporter shoving a microphone in our faces. Regina embraced the attention and dragged me to so many interviews, my reflection in a camera lens became as familiar as in a mirror. Therefore, when the jail granted Connor special permission to interview Lionel alongside us, it took the world by storm.

It also sealed the public’s opinion of my father, and subsequently of the little boy who they believed falsely accused Lionel of murdering his mother.

Now, that little boy is all grown up, very fucking angry, and forcing me to watch the interview that destroyed what was left of him after losing his mom.

“Well, I’d say they’re utterly baseless lies!” Regina answers before huffing an affronted breath. “I don’t want to speak ill of a grieving little boy, but my goodness, how his atrocious claims have completely destroyed our lives!”

“Oh, darling, don’t get too worked up now,” Lionel interjects, drawing out his words in a bashful—but pleased—manner.

Darling.

The endearment Lionel called my mom throughout that entire interview, and boy, did the media fucking eat it up. Article after article worshipped my father for the way he loved his darling wife.

It makes me sick hearing it now, which is exactly why I’ve heard it nearly every goddamn day for the past four years.

“Oh, Lionel, it’s just so upsetting.” Regina places a hand over her heart, the other atop Lionel’s, her face twisting with heartbreak. “Our family has been ripped apart by all this nonsense. And—and—” She covers her mouth just as a sob breaks free, prompting Lionel to soothingly shush her as he crooks his finger beneath her chin. “We just want you home.”

He catches her tear with his thumb, and murmurs, “Don't cry, my darling.”

It was that interaction that ripped hearts out, only for the public to turn to Dread and demand to know why he'd put a hole in their chests.

My mother whispers she's okay and dabs a napkin at the corner of her eye, daintily sniffling while my father takes hold of her other hand, squeezing it tight and offering whispered assurances. Meanwhile, I sit on the other side of him, my feet swinging idly and my gaze glued to my plaid skirt.

It’s clear I’m uncomfortable, but it’s easy to assume I just don’t like the spotlight, considering it's how I always looked in interviews—which was the exact opposite of both my parents.

Regina possessed a natural, ethereal beauty that gained her just as much devotion as it did vitriol. She never wore makeup, and trash magazines loved to publish article after article accusing her of Botox and plastic surgery, as if that’s anything to be ashamed about even if it were true. Her light blonde hair fell around her dainty shoulders in natural waves, and her wide, full lips consumed her entire face when she smiled, not to mention her baby blue doe eyes. However, what she was most known for was her sharp jawline and even sharper tongue, quick to defend her husband with little reserve for whose face she screamed in.

Where Regina was fiery, Lionel was calm and charming. With his thick black hair peppered with silver at the temples, unusual copper brown eyes, a crooked grin, and charismatic personality, women flooded our mailbox with handwritten love letters, having no regard for his wife.

They were beloved.

But I couldn’t understand what the world saw in them that I couldn’t. I remember being so conflicted, loving my parents so much because they were all I’d ever known—all I had—yet being absolutely terrified of them, too.

It was hard to compute when, most days, they were normal. We acted like any other family. Ate breakfast and dinner at the table together every day. Asked me about school and helped me with my homework. Took me to amusement and water parks, zoos, and other fun places. Spoiled me rotten and gave me whatever I asked for.

Except… there’d be moments I’d look at my father and see a glimpse of the face I saw when I was six—evil. Just a flash, there and gone in the blink of an eye. I’d look at my mom and feel this uneasy, ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach, afflicted with the knowledge her own husband was a danger to her—yet feeling like even after she got better, she was still a danger to me. I couldn't escape the feeling of her hand on the back of my head, but I still felt this urgent need to protect her from the monster who saved my life.

“What about you, sweet Charlotte? Surely, it must be hard to see your daddy going through this.”

I lift my stare to Connor and offer a timid, wobbly smile. My incisors on either side of my front two teeth are stubs, the adult ones having only just started growing in.

“It’s hard,” I agree quietly. “My dad would never hurt anyone.”

I grimace, knowing it was a lie both then and now but having no choice but to tell it.

A flash out of the corner of my eye startles me and has my heart jumping to my throat before I process what it is.

As the interview continues, our voices fade into the background, and I watch as several people approach the pool house. My heart drops, and the blood drains from my face. Unease, fear, and adrenaline flood my bloodstream all at once, sending me into a panic.

I quickly turn and lock the door behind me, my heart now pounding against my rib cage, just as desperate to escape.

Four girls step up to the windows on either side of the door, two at each. My mouth drops, and I step back in shock as they press into the glass, pinning me with dead, soulless eyes.

For several seconds, I can only stare at them, speechless and utterly disturbed by their white shirts, bloody necks, and expressionless faces.

Almost dazed, I slowly spin, taking in the dozen or so girls standing around the pool house, all of them pressed against every window and dressed exactly the same, save for the different dates written across their chests.

I fight back the tears threatening to well while I just stand there, completely paralyzed, watching them watch me with their blank, unmoving faces.

What… the fuck… is going on?

Tremors build in my extremities, and adrenaline steadily rises. I don’t know what the fuck to do right now. Obviously, I could leave, but the thought of going outside with all of them out there is even more terrifying.

But there could be a back door somewhere.

It takes a few extra seconds for my brain to convince my bones to unlock. Once they do, I’m gunning down the hallway, passing the kitchen and several closed doors. It’s dark as shit, and I’m forced to pause and scramble for my phone. I switch on my flashlight, but I stop short. I’ve already reached the end of the hallway. In front of me are double doors, already slid open to reveal laundry machines.

Chest heaving, I swing my flashlight around, confirming what I already know.

There’s no other exit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Cold sweat blooms across my back, and anxiety viciously claws at my stomach as I consider what else to do. My only other option is to hide out in one of the rooms and hope they eventually get bored and leave.

I turn to the closest door, only to find it locked. Confused and panicky, I jiggle the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.

“What the fuck?” I whisper beneath my breath.

I try the next door, and the next, finding both of them locked as well. There’s one door left, and when it swings open with ease, it immediately sets me on edge. Every muscle in my body tenses as I cautiously step into the room.

Directly ahead is a large window with the blinds turned outward, inviting moonlight to peek through and allowing me to see a faint outline of a bed right below it.

Hesitantly, I flip on the light, only to scream, my heart flying into my throat as I stumble backward and fall flat on my ass.

Dread sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows propped on his spread knees as he casually twiddles a knife, crimson trailing down the blade and over his hand before dripping onto the pale wooden floors.

My hand flies over my chest, my heart pounding violently against my rib cage.

“What the fuck?!” I shout breathlessly.

A wicked smile teases one corner of his lips, though his frosty eyes hold no warmth.

“Well, hello, darling.”

CHAPTER 7

REVERIE

My brain screams at me to run back the way I came, but I’m frozen beneath Dread’s piercing stare.

“Happy birthday,” he says dryly, not a single fleck of emotion in his tone.

I don’t know what’s more upsetting—this entire fucked-up situation, or that he knows me well enough to predict exactly where I’d go and planned this entire thing with full confidence I’d prove him right.

And I did exactly fucking that.

A shot of anger flashes through me, fueling me just enough to fly to my feet and seethe at him.

“You’re fucking sick, you know that?” I hiss. “The noose in my dorm wasn’t enough? Now you have to throw his victims in my face?”

I glance at the knife in his hand and work to swallow my fear. I’ve locked myself inside this house with a monster, and he just might hate me enough to actually kill me.

Logic attempts to poke a hole through that thought, whispering in the back of my mind that he could never get away with it. He’s planned an elaborate scheme over a dozen girls are complicit in—he couldn’t kill me without everyone knowing he did it.

Yet, the terror persists, and I contemplate bolting for the front door to take my chances with the walking dead girls.

His stare sharpens, as if he can read exactly what I’m thinking and is daring me to try.

With his outrageously long legs, one step would eat up three of mine. I’d probably get a good four and a half in before he’d drag me back to hell.

“Did you know for the entire trial, I sat in the gallery and listened?” he asks, ignoring me.

I blink, my brain taking a moment to pivot to the topic.

“Yes?” I say it like a question, confused why he’d ask.

I sat on the other side of him every day. For an entire month, my life was the inside of that courtroom, only getting breaks on the weekends.

“You would look over at me and stare, but every time I met your eyes, you quickly looked away, like you didn’t want me to know you were watching me,” he continues.

My cheeks burn from the memory. Back then, all I wanted to do was sit beside him, take hold of his hand, and say three little words: I believe you.

But I couldn’t. I was too fucking scared.

“So?” I snip.

“Did you remember those three ladies who sat behind me for a week?”

I frown, racking my brain. Vaguely, I remember two brunettes and a blonde, and that they moved to sit on our side after a little while.

I never knew why. I guess I was too preoccupied to think about it.

“What about them?” I ask, my tone annoyed and impatient. He’s still playing with the fucking bloody knife, and it’s making my skin crawl.

“They believed me at first, sat there to offer support when no one else would. It lasted three days before their whispering started shifting, and they became suspicious of my story. And you know what really got to them? What started turning them against me?”

He waits for me to answer, and I work my jaw, dreading where this is going. “What?”

“That interview with you and your parents,” he answers, his tone still cool and lifeless. “It played fucking everywhere during the trial. The media shoved it in everyone’s faces, like they wanted to constantly remind people not to listen to me.”

I bite down on my bottom lip. This is the worst part of hating Dread—hating what happened to him, too.

“‘Did you hear the way he called Regina darling?’” he recollects. “That’s what one of them said, and they spent the rest of the fucking day swooning over him. The way he looked at your mom with so much love, how she looked at him with so much devotion. ‘Surely, there’s no way he could be a monster.’”

I shuffle on my feet, battling between being pissed off at him and empathizing with him.

“I think they stuck behind me for the rest of that week out of guilt. But every day, they whispered to one another about how the only thing pointing to Lionel being the killer was me, and maybe I really was making it all up. With each passing day, they’d grow less and less sympathetic toward me until one morning, they sat on the other side, flicking these judgmental glances my way, like they were accusing me of lying, too.”

I inhale deeply, trying to gather myself enough to not say something cruel. This whole night… it’s been cruel, too. But I can admit his hatred comes from a place even I can’t blame him for.

“I get it, Dread. You’ve made it abundantly clear the world mistreated you, and I don’t disagree with that,” I say slowly, pumping my palms face down in the air as I speak to emphasize my sincerity. His brows fly up on his forehead, seemingly surprised by my admission. “You’ve also done a stand-up job of making me relive my eighteenth birthday, along with my father’s wonderful legacy, so congratulations. Can I go now?”

His surprise instantly dims to resentment again. I don't need to read his mind to see he thinks I was only telling him what he wanted to hear. As much as I want to defend myself and tell him I've always believed him, I know what questions will follow, and those are the ones I won't—can't answer.

So, like always, I keep my teeth cemented shut, having no choice but to allow him to think the worst of me. Because even standing before him now, terrified and in danger, it's better than what he'd do to me if he knew the full truth.

Dread hums, seeming to contemplate my request, but it’s only an act. He gets to his feet, and my stomach drops. Despite having seen him almost every day of my life over the past four years, save for summer and holiday breaks, his tall, imposing stature still steals my breath sometimes.

I force steel into my spine as he saunters toward me, uncaring of the fake blood trailing down his hand. It feels as if a vacuum has sucked all the oxygen from the room, and a code red alarm blares in my head, screaming at me to run. But I stand firm, and in this moment, I don’t understand why, when doing so might be the biggest mistake of my life.

My neck aches from craning back to stare up at him, and I stop breathing as he steps into me, his front brushing against mine. I bristle when he lifts his hand to my face and softly brushes his knuckles across my cheek. My only consolation is it's not the one holding the knife.

Little currents erupt across my skin before a zap of electricity shoots down my spine, beckoning forth goosebumps like they’re rising from the dead.

I glower at him. He’s way too fucking close for comfort, but I also have the irritating need to prove I’m not scared of him.

Even though I am.

“I haven’t forgotten about your stunt that almost ruined my career. But tonight, I want to focus on your birthday celebration.” His thumb moves to press firmly on my bottom lip and drag it down, his stare locked on the movement. It’s almost reverent, except nothing about it makes me feel warm or fuzzy inside. It seems to pull him into a trance, like he physically can’t look away as he murmurs darkly, “I want you to see just how special you are to me.”

My brows pinch, and I’m torn between asking what the hell that’s supposed to mean and biting his fucking thumb off.

Before I can do either, he lifts his other hand and presses the knife to my throat, the sharp end of the blade kissing my skin. My muscles harden into stone and my mouth dries. I fight the urge to swallow, nervous even the slightest movement will cause him to slash my throat from ear to ear.

I feel a drop of the fake blood slowly trail down toward my collarbone, his eyes tracking it until it disappears beneath my black jacket.

Seeming dissatisfied by that, he reaches up to grab the zipper and slowly drags it down, the sound of the metal teeth parting sending a cold chill down my spine.

I would love to slap his hand away, but with a knife held to my throat, I’m more inclined to keep my head attached. So, I grit my teeth and try to keep my body from trembling beneath his critical stare.

Then, he pushes it off my shoulders, letting it fall down my arms before dropping to the floor behind me.

“I can see your pulse,” he murmurs darkly. “Are you scared, Reverie?”

“No.”

My pride will be the death of me.

Literally.

He hums again, this time with amusement, seeing through my obvious lie.

“Do you think your father’s victims felt the same way you’re feeling now?” he muses.

Before I can respond, his fingers dive into my hair and grip tightly before craning my head back, exposing my throat further. I strain against him, but all it does is cause my neck more pain.

“You can’t kill me,” I say through gritted teeth, the words uneven and shaky. “Everyone will know it was you.”

He chuckles, the sound sinister. “Darling, I’d never kill you. You think I’d take your life like your father took my mother’s? Like you’re nothing?”

“Aren’t I?” I parry. “Nothing to you?”

His face softens with faux sympathy.

“If you were nothing, how could I watch you break?” he asks quietly, his tone as devilish as it is curious. “You’ve always been something to me, Reverie, and some things are so pretty when they fall apart.”

My mouth falls open, and then he slashes the knife across my throat. I gasp sharply, violently jerking in his hold. Time suspends while my brain tries to compute what I’m feeling. Did he lie and slice my throat, anyway? Am I in agony? Choking on blood? Do I feel the life draining from me?

None of it registers. Nothing except sheer panic and horror.

A few seconds tick by, and finally, my brain processes what really happened. The sharp edge didn’t glide against my skin, but the smooth, blunt side. There’s no pain, no real blood, no death.

Only the same fake blood covering his knife slashed over my throat, just like the other girls dressed as Lionel's victims.

I blink rapidly while his gaze tracks the trails of crimson dripping down my neck and into my T-shirt.

Shudders roll through my body while I work to keep my mind from spiraling into a black abyss. It’s hard enough knowing my father did something so atrocious to so many women, but it’s another thing to force me to experience even a fraction of what they did.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I made that mistake only a few nights ago, when he kicked me to the edge of death’s doorstep, and now he has a goddamn picture to prove it.

I won’t make it again.

He tsks, as if disappointed by my refusal. Keeping a tight hold on my hair, he tucks the knife into the back pocket of his jeans, replacing it with a black Sharpie instead. This time, I’m not surprised when he bites the cap off, holding it between his straight white teeth as he stains more numbers into my heather gray T-shirt.

When he’s finished, he releases me entirely, recapping the marker and tucking it away again.

He stares at me expectantly, and I avoid meeting that expectation.

Though part of me knows it doesn't matter—they’re all fucking dead, anyway—there are certain dates I really, really don’t want to see.

His mother’s being one of them, and there’s no doubt he scrawled across my chest the day she went missing.

“You can’t keep ignoring her like you do with the rest,” he says quietly.

He might as well have stabbed that knife into my chest. He thinks I ignore Lionel's victims, but he has no idea how readily they haunt me.

Clenching my jaw, I drop my chin and read the numbers.

03/18/11.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to just breathe, even if it feels like an elephant is crushing my chest. My mind descends into a familiar black nothingness I once called home, dredging up memories and thoughts I can’t bear to think about.

After several slow, deep breaths, I open my eyes and lift my chin, meeting his cold stare, his face carved from the same stone encasing his heart.

Underneath all that rock, there’s something tender and vulnerable, but it’s as accessible as the core beneath the Earth’s crust.

“Are you satisfied now?” I ask, my voice husky with unshed tears.

He picks my expression apart, but I’m too exhausted to do anything else but let him.

He cocks his head inquisitively. “Do you know why I hated you as a kid?”

I sigh heavily, but it does nothing to alleviate the weight on my chest or the ache in my heart.

“Because I supported my dad,” I answer robotically.

His grin is humorless. “No, darling. Because everyone supported you.”

I nod, accepting that. “They did,” I agree simply. “The entire world said you were a liar and then showered us with sympathy, and defended us against what they believed to be a misguided accusation.”

He hums, appearing almost amused by my answer. “Did you like it? All their attention?”

“I didn’t understand it.”

He nods slowly, his stare scrutinizing. “Did it make your life easier?”

I shrug. “It didn’t make it harder. And that’s the point, right? You suffered, I didn’t, so now you’re here to make me suffer.”

Again, he studies me for a few beats, but whatever he’s thinking is locked behind an impenetrable fortress.

“Do you know why I hate you now?”

I frown. “I didn't realize there was a difference between then and now.”

“Kids grow up, baby,” he says, his tone mocking. “Supporting your daddy as a little girl makes sense. Supporting him and staying silent while his victims’ families fight for justice as an adult doesn't.”

“I don't support him,” I growl.

“Really?” he challenges. “Last I checked, you showed support up until your last interview when you were eleven, and you’ve never publicly stated otherwise since.”

“Oh, so I have to say it to the world for it to be true?”

He points at me, and snarls, “That's why. Right there, Reverie. Your self-preservation is more important than validating his fucking victims. You would rather stay silent and let the world think I put away an innocent man than tell the fucking truth.”

“What would my belief in you change?” I argue, splaying out my hands.

“Everything!” he shouts.

I flinch, and he inhales through his nose deeply, calming himself while I grapple with my scattered thoughts.

“If his own daughter believed he’s who I said he was, imagine how many minds you could change,” he says quietly, conviction creating the slightest tremble in his voice. “And when Lionel loses support, he loses his power.”

My expression is pained as I say, “That won't make evidence against him suddenly appear, and he still won't be charged and convicted for those murders without it.”

“No. But if enough people believe it, it would make it a lot harder for Lionel to make parole if it's believed he's a danger to society. And if Lionel knows he's never getting out, then maybe he'll want the notoriety enough to confess. Even with the copycat murderer, he’s too much of a narcissist to let someone else take all the credit. That fucker would rather die than rot in prison while some other sick fuck gets his glory.”

My heart shrivels, and in this moment, I've never felt like a bigger coward.

Because he's right.

I do have self-preservation, and it's that very self-preservation keeping my teeth glued rather than admitting the truth.

It's too late.

Lionel could already be free.

He scoffs quietly when I say nothing, his eyes flooding with disgust, disappointment, and so much resentment.

Truthfully, I can relate, because it's how I feel about myself right now, too.

“I can see you’ve suffered, Reverie,” he says, his tone hushed. “Just not enough.”

He turns and gives me his back, dismissing me. Tears rise to the surface of my eyes, but I don’t waste a single second grabbing my jacket from the floor and charging for the exit, shrugging it back on and re-zipping it on the way.

The girls are no longer in the windows when I emerge into the living room, which is a welcome relief.

Except I can only bask in it for a few seconds. The moment I unlock and whip open the door, I come face to face with all of them huddled right outside it.

I jump back with a sharp gasp, my hand flying to my chest again and my lungs exponentially tighter than usual.

At this rate, my heart is going to either explode or completely give out from all the stress.

Their faces are blank, though mirth twinkles in a few of their gazes.

Beyond them, people are still partying in the hot tub, even louder and drunker than before. They don’t pay us any attention, too lost in their own worlds. I could call out to one of them for help, but there isn’t a single person who would care enough to save me. Not when they’d have to face Dread’s wrath.

“You’ve made your point,” I snap. “Leave me alone.”

Stacy steps forward, her expression neutral, though her eyes are lit up with excitement. She silently holds out her hand for me to grab.

I recoil from her, my face twisting with derision. For all I know, that hand could’ve touched Dread’s dick before I arrived here, and that’s enough of a reason to keep that thing firmly away from me.

“You can come with me, or you can let him bring you,” she responds, her naturally high-pitched voice tinkling with challenge.

There’s that sinking feeling again. Unease slithers beneath my skin, and while I’m tempted to punch her and make a run for it, there’s no way I’ll make it through eleven other girls.

Exhaling an annoyed breath, I begrudgingly save her from needing a rhinoplasty and motion for her to lead the way.

I’m still not touching her fucking hand.

She smiles and deliberately grabs my palm, anyway.

Oh, fuck no.

I attempt to dislodge her fingers, but she holds tight, nearly cracking my fucking bones.

“Please tell me you washed your hands after fucking Dread,” I say, my voice shaking from the anxiety of having his dick juices all over me.

I’m on the verge of swinging when she pins me with an ‘are you stupid?’ look.

“He only fucks blondes. Everyone knows that.”

I blink. I definitely didn’t know that. Apparently, Victoria didn't, either, since she's not blonde and planned to give Dread her number tonight. Or maybe she did and was just hopeful she'd be the exception.

Regardless, I’ve made it a point to hear and see as little as humanely possible about Dread’s dating and sex life. The only thing I’ve gleaned over the years is that he’s not an easy catch, but nothing about the requirements to catch him.

My poor eyeballs can confirm he's made out with plenty of girls, but I've heard many of them complaining about it leading nowhere. Seems Stacy is no different.

Regardless, I feel slightly better about her hand touching mine, though I’d much prefer she and the rest of these girls let me the fuck go.

Stacy turns back around and tugs me after her while muttering beneath her breath, “Should’ve worn that fucking itchy blonde wig.”

The group crowds around me as we walk, ensuring there’s nowhere for me to run. Adrenaline continues to pump through my veins steadily, and my eyes bounce around every which way, just waiting for a moment to offer me a clean escape.

A white picket fence encircles the entire backyard, an exit gate in the far back corner. When we reach it, she unlatches the lock and drags me outside of it.

There’s nothing behind Craig’s house except a dense wooded area, and when I see that’s exactly where she’s leading me, my discomfort transforms into full-blown panic again.

My chest pumps faster, and the girls close in around me, sensing my flight mode being triggered.

“Where are we going?” I ask quickly, my shaky breath billowing out before me in clouds.

“Nowhere you don’t deserve,” Stacy answers cryptically.

Nowhere I don’t deserve.

Which means wherever they’re taking me is really fucking bad.

My body fills with an anxious heat, and I cast another glance around, but I still see no way out. My pulse thunders, sweat blooms across my nape and lower back, and it feels as if my blood sugar has dropped, making me jittery.

Even in the darkness, the light pollution offers enough of a visual to tread through the trees without face-planting, though my feet snag on a twig or two as we venture deeper. The crunch of leaves, grass, and branches prick at my nerves, and with each step, my body tightens further with the instinct to start swinging and kicking.

Just as the palpitations in my chest reach stroke levels, we stop. In the distance, lights from Craig’s house glimmer, and the faint noise of their partying filters into the night air.

I glance around, not understanding what I’m supposed to be looking at until Stacy shifts to the side.

“Oh, fuck. Off,” I hiss, taking a step back and bumping into a girl behind me. She grabs my biceps while Stacy holds tight to my hand, but I’m prepared to deck both of the cunts to get free.

A grave.

He dug a fucking grave.

I’ll wear the fake blood and the date of his mother’s death, but I will not allow them to bury me alive. I’d rather die fighting them than die inhaling six feet of dirt.

“Let me go,” I snap, my voice wobbly as I roughly rip my hand free from Stacy’s. It takes an extra second to fully dislodge it, but at this point, my adrenaline has taken over, and she has no fucking choice.

Irritated, she growls in response, but the sharp ringing in my ears muffles it. Panic and adrenaline set every one of my senses on high alert. My vision, my smell, even my taste have all sharpened.

The girl’s grip on my arms tighten as I attempt to wriggle out of her hold next, and the others crowd in further. My fists ball, my knuckles straining against the delicate skin over them. I’m milliseconds from swinging my way out of their barrier when Stacy pipes up.

“You aren’t going to die.” She speaks as if I’m stupid, judgment and annoyance evident in her tone. “None of us would go to prison over you, Reverie. You’ve ruined enough lives. Don’t think you’ll ruin ours, too.”

Her assurances do little to ease the terror pumping through my system. Does she expect me to just take her word for it? Logically, I understand what she’s saying, but also, what sane person would lie in a grave surrounded by people who might not be willing to kill them, per se, but who certainly want to see them dead?

When I shake my head, instinctively backing away and into the girl behind me again, Stacy exhales a heavy breath, as if I’m being unreasonable.

“Help me get her in there. Hold her arms down.”

“No!” I screech, and just as I swing out an arm, the girl behind me crushes me in a bear hold, trapping my arms beneath hers.

That doesn’t deter me from fighting—kicking my feet, thrashing my body, and even throwing my head back. She sees it coming, though, angling herself to the side and dodging the broken nose.

However, I do stomp on her foot, earning a growl and a kick back right in the ankle, but I hardly feel the pain and keep thrashing. I manage to catch one girl’s hand with my foot, causing her to hiss and shake it out, and another girl comes within a centimeter of getting her teeth knocked in.

Hands grab at several parts of my body before I can do any more damage. Despite how hard I fight and dig my heels into the ground, they finally send me flying into the hole after another minute.

I land awkwardly on my side, my shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact. I cry out, agony lancing through my body in brutal waves.

“Fucking cunts,” I hiss, a hefty dose of murderous rage swirling into the mix.

With a pained groan, I roll onto my back and find the girls circled around the grave, staring down at me. I can’t see most of their expressions beyond the shadows, but the ones I do glimpse are perfectly blank masks, not even the slightest hint of regret or sympathy.

They’re quiet as I pant through my terror, fury, and pain. For now, I keep still. They’re not trying to bury me, so until that happens, I decide to preserve the little energy I have left. If this is the worst of it, fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut and wait until they walk the fuck away. I’d rather take their creepy staring than dirt flying into my face.

A branch snaps, and the sound of leaves crunching grows louder, ratcheting my heartbeat up another notch.

My mind is too frazzled to think properly, so for several beats, I’m panicking over who’s coming and what’s happening.

Until he steps into view.

There he is, standing in the moonlight like its glow is only familiar with him.

Dread stares down at me from the foot of the grave—except the shadows cut across his face just right, preventing me from seeing his expression. I can only feel the energy radiating from him.

He’s as cold as the frigid air, as hard as the dirt beneath me, as unforgiving as the pain still steadily coursing through me.

Silently, he crouches down and rests his elbows on his spread knees while he balances on the balls of his feet. The moonlight shifts, slicing across his face dramatically, unveiling one of his eyes, his scarred brow, a hint of his nose ring, and half his lips.

It’s enough to reveal his stoic expression, black insidious waves rolling off him.

I force a laugh from my throat, the sound almost deranged. “Why don’t you join me, Kellan? It’s so much warmer down here, being closer to hell.”

He cocks his head almost curiously, revealing a little more of his face.

But he stays silent.

The girls all bend, each grabbing a handful of dirt. Before I can process what’s happening, one girl tosses the dirt over my body. I flinch, closing my eyes as specks fly into my face.

“Rest in peace, Lily,” she says quietly.

I freeze, and an ice-cold chill skirts down my spine.

I can’t see well enough to confirm, but I assume the date written across the girl’s chest is when Lily went missing.

I bite my lip hard, desperately trying to school my expression, even if it feels like I’m dying inside.

This is beyond cruel. It’s evil. Twisted. Sick.

And it hurts so fucking bad.

Because even though I didn’t kill these women, my hands aren’t free of their blood, either.

Another girl throws a handful of dirt, and I turn my head away as more flies into my face, tears threatening to slip free.

“Rest in peace, Georgia.”

Hearing her name feels like a blade slicing across my heart. My chin trembles, and I don’t know if I can keep the tears contained this time.

In a circle, each girl takes a turn throwing dirt onto me, speaking the name of whoever’s date they wrote across their chest. By the fourth, I cover my face with my hands, both to protect me from the dirt and to cover the tears streaming down my face.

“Rest in peace, Johanna.”

“Rest in peace, Rebecca.”

Eleanor.

Jolene.

Sandra.

Margaret.

Macy.

Savannah.

Amanda.

Olivia.

I’m trembling, crying, downright spiraling by the time they’ve finished. My lungs burn from the effort of keeping my sobs silent, but my pride still clings. I can’t let them see me break down fully.

I don’t know how much time passes before I hear leaves and twigs crunching beneath shuffling feet. I’m terrified they’re going to do something else, so I gather enough strength to shove down the remaining tears. I can’t do much about the tracks they’ve left down my cheeks, but at least he didn’t see them fall.

I inhale a deep, shuddering breath and exhale slowly. Then, I smooth out my expression and toss my hands from my face to fling the dirt piled atop away. When I open my eyes, only Dread remains, still in the same position.

Seeing him reignites the rage burning in my stomach.

I hate him.

I hate him so fucking much.

And sometimes, I wish I could be like my father, if only to remove him from my life—permanently.

I scowl, and it takes several attempts to swallow before I trust myself enough to speak.

“God, you really are dreadful,” I spit.

He gathers dirt in his hand before propping his arm back on his knee, his posture casual as he studies me quietly.

I’m almost convinced he won’t answer—until he does, his voice devoid of emotion.

“My darling, it is you who is dreadful.”

He tosses the dirt, and I flinch away once again. When I look back at him, he murmurs, “Rest in peace, Mom.”

Then, he stands and walks away.

CHAPTER 8

REVERIE

When I pictured what country I’d eventually move to, I hadn’t considered the United Kingdom. But after countless hours of research, I found one of the best universities with a criminal justice program is right in London.

I was sixteen when I first heard about victimology. It was a light-bulb moment, learning I could work as an advocate for victims subjected to similar situations as myself. And when I imagined working with children specifically, supporting them in a way I never was, it was the first time I felt like I was born for a reason. My life had a purpose.

It’s a lonely fucking existence, growing up in a household with one parent who tried to kill you and another parent threatening to.

However, now that I’m staring at all the paperwork needed to upend my entire life, move across the world, and transfer my credits, I’m considering just letting Lionel take me out.

Because my God. It’s… so much fucking paperwork.

I have it all spread out on a long wooden table tucked in the back corner of the campus library. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in my room after sequestering myself in there for so long. After seeing flashes of that damn bloody dummy out of the corner of my eye a dozen times, convinced it was still there, I decided I've been haunted enough, and it was time to get the fuck out.

Thankfully, the library is still open today, even though it's a holiday, and back here, I still have solitude.

And the best part—I don’t have to worry about Dread finding me.

Today was the first day I came out of my room since crawling out of that fucking grave three nights ago. I hadn’t even realized Dread was gone until I heard my classmates talking this morning, and the relief was dizzying. He left the morning after Craig’s party, for some swim meet thing, and when I eavesdropped on a few classmates in class earlier, they claimed he won’t be back for another three days.

Thank.

Fucking.

God.

It put an extra pep in my step when meeting with Kendra afterward and figuring out everything needed to finish my degree abroad.

And now, this paperwork is giving me a goddamn migraine. The pep has officially been fucking stomped on.

Groaning, I pinch the bridge of my nose, the pounding in my head becoming persistent. It’s after five p.m. now, and it doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten much today. I think I’ve only taken a total of four sips of water, too.

“Reverie Adams?”

The soft voice nearly sends me flying out of my chair. I jump, my head snapping up and eyes bugging while my hand flies over my chest, barely keeping my heart from bursting out.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe, my tone bordering on angry as I peer up at a girl I don’t recognize.

She stands on the other side of the table, her arms holding a few notebooks to her chest and shifting awkwardly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quickly, biting her bottom lip as she cringes. She looks anxious but also… excited? Like she's vibrating with energy while sunshine beams out of her asshole.

I blink, taking in her curly black hair falling past her shoulders, her light brown eyes, light freckles that cover the entirety of her pale face and bleed down to her chest and arms, and the bright red cat-eye glasses perched on her button nose.

“Y-yeah?” I ask hesitantly.

After recent events, I’m not exactly trusting of many women around here, especially if they’re dangling from the tip of Dread’s dick.

“Sorry, I know you don’t know me yet. My name is Roxi. Can I sit?”

She points to a wooden chair across from me, and before I can get a word out, she pulls it out and sits, anyway.

I just stare, mouth parted and mind racing, reeling from the absolute randomness of this.

She doesn’t seem to have negative energy emanating from her, but I refuse to relax until I know exactly what she wants.

I clear my throat after a beat. “Yeah, please, sit,” I mumble, waving toward the chair she already occupies.

Not that my invite was necessary, apparently.

She sets her notebooks on the table and links her fingers in front of her with a little excited wiggle. Her eyes are lit up with barely contained glee, and a smile stretches across her round face.

She stares at me as if I already know exactly why she’s here or who she is.

And I am… so lost right now and very on edge. I'm fully poised to dart out of here, paperwork be damned.

“C-can I, uh, help you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” she rushes out again before giggling. “I get ahead of myself sometimes. Lionel is always telling me to slow down, but life is so short, ya know? Why not go through it at full speed?”

The second my father’s name falls past her lips, her voice fades behind a shrill ringing. My vision tunnels, and though she sits in the center, chattering excitedly, her mouth moves soundlessly.

She said Lionel’s name.

Why the fuck did she say his name? And why the fuck did she say it like she knows him? Talks to him?

“Reverie? Uh, Reverie? Hello? Rev?”

Roxi’s cold hand covering mine snaps me back to reality, my vision expanding and her concerned voice reaching my ears.

I blink then snatch my hand out from beneath hers before settling back against my chair to stare at her. The blood has leeched from my face, and my heart pumps wildly.

This has to be another one of Dread’s cruel jokes. I’m not sure why, when he's not even here for the event, but as far as I’m concerned, he would torment me from beyond the grave if he could.

“I’m sorry,” I say almost robotically. “Did you say Lionel? As in, Lionel D’Amour?”

Roxi’s brows pinch, and she slides her gaze to the side, as if there’s someone beside her who could explain why I’d ask that, then back to me again.

“Y-yeah. He’s your father, right? Oh fuck, did I get it wrong? Are you not his—” She cuts herself off, panic getting the best of her, and her cheeks flushing red.

My mouth flops for a moment before I say, “Yes, he's my father.”

She visibly deflates, her entire body slumping dramatically while a smile splits her face in half once more.

“Oh, thank God. You had me worried for a second! I know how a lot of people in this school are Team Dreadful, so that could’ve been a sticky situation.”

She says ‘Team Dreadful’ in a deeper, mocking voice then titters out a high-pitched laugh when she’s finished.

It feels like a black hole has formed in the middle of my chest, and now, it’s caving in as I’m sucked into the hungry mass.

“Sorry,” I mumble, blinking rapidly and shaking my head. “How do you know Lionel?”

Her face drops, and once again, she glances to the side nervously. “Oh… D-did he not tell you about me yet? Fuck, I’m so stupid.” She slaps her palm to her forehead, muttering more insults beneath her breath.

“Tell me what?” I snap, now growing impatient. A cold sweat blooms throughout my entire body, and panic swirls in my gut.

I need to know what the fuck is going on, and right now.

“Shit, he’s gonna kill me,” she whispers to herself, closing her eyes in defeat.

My eyes bug, and then hers fly open, instantly realizing what she said. She waves her hands in front of her quickly. “Fuck, not literally. Oh my God, I’m messing this entire thing up.”

She heaves out a heavy breath and splays her hand out in a placating gesture. “Okay, let me take a breath and restart.”

Clearing her throat, she straightens and holds out a hand for me to shake.

“Hi, my name is Roxi Jenkins. Lionel and I have been together since my sophomore year. So, uh, I’m your dad’s girlfriend.”

I—

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

My mouth parts, my world teetering on its axis. I turn my knees to the side to get up but then stop, my brain short-circuiting. I don’t actually know what the fuck to do with myself at the moment.

A waterfall of emotions pours through me—shock being at the forefront, but also denial, disbelief, fury, and definitely horror.

For several moments, I stare at her while trying to process the words that came out of her mouth.

I misheard her.

Yeah, that’s definitely what happened.

Because there’s no fucking way on Satan’s barren Earth this chick just told me she’s dating my fucking father—who’s fifty-four years old.

Cheeks brightening, she slowly pulls her hand back, realizing I have no intention of shaking it. I start and stop a sentence several times, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a complete sentence.

She lets out another nervous laugh. “I know this is probably a shock. I mean, we’re the same age, and Lionel’s obviously old enough to be my father, but I promise, I’m not after him for his money or anything like that.”

I—

What?

My parents definitely weren’t poor when I was a kid, but they certainly weren’t rich, either. Lionel’s not a goddamn billionaire—not even a millionaire. He worked as a car salesman before he went to prison, for fuck’s sake.

I think I’m having a heart attack. It’s racing a mile a second. The ache in my chest expands with every passing heartbeat, and I cannot breathe.

So when I continue to stare in stunned silence, she blabbers some more.

“I was on this dating app, and he messaged me through there. Did you know prisoners could even be on dating apps? Well, I mean, it's meant specifically for prisoners or ex-cons. Obviously. But it’s crazy what they’re allowed to do these days. Anyway.” She waves her hand, moving herself along. “We started talking through there, and then I gave him my number. But we wrote letters the old-fashioned way, too. Texts are so impersonal, and we couldn’t always talk on the phone. I wanted to have something special to look back on when we’re older. It makes communicating with him more meaningful and exciting, ya know? Just waiting for that letter to come in the mail. And when it did?” She clasps her hands and stares off into the distance wistfully. “My stomach would fill with butterflies, and the happiness I felt was so overwhelming, I would just squeal like a little girl.”

She waves her hand yet again. “I’m waxing on, I know. But yeah, we just hit it off really well. I'm sorry we hid it from you for so long, by the way, but he didn't want to introduce me to you until he was sure about us and we got more serious, ya know? Didn't want to jump the gun or anything, which I totally understand.” She flicks her wrist nonchalantly, like it was no big deal for her to wait.

I blink several times, still trying to process.

“Oh, and he told me all about you as a kid, and his late wife, Regina. I’m so sorry for her passing, by the way.” My mouth opens, but she just mows on over that comment. “It was really sweet the way he talked about you. He loves you so much, and I could tell he was such a good father to you. And of course, we talked about the trial, and my God—” She puts a hand over her heart, her lips pouting with empathy. “—what you guys went through is just absolutely awful. I’m so heartbroken for you and Lionel. And I find it so fitting that Kellan’s nickname is Dreadful.”

She rolls her eyes, disgust passing over her features at the mention of him, while I proceed with my heart attack.

“But he’s getting out now! I’m going to visit him once he gets settled in, and if you want to carpool with me to see him, I would absolutely love that. Girl bonding time, right? I hope we can be friends. I’m sorry I introduced myself to you this way, but I…” She glances down shyly, fiddling with her fingers before peeking up at me through her red glasses. “I really love him, Reverie. Like, really, really love him. I know he’s a lot older than me. Obviously old enough to be my dad.” She chuckles awkwardly, but grows serious again. “We’ve already talked about moving in together once I graduate. I’ll go back to California for a while, and, eventually, we’d like to move back to Colorado so he can be closer to you—” She quickly interrupts herself. “I mean, unless you plan on living somewhere else? I’m getting an education degree, so I could go anywhere, but don't worry. We can figure that out later. I'd prefer somewhere with a good school system, though, for when we eventually have kids⁠—”

I stand up so suddenly, the wooden chair clatters to the floor behind me. Roxi startles, her mouth flopping open. Students beyond the bookshelves gasp at the loud sound, but after several quiet moments, they resume their low chatter.

Meanwhile, my heart pounds hard enough to bruise the inside of my heaving chest, and tears rush to the surface as I glare down at her.

Her eyes round, and she glances around once again with an ‘oh shit’ expression.

“I-I’m sorry. Too much, too fast. I need to slow down, I know. Fuck, I’m sorry. This was probably way too much for you at once. Definitely inappropriate for me to even bring that up to you before you’ve even spoken to your father. I really fucked this up. I’m so sorry, Reverie,” she rambles, quickly getting up from her chair.

She grabs her notebooks and turns to leave but then hesitates. Biting her lip, she whips around to face me with an earnest expression.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry Dread has put you through everything he has. I’ve vented plenty to your father about his unfair treatment of you, and Lionel and I agree Dread should be punished for all that he’s done. But yeah, I just wanted to say that. You don’t deserve any of it. Your father is innocent, and if you ever feel alone here at HCU for believing and loving him, just know that I do, too. And you can always talk to me or whatever if you ever need.”

A tear bubbles over the edge of my bottom lashes, and after another moment of hesitating, she finally turns and leaves, her shoulders hiked to her ears as she mutters beneath her breath, sounding as if she's berating herself.

I watch her leave until she disappears behind a shelf, but my stare locks on to the spot she vanished from.

It’s tragically poetic, seeing her blink out like that.

What a daunting omen.

My phone rings, startling me out of the trance I’d fallen into and sending my heart rocketing up my throat. One poorly timed sneeze, and it'll come flying out of my nose.

Heart pounding, I lift my butt from the couch enough to slide the device from my back pocket and see Barry calling. After standing and staring in a daze at where Roxi disappeared for a solid five minutes, I snapped out of it and immediately called him. Instead of answering my call, he’d texted there’d been another copycat murder and he’d call me back as soon as he could.

That only made me panic worse, so I gathered up my papers, called Sable, and drove straight to her house.

Which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t safe for me to do, considering I have no recollection of driving here.

When I arrived, I collapsed on the couch and rehashed the story to Sable, and she did what she does best—cheer me up with her cooking. She’s in the kitchen now, Bad Bunny playing softly in the background while she makes me tembleque.

“Hey,” I answer, putting the phone on speaker and settling it on my chest.

“Hey, honey,” Barry greets, his voice weighed with exhaustion, though it's not lacking in gentleness. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Lionel has a girlfriend,” I say tonelessly. My head is cycling through the five stages of grief in a constant loop, and right now, I’ve landed on depression. “And she just so happens to be attending HCU.”

Silence.

Numbly, I wait, understanding the shock he’s experiencing. He’s probably going through the five stages of grief, too.

“Please, Rev,” he starts, his voice now tight. He pauses for a moment to exhale heavily. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I flatten my lips into a thin line. “No can do,” I say. “She introduced herself to me. Her name is Roxi, and she’s a senior here, too.”

I reiterate my entire conversation with her as if I’m sharing the weather. By the time I’m finished, Barry is groaning on the other end.

“He’s going to be the death of me,” he mutters to himself.

Truthfully, I’m surprised he hasn’t been already. Barry and Jeff took a huge hit publicly after arresting and charging Lionel with Katherine’s murder. The world criticized them extensively for being terrible agents, especially since the copycat murderer only further makes Lionel appear innocent. Some have even called for them to be fired from the FBI, but outside of the Locksmith and copycat cases, Barry and Jeff are both highly respected in their field.

It’s a godsend Barry’s supervisor, Rich, is one of the few who isn’t a mega fan of Lionel’s. Apparently, he has some reservations about Lionel being the Locksmith, but he considers Barry his best agent and trusts him, which is why Rich assigned him to the copycat case.

Some days, I think Barry resents it and wishes Rich would’ve just fired him like the world demanded.

“He did it on purpose,” I say. “He knows I feel guilty for—” My throat tightens suddenly, as if my body is warning my brain I can’t mentally handle diving into all that. I take a deep breath and restart. “He knows I carry a lot of guilt for what he forced me to do. As much as I hate it, he knows me better than I know myself, and he’s weaponizing that guilt against me. It’ll kill me if Roxi dies because of something I did.”

My brain shifts to the acceptance stage.

Whatever Lionel wants from me, he’ll use Roxi’s life to get it. And I either let him, or I don’t. Roxi dies, or she doesn’t.

That’s all there is to it.

“Maybe we can convince Roxi that Lionel⁠—”

“We can’t,” I state firmly. “You know damn well someone being manipulated like she is won’t just take our word for it. You know she’s brainwashed, and even if she sees red flags or feels something is off, she’ll gaslight herself into justifying or ignoring it, and she wholeheartedly believes Lionel is innocent. She’s in love with him. It’ll take witnessing a murder herself to wake her up.”

Even then, she might try to rationalize it.

All Barry can do is sigh, and I can sense his hopelessness as strongly as my own.

“So you’re not transferring to London?” Barry asks, his voice now devoid of emotion. He must be in the depression stage.

“I…” I groan dramatically. “I don’t know yet, okay? I haven’t decided yet. I just wanted to call and let you know he’s got his claws in an innocent girl. If I decide to leave, her life will be even more at risk.”

“Lovely,” Barry mutters bitterly. “As if the fucking copycat isn’t keeping me busy enough.”

A crease forms between my brows as my lips tighten into a firm line, feeling genuinely sorry for what he’s dealing with.

“What happens when Lionel's released and he kills again?” I ask quietly, my tone despondent. Especially because the prospect of Lionel killing again is very much a when, not an if. “How will you tell the difference between him and the copycat?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and that causes my stomach to twist.

“I don’t know how to describe it, and I obviously can’t say much. All I can say is that after Lionel went to prison, the dismemberment slices were cleaner and feel cold and methodical. Whereas when Lionel was killing, they were messier, passionate. The cuts were noticeably jagged, like he was excited. Does that make sense?”

I frown. “Why do you think that is?”

Another heavy sigh. “Think of it as an employee who does their job because they have to and an employee who does it because they love it.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “So, like, what does it mean to you, though?”

“It supports my theory of them working together,” he says before exhaling heavily, sounding frustrated. “To me, it shows the copycat is killing in order to continue the Locksmith murders and further discredit Lionel being culpable. He’s doing it because he has to, not because he wants to. It's a job. But if this is the case…” He trails off for a moment. “Lionel and this person would’ve had to know one another prior to him being arrested. Clean versus jagged cuts aside, the murders are identical. The lack of DNA, or any form of evidence to lead us to his identity… it's uncanny. Even the way he targeted them. Many of the women mentioned having a date with a man to a friend or family member before they disappeared but were hush-hush about who. Lionel had to have trained this guy.”

“He never brought any friends around the house from what I can remember, but Lionel was obviously very good about leading a double life, so who knows?”

Barry sighs. “You know, the first words Kellan spoke after Jeff and me broke the news to him and his grandmother was, ‘Did you find the man with the angel wings?’ Eventually, he told us about his mom taking him to a car dealership, and it was pretty easy to find Lionel from there based on the tattoo and description. And from that moment on, I pursued that man for months leading up to his arrest. And he's just so… he’s so incredibly careful. Stakeout meant nothing when it seemed like he always knew someone was watching. It bothers me to say, but it was almost…” He struggles for words. “Fascinating, for lack of better words.”

My stomach dips with uneasiness, though I can't pin the exact reasoning.

“Brenda always did say you were obsessed with him,” I mutter distractedly, unable to fully concentrate when my stomach feels like it’s filled with heavy stones.

Barry harrumphs, his tone considerably grumpier as he gripes, “It’s hard not to take it personally when someone consistently outsmarts you. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but…” He trails off, deliberately stopping himself from descending into a self-deprecating tirade. “Anyway, I don't know if any of what I said made sense.”

I hear his voice, but I hardly process the words beneath my growing anxiety. Maybe it's because of Roxi. Or because Barry is so sure Lionel and the copycat are partners. Maybe it’s just… all of it. Everything, at once.

“Rev?”

I blink, not realizing I zoned out.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” I rush out. “It makes complete sense. And it’s why you were born to do what you do. I know this wears on you, but you know my dad better than anyone at this point. You could probably even be the copycat yourself if you wanted to be.”

I'm unable to stop the words from spilling out of my mouth, and my eyes widen.

I didn't even mean to say that.

Barry scoffs, though it bleeds into a chuckle. “Geez, I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“I-I just mean you know him,” I amend hastily. “So if your intuition is telling you Lionel and the copycat are working together, then… I believe you.”

“Thanks, kid,” he says quietly, a hint of emotion lightening his tone. “I have to get back to work, though, so I’m home at a decent hour, or Brenda might spend the rest of the night huffing at me.” That brings a genuine smile to my face, and I let out a soft exhale, relieved he’s not upset.

“Sounds daunting,” I tease. That woman embodies gentleness and kindness. She’s almost incapable of raising her voice in anger.

He chuckles, then says, “Send me Roxi's full name. I’ll do what I can to keep an eye on her from my end, but you know I can only do so much.”

“I know,” I say sadly. “I appreciate it, anyway. I love you.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

The call ends, and in the ensuing silence, I get lost in my thoughts again, agonizing over the very real possibility my father’s murdered someone again, and if that’s the case, then Roxi truly might not survive him—especially if I don’t comply with whatever Lionel inevitably demands of me.

I think it’s pretty fucking obvious he’ll have an issue with me leaving the country.

Vaguely, I feel the weight of the couch shift at my hip, then a warm hand on my arm.

“Rev? Talk to me, my love. You’re worrying me.”

I blink, reality coming back into focus. The faint smell of coconut drifts in from the tembleque as I turn to look at Sable. Concern pinches her thin brows, faint frown lines creasing her light brown skin.

“Your ass is far too big to be sitting where you are,” I tell her dryly.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t dispute my claim.

We both know Sable’s ass was crafted by the gods, but it be mighty, too.

“I’m concerned about you, you bitch,” she says with a small chuckle.

As she should be, truthfully.

“Whoever is controlling my Sims character deserves prison. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

She nods gravely. “They deserve it purely for not making the Grim Reaper your baby daddy.”

“No, they just made him my dad,” I mutter contritely.

She cocks her head and looks to the ceiling with pursed lips as she considers that viewpoint. “Huh. Yeah, I guess they did.”

I groan dramatically. “And my Grim Reaper dad is dating a college student. At my school. Who's the same age as me. They’ve been speaking for two years now, which means he’s known where I’ve been this entire time. Not only that, but he probably targeted Roxi because of me.”

Her lips tighten into a thin line, her expression pained as she gazes at me with empathy and sorrow.

Sable knows as well as I do that Roxi’s life is in an incredible amount of danger, and Roxi doesn’t even know it. In fact, she believes she’s in love with a man who could never be capable of the crimes Dread accused him of committing.

“She said they talked about moving to wherever I go after college so they can be by me, as long as it has a good school system for when they have kids, Sable. Fucking kidsss. Plural. With a whole fucking ‘S’ at the end.”

Her lips tighten further, appearing even more pained. I’d think she’s constipated if it wasn’t for the words coming out of my mouth.

“What do you want to do?” she asks. When I give her a confused look, she clarifies, “You were applying to transfer schools to London. You can still do that. You can still leave, and whatever… whatever happens to Roxi, happens to Roxi.”

My mouth opens, but she quickly cuts in. “Or you stay, and we try to get Roxi out of that relationship alive. Those are your options, and that’s what you need to figure out.”

I love her for saying ‘we.’

It only cements how devastating it would be to leave her for London.

It’s exactly why I’ve felt guilty for befriending Sable since the beginning. I always knew I’d have to leave one day, I just thought it would be a little while after graduation. Something I could take my time with.

Because that’s what I thought I had—time.

Sable knew this, and since the moment I found out Lionel was granted a parole hearing, we knew me leaving was a possibility.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, my face twisting with indecision.

She scoops up my hand and squeezes it in hers. “I know it’s hard, but you don’t owe a single soul on this planet anything, Rev. That man has made you suffer enough, and you have every right to leave and live your life.”

My chin trembles, and a sharp ache spears through my chest.

Why should I get to live my life when so many haven’t? Lionel has killed dozens of women, and, to this day, we still don’t know exactly how many victims there are.

But I feel their blood soaking my hands, and I can’t go through life pretending it’s not when everything I touch leaves behind a scarlet stain.

“Those women died because of me⁠—”

“That’s not fucking true, and you know it,” she snaps, ire flashing in her gaze.

“It is true, Sable,” I insist vehemently.

The onslaught of guilt is a punch to the stomach while devastation cleaves my heart in two. I'm so exhausted carrying the weight of so many deaths on my shoulders, but they've become such a permanent fixture, they've hardened into bones.

“What kind of person would I be if I just—” I choke on the rest of my words as a sob rushes up my throat. The heels of my palms fly over my eyes, and I shake my head, frustrated and desperately trying to claw back the tears from the surface. They’re insistent, and my entire face strains from the effort.

But it’s a losing battle.

I inhale deeply, though it feels like trying to pull oxygen into lungs filled with knots.

I press my hands deeper into my eyes, but the tears squeeze past the barrier and burn fiery paths down my cheeks, anyway.

“Ay, ma, come here,” Sable whispers softly.

I feel the weight of her body draping over my stomach, her orange blossom scent enveloping me. Then, she circles her arms around me as best she can, her warmth seeping into my skin.

I shake my head again, my frustration mounting, but despite how hard I try to swallow it down, a sob bursts out of me, anyway.

I bite back the next one and lose that battle, too. But I keep trying, putting all my effort into shoving the sadness back down, compacting it into a tight ball until it’s merely another organ in my body.

My body trembles as deep, shuddering breaths saw in and out of me. I don’t know how long we lie there for before the sobs retreat and my lungs loosen. But the blood remains.

It will always remain.

Sniffling, I roughly wipe away the tears with trembling hands before dropping them to see Sable lying over my ribs, her head resting on my bicep against the couch while staring up at me with a glassy sheen over her eyes.

I give her a deadpan stare, though I’m not sure how effective it is with bloodshot eyes and tear tracks. “I’m telling your entire family you cried.”

She quickly sits up straight and flattens her trembling fingers across her eyelids to rub them away. Not a single drop falls.

Damn. So close.

“I’ll fucking deny it, bitch. Don’t think I won’t gaslight the fuck out of you, too.” Her voice is tight, and I can tell she’s struggling to compose herself.

The ache in my chest hasn’t eased completely, but it’s enough to force a grin.

In the four years I’ve known her, she’s never cried. She claims it’s because her sins have clogged her tear ducts, which I don’t doubt in the slightest.

Her hands drop to her lap, and we stare at one another silently until we both can’t help but let out a soft laugh.

She sniffs, then points a finger in my face, forcing a serious expression on her own. “It’s not your fault. I refuse to let you win that argument. But I understand why you feel that way, and I understand why you would feel responsible should anything bad happen to Roxi.”

I drop my gaze, my smile fading as I fiddle with my fingers and bite back the urge to argue further.

We both know I don’t believe her, so it’s useless fighting about it, anyway.

“If I stay, he might come after me,” I say softly before lifting my gaze back to Sable’s.

Several emotions flit across her stare, and I know she’s struggling to maintain her composure again, though this time, she might be fighting back her own murderous tendencies rather than tears.

She looks down at her hands for a moment, a crease forming between her pinched brows. When she returns her attention to me, sorrow deepens the lines around her mouth.

“Which is why you should leave,” she whispers, her voice cracking at the end.

I know that’s what she wants, even if it’ll break our hearts. At least it means I’m alive, with a heart that can break.

I tighten my lips and nod. “I’ll think about it, yeah?”

She nods, too, but worry seeps into the fine lines around her eyes.

She looks like she’s aged ten years in the span of a single conversation.

Sighing, she picks up the bowl of tembleque and hands it to me.

“Eat, bitch. I made it extra sweet, just for you.”

I grin. “You love me.”

She smiles back, but it’s grim.

“More than life.”

She knows I’m running out of time to make a decision, but regardless of what I choose, she also knows her time with me may be limited, even if I stay.

CHAPTER 9

DREAD

“Isaw you at Craig’s party, but we talked for a total of thirty seconds before you ran off. I was hoping to give this to you then, but I didn’t get much of a chance. So, uh, here you go.”

The girl hands me a piece of paper, glancing up at me through her eyelashes shyly while biting her bottom lip.

I bet she thinks it’s sexy. It only makes her look like a child, and that’s the quickest way to make my dick shrivel back up into my body.

Not to mention she’s a redhead, not blonde.

Craig’s party was a little over two weeks ago, though, so I have zero recollection of talking to her.

I left the following morning of the party to fly to Texas for a national event and came back to Colorado for three days, just to fly out again to Virginia for a training camp with the USA team for a week. I just got in last night, and I’m fucking exhausted. I want nothing more than to go back to fucking bed, but there’s a particular blonde I’m itching to see.

Silently, I stare down at the paper, keeping my arms firmly at my sides. The second she realizes I’m not taking it, the surrounding air grows awkward, and she hesitates to bring it back toward her, as if she can’t decide whether to physically push it against my chest or just give up.

Any other time, I would be a lot nicer to her. Being a public figure, I make it a point not to be an asshole to others if I can help it. My publicist would walk off the top of a building if I treated everyone like I treat Reverie. And if they hated me the way she does, I’d sooner drown than land sponsorships or brand deals.

Plus, when the majority of people who interact with me have positive experiences, it makes them a lot more complacent when they bear witness to my and Reverie’s feud.

“I mean, her father did kill his mom. Can you really blame him for giving her a hard time?”

“She kinda does deserve it, though…”

“He’s actually so nice. He only acts that way toward her because of what her family did to him, and it's honestly understandable.”

Truthfully, her fucking with me back has helped keep my reputation fairly positive, because now, most people see our dynamic as a mutual war. I'm not the sole aggressor, and I have justifiable reasons.

Now Reverie, on the other hand…

When I meet the girl’s stare, she’s wiped that childish expression clean from her face, replaced with embarrassment, bright red cheeks, and a slight frown, her eyes darting all around us.

I guess she’s in my finance class and stopped me just as I stepped out into the hallway. The lecture ended two minutes ago, and dozens of students are filing out around us, forcing me to step back and lean against the wall while she stands only a few inches in front of me.

I should be nice and just take the goddamn paper, but I'm just really not in the mood. I still haven't seen Reverie outside of my stupid fucking screen saver, and it's making me extremely irritable.

Whatever. I'm allowed to have my bad days.

“Uh, y-you don’t have to take it. I just wanted to get to know you, that’s all,” she says, ending the sentence with an uneasy laugh. “All these other girls talk about you like you’re not a real person, and I hate the way they dehumanize you, ya know? I guess I just wanted you to know I see you for you, not the Olympic gold medalist everyone reduces you to.”

She’d be extremely surprised to hear I’ve heard that exact speech from nearly every single girl who’s tried to seduce me.

“I’m different. I see you for who you really are.”

“They just want to use you, but not me. Never me.”

“You’re more than just a celebrity. I see beneath all that. I see the real person you hide from the world, but you can’t hide it from me.”

Truthfully, I prefer they be upfront with me. When they tell me they just want to fuck, I respect it a hell of a lot more than the ones who try to act like they’re special.

Not a single fucking one of them is special.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

That perks her up a little, and her lips curl into another shy smile. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear, and I think she meant that to be endearing.

It wasn’t.

“Victoria.”

“If I told you all I’m interested in is a quick fuck, would you spread your legs for me?”

She blinks, surprised by the question, but she recovers quickly and smooths out her expression into contemplation. “If that’s what you needed from me at that moment. I would never push you into giving me something more until you’re ready.”

Until I’m ready.

As if I’d keep fucking her, and she’d somehow worm her way into my heart. Somewhere in that eager little brain of hers, she’s convinced me sleeping with her one time will be all it takes to hook me, keep me coming back for more. She probably thinks she’ll be the greatest fuck of my life, purely because she’s determined to be. I bet she’s played out a million different scenarios, and in each one, she pulls off some trick with her body or says something she thinks I’ve never heard before. In her mind, I’d just become so addicted, I’d need more.

She’d be wrong.

Pussy is pussy, and they’re all the fucking same, especially when they pretend like theirs drips gold.

“Then why not just get down on your knees and offer to suck my dick?” I ask dryly.

Again, she blinks, stunned.

“B-because I want⁠—”

“To fuck me, to date me, then marry me, in that order. Would we get a puppy together, and would you take me home to meet your family? Have you imagined the ring I picked out for you already? And the way I’d propose?”

Her cheeks flush tomato red, and she guiltily glances away, answering my questions despite the way she tries to deny them.

“Of course not.” Another awkward laugh. “I’m not that desperate, Dread. Jesus.”

Another lie. She’s very fucking desperate. I could smell it from between her thighs after ten seconds of speaking to her. I could probably smell it at the party, too, which is why she wasn’t even slightly memorable.

“You think you’re different from the rest? Maybe try coming up with a speech I haven’t heard before,” I say, my irritation growing. For the life of me, I don’t know why the hell she’s still standing in front of me.

Her mouth drops, hurt flashing across her eyes. My annoyance climbs, so I spin on my heel and walk away before I make her cry. Eventually, I'll come to my senses and go find her to spit out some charming apology that'll have her batting her eyelashes and thinking I'm dreamy again. But right now, I’ll burn through all my calories searching for a fuck to give, and I need those for swim practice later.

I don’t know why the hell I’m so angry, anyway. Women hitting on me is a daily occurrence, and typically, it’s something I don’t think twice about.

However, these past couple weeks have been especially irritating, and every single time a girl has stopped me on campus, on the street, or even at an event, I’m ready to wring someone’s neck by the time I’ve finished kindly rejecting them.

I haven’t seen Reverie since the party, and for whatever reason, it’s gotten under my skin. During the three days I was home last week, she was nowhere to be seen, and I was too busy with practice to go looking for her.

I can’t stand that she hid from me. It’s pathetic. Weak. Something she’s never done before.

And fuck, is it pissing me off.

Usually, I’m met with some type of fire by now, whether it’s putting a padlock on my locker in the gym, forcing me to walk across campus in nothing more than a towel in the dead of winter, or writing a goddamn Reddit post claiming to have gone to high school with me and said I had an addiction to fucking citrus fruit—literally fucking them. It went viral, of course, and she spent a solid nine hours replying to people, saying school faculty had to hide all the oranges and lemons from me during lunch because I kept sneaking off to the bathroom to jack off with them.

Eventually, my publicist got the post removed, and real people from my high school spoke out and refuted the rumors, but occasionally, I come across comments from people who still think it's true.

That's the Reverie I know and hate.

But to hide from me?

That’s fucking new, and it’s driving me insane.

Maybe I went too far these last couple times, but even considering being regretful only pisses me off more.

She deserves to be reminded of the women she continues to ignore. Because the only ones who deserve my fucking compassion are them.

I slam the exit door open as I charge out of the Ada Lovelace Center, where our finance class is located, but the icy air does little to soothe my temper.

Christ, maybe I do need a quick fuck. Between Reverie’s insistence on existing and Lionel’s parole hearing, my head is all fucked up. And I still haven’t heard a single goddamn thing about the board’s decision, which has weighed on me more and more each day. I'm supposed to receive a letter as soon as they reach one, but it’s been over a month since the hearing, and still fucking crickets.

I’ve been checking the CDCR’s website several times a week, confirming he’s still in custody as of this morning, which has been the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.

I’ve had so much pent-up aggression because of it, and neither swimming nor fucking with Reverie has been cutting it, but the thought of getting any woman beneath me makes my insides recoil. Doesn’t matter which pretty face I picture—they all look abhorrent to me.

All except one, at least.

I've become desperate. I’ve googled countless celebrities, models, and sex workers in hopes of ridding her from my mind, but then I blink, and I'm suddenly staring at my screen saver. I blink again, and my dick is in my hand, and I’m coming all over myself.

I keep trying to change it, but it's like fighting a demonic possession. Every time I try, it takes control, and I jack off to the fucking picture instead.

It's really pissing me off.

Exhaling harshly, I run an irate hand through my hair as I head toward my dorm, my thoughts spiraling into different scenarios of drawing Reverie out from her room and making her cry those pretty tears again.

I’m lost in a particular fantasy when a familiar laugh cuts through it. Same voice, but the opposite sound of what I was just imagining.

I stop short, causing someone to ram into my back. I pay them no mind as they apologize and scurry around me.

My stare has locked on to the object of all my transgressions standing before a guy I don’t recognize and laughing with him.

What. The. Fuck.

Something dark and ugly punches me in the chest before sinking toward my stomach and coiling around my organs. It burns and ravages my insides. I see red, then black.

Snarling, I charge toward the pair, insidious thoughts rising as Reverie laughs again, staring up at the fucker like he hung the moon.

I will sooner rip that goddamn rock from the sky and smash it into his face before letting her think he can even spell the fucking word.

Reverie catches sight of me once I’m a few feet away, and a shot of satisfaction powers through me when her face slackens then pales.

It’s an instant shot of heroin in my veins.

Noticing her reaction, the guy turns with a confused frown on his ugly-ass face. His stare clashes with mine, and he, too, pales.

“Nice to see you’ve come out of your grave,” I say, hardly recognizing my own voice. It’s deep and rough with fury, and every word is closer to a demonic growl than anything human.

In an instant, her face revives—from pale cheeks to bright red, and a fallen expression to one of fire and wrath. Those copper eyes glare at me from beneath her blonde bangs, injecting me with a second dose of heroin.

There’s my girl.

“Leave. Me. Alone, Dread,” she bites out through gritted teeth.

Never.

“I was just giving her notes and an assignment from class,” the guy explains, his gaze somewhere between wary and annoyed.

His mop of curly brown hair flops into his eyes, and his oversized zip-up hoodie and jeans hang on his lanky body.

I could snap him like a twig. My fingers curl into my palms with the unbidden urge.

“I’m sorry, Luke. Don’t let him bully you,” she says to the guy, resting a hand briefly on his arm. I zero in on where she dares to touch him, my fury heightening. “He’s just an insecure little boy who needs attention.”

I lift my chin to the sky, searching for some lost well inside me that houses restraint. It’s incredibly disappointing when I curl my fingers into my palms and don’t feel her dainty little neck being crushed between them.

“You know what? It’s cool. I don’t need my ass kicked over a few pieces of paper,” Luke mutters, stepping away from the two of us.

I drop my chin with a wicked laugh. “It would be over a lot more than just paper, my guy.”

Luke shakes his head, irritation twisting his features, before he turns and walks off. I’ve only just dragged my eyes back to Reverie when she’s slamming her palms into my chest, jerking me but not moving me.

“You’re such an asshole!” she shouts, instantly attracting the attention of students passing by. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

I lean down into her face, and snarl, “Why the fuck do you find him so funny?”

She blinks and shakes her head, stunned. “Are you seriously micromanaging when I can laugh?” A short, disbelieving chuckle releases from her throat, as if to prove a point. “You don’t control me, Dread. You don’t own me. You are nothing to me,” she spits, those copper penny eyes turning into molten lava.

Oh my God. I just might strangle her in broad daylight.

My jaw works back and forth, and my search for restraint becomes desperate, my organs in upheaval while I scour through my insides for it.

I possess little control when my hand snaps out to pinch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, forcing her closer.

“I am your everything, Reverie,” I say, fire on my breath. “And I won’t allow you to exist without me. I’m in everything you touch. In everything you see. What you hear, taste, and smell. I am the very breath in your lungs. Because without me, you would have none of those privileges.”

A kaleidoscope of emotions flashes across her face before settling on outrage mixed with a hint of awe.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” she whispers.

She rips her chin out of my grasp and steps away, bitterness settling into the curl of her upper lip.

“Then allow me one last privilege to prove you wrong.”

She spins on her heel and charges toward a group of students loitering outside the history building. It takes a few extra seconds to process what’s happening before I quickly fall in step behind her, confused as to what the fuck she’s planning.

She reaches the group and stops before Bryan Gate, the star quarterback of HCU’s football team.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Reverie’s question is more of a demand, and one that catches Bryan off guard.

The fuck does she care about that for?

“Uh, n-no?” he answers, his brow furrowing as he flicks a bemused glance my way.

We’ve spoken to one another a few times and are amicable when we cross paths, but we’re not friends by any means.

Which means I have no fucking problem killing him should I need to.

My jaw clenches when she lifts onto her toes to whisper something in his ear. The bones in my skull are threatening to crack from the pressure when he flicks another glance at me—this one almost amused—before he gives her a simple nod.

Then she grasps either side of his head and crushes her lips to his. His friends gasp, most of them descending into laughter and whistles. My vision flickers, glimpsing his tongue swirling with hers, before snuffing completely.

Wrath has decimated everything inside me. I’m a barren wasteland after a volcanic disaster. There’s nothing left—which means there’s nothing left of my restraint.

My body moves, sounds arise, and a faint flare of pain blooms across my knuckles before fading again. I think I hear someone cursing at me, but I can’t be entirely sure. All five of my senses are relatively nonexistent, but I’m vaguely aware of a weight over my shoulder and repeated pressure hitting my back.

It isn’t until I’m halfway across campus and ten feet from the sports center that my senses return.

“Let me go!” Reverie screeches.

She’s flung over my shoulder, and her fists repeatedly slam into my back, but they feel like nothing more than crumpled paper balls bouncing off me.

“I would rather die,” I growl.

My hand whips across her ass, offering a minuscule release of the explosive energy built up inside me. She gasps sharply, her upper half rearing up for a moment before she relaxes and descends into another fit.

“You. Fucking. Asshole!”

If I could think properly, I might’ve basked in the feeling of spanking her. Except right now, the only thing I can appreciate is the release rather than her tight, plump ass. My hand twitches with the need to do it again, but I have enough foresight to know if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

I swing the door to the sports center open, and Reverie instantly stops screaming. It’s a massive area filled with equipment and several students lifting weights, using the treadmills, or stretching.

Many of them cast inquisitive glances our way, but I ignore them all. Meanwhile, Reverie growls insults and threats at me beneath her breath, though I don’t bother listening to half of them.

By the time I’m charging down the hallway to the public pool, she’s exhausted herself. Or rather, she’s reserving her remaining energy because she knows something is coming.

The college team has our own Olympic-sized pool, but practice isn’t until later, so it’s locked until then. As team captain, I have keys for emergencies, though Coach doesn’t care if I swim here after hours.

Anything for the Olympic prodigy.

However, the keys are in my dorm, so public pool it is.

Thankfully, there’s no one here right now. But even if there was, I'd kindly ask them to fucking leave.

The second I slam through the door, the familiar scent of chlorine fills my senses. Usually, it offers a sense of comfort, like coming home, but I’m too far gone—lost in irrationality. Reverie has a special way of driving me to dark places where my sanity struggles to survive.

“Dread, let me the fuck go,” Reverie snaps, a tinge of fear sneaking into her tone. Her struggling renews tenfold, forcing me to hold on to her tighter.

“Darling, that’s precisely what I’m planning to do,” I respond just as I reach the edge of the pool on the shallow end.

“Wait!”

I grab her hips and slide her down my body, but her thrashing becomes almost uncontrollable.

“Dread, stop!”

She fists my coat in her hands tightly, and it takes a few extra moments to detach her.

“No, no⁠—”

I send her flying back into the shallow end of the pool. I glimpse utter terror on her face before she splashes into the water with a shrill scream. While she splashes about, I calmly shoulder off my jacket, kick off my shoes and socks, slide out my phone from my sweatpants pocket and toss it on the pile, then jump into the water after her.

She resurfaces, sputtering out water and frantically wiping her hair from her face. I can see the whites of her eyes, and the moment she sees me, she instantly turns and attempts to swim away. Her feet slip, and her clothes drag her down, making the attempt entirely pathetic.

In her thrashing, I can only grab her jacket first, but she’s a scared dog and wiggles out of it before I can get a good hold on her. Chuckling, I toss the jacket to the side and surge forward. My hand clamps on the back of her neck before I spin her back around into my chest. She thumps against me with a gasp.

Then, she lets out a frustrated screech and wedges her hands between us, pushing at my stomach with all her strength. She might as well have toothpicks for arms, because she accomplishes absolutely nothing.

“Let me out of here! Let me out, let me out.”

She’s like a fucking worm on the hook, panicking in a way I’ve never seen before.

It’s enough to cut through the dark shroud encasing my brain, and for the first time, I feel a pinch of concern.

“Calm the fuck down, Rev,” I growl, keeping my hold on her nape with one hand while circling my other arm around her waist tightly. “You’re not fucking drowning. We’re in four goddamn feet of water.”

“Let me out, Dread!” she screams, damn near bursting my eardrums. She slams a balled fist into my chest when she fails to push me away once again. Her entire body is shaking as violently as she did when she was chained to the flagpole, and terror rounds her eyes to the size of moons.

She’s acting like she's petrified of water, which is brand-new information to me.

And now, I must know why.

“Let me go!” she shouts again, but I refuse.

There might be something foreign floating around in my consciousness, but it’s not enough for me to let her go.

Her bangs are pushed back from her forehead, revealing her entire face. Droplets sluice down her ruddy cheeks and over her trembling pink lips, clinging to the gold hoops in her nostril and septum and those long brown eyelashes. Her tears mixed with the chlorinated water only enhance how beautiful she looks when she thinks she’s dying.

It’s a look I could get used to.

“I fucking hate you,” she sobs, still wiggling and pushing against me.

That little drop of concern vanishes, replaced by the need to teach her a fucking lesson.

“Give it time, baby,” I snarl in her face. “I think I can make you hate me a lot more.”

Her chest heaves too fast, and though her struggling wanes, her panic certainly doesn’t. In fact, the vibrations in her muscles only seem to increase as her frantic gaze darts around us, likely searching for an escape route.

“Breathe in, breathe out,” she mumbles to herself, her body stiff as a board.

I arch a brow, almost amused, as I watch her talk herself down. She repeats the same mantra over and over, her eyes sightlessly boring into my chest.

I’m kind enough to let her, but only because her having a panic attack would be incredibly inconvenient right now. I’ll grill her about this little phobia of hers later, when she’s not submerged in it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun, either.

“The only way out is under,” I say quietly, prompting her eyes to fly back to mine. They’re dilated enough to make the copper in her eyes thin.

However, it’s her parted lips that snag my attention, plump and bleached of their normal pink. Not five minutes ago, she had them locked with another man’s, his filthy fucking tongue in her mouth.

That slimy, burning feeling returns with a vengeance, eating at my insides like acid.

Fuck, I don’t want to punish only her. I want to find Bryan and twist his neck until his head fucking pops off. He thought he could touch what’s mine, and I’m so very excited to remind him his ability to breathe is purely fucking optional. It will be up to me to choose if he will continue to do so.

The violence stirring in my chest has my hand clenching her nape harder, evoking a low whine from her throat.

“You made your point,” she bites out through chattering teeth, likely from her terror. The water isn’t the warmest, but it’s not cold, either. “Let me out of here.”

“Did I? What point have I made?” I challenge.

“You mean besides being a fucking psychopath?” she snaps, her cheeks now flushed red. Fuck, I love when she’s full of fire. It’s the only thing capable of melting the ice in my veins. “That you think you control me. That you’re a jealous child who can’t stand seeing someone else play with a toy that is not yours.”

I tsk, unimpressed. “Somewhere along the way, I’ve seemed to have given you the wrong impression,” I say. “You are not a toy, darling. You’re my favorite instrument. My little violin. Toys are disposable and forgettable. You set them down and never pick them up again.”

I risk removing my arm from around her waist, though I maintain my firm grip on the back of her neck. Then, I softly brush my knuckles across her cheek, my voice dropping into a whisper.

“But when I play with you, the way you scream for me is fucking music to my ears,” I whisper. “I could never tire of you.”

Her chest heaves and her bottom lip trembles. If reality hadn’t already set in for her, it sure as fuck has now.

My awareness sharpens, and her soaked body molded perfectly into mine feels like two spinning gears connecting in perfect synchrony.

My cock swells as I become more aware of every inch of her, and I don’t possess an ounce of shame as my length presses into her stomach. The world around us ceases to exist, and the surrounding air shifts, a different sort of tension pressing in around us. It’s suffocating, heady, and fucking thrilling.

My stomach clenches, and my hands tingle with an overpowering need to both strangle her and bring her closer.

“You think I’d let anyone play with my little violin?” I ask, nearly snarling the words, though my voice is hushed. “You think I’d let anyone make you sing the way I do?”

Her brows pinch, revulsion twisting her face, but her eyes tell a different story. Anger and fear flicker, threatening to extinguish beneath the heavy blanket of electric heat that’s settled around us. Despite herself, they dip down to my lips, lingering for a second too long before she forces them up again. There isn’t a goddamn hint of disgust within them, even if she tries to make herself feel it.

My fingers drift down her chin, only to close around her throat, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. I have one hand on the back of her neck, one over the front.

It would be so fucking easy to snap it. Most times, I want to.

But just like an instrument, she would be beyond repair, and I would mourn the loss of my favorite music.

My stare drops to her lips again, my mind conjuring stains over the soft surface left behind by Bryan’s filthy mouth. In this moment, I need nothing more than to wipe them clean.

“You’ve let someone else touch you—stain you,” I rasp, shaking her ever so slightly.

Her breath rushes out of her faster, and though fury still fills her dilated eyes, the derision that once twisted her face has melted into carnality.

“I can’t play with you when you’re covered in the remnants of someone else,” I murmur.

She struggles to swallow beneath my palm, prompting me to tighten my grip.

I’m so fucking tired of her breathing when it feels like I never can.

Her stare dips to my mouth again, and the crease between her brows deepens before her eyes lift back up to mine. There’s a hint of confusion there now, maybe even disbelief.

“Then put me away,” she whispers.

I shake my head, the movement slight. “I think I’d rather rid you of him.”

Her gaze drops once more, a breath shuddering out of her, and I can't take it anymore. I swallow it as I crush my lips against hers, tasting her impurities before licking them away.

A low whimper clashes with my teeth, heightening the electric tension to a level that feels too powerful.

Then, she's ripping herself away with a gasp, and her palm whips across my cheek, a mixture of outrage, bewilderment, and lust polluting each breath out of her heaving chest.

The sharp burn only darkens my vision, sending me spiraling deeper into disarray. With a growl, my hand on her nape rises to fist her hair while the other squeezes her throat tighter as I jerk her back into me.

She resists, her hands pushing at my chest. Except she doesn't put an ounce of strength behind it, even as she breathlessly whines, “Kellan, stop.”

The effect of hearing my real name on her tongue is visceral. My balls draw up tight as a powerful surge of bliss shoots straight down my cock. It weakens my knees, and I come so fucking close to coming right there, enough to feel a large bead of pre-cum leak from the tip.

A whimper releases from my throat, and I have no choice but to taste my name. I need to know if it's as divine as it sounds.

I dive my tongue past her teeth again, and she lashes hers at me, as if to flick mine away. Still, she feeds me a small moan, and, combined with the sweet, fruit taste of a name she's forbidden to speak, euphoria shoots straight down my dick again.

I'm too close to erupting, and we've barely kissed.

This time, it's me who tears my mouth away with a tortured groan, but only an inch, our foreheads remaining pressed together.

I clench my jaw, needing her to be the one to retreat again. Except she doesn't, and my attempt to gather myself is fucking hopeless.

My brow furrows and my upper lip curls as I fight to remind myself who she is, but then our parted mouths brush, logic and reason become as tangible as air, and I’m no longer able to grasp it.

I don’t know if it’s her or me who shudders, but the proximity becomes too irresistible. A battle ensues, the two of us trading back and forth as the one who chases and the one who retreats, opposing forces fighting to stop ourselves yet incapable of parting completely.

I bare my teeth, another low growl rumbling in my chest. Desperately, I try to contain the ravenous urge to devour her, to consume her, to drink her in until I’m swallowing her very soul.

It coils around my bones and holds them hostage, commanding my body like a puppet. I’m a prisoner to it—helpless to resist. Another helpless whimper releases from my throat, and I physically can’t restrain myself anymore. Relenting, I crash into her again, diving my tongue between her sweet lips once more.

Her hands fist my drenched shirt, though with the way she drifts between pushing and pulling, she can’t seem to decide which to do. She’s as conflicted as I am, yet any rationality seeps into the water surrounding us, there to float, just out of reach.

My hand around her throat moves to slide along the side of her jaw, granting me more control as I ravage her mouth.

Any lingering hesitation dissipates, and I’m enraptured by her sweet taste, a fruity mint flavor, as if she was chewing gum recently, and a hint of salt from the chlorine. It’s fucking exquisite, like nectar harvested from a god’s kingdom, and I’m instantly addicted.

Nails rake against either side of my neck, sharp pinpricks strumming against my nerves. Like plucking a string at the perfect tune, it sends rhapsodic vibrations down my spine.

She uses her grip to climb my body, prompting me to release the side of her jaw and circle my arm around her back, lifting her against me until her legs wrap around my hips.

The added height allows me to explore her deeper, using my hold on her hair to direct the angle of her head. She obeys without resistance, her muscles soft and pliable as she sinks into me and lets me dominate her.

But rather than the depth of her sweet mouth satiating the desire pumping through my bloodstream, it only antagonizes it, prods at it like a fire poker until it takes on a form of its own and shapes into a beast.

I can’t get enough, and with each passing second, I only grow hungrier. She mewls when I nip at her bottom lip, dragging it between my teeth and sucking harshly. The sound shoots straight to my cock, and fuck, it is so much sexier than I imagined. She retaliates by digging her nails deeper into my skin and rolling her hips, her jean-clad pussy riding the length of my dick and evoking breathtaking pleasure. A growl vibrates my throat as I release her lip, only to moan around her tongue when they collide at the same moment she grinds against me again, my knees weakening from the potency.

I need more. So much fucking more.

I’m seconds away from tearing at her clothes when the sound of a door bursting open rips her lips away instead.

The sound is explosive and sends her flying out of my arms like a frightened cat.

Partially dazed and partially pissed the fuck off, I peer over my shoulder as a group of students filters in. They send inquisitive glances our way, and it’s obvious they’re tuned in and paying close attention.

Snarling, I refocus on Rev, only to find her already at the other end of the pool, pulling herself out of the water, her jacket in hand.

I quickly turn and make my way out as well, but by the time I’m shoving my feet back in my shoes, she’s slipping out the door and bolting.

Fuck!

I bite on a fist, an array of emotions lashing through me, but at the forefront is frustration.

Growling, I turn back toward the pool, noticing a small black square at the bottom of it. I squint, realizing after a beat that it’s Reverie’s phone.

Quickly, I toe off my shoes again, hop back in, grab it, then climb out, angrily shoving my feet back in them and snatching up my coat.

“Is that how you got so good? Swimming in your clothes?” a guy calls out, giving me an eager look like he’s considering trying it himself.

I had already forgotten they were here, but the three of them just stand there and stare at me.

I turn and walk toward the door, not sparing them another glance.

Reverie knows running from me is useless, but I don’t mind following the music. I’m not even fucking close to being finished playing with her.

CHAPTER 10

REVERIE

Sable: Are you texting me from the bottom of the pool?

Iroll my eyes. She’s such a smart-ass.

Me: I got a new phone this morning, dick.

This is what happens when I tell Sable all about a stupid mistake that led to my phone shipwrecked somewhere at the bottom of a pool—at least, I think it is. It sure as hell wasn’t in my jacket pocket after I scampered out of it like a drowned fucking rat two days ago.

I chew on my thumbnail, struggling to concentrate on the lecture as my forensic science professor, Dr. Camry, drones on.

Anxiety has curled up like a stray cat and nestled in the black pit in my stomach since I woke up this morning and realized it’s February 5th.

Unbeknownst to Dread and the rest of the world, the Locksmith is being released from prison today.

And the only thing keeping me somewhat distracted from that very daunting fact is the memory of Dread’s tongue shoved down my throat, which is only a hairsbreadth less vomit-inducing to think about.

Sable: Still not too late to get that restraining order.

She already knows I won’t, though.

I tossed around the idea for a long time, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, especially because there’s a sense of responsibility for the way Dread’s life turned out. If I were to go through with it, it would only destroy it further.

The moment the media would find out I have a restraining order against Dreadful Sharpe, they’d eat him alive. He would lose brand deals and endorsements, and even if they allowed him to participate in the next Olympics, his sins would overshadow his victories.

As much as I loathe his existence, he’s already lost so much because of my family, and I can’t bring myself to take yet another precious thing from him, even if the asshole deserves it.

I’m too goddamn nice.

Me: He’d just think I was flirting with him.

A sickening feeling twists my gut. I gave him a lot more of a reason to think I was flirting than a restraining order would.

Which is exactly why I’ve gone out of my way to avoid him since. I even skipped ancient history yesterday so I didn’t have to see him.

So, I’m hiding from him.

Again.

The first time, I was reeling from learning about Roxi and truly did not have the mental capacity to deal with Dread.

This time… I still don’t. But now, it’s because the only thing I can focus on is how his body felt against mine with his dick grinding between my legs, his tongue shoved down my throat. And fucking hell, the sounds he made echo in my head like ghostly screams in a haunted house.

Why my stupid-ass brain decided making out with him was even remotely acceptable, I’ll never know. But what I do know is that I’m a fucking dumbass for allowing it to happen. Not only that, but I feel like I completely betrayed myself.

He's been tormenting me for years, and kissing me is the absolute lowest he's ever gone. He doesn't get to treat me like absolute shit and then shove his tongue down my throat the second he gets a fucking tickle in his pickle.

There are plenty of women he can choose from to take care of that problem for him. Why the fuck would he choose me? And why the fuck did I let him?

Especially after terrorizing me with those girls and forcing me to lie in a grave while they threw dirt on me.

God, I can't even say I hate him. Now, I just hate myself.

I didn’t even know he returned from his trip until I saw him storming up to Luke and me, looking every bit the psychopath he is.

I wasn’t prepared to see him, and when he started acting like he had some weird-ass claim over me, I wanted to prove to him he doesn’t get to control me.

Yeah, that ended really fucking swell, didn't it?

Idiot.

All my regret has fused to my skin like a skin tag. I’ve tried over and over to justify it, but they all fall flat. There is no justification for letting the beast maul me—or for humping him like a sex-deprived succubus.

My stomach flips from that particular memory, and I quickly shove it away before the heat returns to my blood. I do not need that man having any more of a hold on me than he already does. It’s bad enough that he pushed me into a pool and somehow made me forget about my terror within minutes.

How dare he invalidate years of trauma with a single kiss?

I should’ve just bitten his tongue off while I had the chance.

A complete missed opportunity for real vengeance.

Sable: Pretty sure your tongue flirted with him plenty, whore.

Bitch.

I’m so kicking her in the vagina when I see her at work tonight.

Just as I start typing out a message to let her know exactly that, a sudden silence descends over the room. It’s stark enough to lure my attention away from my phone and to the source standing at the door.

I immediately look away, trying to decide if the universe is working against me, because how the fuck did my worst nightmare materialize just like that?

Dread casually saunters into the room, and just that easily, he suctions all the oxygen out of it.

“Mr. Sharpe?” Dr. Camry questions, his thick black brows furrowing in confusion.

Of course, the professor knows Dread—everyone does—despite having no business being in this class.

“Sorry to interrupt, Doctor. I came across your article in The New York Times, the one diving into the psyche of serial killers, and I found it so enlightening. I’ve been wanting to listen to a lecture of yours since. Hope you don’t mind.”

Dr. Camry’s eyes light up from the compliment, and my heart picks up speed, as if it's desperately searching for a way to get us out of here.

“Of course. Take a seat anywhere you’d like.”

In a room of over two hundred students, Dread’s stare scans the sea of bodies for all of ten seconds before they find mine. It instantly makes me sick, having his attention on me.

The energy between us is poignant, and naturally, several pairs of eyes follow the trajectory of his gaze, landing on me before flickering back to him.

I force my focus back to my laptop screen, despising that he grew up to be a goddamn prodigy. If it were anyone else, Dr. Camry might not have appreciated him crashing his lecture midway through. But Dread? He’s special. He can get away with anything.

Each time he proves rules don’t apply to him here, the more I feel like I’ve found myself in the center of a maze built purely for Dread’s entertainment. No matter where I run and where I find an escape, the exit will always lead straight back to him.

Whispers rise, students murmuring to one another as he makes his way toward me. There isn’t a single chair open surrounding me, but I already know that won’t matter.

I close my eyes when Dread stops next to my row and spears the guy sitting to my left with his ice-blue stare. I think his name is Stanley, and while we’ve been sitting next to one another since the semester began, we’ve never spoken more than a handful of words. My reputation precedes me no matter where I go, and he’s yet another person who avoids me at all costs.

Dread says nothing, and after a few awkward beats of Stanley shifting uncomfortably, glancing around and searching for some type of direction, he relents. Quickly, he gathers his laptop and stands with a sigh.

He sweeps a hand toward his vacated chair. “Would you like my seat?” he offers, mumbling the words with barely concealed annoyance.

The corners of Dread’s mouth curl upward, imitating the Cheshire cat.

He’s evil. Pure evil.

“Why, I’d love to. Thank you for offering.”

He claps a palm on Stanley’s shoulder, who wastes no time flying down the steps to find himself a new seat.

Dread’s presence is suffocating as he sits beside me, his scent clogging my sinuses. I’m convinced hell doesn’t smell like sulfur and brimstone, but amber and sandalwood, an aroma concocted specifically to bring endless torment upon anyone unfortunate enough to inhale it.

My stare bores into my laptop screen, and I bite my tongue, refraining from demanding he leave. After a few more stilted beats of silence, the entire room’s attention on us, Dr. Camry resumes his lecture. Slowly, the rest of the class returns half of their focus to the lesson, though many heads periodically turn in our direction, checking to see if he’s chopped off my head yet, maybe pulled a classic Mike Tyson and bit my ear off.

Instead, he keeps silent. The tension surrounding us is as ominous as an asteroid entering Earth’s orbit. The impending destruction is looming, and it’s not about if it’ll strike, but when.

Soon, people grow bored with the lack of entertainment, and they’re all sucked back into procedures for conducting forensic examinations, though I'm incapable of fully relaxing.

With stiff fingers, I attempt to take notes, but my brain can only comprehend half of Dr. Camry’s words.

Every tiny movement Dread makes, I’m zeroed in and on high alert, expecting each time to be when he finally strikes.

But ten minutes pass, then twenty, and eventually, only fifteen minutes remain. I haven’t absorbed a single word, and my muscles are growing sore from the constant tensing.

I swear to fuck, if I get a hit with a pop quiz on this lecture, I’m going to riot. Maybe after class, I’ll ask the girl to my right, Mira, for her notes. We don’t speak much, either, but she’s friendly enough, and there have been a few times she shared them if I missed class.

Though right now, she deliberately points her knees away from me, nearly giving me her entire back.

She’s literally giving me a cold shoulder.

Goddammit. I can’t have anything nice.

“Isn’t it crazy to think the forensic scientists who worked on your father’s cases listened to this very same lecture?” he asks quietly, his tone teetering between amusement and curiosity.

I startle at his sudden words, and I loathe the satisfaction I’m certain he feels because of it.

I bite my tongue again, set on ignoring him.

“I’ve always thought having a deeper understanding of forensic science would make someone a better serial killer, don’t you think? They’d know all the evidence not to leave behind.”

I know what the dickhead is implying, but I have no interest in entertaining him.

So, I type out another note, hoping he doesn’t notice how many times I misspell the word ‘preservation’ but already knowing he did. I don’t want him to know he’s succeeded in making me anxious, but the tips of my fingers have gone numb from anxiety, and I’m struggling to remember if the American version of ‘analyze’ is spelled with an S or a Z. I’m pretty sure it’s a Z.

“Didn’t take you for that type of woman,” he drawls, a hint of amusement in his tone. “But if you beg real pretty for me, I'll help you out.”

I give him a weird look, but when he only stares at my screen, I follow his line of sight and instantly realize what he means.

Fuck, why the hell did I stop typing after ‘anal’ while trying to figure it out? It's been on the screen for at least twenty goddamn seconds.

“Shut up,” I mutter, feigning indifference while I quickly type the remaining letters.

My heart is thumping too fast, but there are only eleven minutes left of class.

You can make it.

“Have you learned about toxicology reports yet? I would’ve loved to know what mine looked like a few weeks ago after you snuck out of my bed,” he continues casually.

My eyes widen, and I glance around to ensure no one heard him. The asshole is going to make people think we slept together, for fuck’s sake.

“But I’m sure you don’t need a report to know what was in my system, do you, darling?”

I work to swallow, staring at Dr. Camry hard enough to laser a crater into the side of his balding head. Heat blooms across the back of my neck, and, within seconds, sweat forms along my hairline.

I’ve been waiting for him to bring it up again. He said he wouldn’t let it go in the pool house, and, of course, there’s never retribution without confrontation first.

“Don’t call me that,” I mumble, attempting to shift the conversation from my crime.

It’s fruitless, though.

He’ll never let it go. I could’ve killed him or, at the very least, destroyed his career.

It doesn’t matter that he nearly killed me first. It only matters that I gave him a taste of his own medicine.

Literally.

But if Dread can prove I drugged him, it would be very easy for him to turn the tables by getting me expelled and destroying my entire life instead.

I never had much of one after the wreckage Lionel left behind, but I managed to scrape together the broken pieces and assemble them into somewhat of a decent existence.

Nothing about it has been fulfilling, though.

At least not yet. Once I get my degree, I can give victims all the tools needed to do more than build a macabre rendition of a life from their brokenness. Instead, they’ll smooth out the serrated edges of those pieces and create something beautiful.

Except I will never get that opportunity if Dread decides to take shit another step further. And the most fucked-up part is, even though he doesn’t have proof, he doesn’t need proof.

This school will give him what my parents deprived him of as a kid.

Someone to believe him.

“Isn’t that how I show my devotion to you?” he asks with faux innocence.

“The only thing you’re devoted to is making my life miserable,” I grumble.

“I’m just making up for lost time,” he drawls lazily. “I think your life was a little too easy for my liking until I came around.”

Oh my God, he’s fucking insufferable.

My cheeks burn with irritation, and for half a second, I come close to slapping the shit out of him.

“You know nothing,” I snap, just barely keeping my voice hushed.

He leans toward me, the short sleeve of his gray T-shirt allowing his bare skin to brush mine. I suppress a shiver and force myself to stay still, lest he think I’m cowering from him. His proximity stirs up memories I’m still struggling to keep from the forefront of my mind.

Hot breath fans across my ear, and again, I shove down another shiver.

“I know you drugged me,” he murmurs, his tone dipping seductively. “I also know what your pretty tits look like, and that you keep yourself bare between your thighs. What your tongue feels like wrapped around mine. What it sounds like when you moan for me as you grind against my cock. And how sweet your mouth tastes after you say my name. It’s almost as sweet as your tears.”

My face burns hotter with each word, and my lungs tighten into strings, refusing to take in oxygen despite how hard I try to force it into them.

“I didn’t drug you,” I lie, pointedly ignoring the rest while also internally berating myself for how breathless I sound. “I dressed in the cold, wet clothing you stripped me out of, and then I left.”

He hums, clearly not believing my bullshit for a second, but I’m certainly not stupid enough to admit to my crimes. Or, at least, not the ones that could land me in jail.

“I did attempt to hack into your phone,” I continue, shrugging a shoulder with forced nonchalance. “But you can’t blame me for trying.”

He’s quiet, though his stare burning into the side of my face demands every bit of my attention.

“I can blame you for a lot of things,” he says finally.

“Add pressing charges against you for revenge porn to the list, should you ever show anyone that video,” I quip, forcing boredom into my tone as I boldly meet his stare. “Everyone will know it’s you based on the dates you wrote all over me.”

“You want to discuss crimes, baby?” he challenges. “What about the white residue at the bottom of my Gatorade? I still have plenty of bottles you tapped, and all it takes is showing them the metadata of that picture to prove you were there that night.”

I shrug nonchalantly. “Doesn’t prove I actually did it. You could’ve done it yourself to frame me.”

He chuckles devilishly, light impressions of his dimples forming above his cheeks.

I hate them.

They’re incredibly ugly. So is his face.

His heart, too.

“Who are they going to believe, darling? You or me?”

My upper lip twitches into a snarl, barely containing myself from punching him. I’ll happily create new dents in his face that’ll actually make him ugly.

With great effort, I force myself to face forward instead, refusing to take the bait and let him rile me up. He wants me to react, and I’ve done enough reacting without thinking where he’s concerned.

“That could’ve ruined my entire career,” he continues, his tone turning serious once more.

“You sure it wasn’t one of your conquests?” I query.

“I don’t bring women into my room,” he bites out.

“You brought me into it.”

Another soft chuckle, and the sinister sound slithers through my ear canal before making its way down my throat, leaving an oily residue in its wake.

“Baby, we both know you’re no woman. More like a cockroach.”

I try to ignore how those cruel words materialize into a fist and clench around my heart, along with the sharp, stabbing pain that follows suit.

I notch my chin an inch toward him and pin him with a glare. He hit the target he intended, so I shove that hurt down and focus on my anger instead. But it’s hard when he’s close enough for me to make out the dark blue rings around his irises, or that his lips are mere centimeters from mine.

I’ve had e-fucking-nough of those lips.

“There are no cockroaches without filth,” I hiss. “And you’ve already proven that you have no issue sticking your tongue down my throat, so what does that make you?”

One corner of his lips curls wolfishly, just enough to hint at those dimples around his eyes again.

A loud clap snaps me out of the trancelike state I’ve fallen into. I hadn’t realized the entire world disappeared around us, and the sharp sound sends me barreling back to reality with a harsh shove.

But I refuse to remove my glare from Dread, which only seems to amuse him more.

“Okay, folks, that’s it for today. Don’t forget to submit your articles by the end of next week.”

I hear Dr. Camry’s voice, followed by the rustle of students closing their laptops and gathering their papers, then the scrape of metal legs against the thin carpet.

Even so, I hold his gaze.

You should never turn your back to an undomesticated beast.

“It took me a full day to sleep off the meds,” he tells me quietly, his gaze dipping to my lips before returning to my eyes. The briefest of flickers, yet it instantly sets the acid in my stomach aflame. Heat is supposed to rise, but instead, it’s pooling lower and lower until it works its way down between my legs. Those flickers of memories of his tongue licking mine are more vivid and insistent, making them harder to ignore.

He raises his hand to brush his knuckles across my cheekbone softly, evoking a static charge that has me bristling.

“All I dreamed about was you.”

I can’t tell if it’s condescension or reverence in his tone, but both easily trigger my flight instinct. Whatever is keeping me glued to my chair is deteriorating, and the need to run strengthens.

As if sensing that, Dread allows his stare to drop to my lips once more, though the journey back to my eyes is slow and deliberate. My heart flips when they reach their destination.

“You never needed to drug me, darling. If you wanted to fuck with my system, all you had to do was say my name.”

My mouth parts, shock and confusion battling for my attention. I’m frozen solid as he pulls away in one sweep, there and gone in an instant.

When I finally manage to blink myself out of the stupor he shoved me into, I turn my head to glance around.

Only Dr. Camry is there to meet my stunned gaze.

“Is there a reason you’re still here, Ms. Adams?”

CHAPTER 11

REVERIE

“All you had to do was say my name.”

Those nine words have haunted me since he uttered them yesterday. He disappeared afterward, and I haven’t seen him since.

It’s now nine o’clock at night, and I’ve only just finished my shift at the funeral home. I spent my morning attempting to work on homework, but I ended up typing out those stupid words more often than anything related to forensic science. Eventually, I gave up, took a nap, and went to work.

But even Sable couldn’t distract me.

She made a great effort to pry out what had me so distracted, even going so far as to threaten me with her scalpel, but I refused to release them into the world.

I don’t know what the fuck he meant, but even worse, I don’t know why the hell every time I replay it in my head, my stomach flutters.

With a tired groan, I lean heavily against the inside of my door and sloppily kick off my black kitten heels. My job requires me to dress nicely, and those shoes are the worst thing to happen to my feet since I learned to walk.

Today has been mentally draining. When Dread’s voice wasn’t plaguing me, his impending retaliation was. And when that wasn’t on my mind, Lionel being out on the streets somewhere was.

Not to mention the recurring nightmare plaguing me every night, where I'm convinced I'm back in that fucking grave again, a long root forming a noose around my throat, anchoring me down into the dirt. Standing all around the grave were the walking dead girls, throwing dirt on me while chanting the names of the known Locksmith victims.

I've never been able to sleep well, but these past few weeks have been particularly bad. The only time I managed to shift my focus to work was when a man came in to see his wife, the mother of the twin boys clinging to his legs. He wanted to create a special moment where they put their most prized possessions in her casket to be buried with her.

She passed from breast cancer, and Sable had made her look nearly identical to her old self, before the disease ravaged her body.

We set up her casket in a viewing room with a stool beside it so the twins could climb up and put their toys beside her themselves. Neither was old enough to fully comprehend their mommy wouldn’t be returning.

One boy kept shaking her, attempting to wake her up, and despite the father repeatedly explaining she wasn’t going to, the boy insisted on trying, anyway. Though the man stayed gentle and patient, with each passing second, the life drained from his eyes, and the fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth caved in a little deeper.

Especially when the boy grew frustrated and slammed his tiny fist into her arm, yelling at her to wake up. At that point, the father hurriedly tucked their toys into her side out of sight and ushered them out of the building, face flushed red with both distress and embarrassment. An attempt at a special moment became an awful memory, and all he could do was mutter how stupid of an idea it was under his breath.

I’ve witnessed thousands of families break in different ways, but for whatever reason, today’s incident clung to my skin like wet fabric.

It broke my heart.

And it left me feeling more raw and vulnerable than usual. I’ve built walls around myself to prevent those occurrences from burrowing beneath my skin. But between Dread and Lionel, they’ve become fragile and pathetic.

I’m just so tired.

It’s as if Earth’s gravity has strengthened, weighing my bones down. I want nothing more than to give in to it, collapse to the floor, and curl up like a crumpled piece of paper.

Instead, I force myself to strip and redress into shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Then, I quickly brush my teeth and trudge to my bed, prepared to crash the second my head hits the pillow.

An exciting prospect that shrivels and dies the second my eyes land on a small piece of paper folded in half, lying atop my comforter. Beside it is what looks like a bright pink barrette, but that makes no fucking sense.

I freeze, my blood running cold while my heart flies up my throat. For several moments, I stare at them hard to ensure it’s not a hallucination. Because they definitely were not there when I left for work earlier.

Panic immediately floods my bloodstream, nearly drowning me in it.

Fuck.

Someone was in my room.

It has to be Dread. The fucker’s broken into my room more times than I care to know.

It’s probably a prelude to whatever bullshit he’s planned.

Except, my instincts are screeching a different tune—one I don’t know how to make sense of yet. My muscles are solid stone as I slowly peer over my shoulder, studying every inch of my room to ensure he's no longer here. Logically, I know there’s nowhere to hide, yet it still feels like eyes are watching my every move.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I face my bed again and cautiously approach the note and hair clip as if they're squirming bugs. With trembling fingers, I pick up the barrette first, twisting the pink metal in my fingers with a frown. It's unfamiliar, and I have no fucking idea what it's supposed to mean. Swallowing thickly, I set it down and pick up the note next before unfolding it.

The blocky handwriting is unfamiliar, and there’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. Only one person has ever called me Angel. 

The last time I heard it was when I was thirteen, standing across the table from him in the prison’s visitation room.

My mom and I saw him every week, but the older I got, the more I understood Lionel for who he was, and the less I wanted to be there. I wasn’t very good at hiding it, though.

Mom spent half the time crying, as she always did, while I silently stared at my fidgeting hands in my lap, only speaking when spoken to.

Our time was up, and I was anxious to go home. But when I turned to leave, he called out for me. I met eyes with the monster in our shed.

“Do you remember your promise?”

I nod.

“You know what happens if you break it?”

I nod again.

“Prison changes nothing. You know Daddy has friends.”

This time, I can only swallow.

He grins, but it doesn’t make me feel comforted. “Bring a smile next time, Angel. I miss you, but I won’t have to miss you forever.”

That was the last time I saw him, but I can hear his voice as clearly as if it were yesterday. It terrified me then, just as it does now. Even at thirteen, I knew he kept a monster hidden beneath the thin veil covering his saccharine words.

The next week, I refused to go. It led to a massive fight with my mom, but I was too old to physically force into the car, and no amount of threats convinced me. So, she went without me from thereon, visiting every single week like clockwork until she took her own life.

“I miss you, but I won’t have to miss you forever.”

And he was right, because it would appear today is the day he no longer has to.

My vision blurs, and my pumping chest caves in, burying my lungs beneath the rubble and rendering it impossible to breathe.

I could vomit. I could cry. I could die right here on the spot, and my soul would rejoice.

Oddly, there’s a part of me still in disbelief, unable to conceptualize a reality where my father is out of prison. Free.

Yet, I’m holding definitive proof he is. Yesterday was his release, and no one else knows about that goddamn nickname except my mother.

But… how is he here already? Did he seriously get approval from his parole officer to leave the state the same day and then drove straight here?

It’s about a twelve-hour drive from Silent Mist to HCU, so it’s feasible, but…

Fucking hell.

He’s actually fucking here.

The note slips from my fingers, and both palms dive into my hair, my fingers tangling with the strands and squeezing them tight until my scalp pricks with pain.

Lionel didn’t just find me. He was in my room.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Panic completely takes over, and the world blinks out for a moment.

Then, I’m on my knees, my arms crossed over my stomach, hands gripping my shirt in tight fists as I bend forward, pressing my forehead into the thin carpet. My head swims, and black spots fill my vision. I’ve no recollection of collapsing, nor of several stints of time after.

The only thing I’m aware of is my inability to breathe.

My chest refuses to expand, no matter how loud my lungs scream for it to. I’m no longer in the driver’s seat of my body. Now, I’m in the back, forced to watch as it loses function, helpless to stop it, to stop myself from careening over a proverbial bridge and slamming into the black waters below. Helpless to stop the water from filling my lungs and preventing me from taking a breath. I’m helpless to it all.

To my father.

To Dread.

They sit on either side of me, staring at me with evil smirks on their faces as they watch me drown. Instead of helping me, they strap me down with a seat belt, ensuring I never escape.

Because that’s my reality.

I will never escape them.

My body pitches sideways, and I land heavily on my side. It’s enough to jostle my body out of its self-imposed paralysis, allowing me to take a single breath.

I inhale deeply, the sound loud and strained. Oxygen floods my lungs, expanding them painfully and causing me to curl deeper into myself. Of its own accord, it greedily takes in another sip of air, and another, until my chest is pumping too quickly.

I see nothing, hear nothing, as I tremble violently. I’m no longer sure if I’m shaking or having a seizure, but my consciousness is incapable of stopping it from happening. All I can do is ride it out.

Eventually, my extremities slowly relax while my vision creeps back in. My face, fingers, and feet tingle with numbness, but my breathing is evening out.

By the time I regain control over myself again, my stomach continues to roll with nausea, and tears have soaked my cheeks, plastering strands of hair to them. My upper back aches, feeling as if my lungs are constricting around a rock with every inhale.

I’m given no further warning before my stomach lurches, and vomit rises. I’m scrambling to my feet and into the connected half bath in my dorm. My knees hit the tile with a crack, but I feel nothing outside of the awful pain of purging my stomach into the bowl. The little amount of lunch I ate earlier comes right back up, then nothing but bile.

For several long minutes, I dry heave, having nothing left to give despite my body demanding I expel more. I’m happy to spit out every one of my organs as long as it puts me out of this misery.

Finally, my body calms, and I spend an indistinguishable amount of time with my head on my propped-up arm, my world spinning, just trying to breathe. I have no energy left, but I scrounge up just enough to coerce my muscles to stand and take the two steps over to the sink, squeeze a dollop of toothpaste onto my brush, and scrub my tongue and teeth, leaning heavily on the porcelain as I do. If I die, I refuse to go out tasting vomit in my mouth.

Then, I convince my legs to carry me back into the room and collapse on my bed. Sloppily, I pat around the mattress until my palm slaps my phone where I haphazardly threw it before getting changed.

I’m unable to see a damn thing I’m doing until I rub the tears from my eyes and quickly find Barry’s contact number.

The phone rings and rings before going to voicemail.

“Fuck,” I mutter beneath my breath, hanging up and instantly redialing. My other hand flies to my North Star necklace, anxiously sliding it back and forth on the chain.

It’s nearly midnight in California, but I know for a fact that man always has his ringer on high, just in case he gets called in.

Just when I think it’s going to go to voicemail again, his voice comes through the speaker.

“Rev? Is everything okay?”

Within four words, it went from riddled with sleep to alert.

“No,” I choke out, fresh tears bubbling out of my eyes. I sniff heavily and wipe away the excess snot leaking from my nose with the back of my hand.

“What happened?” he barks.

“Barry, he’s here,” I cry.

“What?” he barks. “What the fuck do you mean he’s there?” In the background, bedsheets rustle, along with Brenda’s soft voice asking what’s wrong. “Lionel’s in Colorado and found Rev,” he mutters to her before returning to our conversation, and demanding, “Tell me everything.”

“I-I just came home from work, like, twenty minutes ago,” I start, my voice cracking. “And there was th-this random pink barrette and a note on my bed. I don't even know where the hell the hair clip is from. I-I don't know if it used to be mine as a kid? I don't fucking know! But he…” I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to compose myself as tears leak past the seal of my eyelashes and trail down my cheeks in rivulets.

“He what?” he snaps impatiently, though I know his anger isn’t directed toward me. He’s one of the few people in this world who actually gives a shit.

“He said he missed me and he has my bedroom ready for my arrival.” The words taste like gasoline, and if I had a match, I’d happily set my tongue aflame to never have to speak them again.

“Fuck,” he hisses beneath his breath. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

“How did this happen? How did his parole officer let him leave the state already?”

“Sweetheart, I-I don’t know, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Can you stay with Sable tonight? I don’t want you in those dorms until I’ve alerted risk management and they move you somewhere else.”

I feel like vomiting again, but I manage to swallow it down.

“Yeah, I’ll see if I can stay with her,” I mumble, my bones suddenly weighed down with exhaustion. Whatever energy I possessed seems to have dissipated like smoke, and I feel even more tired than when I first walked in.

I hear a beep, and I look at my screen to see Sable calling, as if I summoned her spirit. I go to message her to tell her I’ll call her back, but Barry distracts me.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay, sweetheart, all right? I’ll get on the first flight there⁠—”

“No, please don’t,” I cut in earnestly. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

“Sweetheart, with all due respect, I'm a goddamn FBI agent and can handle that motherfucker just fine. I’ve been chomping at the bit to kill him myself for years. All the bodies we’ve found—” He cuts himself off abruptly, and I know he’s trying to gather himself. He lets out a harsh breath. “That is a sick, sick man, and I know you know that already. I will happily die protecting you, but God willing, Reverie, I will bring that son of a bitch down with me.”

My chin trembles, and more tears spill down my face. A massive headache is forming, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I was so fucking stupid to have any hope college would be what I needed to start living again.

I came here just to have one man dig my grave, and the other throw me back in it.

“The entire campus knows who my father is because of Dread,” I say before inhaling a shuddering breath. “I thought I was going to get to start over, be someone else, but I’m still Charlotte here. She never got to have a life, and Dread made sure it stayed that way—that I stayed a ghost. And now, Lionel just might make that a reality. Fuck, Barry, I shouldn’t have even gone to college. I⁠—”

“No, don’t do that. We already talked about this, Rev. Lionel has already taken so much from you. He doesn’t get to take your future, too. He doesn’t get to stop you from living your goddamn life and being a normal fucking kid. He got out nearly two decades sooner than he was supposed to. None of this is your fault.”

I shake my head, jostling out a few more tears.

“And I’m happy to take care of that little prick, too,” he continues, his voice rising. “You would have a solid case against him if you’d press charges. That pretty face of his will serve him just fine while he’s rotting behind bars.”

He’s wanted to handle Dread since he started terrorizing me, but I refused to let him get involved. Barry knows only the surface of what Dread has put me through over the years, but I’ve purposely kept most of it to myself, lest Barry take matters into his own hands, regardless of my wishes.

We both know Dread hurts me because he’s hurt, and I feel responsible for handling him myself when it’s my family that ruined him. This endless loathing between Dread and me is just that—between Dread and me.

I sigh, the pounding in my head worsening.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Barry. Dread is the least of my worries, and it’s done and over with. Lionel found me.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s my turn to find him,” Barry growls. “Dread goes to that goddamn school, too, and with him being the family of a victim, Lionel shouldn’t have even been granted approval to go there. God, he—fuck!” He stumbles over his words, his anger taking over any coherent train of thought.

“Sweetheart, relax. Your blood pressure,” Brenda admonishes gently in the background.

Barry heaves out a harsh exhale to calm himself, instinctively listening to his wife without a second thought.

“Maybe they let him come here to see Roxi,” I mumble.

“That’s bullshit,” he spits, but he knows it’s a possibility.

Lionel may not be allowed on HCU’s campus, but that doesn’t mean all of Colorado is off-limits. It doesn’t even make Hollow Canyon off-limits. And as sickening as it is, Roxi gives him the perfect excuse to be here.

Barry knows this, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a really hard fucking pill to swallow.

“Can I get a protective order against him? Or at least a temporary one? Will that help?” I ask.

Barry sighs. “They’ll give you a temporary order without issue, but you’re still required to set a court date to prove he’s a danger to you. There needs to be hard evidence he’s threatening or harassing you. Until he does, a court won’t grant a permanent order just because you want one.”

I close my eyes in defeat.

“If his parole officer granted him a temp permit to leave, Lionel is required to tell them exactly where he plans to be and who he’ll be with before they approve it,” Barry continues. “They are extremely strict, and deviating from those plans is taken very seriously. So if we can prove he violated his parole by going on campus, he will go back to prison quicker than he can shit in a proper toilet.”

I refuse to feel any hope.

Not even a pin drop.

Because deep down, Barry knows as well as I do nothing is ever that easy where Lionel D’Amour is concerned.

“Call Sable and tell her you need to stay with her,” Barry instructs, his tone soothing. “Don’t drive to her in case Lionel knows your car and is tracking it. Don’t let anyone else know where you are. I’m getting an officer there right away, and he’s going to take you to her place and keep watch overnight. Got it?”

I nod, forgetting he can’t see me.

“Rev?” he pushes.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” I rush out quickly, my voice hoarse and throat raw.

“Okay, sweetheart. In the meantime, I’m going to contact his parole officer and figure out what the fuck is going on. I’ll text you, and you better let me know when you’re there safe, okay?”

“Okay.”

I’m so out of it, I just stare at the wall blankly for a few beats before I hear him gently say, “Hang up now, honey.”

Blinking, I whisper a goodbye and click the end button, already arguing with myself about calling Sable.

As much as the idea of staying in my dorm makes me want to vomit, the last thing I want to do is put my best friend in danger. Even with an officer driving me there, I don’t trust my father isn’t somehow watching my every move, and I’m not stupid enough to convince myself he can’t track down her place.

If he can find my exact dorm room, he can find my best friend’s house.

“Shit,” I mutter, conflicted with what the fuck to do.

My phone buzzes, and a text from Barry pops up.

Barry: Officer Nichols is on his way to you now. Pack a bag for a few nights.

And then what?

Lionel still knows where I sleep, and even if the residence life director relocates me to a different building, what’s stopping him from finding me there? This all just feels so… pointless. Running from a man who doesn’t give a fuck about abiding by the law is fucking pointless.

You could still leave. Run off to London and never look back.

But I would look back. I would check the news religiously, just waiting for Roxi’s face to pop up one day, breaking news of a college student brutally murdered by the Locksmith.

And because the murders never fully stopped after Lionel went to prison, the media will be none the wiser when he kills again. To the world, it’ll look like business as fucking usual—the Locksmith has struck again.

My fingers continue to toy with my North Star necklace, Barry’s words echoing in my mind. Before I’ve fully wrapped my mind around what I’m doing, I reach behind my neck, unclasp the chain, and set it down on my nightstand.

I feel naked and exposed without it, but for the first time, I don’t want to be Barry’s North Star. Not right now. Not when I'm lying to him about where I'll be. It's because I know how stupid I'm being that I can't wear that necklace.

I’ll get an Uber to a hotel instead, so at least if Lionel finds me, I’m not endangering anyone else.

But before I can pull up the web browser to book one, I see a plethora of text messages.

Shit, Sable called.

I had already forgotten about it, so I swipe down on my notifications, only to glimpse a text of her freaking out over someone being there.

My blood runs cold, and I immediately go into another panic. Fuck, I’m such an idiot! What if my father’s there? He could’ve found out about her and is going to use her to get to me.

It’s been ten minutes since she first called, which means he could already fucking have her.

Heart pounding and hands trembling, I go to hit call, but a call from her pops up on my screen first.

I rush to answer. “Sable? Are you⁠—”

“What the hell is Dread doing?” she rushes out, her tone on edge and fiery.

I sputter for a moment, my brain trying to process the whiplash of going from panic to confusion in a matter of seconds.

“Uh, wh-what?” I stutter, completely thrown off. “What do you mean?”

“His stupid-ass friend broke into the home and is harassing m— Don’t fucking touch that, you idiot!”

My mouth hangs open, utterly bewildered, while something metallic clatters in the background, followed by a low, amused murmur. Oftentimes, Sable stays past closing to work, so it’s no surprise she’s still there.

But what the fuck is Dread's friend doing there?

Sable exhales heavily. “He scared the shit out of me,” she says, considerably quieter, her tone steeped in vulnerability. “He said he was here on Dread’s behalf, and made it sound like you were in trouble. I was texting and calling, but you weren’t answering.”

“Wha— Wait a fucking second. Who? Which friend?” I stammer, my heart picking up speed once again.

“The one with the stupid-ass name—Rogue,” she answers, growling his name with distaste.

“Damn, it sounds sexy when you say it like that,” Rogue teases in the background.

Sable descends into a furious tirade in Spanish while my head spins.

Did Dread send Rogue there to distract her? Or is he there to draw me out of my dorm?

I close my eyes, defeated, exhausted, and a prisoner to the headache squeezing my brain.

All I know is he has something planned for me tonight. And no matter what it is, it’s going to wreck my already fragile sanity.

“I can’t deal with this,” I mutter, swiping a hand through my hair and getting to my feet. I rush to my dresser and quickly rustle through a drawer, pulling out a sweatshirt and leggings.

Adrenaline is steadily releasing into my veins, cracking the stone molded around my bones and weighing me down mere moments ago.

“Lock your door, and whatever you do, don’t come out,” she orders sharply. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker, I swear to Christ, Rev. You can’t stop me this time.”

I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and tipping my head back with a sigh, my frustration mounting. It feels like my head is going to fucking explode. The whiplash of emotions circulating through my system, along with fear and panic over two men who can’t seem to leave me the hell alone, has me on the verge of combusting.

“Sable, I can’t. I have to leave.”

“Why?”

I put her on speaker and then tear off my pajamas to redress in the warmer clothing. “My father… he’s… here. Somewhere. He was in my room earlier when I was working, so I have to leave for the night.”

“¿Que? ¡¿QUE?!” she screeches, panic now filling her voice.

“Jesus,” Rogue complains.

“Yep,” I mutter bitterly, slipping on socks next before shoving my feet into my Docs and haphazardly tying them up.

Now that Dread is after me tonight, I no longer have time to pack. I need to get the fuck out of here before either of them finds me.

“I’m calling the co⁠—”

“I already have one on the way. Don’t worry about it. I don’t know where Dread is right now or what he has planned, but I’m going to try and get to a hotel before he can get to me. Or before Lionel can,” I grumble the last part as I grab my coat and shrug it on. I snatch my charger from the wall and stuff it in the pocket. “If you want to place a bet on who will find me first, my cash is on Lionel.”

Sable sputters, clearly at a loss for words, but I also don’t have time to wait for her to find them. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll try to text you if I make it.”

“Rev, no, wait. Stay on the phone!” she pleads, but her voice is sharp as she snaps, “Stop fucking touching shit!”

A sharp knock on my door has me freezing in my tracks, my heart tumbling into the pit of my stomach.

I don’t know who’s on the other side, but the likelihood I won’t like it is so astronomically high, I consider just jumping out of my fucking window. Except I'll probably break my legs, so there’s nowhere else for me to go except through whoever’s outside the door.

“I have to go,” I repeat. “Try not to worry, okay? The officer is gonna camp outside my hotel door, I'm sure. I love you.”

I hang up before she can get out another word. If I survive the night, the likelihood of Sable murdering me has me reconsidering just staying in bed and writing my obituary instead.

After slipping the phone in my coat pocket, I grab my scissors from my desk and quietly tiptoe toward the door. Fuck whoever built these dorms—they didn't give us peepholes. It would be fantastic right now to know who's on the other side.

However, I don't allow myself time to dwell on whose face I’m going to see. If I do, I’ll panic again. So, I fist the scissors with the sharp point out, raise my arm, and whip open the door with my other hand.

My reflexes stop me from stabbing a police officer in the eye just in time.

The man screams, his voice pitching high as he jumps back, a look of absolute terror on his face.

Frozen, we stare at one another with wide eyes and heaving chests, though only one of us looks as if they shit their pants, and it’s certainly not me.

Once my brain processes I’m not in imminent danger, I quickly drop my arm and step back.

“I-I’m so sorry, I thought you were…” I trail off, not sure which monster to choose from.

The officer quickly straightens, face cherry red as he clears his throat, and puffs out his chest, as if that’s going to restore his manhood.

I would weigh the likelihood of him soiling himself, but I think the poor guy might actually need the obituary more than I do.

He hooks his thumbs in his belt, and says, “Reverie, I presume? I’m Officer Nichols. I’m here to keep you safe.”

CHAPTER 12

REVERIE

“I…”

—do not have confidence in him keeping me safe whatsoever, but I’m so goddamn relieved he’s not Dread or Lionel, I could kiss the man.

With his shorter stature, freckled baby face, and gelled-back red-orange hair, he’s not exactly someone I’d go for. But if it’s widely accepted that sex can make you do or say crazy shit in the heat of the moment, then I’m pretty sure not coming face to face with a bully or a serial killer can be as well.

“I would love that,” I finish breathlessly. “Yes, please, let’s go.”

His answering smile is both confused and pleased as I quickly usher him out of my room and lock the door behind me.

Not that it really matters when, evidently, it does fuck all to keep predators out of it.

I send a quick text to Sable letting her know I'm with the officer and he's taking me to a hotel now, so I’m safe… ish. I don’t say the last part, though. She’s got enough to worry about with Rogue there.

“Didn’t pack a bag?” Officer Nichols questions, pulling my attention back to him.

He nods down at my hands before we turn and head down the hallway. At least this time, I’m not being dragged out in handcuffs while the entire hall watches.

“No time. But would you mind just driving me to a hotel? My friend is out of town tonight,” I lie, hoping like hell he doesn’t call Barry to confirm that.

He frowns, concern creasing between his sparse brows. “Well, I don’t think that’s safe, ma’am. Too many entrance points for the Locksmith. Is there no one else you can stay with?”

My right eye twitches, irritated he refers to Lionel by his moniker rather than his actual name. I wish people would reduce him to the simple man he is, rather than the infamous serial killer people are undoubtedly fascinated with.

“There really isn't,” I say, my smile somewhere between sheepish and a grimace.

He hums, twisting his lips as he contemplates my request. I mean, honestly, I’m not giving him much choice. Where else could he possibly take me but his own house?

And while I could kiss the man, I sure as fuck won’t be going home with him.

“I suppose I can post up outside your door for the night instead,” he relents, the corners of his lips curling down.

He’s not pleased, but I can’t exactly blame him. At least at Sable's house, he would've gotten to park outside and keep watch from his car. Now, he'll have to actually sit outside my door. He’s trading a cushiony driver’s seat that reclines for a likely very uncomfortable chair offered by the hotel.

I feel terrible, but not enough to change my mind. If keeping Sable off my father’s radar means giving a cop back pain for a night, then he can go find a goddamn chiropractor.

This time, my smile is grateful. “I really do appreciate it. I admittedly don’t have many friends here, so—” I shrug, letting the unspoken implication hang. You don’t really have a choice.

His displeasure quickly morphs into a boyish grin that instantly makes me feel awkward, sensing what’s coming before it happens.

“Anything for the pretty lady.” He winks and then bites his lower lip, bobbling his head a little, like he just delivered the smoothest line known to man.

Oh, dear God.

Just put me down like a dog with rabies.

I’m so fucking over men tonight.

I’m grimacing my way through another smile and averting my attention to the main entrance right as we approach it. He opens the door for me, the rush of freezing air cooling my flushed cheeks.

It’s a lovely reminder I probably look like a goddamn wreck. Between the panic attack and the sobbing that likely turned my eyes bloodshot, I can only imagine what a beauty queen I am right now.

And the fact that the cop decided now was the best time to flirt with me only deepens my dislike for men.

What positive biological impact do they have on this planet again?

It’s truly hard to remember these days.

Just as I take the first step, a loud, blaring alarm rings out, nearly sending my heart straight out of my asshole. Officer Nichols shouts, jumping back with a hand over his heart.

The fire alarm.

Someone pulled the goddamn fire alarm.

Doors bang open a second later from both the first and second floor, students pouring out from their rooms into the hallways, shouting and screaming while trying to figure out where the fire is.

But I know damn well there’s no fucking fire.

Lionel or Dread?

My heart pounds as Nichols and I look at one another with wide eyes. I don’t know if he’s thinking what I’m thinking, but regardless, we need to get the fuck out of here.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, turning back around. “Did you smell smoke? I didn’t smell anything!”

He doesn’t wait for my response, already speed walking away and disappearing around the corner into the hallway.

“Everyone calm down!” Nichols shouts. “I’m a police officer here to keep you safe! Let’s all file out of the building, single file!”

Oh my God.

What… a fucking idiot.

If I make it out of this, I need to have a serious talk with Barry about sending just any random goddamn officer.

I spin around and hurriedly rush down the wooden steps, adrenaline and fear swirling in my gut. More than a dozen women are already on the bottom floor, running toward the front doors in a panic.

I glance behind me to see the girls from upstairs rushing down the steps behind me, definitely not in a single file line.

We all spill out into the freezing cold air, instantly inundated with chills. Thankfully, I already have my coat, but a lot of the girls are still only in their pajamas.

I hear Nichols shouting somewhere near the main entrance, attempting to get a handle on a bunch of panicking women who all want to know if there’s a fire and where it is.

There isn’t even a hint of smoke coming from the building.

The parking lot is straight ahead, and from what I can see, there doesn’t seem to be a single soul in sight. I can either wait it out with the crowd and call an Uber or just run to my car and take off.

Don’t be fucking stupid.

There’s a single lamp in the parking lot, which means it looks as dark and uninviting as anyone could imagine. I’d be alone in the lot with at least twenty cars, where there are ample places for someone to hide. Living with a serial killer was all the training I needed in life to know better than to put myself in a situation like that.

“Not gonna catch me fucking slipping,” I mutter to myself, my teeth chattering as I glance around the crowd.

It’s quickly become clear to everyone by now that there’s no fire, but apparently, we’re not allowed back in until the fire department confirms it.

Sirens blare in the distance, growing louder and louder as they approach, and I think I hear someone say the residence life director is on their way, too.

Anxiety swirls in my stomach, and I’m vibrating with the need to get away from here.

Who the fuck knows if Nichols is still escorting me, but truthfully, I don’t want him to anymore. The man has no fucking brains, and I don’t think I’d be in any less danger with him.

I’ll just call a goddamn Uber.

I slip my phone out from my pocket, my shivering worsening as I order a car to come pick me up. One is only two minutes away, thankfully.

Once they’re here, I’ll just bolt to the car. By then, the police and fire truck should be here, too, and with them around, hopefully, there won’t be any opportunity for anyone to take me.

But they could follow you.

I’ll call Barry in the Uber and let him know Nichols is a dud. Maybe he can send someone else to meet me at a hotel. He’ll know I’m not going to Sable’s, but I don’t care. He’ll have to get over it—I refuse to lead a serial killer to my best friend’s house.

Not that she’s even home, anyway.

God, Rogue is still there.

I pull out my phone again and send Sable a text, demanding she check in. I know she can handle him, and even though Rogue is an asshole, I don't think he'd physically hurt her. Still, it doesn’t make me feel any better that he’s there harassing her.

I roll my eyes to the sky and exhale heavily, my breath billowing from my mouth in a dense cloud. My bones rattle with impatience and restlessness, and I’m growing irritated with how long it takes for two goddamn minutes to pass.

My phone buzzes, notifying me that my driver is here, and I let out a relieved sigh. Seconds later, four police cars and a fire truck spill into the parking lot. I can’t see the driver’s car among all the others, but with the flashing lights, it makes the parking lot feel a lot less empty and unsafe.

Fuck it.

I take off running toward the parking lot, glancing at my phone to check exactly where my driver’s waiting. It looks like they stayed at the entrance, which is in the back left corner of the lot, forcing me to walk through three rows of cars. I weave between the vehicles, passing by firefighters and officers heading toward the dorm. I breathe a little easier when I see a few policemen still lingering around their cars straight ahead.

I’m not alone, and that lifts a heavy weight off my chest.

I spot my driver at the end of the first row. I confirm their model and license plate before heading toward the passenger door.

But before I can round the car, the driver’s door opens, and a blonde woman with a short bob steps out. She appears to be in her fifties, with deep wrinkles around her eyes, mouth, and down her neck.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, glancing around nervously. “I thought for a second I was getting pulled over.”

“Yeah, someone pulled the fire alarm, that’s all,” I assure, waving a hand dismissively.

She nods, her stare pinned past my shoulder, landing on my dorm building.

“Are you ready?” I ask, watching as the remaining officers head toward the dorm, leaving the two of us alone. My heart pumps faster, and anxiety worsens.

“No one got hurt, right?” she asks instead, pointing past me.

“Nope!” I chirp. “Can we go, please?”

She slowly turns, seeming to struggle with tearing her eyes away before finally going to get in.

Goddamn nosy-ass lady.

Just as I open the passenger door, she whines, “Oh, shoot! They’re blocking the road. I can’t get out.”

My mouth drops as I snap my head toward the entrance. I can’t tell from my angle, but it looks like there's a large enough gap to fit through. However, when I walk over to her side, I find that they did not, in fact, leave any room. She can still just drive through the grass to get around them, though.

When I point it out, she shakes her head. “I don’t want to get stuck if it ends up being too wet and muddy. Would you mind asking one of them to move, dear?”

I try to keep my irritation from showing. Because, of course, she thinks she’d get fucking stuck, and, of course, she realizes this after the officers already walked away.

“Sure,” I force out.

I’m so tempted to dock a star for this shit, maybe even two. But I won't, because I'm a nice fucking person, and frankly, none of this is her fault.

I turn back and race toward the dorm again, feeling significantly less comforted, even with the red and blue lights flickering across the pavement. The moment I get to the middle row, it feels a lot fucking quieter, and my paranoia takes over. I swivel my head constantly, searching for anyone to jump out.

Just as I head between two cars in the final row, only feet away from reaching the sidewalk, my foot catches ice, and I go ass over teacup.

With a squeak, I land painfully on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs.

For several long moments, I can only stare up at the light-polluted sky and try to figure out how to breathe again. I count four stars before I finally inhale. I’m on the sixth when I feel a little like dying.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Groaning, I sit up, gritting my teeth as pain lances through my spine.

I hate my life. Everything about it.

My tailbone smarts as I slowly get to my feet. My knees wobble, but I appear to be alive. I suppose I won't know for sure until I try talking to someone, and they either answer or look straight through me.

That’s the last thought in my head before I feel a menacing presence behind me. However, I have no time to react before hands appear on either side of my head and they slap a strip of duct tape over my mouth. Instantly, my hands fly up, but something is slipping over my head, plunging me into darkness.

Panic surges in my system, and I act on pure instinct alone. I tear at the obstruction, noting the thick, coarse fabric of some type of sack. Before I can rip it off, someone grabs my hands and forces them behind my back before circling a zip tie around them and pulling tight. Then, they’re hauling me up and over their shoulder, sending my world teetering on its axis.

I scream through the tape and thrash wildly with all my strength, but to no avail.

They don’t speak, and I’m too hysterical to note anything else distinctive about them.

Lionel? Dread? It could be either of them.

I attempt to belt out another scream, hoping the Uber driver will at least hear the muffled cry, but only moments later, I hear what sounds like a car door opening, and I’m thrown inside. I land uncomfortably on my tied hands, my wrists twinging with pain and my shoulders straining.

The distinct fabric rubs against my hands, and I instantly recognize it as felt.

They threw me inside a fucking trunk.

Their hand dives into each of my coat pockets, finding my rolled-up charger in one and my phone in the other, slipping them out.

“No, no, no, no!” I try to shout, the words muffled, but the trunk slams shut with a finality that has me choking on my tongue. I’m locked inside the cramped space with hardly any room for movement.

My chest heaves far too quickly, but it only makes it more suffocating with the sack over my head. I’m freaking the fuck out, and I need to calm myself down. I know I need to, but it feels like an impossible feat right now.

The engine turns, and the car revs to life, vibrating beneath me. Then, I’m lurching forward as they take off, nothing to catch me from rolling straight onto my face.

I wiggle onto my back again, continuing to strain for air and sucking the fabric into my mouth with every inhale. It only serves to freak me out more, and if I don’t get this bag off my head soon, I’ll find myself too far gone in this panic attack and pass out. Which would be the worst thing ever when time is of the fucking essence.

My first instinct is to rub my wrists together, testing just how tightly they’re bound. The plastic scrapes against my skin painfully, but I hardly notice.

I don’t have much room, but after some maneuvering, I’m able to roll myself onto my upper back and lift my hips enough to stretch my arms as far down as I can.

Sweat forms along my hairline as I struggle to get them looped beneath my butt. Whimpers fall from my lips, frustration and panic mixing into a dangerous storm. I’m on the verge of tears as I slowly and painfully strain my shoulders. Instant relief floods my chest the moment I wiggle my ass through my arms just enough to lower my hips and curl my knees to my forehead.

It’s awkward as I bring them up my thighs, only to struggle to free my feet in the confined space. At one point, I bash my knee into my nose in the process, but the pain is a dull throb beneath the sharp panic slicing into my stomach.

After another minute of struggle, I finally loop my arms out from my feet, breathlessly grunting out a victorious sound.

The first thing I do is tear the hood off my head and then quickly rip the tape off my mouth before I can overthink it. There's no time to be gentle, and it only prolongs the pain anyway. I stifle an agonized groan and inhale deeply the second it’s torn from my skin. For a second, all I can do is lie there and fill my lungs with oxygen, consumed by the sharp burn radiating from my face.

Part of me is grateful for it, though, because it cuts through the worst of my panic. It's still there, but it’s no longer reaching its tipping point. I waste no more time, biting at the zip tie around my wrists. But it’s too tight, and all I accomplish is pinching my own skin with my teeth more than the plastic.

Fuck!

I squeeze my eyes shut, racking my brain to remember how the fuck to break zip ties. The only method that keeps coming to mind is raising my arms above my head and bringing them down quickly, but I don’t have the goddamn room for that.

Shoelaces!

I don’t even remember where the fuck I learned it from, but I’m pretty sure I can use them to create enough friction to burn through the plastic.

Curling my knees to my chest once more, I untie my laces from both boots, the tremors in my hands making my movements sloppy and uncoordinated. It takes several attempts to get one lace between my wrists, cursing beneath my breath all the while. Once it’s finally looped through, I make quick work of tying it with the lace on my other boot, knotting them as tightly as I can.

Then, I strain my wrists toward my face and bear down my feet to create tension before bicycling my legs back and forth. Sweat coats my hairline and lower back, and the position is awkward and uncomfortable as hell, but thankfully, it doesn’t take long to snap the zip ties.

“Fuck yes,” I whisper, another shot of relief keeping me from spiraling completely.

I immediately untie the knot and retie my boots correctly in case I need to run. I’ll be fucking damned if I get free, only to fucking face-plant and ruin my chances of escape.

Once I’m finished, I move on to figuring out how the hell to get this trunk open.

I don’t know what kind of car this is, but it doesn’t seem terribly old. I know my sedan has a glow-in-the-dark safety release, but I see nothing.

I feel around the soft felt surface above me, desperately searching for the lever, but with no luck.

“Shit,” I mutter, scouring around more frantically.

There has to be something, but I’m still too panicky and erratic. Why the fuck can’t I find it?

Finally, my fingers brush across what feels like a T-shape divot. My brows pinch, trying to process what I’m feeling until it dawns on me.

Did the fucker remove it?

It feels like where the release handle used to nestle in, but now, there’s nothing except a carved-out space with a tiny hole near the bottom where the wire used to come out of.

“What the fuck,” I hiss, angrily kicking my foot out and promptly ignoring the pain that shoots up my leg.

I go to reach for my North Star—except I took it off, and that daunting realization becomes too much. I press my trembling, balled fists against my forehead, hating myself more than anything right now. My breathing grows shallower and faster, little panicked wheezes joined by the sound of the tires against the pavement.

The overwhelming urge to cry arises, so I move the heels of my palms over my eyes, as if that alone will keep them contained. A sob rises in my throat, but I repeatedly swallow it down while attempting to calm myself once again.

It feels impossible.

Especially when I have no idea whose face I’m going to see when this trunk hatch opens.

Never in my life did I think I’d pray for it to be Dread’s. In fact, I fear I might hug him if it is.

Because if this is my father… lying in this trunk alone may be the last semblance of peace I have before he kills me.

I don’t believe for a second his intentions for reconciliation are pure. At the very least, he’ll force me to return to California. At most, he’ll make use of Dread’s unmarked grave behind Craig Matthew’s house.

Regardless of his true intentions, my life will no longer be my own, but his.

Breathe, Rev, breathe. There’s no fucking time to panic.

Despite my body heavily disagreeing, I force myself to concentrate on the matter at hand.

They’ve ensured there’s no way out of this trunk, and while I could scream and kick in the hopes someone will rescue me, the likelihood of anyone hearing me is low, and I’d rather conserve the little energy I have left. I want nothing more than to see who it is the second they open the lid, but I need to play this smart and pretend I’m still bound. That way, I can catch them off guard when I attack them and give myself the best possible chance of escape.

I sniff back the tears burning in my sinuses and pat around for the hood. I slip it back over my head, screaming at my brain to ignore how constricting it feels and instead focus on finding the strip of duct tape along with the zip tie left by my feet. I tuck them into my coat pocket before twining my hands behind my back, pretending they’re still constrained.

After several long moments, the brakes squeal before the car comes to a stop. It’s impossible to keep my breathing perfectly controlled, but I force myself to take deep, slow breaths so I don’t spiral again.

In a matter of minutes, I may face my father for the first time in nine years, and while subconsciously, my body is attempting to prepare me for that, I refuse to let my brain even consider it. I refuse to allow myself to even imagine his face—or what I remember of it.

The trunk lid opens, inviting in a rush of ice-cold air that instantly cools the sweat on my skin. My heart is beating hard enough to break through my rib cage, and if I don’t pass out from the terror first, I might just find something left in my stomach to spew.

Though my body trembles, I keep still as their hands grab my biceps and pull me forward to boost me over their shoulder, all the while I firmly keep my wrists pressed together as if they're still bound. All I can do is hope they don't notice the zip tie missing.

Still, they say nothing while my head races, contemplating the best time to make a move. I’ve heard enough stories to know that in situations like these, timing is absolutely everything, and acting too quickly can make the situation worse.

Snow and grass crunch beneath their feet as they walk, and within moments, the sound gives way to shoes against pavement.

While I try to make sense of where they could be taking me, I hear a set of keys jingle.

Fuck, could Lionel be taking me to a house? I suppose it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he has a connection here and is crashing at someone’s place, but the idea still seems far-fetched.

They push through the door, and we’re instantly enveloped in significantly warmer air, followed by the distinct snick suggesting they’ve relocked it.

A lump forms in my throat, and my muscles tense as I gear up to attack. Wherever I am, I can’t let them take me too deep inside the building in case I can’t find my way out quickly enough. I need a quick escape, not to get lost and end up right back in their hands.

A door squeaks open, and the strong, familiar scent that arises doesn’t even register. My mind is blank as I lift my torso, twist, and grab for their face, intent on gouging their eyeballs out.

Again, the small details don’t register—I just attack. They thrash their head, and I lose my balance on their shoulder. All I hear is a grunt before I pitch backward into the air.

They grapple to catch me, grabbing my bicep and preventing all my weight from landing on my tailbone when it hits the rock-hard floor. Pain shoots up my spine, and though it’s enough to take my breath away, it’s not enough to stop me from ripping my arm out of their hold and tearing off the hood.

Dread.

Oh my God, it's Dread.

Faint red scratches score across his cheekbone while he glares down at me, his nostrils flaring, expression twisted with irritation.

I can only stare up at him with wide eyes, my chest heaving, mouth parted, chunks of hair plastered to my face.

A range of emotions spirals through my system, a tornado filled with relief, fury, and shock. It wreaks havoc on my organs, rendering me completely paralyzed.

Clenching his jaw, Dread straightens, swiping a few strands of black hair from his eyes.

And I… I burst into tears.

CHAPTER 13

DREAD

I’ve seen Reverie Adams have just about every reaction known to man after I’ve done something to hurt her.

But I’ve never seen her cry like this.

Not in the four years I’ve made her life hell has she ever sobbed so hard, she stopped breathing.

In a matter of seconds, her brown eyes filled with tears, her chin trembled, and her hands flew to cover her face just as the first sob burst free.

And there’s a single millisecond in time when I almost feel guilty. A minuscule lapse in judgment, yet the effect is staggering. My muscles tighten, and I bristle with unease, as if someone dragged a nail against a chalkboard.

But then, logic returns, and anger pushes its way back in. After nearly destroying my career and ruining my life again, she sits here, and she fucking cries.

My upper lip curls as I lower to my haunches, leaning my elbows on my spread knees.

She deserves nothing from me.

Not my guilt, my forgiveness, nor my mercy.

Which is exactly why I brought her here to begin with—an indoor pool one town over from Hollow Canyon. The owner, Martin, gave me the keys to it my freshman year so I can train after hours without onlookers. While I have access to the pool in the sports center, I’m still limited to the center’s general operating hours, as it’s the only way to access it. Because of that, there are always students standing outside the windows, watching me practice or waiting for me to come out so they can talk to me.

This place offers me a reprieve from campus and complete, utter solitude.

Perfect for what I have planned for Reverie.

“Are you done?” I ask, my tone as devoid of compassion as the cold press of a barrel to one’s temple.

Her hands drop suddenly, and she gives me those reddened, fiery eyes.

Fuck, she’s so pretty when she cries.

“I thought you were my father, you fucking asshole!” Her hands fly out as she shouts. “You have no idea—God, you’re such an idiot!” She fights for her words while I fight to process what the fuck she just said to me. “This entire fucking time, you⁠—”

My arm snaps out, my hand closing around her throat and silencing her instantly. Black spots swim in my vision, and my blood is ice cold.

The corners of her eyes round with terror, freezing in my hold.

“I want you to explain to me really fucking carefully why you think your father would have the ability to kidnap you while locked in a fucking prison over a thousand miles away,” I snarl through gritted teeth, inching my face closer to hers.

What was once a tomato red face now bleaches of color, dried tears streaking down ghost-white cheeks. She looks like a child caught drawing on the wall with a Sharpie. Her throat bobs beneath my hand, struggling to swallow as she drops her gaze. It better be to find her voice again, because if she’s searching for a lie, it’ll be the last thing she does.

“Reverie,” I bark impatiently, flexing my fist.

She winces and reluctantly lifts her stare back to mine. This time, she appears guilty.

But why?

“He’s out,” she rasps, her words rising barely above a whisper.

Emptiness. I feel, hear, and think of nothing. The stillness inside my mind and body is as cold and desolate as outer space.

Reverie grabs my wrist and slowly removes my hand from her throat. I let her, because I’m incapable of a single function outside of staring at her blankly. Her tongue darts out nervously, wetting her bottom lip, while her eyes skip around, landing on everything but me.

“I…”

Her brows pinch as she drops her face to her trembling hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so fucking nervous, and I just know what she did before the confession finally tumbles from her mouth.

“I saw the letter that morning in your room, after you nearly killed me with hypothermia. And… I took it. I’d found out the day before the board accepted his parole. It went to the governor for review, which can take up to thirty days for an official decision, so I wanted every day I could get without you knowing because I—” Her words crack, so she tries again. “I knew you were going to lose your mind, and yeah, I’ll be honest, Dread, I was fucking terrified of what that was going to look like. So, I took it. And truthfully, I hoped to be gone before he got out.” She grimaces again. “And before you found out what I did.”

She sounds muffled as she speaks, as if I’m underwater while she stands at the pool edge, looking down on me. While my brain understands what she’s saying, it’s slow to truly comprehend anything around me.

The pool water pumping through the filtration system is the first thing I register, then the poignant smell of chlorine.

And within the blink of an eye, I’m plunging back into reality, and everything hits me. I’m so aware of it all, I can feel my blood boiling, flowing through my veins like lava, as well as the erratic beat of my heart overflowing with absolute pure. Fucking. Rage.

I stand so quickly, my knees crack from the force, causing Reverie to flinch and cross her arms over her face, as if she expected me to strike her.

I’ve done a lot to her, put my hands on her in a lot of ways, but I’ve never hit her. Thankfully for her, I don’t even have the concentration to feel offended by it.

“How?” I growl, my voice deeper and rougher, sounding demonic. “They post their decisions on the website, so I’ve been checking every fucking week since the board said they’d decide within one hundred twenty days and haven’t seen shit.”

She grimaces. “Yeah, so about that. They’re allowing special circumstances with him and are waiting an extra week to post it due to some random group of people apparently threatening to kill him if the board approved his parole. Plus, with how high profile he is, they didn’t want to deal with the circus showing up to witness him walking out.”

A wildfire rages in my chest, burning a fiery path up my throat. This entire fucking time, I thought the board was still deciding. I’ve been checking the CDCR site religiously in case they posted it on their website before the letter hit my mailbox. Every so often, I’d even search Lionel to ensure he was still in custody, just to give myself some fucking peace of mind while I waited for the board’s decision.

But, of fucking course, I haven’t looked him up for at least a week, too caught up in swim, classes, and Rev. He was released from custody, and I fucking missed it.

Then, Mark’s text from that night registers—when we played the dummy prank on Reverie. He said to let him know if I needed to talk.

Reverie stole my letter notifying me of the board’s decision the following morning. Which means it had been in the pile of mail I picked up on my way home from practice that night, and I was too damn exhausted to sort through it at the time. I’d slapped the stack on my nightstand and got ready for bed, all the while Rogue and Severen were hauling Reverie out to the flagpole.

Mark must’ve gotten the letter then, too. He knows me very well, and that I need to process shit on my own. So, he’s been checking in on me every so often, asking how I’m doing, but oblivious to the reasoning, I’ve been telling him I’m fine.

I brought Reverie to my room three fucking weeks ago.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

My fingers dive into my hair as I turn to pace alongside the pool.

It feels like an impenetrable wall surrounds my brain, no longer allowing my racing thoughts to enter. It’s isolated and eerily quiet.

Yet, I feel everything. The rage is so potent, it burns every cell in my body until nothing else remains.

It’s a wrath I haven’t felt since I stood in the police station at eight years old, waiting to be taken back for more questioning. In the waiting room was a TV, and it was the first time I saw a news channel sympathizing with the D’Amours for what they believed to be false allegations against Lionel. The poor little boy lost his mommy, so he blames an innocent man.

Lionel lived one town over from me in Silent Mist, working as a car salesman. A week prior, my mom took her car into his dealership for a recall notice, and apparently, walked out with a date. So, the following week, when my mom stopped by to see him before their date later that day, leaving me in the back seat, the public believed I had seen him then. They’re convinced my little brain latched on to him because it needed someone—anyone—to blame.

But where I actually saw him was standing on my goddamn doorstep, a bouquet of daffodils in hand and a charming smile tipping up his thin lips.

I wasn’t supposed to be home that night, but at a friend’s house. I decided I didn’t want to go last minute, and Mom had to scramble to find a babysitter—my next-door neighbor, Cynthia. She was in the kitchen cooking mac ’n’ cheese for me when Lionel showed up to pick up my mother.

But what he didn’t know was that I lurked in the living room window, sitting on the couch in front of it. It was next to the front door and allowed me the perfect view of Lionel. I glared at him from beyond the curtains, furious Mom was going on a date with him. My father had passed away from a car accident three years prior, and I couldn’t comprehend why she would want to be with anyone else.

I was pouting, and a moment before she left, she turned and blew a kiss my way. I was supposed to pretend to catch it and kiss my fist, like we always did, but that time, I was so angry with her, I only glared in response. Her smile faltered, sadness and hurt flashing across her blue eyes, and then, she was gone.

Lionel already had his back turned when she blew me that kiss, and it’s likely the only reason he followed through with killing her. If he had known Katherine Sharpe had a son who watched him from the window, she might’ve come home that night, set free because he knew someone could identify him should he harm a hair on her head.

Instead, he scattered her body parts across a junkyard almost an hour away from our house. An employee found her two weeks after her disappearance, her head mounted on a car hood like it was a fucking ornament on a Mercedes-Benz.

My silence allowed him to kill her, and I didn’t even have the decency to kiss her back before sending her off to her grave.

Slowly, I turn back to face Reverie where she sits beside the pool, her glazed-over eyes locked onto the water. She’s disassociating, but I have plenty of ways to bring her back to me.

“When?” She doesn’t need clarification.

"Yesterday,” she whispers, dropping her stare in shame.

I grind my teeth, tempted to wrap my hands around her pretty little neck and shake her.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” My voice is cold. Unrecognizable.

It takes an extra few seconds before she drags her stare to mine.

“No,” she answers bluntly. “I knew you’d find out eventually, and I hoped when you did, I’d have already gotten on a plane to a different country.”

I’m not sure which part of that sentence pisses me off most, so I settle on all of it. Every goddamn letter.

“You were going to leave,” I state plainly.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I still might.”

Over my dead fucking body.

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because he found a reason to make me stay.” When I arch a brow in question, she continues, “His girlfriend, Roxi, introduced herself to me while you were in Texas. She’s a student here, and they’ve been dating for a year now. She’s so excited to be a happy family.”

She delivers the information robotically.

I stare. Except I don’t see her anymore—I just see red.

The effect is like two tectonic plates in my chest shifting beneath the surface. An earthquake forms, quickly building in strength until I’m quaking with violence.

He’s already found his next fucking victim.

I ball my hands until my knuckles threaten to split skin. I’m trembling from the murderous rage coursing through me, vibrating with the bloodlust to pound my fist into his face until there’s nothing left but bloody pulp and bone fragments.

When I am finished, I’d be hard as a fucking rock, and it would be Reverie’s mouth wrapped around my cock to relieve me.

The mere thought of it has my dick swelling in my jeans.

My vision returns, and Reverie’s back to staring at the water, this time appearing defeated.

I brought her here to explore this recent discovery of her phobia of water. I wanted her to strip herself bare, both physically and mentally, and tell me all about it, watch the water lap at her pretty tits while she trembled and cried over her biggest fear.

Then, I would’ve reminded her I’m her biggest fucking fear.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what I want to do with her—other than snap her goddamn neck.

“You thought he kidnapped you,” I state, my monotone voice drawing her attention back to me.

Slowly, she nods her head, and I know there’s more. Deep down, I already know what she’s going to say, but my mind refuses to entertain it for even a second.

Silence hangs between us, though our conversation is loud: my unspoken demand for her to spit it out while she silently begs for me not to make her.

The filtration system churns, and she sighs, relenting.

“He left me a note.” She pauses for a beat, and then delivers the final blow to my delusion. “In my dorm.”

Lionel isn’t just out of prison.

He’s actually here—in Colorado.

I step toward her, uncaring of how menacing it is, uncaring of her leaning away, her fear shifting from another monster to the one standing before her.

“Do you know where he is now?” I hardly recognize my own voice. It's deeper, lined with gravel, so lifeless.

She shakes her head. “Only that he plans on seeing me soon.”

Once again, my upper lip curls, disgust coating my tongue.

“Already planning a family reunion,” I drawl. “Have you started calling Roxi your stepmommy yet?”

The last word has barely left my mouth before her face is contorting in rage. Quickly, she scrambles to her feet and stomps the few feet up to me before jabbing a finger into my chest.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, Dread. You think you know everything, but you don’t!” she shouts.

I lean down, pushing myself deeper into her finger, and bare my teeth as I question, “What else is there to know, Reverie? Remind me, how many interviews did you and Regina do, accusing me of being a liar?”

She clenches her jaw, seething at me.

“Twenty-six. The fucking answer is twenty-six,” I snarl. “And that doesn’t include your special family reunion with Connor. Once the copycat started murdering people, you two couldn’t keep your mouths shut about how I put away the wrong man. Do you even believe there’s a copycat at all?”

“Of course I do,” she snaps.

I laugh. “‘Of course I do,’ she says,” I echo mockingly. “Yet you’ve never said otherwise, have you? I think the two of you made yourselves pretty fucking clear.”

She doesn’t back down, though. Instead, she scoffs and shakes her head, a derisive smile curling her lips. “My mother made herself clear. I was eight years old and had no choice.”

My brows shoot up on my forehead, giving her an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look. “What about now?”

She blinks at me, slow to understand, and I let out a mocking chuckle.

“Don’t act like your father isn’t still fucking relevant, Reverie. Don’t act like his victims’ families aren’t still seeking justice for what he did to them. You act like you hate the man, but it’s just performative bullshit because, for once, no one here believes your lies. Lies you’ve allowed the world to believe for over a goddamn decade while those families fucking suffer.”

Hurt twists her features. “I’ve suffered far more than you will ever know,” she says quietly, her voice trembling. “Those lies kept my mother alive. They kept me alive.”

I scoff, shaking my head. She has no fucking idea how much time I spent watching her, watching them be the perfect fucking family.

Regina stared at Lionel with a love so potent, I fucking choked on it.

It was exactly how my dad used to look at my mom before he died.

Regina didn’t just love and support Lionel.

She worshipped him.

“Did he hurt her?”

The previous emotion swirling in her gaze retreats, and in its place is an emptiness that is far more telling than her mouth.

“Just because he never hit her doesn’t mean she was safe,” she answers, her voice dropping. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

“There’s a lot you don’t tell,” I retort. “If I’ve got it so wrong, then fucking tell me. Because as far as me and the rest of the goddamn world is concerned, you’ve never retracted your support for him publicly, which means you still support him, and you still think I’m a fucking liar!”

The last sentence echoes in the massive space as I seethe down at her, my chest pumping as that familiar feeling builds in my chest.

Hurt.

I’ve spent nearly my entire childhood hurting, and the woman standing in front of me is part of the reason.

Tears gather in her eyes as she stares up at me with a trembling bottom lip.

“I’ve always believed you,” she whispers. “I still do. I believe you.”

Those four words are catastrophic to my insides.

I’ve always believed you.

Despite how hard I try to shove them down, tears rise to the surface of my eyes. My sinuses burn as I fight them back.

“Then why the fuck did you lie?” My voice cracks, and I fucking hate it. I hate her. So fucking much.

Her mouth parts like she’s going to speak, but just like always, she clicks her teeth shut.

And that only pisses me off more, but it also makes me deeply suspicious.

“If you’re biting your tongue, you’re either lying to me now and telling me what you think I want to hear so I don’t hurt you.” She shakes her head, denying it before I’ve even finished. “Or your secrets will only make me angrier.”

This time, she glances away, and I have my answer.

And it’s a fucking hit to the sternum.

Once again, my arm snaps out, but this time, I grip the underside of her jaw, tugging her until her front is flush with mine. With a sharp gasp, she clutches my wrist with both hands and digs her nails into my skin. The position forces her onto the tips of her toes, struggling to keep her balance.

“What are you hiding from me?” I snarl.

“Not everything is about you,” she bites out.

“No, it’s about you,” I agree. “The second your father took everything from me, you became all I had left.” I jerk her closer, eliciting a strangled gasp from her throat. “My entire world revolves around you, darling, and you’re no longer his to have—you’re mine.”

She shakes her head, staring up at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.

Did she think my obsession with her was so trivial?

I’ve watched her for as long as I can remember, just out of sight or hidden in the background. From the moment I got my first cell phone at twelve and stalked her online, to taking two buses to Silent Mist and watching her from afar any chance I got—the minuscule free time I had outside of swimming, I spent thinking, watching, and hating her.

I visited her at her first job as a barista, though she was too much of an anxious wreck to recognize me. I was at the dealership when she bought her first car with her own money. Her friend’s house for homecoming and prom. When she opened the acceptance letter for HCU with Agent Jones and his wife. Her graduation. The day she left for college, I drove behind her with Rogue and Severen beside me.

Even on her eighteenth birthday, when her mother killed herself, I was there, watching from afar as paramedics pushed her mother out of the house on a gurney, a sheet covering her lifeless body while she sat on her front steps, face blank and eyes distant as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

I’ve always been her fucking ghost, and she’s always been my skeptic.

“Were you in on it? Is that it?” The mere possibility of it makes my hands flex with fury. “Did you help him murder her?”

My mind instantly flips over various scenarios in which she somehow played a part in my mother’s death. The thought sends me spiraling, and in a blink, I’m whipping her around and pushing her back toward the edge of the pool.

She squeals, desperately digging her heels in to resist me, but she’s helpless. As helpless as my mom was in her last moments.

“No!” she shouts, terror rounding her eyes.

Her chest heaves, and what little color remained in her face now completely diminishes.

“Don’t lie to me!” I shout, shaking her with each word.

That’s all she’s ever done. Just fucking lie.

“I wasn’t, Kellan, I swear.” Her plea is breathless, but my name coming out of her mouth is enough to pull me out of the black, insidious hole swallowing me. Enough for rationality to sink back in, and the blinding rage to ease a fraction.

For a moment, I study her features carefully, taking in each detail. The aqua blue reflecting off the pool colors her otherwise pale skin. Her dark blonde hair is in disarray, the thin, wispy bangs that hang down her forehead damp with perspiration. Her dainty nose with the little gold hoops in her nostril and septum. And then her plush, pink lips that have distracted me more often than I care to admit.

All details that make up a face that, thankfully, looks very little like her father’s.

I’ve always loathed how fucking beautiful she is. I’ve often daydreamed about ruining it just so it holds no power over me any longer. So many times, she’s turned toward me when I wasn’t prepared, and I damn near swallowed my tongue.

And now is no different.

She’s a mix between ethereal and sultry. An angel and a demon.

“I swear,” she repeats shakily, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t help him kill her. I would never do that. I swear, Kellan.”

I hate that I believe her, and I really fucking hate when she says my name like that. It gets under my goddamn skin, and I both want to make her repeat it and rip out her fucking tongue so I never have to hear it again.

“Does Barry know this secret?”

Surprise creases her brows as her panicked brain trips over what I said. “How do you know I still talk to Barry?”

“I know a lot more about you than you think,” I answer coldly. “And what I don’t know, I’ll find out. Don’t expect to hold on to your secret forever.”

She might not have helped Lionel kill my mom, but she knows something. Something that’s clearly fucking important enough to scare her into silence. And she will fucking tell me, even if not tonight.

“Does he know?” I push. “Is that why he can love someone who doesn’t even have the decency to support him when the world discredits him as an investigator?”

Reverie swallows nervously, and I can tell she’s struggling to concentrate on my words.

“H-he knows everything, and he knows I believe him, too.”

Too. There she goes again, claiming to believe me.

But as deeply as I longed to hear those words, I realize now that it changes nothing.

“People suffer because of your silence,” I say quietly.

Her face twists, as if I just ripped out her heart, but it only serves to anger me more.

At least I left hers intact. She fucking stomped on mine until there was nothing left.

I narrow my eyes. “You know, killing you would only be fair,” I muse, pushing her back another inch.

She panics, her foot slipping off the edge, nearly sending her backward into the water, but my grip around her jaw keeps her from falling. Her fingers dig into my wrist harder, anchoring herself to me as if it’ll keep her safe. Bloody crescent moons form beneath her nails, but the sharp pricks don’t register.

“Kellan,” she begs, my name breaking at the seams and coming out in skewed syllables.

I scowl, my upper lip pulling up from the sound of my name wrapped around her serpent tongue.

“He took my mother from me. Shouldn’t I take you from him now?” I propose. She attempts to shake her head, but my tight grip doesn’t allow her much movement.

“I can drown you right here,” I continue, my tone as sinister as my threat. “I know how to delete the footage from the cameras in here. I could throw you into Hollow Lake. They’d rule it as an accident, even a suicide. But if they suspected foul play, the first person they’d look to is your father.”

Tears brim her long brown eyelashes, and little whimpers escape from her lips.

“I’d clean my blood and skin from beneath your nails,” I continue, glancing to where she clutches onto me. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t think you know how to live without me,” she challenges, her voice trembling. “Authorities would blame Lionel for my death, they’d lock him up again, and then you’d be all alone. If I’m not around to torture, you’d have nothing else to live for.”

I grind my molars together, swatting away her claim, only for it to come right back and needle beneath my skin.

My future is set in stone. I’ll qualify for the Olympics again in a few years, and I guarantee I’ll medal. Endorsements and sponsorships from huge brands already fill my manager’s inbox, offering sizable payments that will keep me more than comfortable for the rest of my life.

I have Rogue and Severen, plus plenty of women to choose from to keep my needs met.

I used to have nothing. No one who believed me. No one who supported me. No one who wanted anything to fucking do with me.

Now, I have everything.

But I won’t have her.

And somehow, someway… she’s all I fucking want.

To torment, to hate, to offer me relief in a way nothing and no one else can. She’s an ice cube to a burn that will never extinguish.

So, she’s right—I don’t know how to live without her.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn.

I hum noncommittally. “Maybe once I’m free of you, I can finally start living for my mom, no?”

Her only response is a thick swallow. The gears beyond her eyes are churning at breakneck speed, and it’s quite amusing to watch her flounder for another way to get out of it.

I’m expecting her to take a jab at another angle to convince me otherwise, but she doesn’t.

Instead, her hands fly to my shoulders, and she’s launching herself up into my arms. Instinctively, I release her jaw to grab hold of her waist while she wraps her legs around my hips and arms around my neck. Her cheek rests heavily against mine, allowing me to feel the pulse thrumming in her throat.

Astonishment renders me speechless for a moment or two while I slowly process that every inch of her is molded tightly against me.

“If I go down in that water, you go down with me,” she rasps, her shaky breath warming my ear. “I can hold my breath for a really long time. Maybe even longer than you.”

A wicked smile curls up the corners of my mouth. My blood heats and instantly redirects straight to my dick. I’ve had her naked in my bed, subjected to the tip of my Sharpie and rage. I’ve explored the inside of her mouth and tasted gold, and I’m struggling to find a reason to resist again.

Even if I’ve always been attracted to her, I still would’ve never fucked her. In fact, it would’ve disgusted me.

I can’t pinpoint exactly why that changed, just that it did the moment I stripped her down and brought her back from the edge of death.

Now, the thought of owning her in every way possible… Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my life.

I’ve also never felt so much fucking shame. Wanting her means disrespecting my mother’s memory. How can I possibly want her killer’s daughter, who never even had the decency to say her fucking name outside of calling me a liar?

I’m a shit son for looking at her with anything other than contempt.

Whatever this attraction is… it needs to stop, and the only way to make it stop is to get her out of my system.

One time.

That’s all I need.

“You think I can’t drown you while you hold on, baby?” I purr, amusement coloring my tone. Then, I deliver a sharp slap to her supple ass.

She yelps, reflexively squeezing her legs tighter around my hips, despite my hard cock pressing into her pussy. I know she can feel me, but she seems more inclined to focus on her looming fate.

My grin widens as I turn my lips into her ear, and say, “I’ll do you a favor and give you another option. Drown, or I fuck you.”

“Fuck. Off,” she bites out through gritted teeth.

I chuckle, a shiver racking her body in response.

“You’re going to meet God in one of two ways, Reverie,” I whisper. “Either way, I’ll be between your legs when you do.”

CHAPTER 14

REVERIE

This can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening.

This literally cannot be fucking happening.

The moment I felt him harden between my legs, I chalked it up to yet another physical reaction that means absolutely nothing. Two body parts pressed together, and boom, something biological happens that neither party can control.

Just like that kiss.

But his stupid-ass ultimatum is ruining that.

“Drown, or I fuck you.”

What the fuck kind of options are those?

“How about you let me go peacefully, and we never talk about this again? In fact, let’s never see each other again, either,” I suggest shakily, casting another nervous glance over my shoulder.

Right now, I’d love nothing more than to unglue myself from his body, but I’m hanging over the edge of a pool, and the mere idea of dipping a toe into the water has me breaking out in a cold sweat.

When he threw me in last time, I felt like I was having a heart attack. And then he kissed me, and it still felt like a heart attack, but for an entirely different reason. When I ran away afterward, I spent the rest of the night fighting off that memory.

A phantom burn builds in my lungs, reminding me of that feeling when they were screaming at me for oxygen, but all I could give them was more water. The absolute terror, the helplessness… it lingers on the outskirts of my brain, threatening to drag me back into it, only prompting me to tighten my hold on Dread.

He’s not a safe place, but right now, I cling to him like he’s my oxygen.

“There will never be peace between us, darling,” he murmurs darkly. “As long as you’re breathing, I’m in agony. If this is my fate, then we will suffer together.”

I shake my head, a shot of anger spiking in my system. I hold on to that, desperate to feel anything other than the panic sticking to my insides like wax.

“Is this the part when I plead for you to do anything else to me? Do I play into your misogyny and offer to be your maid instead? Because that’s not a respectable job, right? Should I use a toothbrush and wear a skimpy maid outfit, too, so you feel like I’m truly being humiliated?”

He scoffs. “Is that what you believe? That I want to see a woman scrubbing my floor because I think that’s below me? Baby, I’d be happy to see you on your hands and knees for me, but don’t think I won’t be kneeling right behind you.” He hums, the sound bordering on a groan. “And I can assure you, that floor will be a fucking mess by the time I’m done with you. Nothing a mop won't fix, though.”

My breath hitches, his devilish tone sending a tremor skirting down my spine. Despite my brain wanting to hit him over the head with a baseball bat, my body responds to his words with little resistance—heating, tingling, an uncomfortable feeling forming in the pit of my stomach before slowly sinking lower and lower.

My legs tighten around his hips again, though not out of fear this time. Except it presses his rock-hard length deeper against my center, eliciting a sharp throb from my clit that has my lashes fluttering with bliss. I’m so fucking lucky we're cheek to cheek so he doesn't see the stupid reaction.

“Why are you being like this?” I choke out, at a loss for words otherwise. I can't tell if it's because of the terror, shock, or the insistent pulsing between my legs.

“Because you fucking bore me,” he snaps, his voice darkening, only to lighten into a mocking lilt as he says, “but I’ve discovered I might enjoy all the different ways I can make you scream.” He hums again, sounding pleased. “There’s so much more I can do to you.”

He takes a step toward the pool, and my muscles harden into stone.

I grind my teeth, angry tears rising to the surface. He wants to fuck me to humiliate me, to gain power over me in yet another way.

“You’re fucking sick,” I spit, my lips trembling as fury bubbles in my chest. “How does this make you any different from Lionel, huh? Fucking me against my will and threatening to kill me? Sound familiar to you?”

“You wanna know the difference, darling?” he asks, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Those women didn’t deserve what happened to them.” His breath tickles my ear a moment before he whispers, “You do.”

The mix of fury, hurt, and terror creates a dangerous concoction in my chest. Like mixing sodium with water, the result is explosive. Red bleeds into my vision, and I react without thinking—without a fucking ounce of self-preservation.

I rear back and slap him across the face. Fire envelops my hand, but I’m too focused on trying to gouge out the fucker’s eyes to notice.

“Motherfu—”

He stumbles back, a hand knocking mine away. I instinctively release my legs and thrash against him. My limbs fly without direction or precision, and my world teeters, only to slam against the cement floor, the air knocking from my lungs.

He’s on top of me, kneeling as he struggles to catch my swinging hands.

“Get off me,” I bite out through gritted teeth, kicking and punching with all my might. “You. Sick. Fucker.”

As if to prove me right, he releases another laugh, displaying the full power of the wrinkles curving down from his eyes and dimples. It only pisses me off more.

“This is funny?!”

He snags my legs and forces them apart again, fitting himself back in between them. My wrists are next, and though I still wiggle fiercely beneath him, he scoops them in one hand and presses them firmly between our sternums.

I pant heavily, huffing with ire and exhaustion, but I continue to push at him anyway, simply because if I stop fighting, I have nothing else.

“If this was supposed to change my mind, I fear you’ve only convinced me more,” he says, a little breathless himself.

Growling, I gather saliva on my tongue, but he clocks it immediately and lets out a dark chuckle.

“If you're going to spit at me, aim for my mouth so I can taste it,” he says, the words coming out as a deep rumble.

I narrow my eyes, teeming with the urge to do it just to test him, but I let it slide back down my throat and take a different route instead.

“Yeah?” I challenge breathlessly, my tone seductive but mocking. “You'll swallow for me like a good boy?”

A demonic growl tears from his chest as he straightens long enough to shove me farther up until the floor beneath my head disappears. It falls back over the side of the pool, the water only an inch from the top of my skull.

I gasp sharply, my heart skipping a beat before plunging into a pit of terror. My legs snap around his waist again, as if that’s going to somehow help me, but in this position, I have little traction to gain. He leans back down, pressing his weight into mine while I lift my head, my face stopping within an inch of his.

The angry tears dried during the struggle, but they renew now that I’m trapped and utterly helpless. However, a slight smile curves his lips, amusement and something far more daunting swirling in his eyes—elation.

I didn't think anything could be scarier than Dread’s wrath, but I was wrong. His excitement is far more terrifying.

“What’s it gonna be, darling?” he asks quietly.

I let out a sound of pure frustration, attempting one last time to push at him.

But it’s useless.

My neck is aching from keeping it lifted, but I’d rather suffocate beneath Dread's behemoth of a body than underwater.

His gaze travels over the planes of my face, his lips parting as he explores my features while journeying down to my mouth. By the time it makes its way back up to mine, I’m staring into the eyes of a starving beast.

“Dread—”

“Drown, or I fuck you,” he repeats with finality.

I make the mistake of turning my head to find the light blue abyss a few inches beneath me. My heart flies into my throat.

I swear, it’s fucking taunting me, promising to invade my insides until it fills every inch. And based on the size of his dick pressed between my thighs, he would do the same.

I quickly face forward again, struggling to draw in a breath.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him so much.

“Fine,” I bite out, attempting to inhale, but I still can’t get my lungs to work. After the night I’ve had, I’m surprised they’re still functioning at all. I stare into his glittering eyes, injecting every bit of bravado into my voice as I seal my fate. “I’ll fuck you.”

“Yeah?” he asks wickedly, running his lips along my cheek, pausing just before they reach mine. “Do I need to give you a taste of your other option first? I’d hate to release you just for you to run. I can’t promise I’ll be so forgiving once I catch you.”

Dammit.

That’s exactly what I hoped to do.

As much as I loathe to admit it, if there’s one thing Dread knows very well, it’s me. I’ve been fighting with him for four years now, and, unfortunately for him, I know him very well, too.

Nothing I do surprises him anymore. He’s the type of person who absorbs the world around him like a fucking sponge. Countless times, I've noticed him watching me with vulture eyes.

“I said I’ll fuck you,” I snap, glowering at him.

He hums, taking his time studying me before dropping his stare to my mouth again, like he can’t seem to help himself.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to kiss me. His eyes linger for a few moments, but when he lifts them back up to mine, a small, amused smile quirks his lips. Then, he pushes off me and stands, allowing me to take a breath for what feels like the first time in several long minutes.

I scramble away from the edge of the pool, quickly standing and putting several feet of distance between me and the water. My chest loosens with each inch, and the relief of it is almost dizzying.

But when I turn my attention to Dread, the relief dissipates like smoke, and his namesake fills my gut instead.

The tension is as thick as the smell of chlorine as he watches me. Blue light dances across his face from the pool water, startling against the sharp cut of his jawline, the thin scar cutting through the arch of his thick brow, his straight nose. The silver hoops in his ears and nose glint, and it’s criminal how well he pulls it off.

He could break me in fucking half with ease, and I’m terrified he may just do that. Whether it’s with his hands or…

God, I don’t even want to think about it, to be honest. I’m not a virgin by any means, but I don't have a large body count, either.

I dated one guy, Matthew, my sophomore year. It lasted seven months before it ended, primarily because of Dread. His bullying created tension between us, considering Matthew was always having to defend me and constantly getting into fights with Dread. It wore him down over time. At one point, Matt was even convinced we’d fucked, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Aside from him, I slept with a few others. Over summer breaks, I’d choose one state to explore and would usually come across a guy or two to take the edge off. None of them were memorable as far as sex went, but it was enough to familiarize myself with what to do and not to do.

Still, standing here before Dread, who I’m sure has been with many women, my stomach tightens with apprehension.

Even worse, the men I've been with were all pretty average-sized. I have only felt the imprint of Dread, and it's fucking daunting, to say the least.

That amused smirk widens, and with one last heated, lingering look, he turns and walks away. I take the opportunity to inhale as deeply as I can before my breath whooshes out in a shuddery exhale. Then, I follow him, not entirely sure where we’re going but thankful it’s away from the pool.

He leads me toward a blue-painted steel door and pushes it open to reveal a locker room.

If my life were on the line and I had sixty seconds to locate exactly where my heart is, I’d end up dead. It seems to have vacated the premises, and instead of it beating in just one central part, it feels like my entire body is thumping.

I step into the room but stop at the entrance as the door slowly closes behind me, the soft snick sounding more like a bomb detonating.

After toeing off his shoes and socks, he grabs the back of his gray hoodie and pulls it over his head, the white T-shirt beneath lifting to reveal an expansive, tattooed, muscled back before dropping again. I clasp my sweaty hands together, twisting my fingers as he approaches a long bench off to the left side of the room, swings his leg over, and sits down.

Those long, black strands fall over his eyes, and when he lifts them up to mine, I struggle to maintain my critical thinking skills. They’re filled with a white-hot heat, releasing plumes of tension into the air like smoke until we’re engulfed in a dense fog. There doesn’t seem to be an atom of oxygen left in the room outside of it.

I cross my arms, uncaring if it makes me look uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable.

“Do you have a condom? I get enough shit from you. I don’t need STDs on top of it.”

I was hoping my question would offend him, but there’s no change in his impassive expression.

“Can’t say I do,” he replies simply. “But I can say I’ve never fucked without one before.”

I arch a brow. Instinctively, I want to doubt that, but with his status as an Olympic legend—and likely with a very decent-sized bank account because of it—I also don’t doubt Dread is very careful with getting STDs or knocking someone up.

“What if I have an STD?”

“Do you?”

I almost say yes so I wouldn't have to fuck him, but that would mean he'd resort to the alternative option and drown me. Which is obviously not a real option.

“No. But maybe I’m not on birth control,” I say, and then give him an innocent look. “Can’t breed with a D’Amour. That would be tragic for you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You got an IUD after you started dating Matt. I overheard you two talking about it outside of class because you had terrible cramps from getting it put in. Those things last for years, do they not?”

I frown, surprised he would even remember something like that. That was so long ago, and I hadn’t even realized he was around at the time.

Again, I almost lie, but even if he allows for a rain check, he could easily google and find that they do, in fact, last years. At that point, he'd probably just go straight to drowning me for playing him.

“They do,” I answer hesitantly.

“Anything else?” he asks, a nefarious undertone to his question.

I purse my lips while he silently observes me, likely reading every thought on my face. With his chin tipped down and his frosted eyes pinning me beneath those unruly strands, his smirk returns, even more wicked than before.

I can see exactly what the fucker thinks of me right now.

He sees me as a silly girl who’s going to stumble to him, take off my clothes with trembling hands, and stiffly lie down on the bench. Maybe he thinks I’ll turn my head to the side and stare off into nothing while he fucks me, or maybe he thinks I’m going to put in the effort, but everything I do will be awkward and clumsy. Either way, I know he thinks I’m going to give him the worst sex of his life while he gives me the best of mine.

The mere thought of that happening has my spine snapping straight. I may not be able to put a leg behind my head or know any secret tricks to blow his mind, but I refuse to allow him the satisfaction of humiliating me any further than he already has. I refuse to allow him to walk away with more ammo to use against me later—more reason to look down on me and see me as lesser.

A strange sort of calmness settles over me, and all my racing thoughts quiet and fade into the darkness.

I won’t just fuck Dreadful Sharpe. I’ll ruin him, too.

Confidence floods in and dilutes the anxiety in my bloodstream until I feel… at peace.

I bend at the waist and quickly unlace my boots before kicking them off, followed by my socks. The smooth cement floor is icy, a balm to my flushed skin.

He tracks my movements closely, his gaze sharp as I straighten and shrug off my coat, dropping that next to my shoes. I hold his stare as I cross my arms to grip the bottom of my sweatshirt before quickly pulling it off me, revealing my bare breasts.

I didn’t bother to put a bra back on earlier, and he’s visibly surprised by it. His muscles tense, his jaw clenches, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Otherwise, he keeps his expression passive as he studies me, though his heated stare burns everywhere it touches.

When I was naked in his bed, he deliberately refrained from looking too much, and aside from getting hard, he kept any other reactions locked down. Now, he seems to have less control over his roaming eyes.

Next, I hook my fingers in my leggings and slide them down, taking my underwear with them before tossing both into the clothing pile at my feet. It’s chilly in here, tightening my nipples into hard peaks and provoking goosebumps to rise across the expanse of my body.

Yet, my blood is boiling beneath the surface, keeping my limbs loose and languid as I approach him, allowing my hips to naturally sway. It’s not so much that it’s forced, but enough to draw his attention to them before settling on my V, where a trimmed strip of hair runs down the middle. His nostrils flare, and the flames in his gaze explode into a wildfire.

I don't always shave completely, like I assume he thought.

His spine straightens when I stop before him, slow to return his gaze to mine. His smugness is nowhere to be seen now, replaced with a calculating gleam swirling within the raging heat. He can tell my energy has shifted, and though he’ll never admit it, I think that puts him on edge.

I don’t let myself think about what I’m doing as I grip his shoulders and swing my leg over him before settling onto his lap. Amber and sandalwood engulf my senses, and I hate how incredible he smells.

His gray sweatpants do little to hide his cock protruding beneath the fabric, and even just a glimpse of it has my throat tightening.

For now, I push it out of my head, deciding to worry about it when the time comes.

He grips either side of the bench, purposely keeping his hands off me. It’s supposed to feel cold, as if he’s uninterested, but I think it’s because he’ll lose control the moment he touches me.

His cock presses directly into my clit, and my pussy throbs from the contact. I fight the urge to roll my hips against him, seeking more of the heady pleasure the simplest of touches ignited. I’m not ready to let my body act on instinct yet. To keep myself distanced, I need my every move to be intentional and orchestrated, but already, I feel my control slipping.

I’m not quite brave enough to meet his stare this close yet, so I focus on his mouth. All I can do is try to keep breathing through the heavy blanket of warmth and static electricity wrapped around us. It seeps beneath my pores, making me hyperaware of how he feels beneath me. The slightest friction ignites the sharpest of sparks, and it’s taking a toll on my concentration.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and capture his bottom lip, sucking it into my mouth before pulling back, scraping my teeth against it as I do. A deep growl rumbles from the depths of his chest, and it sounds like a warning.

But I’ve never heeded them before.

I grab either side of his head and slant my mouth over his, pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss, though I deny him my tongue. A flurry of winged insects buzzes beneath my skin, and my stomach flips, sending the butterflies soaring. It’s not supposed to be passionate, yet our lips dance to a slow, heavy bass.

My pussy floods, and the urge to grind into him becomes overwhelming, though I refrain because I know if it’s torture for me, then it is for him, too. Still, I let him taste a small moan, prompting him to deepen the kiss, searching for more.

I retreat as he surges forward, attempting to deepen it further. I keep our lips locked but deny him access. He inhales deeply through his nose, inflating his chest where another deep growl rumbles within its depths. Still, I refuse him, using my hold on either side of his jaw to keep him somewhat contained. I can feel his muscles swelling with frustration, and when I let him sip on another moan, his hands tighten around the bench until the wood creaks, as if he’s trying to snap it in half.

I smile against him, and whatever fortitude he possesses slips and crashes at our feet. He comes alive, his arms snapping around me, one hand fisting my hair while the other palms my ass, wrenching a sharp gasp from my throat when he squeezes it and roughly jerks me against him. He takes advantage of the opening and dives his tongue past my teeth. Lightning strikes the moment it meets mine, nearly sending me out of my skin.

My hands dive into his hair, gripping the soft strands as he brings me impossibly closer, molding every inch of me against him, his muscles rippling as he goes from complacency to devouring me.

His tongue is demanding as it lashes at mine, setting off firework after firework until I’m practically climbing his body just to get closer, though there isn’t a single millimeter of space between us.

My pussy pulses with need, and a deep ache forms within, practically screaming to be filled. Giving in, I grind against him, a growl and a mewl exchanging between our lips. The two sounds seem to loosen the knot around our vocal cords, and suddenly, needy whimpers and breathy moans are slipping free. It’s impossible to tell whose are whose, only that the two of us swallow them down eagerly.

I rock against him again, shuddering from the sharp pleasure that rockets through me. His hand on my ass becomes bruising as he uses his grip to guide my rolling hips along the hard ridge of his cock, both of us desperate for the friction.

Once I start, I can’t stop. It feels so fucking good.

I tell myself I’m not losing control, I’m just letting myself ride the waves. But then my head is snapping back on a loud moan while his mouth descends to my nipple, capturing it between his teeth. My eyes roll, and he groans before sucking harshly, making my hips stutter from the sheer force of the pleasure commanding me.

It borders on painful, and I don't know if it's that combination or because the angle is just right as I grind against him, but I'm already so close to tipping over the edge.

“Dread, wait,” I gasp, the euphoria climbing further when he nips at my nipple. “You’re gonna make me come.”

He growls, releasing my hair to grab the other side of my ass. He retreats from my breast, though he stays close, his hot breath blowing across the hard peak and sending shivers down my spine.

“What a needy little pussy,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice rough and harsh. It travels straight to my core, and I let out another hoarse mewl. “Haven’t even got my cock inside you yet, and you’re ready to come all over it.”

“Nng.” I try to speak, but my vision tunnels and my entire body tenses, centering its focus between my legs.

“That’s it,” he whispers before releasing a delicious moan he should never give out for free. It should be behind an egregious paywall just to hear it. “Let me see how pretty you look when you come, darling.”

Never mind.

It cost me my sanity.

“Oh, fuck, Dread,” I cry out, my head kicking back again.

The pressure bursts, like a light bulb exploding. Then, my vision snuffs, casting me in the dark.

My eyes roll and hips convulse as the orgasm slams into me. My spine bows, forcing him to band an arm around my waist so I don’t fall back. The ecstasy is sharp, causing my core to contract almost painfully.

“Fuck yeah,” Dread groans, his hot breath now fanning across the underside of my jaw.

I’m faintly aware of him watching me break apart. I only hope he’s fast enough to catch all my pieces before they hit the floor.

I cling to him much like I did when we stood at the edge of the pool. My brain will never truly understand how we got from there to here—where along the line I decided giving my breath to Dread is better than letting the water take it away.

I suppose it's not much different than dying when I end up at heaven’s gates, anyway.

The orgasm ebbs, and I drop my chin with a breathless moan, my mouth nearly colliding with his parted lips. His stare burns into me intently, picking apart every inch of my face as I slowly come down. He reveres me as if I’m a celestial being he’s seeing for the first time.

The butterflies in my stomach mutate the second I dare meet his eyes, becoming something more monstrous. Their wings beat with a force that makes my insides feel as if I’m free-falling from a mountain. It’s too much, too intense, so I crash my lips against his, needing an escape. It’s another explosion that takes my breath away, but I’m so eager to bury the feeling in my stomach, I dive my tongue inside his mouth in hopes I’ll be safer inside him.

He groans while I claw at his T-shirt, followed by the distinct sound of fabric tearing. He pulls back to rip it over his head before slamming his mouth to mine once more, the move so quick, my brain hardly processes the brief moment we separated.

Except I know we did, because now, his bare skin fuses with mine, only heightening the electricity passing between us. My hands tug at his hair while his explore my naked flesh, leaving a devastating effect in their wake.

The energy surrounding us is as potent as it is volatile, and if cities lived along the planes of our stomachs, they’d be in turmoil, their fragile structures no match beneath the storms raging between us.

And they will undoubtedly be left in ruins.

Suddenly, he stands, keeping me cradled tightly against him. My stomach dips as I go weightless. Instinctively, my ankles cross over his lower back a moment before my spine slams into the unforgiving bench, his body crowding over me as he ravages my mouth.

The shock of it is enough to jolt me out of the trance I’d fallen into.

Fuck, I need to regain control before I lose myself to him completely.

I shove my hand between our bodies and slip it beneath the band of his sweatpants, instantly finding his hard cock and wrapping my fingers around it tightly. The heel of his palm slams against the bench above my head, a visceral groan unleashing from his throat as his own composure slips from his grasp.

“Fuuuck,” he hisses, his chin rising, exposing a thick neck with veins roping down and over his broad shoulders.

His size is even more intimidating now that I can feel it, filling my hand until just the tips of my fingers touch. His flesh is both hot and incredibly soft, but beneath is rock hard and unforgiving. Forcing away the trepidation of fitting it in… well, any part of me, I focus on moving my palm up and down, twisting my wrist as I do.

Jesus, even his length is panic-inducing, yet when he rolls his hips into me with a groan, I mourn that it’s only my hand experiencing it.

With the other, I push at his sweatpants, prompting him to help me slide them down his legs. All the while, I never let go, instead focusing on his pleasure. Deep down, I know I’m terrified of what he’s going to do to me, and I’m only delaying the inevitable, but I’m happy to be a chickenshit. I may even get lucky and make him come before he gets the chance to fuck me.

It wouldn’t be my fault he came prematurely, and I’d get to walk away with my hips aligned, pelvis perfectly assembled, and vagina intact.

“Let me taste,” I whisper, my free hand pushing at his chest.

That seems to give him pause, and my heart drops as he resists. For only the second time since I sat on his lap, I cautiously meet his burning stare.

It arrests the oxygen in my lungs, and my stomach flips again, even more wildly than last time. I want nothing more than to look away, the intensity of it far too much for my fragile nervous system. Except I can’t this time. I’m paralyzed.

I work to swallow as he carefully dissects my expression. I move my hand again, hoping to distract him from whatever the fuck he’s looking for, but his fingers close around my wrist tightly. My heart sinks like a penny in a wishing well, where it’ll join my other unanswered prayers.

“You think I wouldn’t notice you thirsting over my cock?” he questions, his voice raw and deep.

Another rough swallow. “Would you prefer I run away from it?”

His lips twitch, and my discomfort beneath his scrutiny grows.

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to do?”

My mouth parts, and I try to give him an ‘are you stupid?’ look, but it falters when he leans in, skating his lips against mine and eliciting vicious little currents with each brush.

“I think we both know you wouldn’t be so eager to get on your knees for me unless you had a motive,” he rasps. I try to shake my head, but it’s weak. “It hurts a lot less to swallow my cock than it does to have your pussy ripped in half, doesn’t it?”

Fuck.

I hate that he can read my intentions so easily.

My breath shudders while I rack my brain for a believable excuse, but I’m at an utter loss. After another beat of weighted silence, he chuckles and places a soft kiss against my lips while firmly removing my hand from his dick.

“Dread,” I croak pleadingly, but I fail at finding the rest of my words.

“Shh,” he whispers, the gentle sound having the opposite effect. It doesn’t calm me—it fucking terrifies me.

My pulse kicks up a beat, hammering against my throat as his lips drop to my chin with another soft kiss. Inch by inch, they trail down my throat, becoming wetter and sharper as he descends. By the time he reaches my left nipple, I’m trembling, and my pussy is weeping.

I’m desperate to go back to pleasuring him. The first orgasm was devastating, only confirming he’s going to ruin me, and I’m not prepared for that. Not even fucking close.

His hot mouth closes over my nipple again, and my back bows, those currents intensifying as he laps at the hard peak. I squeeze my eyes shut, a whimper leaking from my throat when his teeth join in on the torture. I feel every touch directly between my legs, but there’s nothing to assuage the ache. There’s just enough space between us to prevent me from getting any friction, and with my legs spread around his hips, I’m unable to rub them together.

“Dread,” I whine, rolling my hips and meeting nothing but air.

He ignores me, switching to the other breast for a few moments, drawing out my torment until I’m desperate for him to do something to give me relief.

I’m panting by the time he dips to lick down the center of my stomach to my navel, forcing my legs to fall away from his waist. He nips at the sensitive skin there, wringing a whimper from my lips.

His hands grab the undersides of my thighs and spread them wider, only for him to release a pained groan. His curled fist flies to his mouth, and he bites down, his eyes locked between my legs.

My cheeks burn, and I’m tempted to snap them closed. Can’t say I’ve ever had a man look at me so closely, and it’s extremely unnerving.

“Fuck, Rev,” he whispers under his breath, sounding almost tortured.

My heart plummets, convinced something is wrong. I’m terrified to ask, but not knowing feels worse. Just as I gather the courage to, he’s moving again. But instead of backing away like I expected, he continues to descend until he’s on his feet, crouching at the end of the bench. He circles his arms around my thighs and tugs me to the edge, extremely fucking close to his mouth.

I immediately panic.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” I rush out, my hands snapping to his shoulders.

His eyes lift, peering up at me beneath black strands and dark eyelashes, and I damn near choke on my tongue.

“I’m hungry,” he responds simply, as if that’s a completely normal fucking thing to say.

I’m not dense enough to be oblivious to his intentions, but I’ve never had a man bother with that, even though they expected it from me. It was something I accepted as typical, having heard plenty of women complain about their boyfriends preferring not to go down on them.

I never minded because I thought it’d feel weird, anyway, and now that Dread—of all fucking people—is the one who wants to test that has me on edge.

“That… that’s not necessary,” I say, propping up on an elbow so I can drag myself out from beneath him. He holds tight, looking almost betrayed—like I’m attempting to take away his favorite toy. “I’m already wet, so you don’t need to do that.”

He tugs me closer in response, holding me more firmly against him and preventing me from escaping. His stare is both intense and inquisitive, and it’s making me as uncomfortable as the proximity of his mouth to my vagina.

“Have you never had your cunt licked?” he asks bluntly.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My cheeks burn hot as I defensively respond, “No. No one has needed to before. They got me wet just fine.”

His scarred brow quirks, unimpressed with my response.

“I’m not eating your pussy to get you wet, Reverie,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice bordering on anger. “You have an ocean between your legs.” My mouth flops open, and it feels like he lit a match, setting my entire body aflame.

“Then why bother?” I mutter, shifting nervously as my unease grows.

“Because you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, and I need to know how sweet you taste,” he answers casually. I blink, surprised he’d admit something like that. “And if you taste like how I think you do, I’m going to want everything you have to give me. Do you know how I get that?”

Hesitantly, I shake my head.

“By making you come in my mouth so I can fucking drink it.”

My mouth drops open again while he turns his focus to my center with a deep groan, his brow furrowing and teeth biting his bottom lip.

“You need to learn one very important difference between us.”

I can think of a million, but the only word I can manage is, “What?”

He leans closer, his hot breath warming my sensitive clit, causing my stomach to tighten. Then, those frosted eyes flick up to meet mine beneath black strands.

“I’ve never been afraid to drown.”

CHAPTER 15

REVERIE

I’ve no idea how the hell to respond to that, but he doesn’t give me the opportunity. His tongue is already licking along the seam of my pussy, drawing out the most intense sensation I’ve ever experienced. I inhale sharply while he moans in approval.

Oh my God.

“Oh, fuck, you taste even better,” he whimpers, though it doesn’t seem like he’s even talking to me anymore. “The eighth goddamn wonder of the world.”

He dives back in with more vigor, lapping up the arousal seeping from my core as if it’s the cure to keeping him alive.

Internally, I battle with myself. Do I keep watching him, or am I supposed to lie back and close my eyes? The latter sounds like the less invasive of the two, but the sight of his tongue disappearing inside me is absolutely riveting, and I struggle to tear my eyes away.

But it’s Dread between my legs, and that makes this experience extremely hard to reconcile in my brain. All he’s ever done is hurt me, and now, he’s bringing me the most intense pleasure of my life.

Yet, I find myself unable to look away, so I settle back onto my elbows, the inner corners of my eyebrows curling up as my lips part in both awe and bliss. For a few moments, I fall into somewhat of a trance. My surroundings fade away, and I’m only aware of the euphoria his probing mouth evokes, of how fucking erotic it is to watch while he does it. Whimpers fall from my tightened throat, though part of me holds back, still conflicted as to why he’s doing this.

I lost my virginity when I was sixteen to a random guy at a party. He insisted men only do it if they can’t get their woman wet, and while I knew that was bullshit, any men I slept with after had their own reason. Matt said he found it gross. Another guy said it was emasculating. Others just went straight to sex and never even broached foreplay.

But Dread’s expression twists with rapture, his eyes fluttering as if it’s him being pleasured. And while his open-mouthed kisses become sloppier, a pool forming on the bench beneath me, it has little to do with getting me wet and everything to do with him just wanting to.

The second I realize that, the proverbial chains loosen, and my body comes alive beneath him. My previous nerves and reservations go up in flames, and in place is someone who demands pleasure from him.

I shift my weight onto one elbow and dive my fingers into his hair with my other hand, holding him tight against me as he relentlessly lashes at my clit. My legs drop open even further, and my head tips back, my eyes rolling and thighs shaking from the utter ecstasy coursing through me. My throat loosens, whimpers giving way to moans as loud and unabashed as his slurping.

He growls his approval, trading between tongue fucking my inner walls and sucking my clit, punctuated by eager, ravenous grunts from his throat that only heighten my arousal.

I’ve never been more turned on in my life, never been more consumed with desire and euphoria. It’s incredibly dangerous to feel this way. I don’t know how I’m going to go back to the version of Dread who causes me so much pain.

Just when I think it can’t get better, I feel two blunt fingers probing my entrance, granting me only a second of warning before they drive inside me and curl, hitting a spot that pulls a scream from my throat.

“Fuck!” I cry, my vision doubling and nearly going black. “Oh, fuck, oh my God, oh my God, Dread.”

My head feels too heavy, and it takes great effort to drop my chin back down to meet his half-lidded, lust-drunk stare. Now, there’s no shying away from his intensity, but being completely consumed by it.

His tongue focuses on my clit while he pumps his fingers, hitting my g-spot with perfect precision. I lose all cognitive function, and all I can do is submit to the euphoria. Every muscle in my body tightens like a bowstring, my upper half curling toward him as the pleasure climbs until it feels like I’m quite literally going to explode.

“I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come,” I chant weakly, my voice faint.

Right when my head goes to loll back again, his other hand snaps forward, catching me by the throat and forcing me to keep my eyes on him. He squeezes firm enough to sever my air supply, creating a pressure in my head that has my vision swimming. Vaguely, I’m aware of how tight I’m pulling his hair, but I’ve lost all control.

Just when it feels like too much and not enough all at once, the string snaps, and I explode. Dread’s hand loosens around my throat, releasing the blood from my head in a dizzying rush. The scream that rips from my throat is inhuman. I’m suspended in time for several heart-stopping moments, my body locked tight and rendered silent as my pussy convulses against his persistent tongue and contracts around his pumping fingers. With my jaw unhinged and brow furrowed, I watch him stare at me intently. A darker reverence reflects in his eyes this time, almost like obsession, but I’m too lost to even process it.

Then, as if God hit play, I reanimate with another outcry. He doesn’t prevent me from falling back again, and my spine hits the bench before arching off it until it forms a C, only my head and ass still grounded. Now, both hands fist his hair, holding him to me with a force even he can’t break free from. I can no longer hear the noises pouring past my lips, but I know they’re unlike anything I’ve produced before.

I’m aware of little else aside from my violent seizing and the cataclysmic ecstasy overpowering my system. I’m a prisoner to it, my consciousness locked inside my own body, incapable of doing anything but standing by as it wreaks havoc.

The moment it relents, a sob bursts from my throat, having no other outlet for the absolute devastation I just experienced. I slap a hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to regain control, but it’s a losing battle. Another sob slips free, and tears instantly bubble in my eyes. I quickly cover my face with both hands just as it twists into what is likely an ugly cry.

The pleasure is slow to come down completely, soft waves still rolling through my body.

Hands grab my wrists and tug, but I shake my head and hold them tight. Tonight’s events have left me extremely raw, and the last thing I want is the motherfucker to see me cry again, but he’s far too strong. Instead of releasing them once he successfully unglues them from my face, he keeps pulling until I’m sitting upright.

“Crying already, darling? I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

I just barely bite back the question in time.

Do you have to?

But that would make me look even weaker than I already do.

I'm disoriented and incredibly nervous as his hand dives into my hair and tugs me toward him. I move without thinking, unclear what’s happening until his cock is right at my mouth. He tugs my hair back, forcing me to look up at him.

My cheeks burn, and I work to swallow as I take in how drenched the entire lower half of his face is.

Oh, God, it’s even on his chest, one bead slowly trailing down toward his abdomen.

That’s… that’s so embarrassing. But he doesn’t give me much time to dwell, bringing my focus to his cock poised at my mouth.

It’s honestly so fucking unfair that he, of all people, has a big dick—arguably a beautiful one, too. It would’ve made this whole experience so much easier to swallow if he were small. Literally and figuratively.

“Get me wet, baby,” he rasps. His free hand slides along the side of my jaw, pausing to roughly swipe his thumb over my bottom lip, his stare enraptured as he does. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Truthfully, that’s all he needed to say to convince me.

Maintaining eye contact, I lean forward and envelop his swollen tip with my mouth. His upper lip curls into a snarl as a hiss leaks past his teeth.

I’m not incredibly experienced with blow jobs, but the desire to bring Dread to his knees is enough to infuse me with the confidence of a thousand sex workers.

I swirl my tongue around him, fluttering my eyes and groaning as I do, as if I’m licking frosting off a goddamn cupcake. His mouth parts, and I slowly work his length into my mouth, soaking him thoroughly as I do. My brows pinch as I take him deeper, becoming more and more difficult with every inch.

One side of his mouth curls into an amused grin, mirth seeping into his heated stare. “The deeper you take me, the more concerned you look.” He chuckles. “And I don’t think I’ve seen anything sexier.”

If my genuine concern for the damage this may do to my throat is sexy, I’ll take it, but it also makes me intent on wiping that smirk off his face.

I take my time priming my throat and coercing it into full relaxation. All the while, I hollow my cheeks and suck, my eager whimpers vibrating around his length as I get closer to taking all of him. He whispers encouragement between breathy moans and deep growls.

When I finally feel ready, I inhale deeply through my nose, and, by sheer stubbornness and the will to make him choke, I push forward and swallow him down until less than an inch remains.

“Fuck!” he shouts, his fist tightening in my hair to the point of pain while he jerks against me.

I hold my breath while internally talking myself through the discomfort, convincing myself not to panic and retreat. I wiggle my head side to side, forcing the rest of him down my throat until my nose presses against his pelvis.

He moans loudly, and then his voice cracks, only for his knees to give out for a half second. Even when he catches himself, they bend with the threat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, Reverie,” he chants, sounding like a broken, breathless record.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and several tears run down my cheeks as I hold it for another few seconds. He whimpers, his knees still wavering. Then, I look up at him as I retreat, slowly and steadily revealing every inch of him while staring directly into his eyes.

A deep crease forms between his brows, and his fist flies to his mouth, biting it with a pained moan as he watches me.

I gasp the second he’s cleared from my mouth, inhaling desperately needed oxygen. A long trail of saliva connects from his tip to my mouth, and with a heavy stare, I lick my lips, as if I finished the most delicious dessert I’ve ever had.

He turns his head away with a curse, almost as if he can’t stand to look at me. I know he can’t because he’s on the verge of coming.

So, I swallow him again, hollowing my cheeks and bobbing my head up and down.

“Baby—” He cuts himself off when his gaze meets mine, appearing torn between stopping me and letting me continue.

He pants heavily, his abdomen twitching and clenching, he moves his head every which way—up, down, to the side—having no idea what to do with himself. All the while, he continues to moan, whimper, and mutter curses beneath his breath.

My vision is blurred and my jaw aches, but I don’t relent. I tell myself it’s nothing more than a calculated action to knock him down a peg or two, yet my pussy throbs and eager moans slip from my throat without permission. I don’t know the exact moment I lose myself to pleasuring him, only that I do, and I don’t want to stop anymore.

It’s not a chore or a grueling task, but something that brings me a deep sense of satisfaction and joy.

With a gleeful, excited moan, I wrap my hand around the base and feed him back into my mouth, twisting my wrist, sucking and licking as I do. I make it ten seconds before he’s ripping himself away from me with a growl.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rev,” he spits, fisting my hair tightly. The look in his eyes is intense, and I’m not entirely sure if he wants to shove his dick back down my throat or slap me with it.

Either way, he definitely wants to wield himself in an aggressive manner I wouldn’t entirely be opposed to anymore.

So, with a whine, I go back for more, but he holds tight, retreating further and evading me. Another distressed sound leaves my lips.

Then, he backs away completely and points a finger at me, appearing almost angry. “You’re fucking done.”

I go to argue, but with one last look of warning, he disappears behind me to straddle the bench, though he doesn’t sit. My mouth opens, prepared to ask him what the hell he’s doing, but I have my answer the moment his palm presses between my shoulder blades and pushes me forward, forcing my chest against the wood. I grab the sides of the bench to steady myself, and in one, seamless move, he lifts my hips until only the tips of my toes reach the floor and then drives inside me.

“Dread!” I screech, his name coming out high-pitched and strangled as my eyes blow wide, completely unprepared for the sudden invasion.

He moans loudly in response, and if I wasn’t currently being impaled with what feels like a fucking flagpole, I’d probably appreciate that sound a lot more.

Oh my God.

I knew he was big, but feeling it in my mouth is almost laughable compared to my pussy.

The burn from how wide he stretches me is all-consuming for several moments. I’m trying to locate my lungs so I can tell them to start operating again when he retreats to the tip, then drives back in.

My forehead drops to the bench with a thunk, because somehow, he’s only gotten deeper, and I think I’m dying.

“I hate you, ohmygod, I hate you so much,” I whimper, the words flooding from my mouth.

His chuckle is dark, and it’s no surprise he doesn’t possess even a needle tip of compassion or remorse in his evil black heart.

“You haven’t even taken all of me yet,” he tsks.

Because why would anything in my life go right?

I lift my head, my face twisting into a pained expression. “Can you just… can you just give me a minute?” I snap breathlessly.

He gently rocks his hips, doing the exact opposite and slowly feeding more of himself inside me. The burn has eased, but with each centimeter he gains, I feel more and more uncomfortably full.

Fucking Christ, I think I’m going to need an epidural if he goes any deeper.

“Fuck, you have no idea how beautiful your cunt looks right now,” he rasps. Any humor has disappeared from his voice, replaced with awe, and I loathe how effective it is in tightening my stomach with pleasure. “Every time I pull back, you grip me so fucking tight, like you can't stand to let me go and need to come with me.”

Yeah, I definitely feel like he’s trying to take my fucking insides with him, too.

Panting, I peek over my shoulder, but I regret it immediately. His chin is tipped down with his mouth dropped open, his thick brows deeply furrowed, and his black hair falling over his forehead as he works himself deeper and deeper.

I’ve never seen him look anything other than angry, cold, or amused. So, seeing ecstasy contort his features like this is fucking violent to my system, and knowing that it’s something I’m doing to him… I can’t even begin to process why that makes me feel good. Truthfully, I don’t think I want to, anyway.

“Yeah, there you go, baby. That’s it,” he groans, his muscled chest heaving and his sculpted abdomen rippling as he fucks me in short thrusts. “You’re taking it so good—fuck, yes, look how pretty you stretch for me. Such a good girl.”

His rambling is by far the hottest thing I’ve ever heard, and the discomfort that was so unbearable just moments before now feels indiscernible to the pleasure. They’ve become a single sensation, and together, they feed on the whimpers and mumbled words pouring from his lips.

My mouth hangs open, sharp, breathy sighs spilling past them with ease. With one final push, he seats himself completely inside me, and my eyes cross from the intensity. For a moment, he feels so deep, I swear I feel him coming up my throat. An impossible feat, but I’m confident Dread would be the one to accomplish it.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his tone morphing into something deeper and darker. “I knew you could take it. Your cunt is fucking stuffed. So fucking proud of you.”

A demonic growl reaches my ears, and then his palm on my ass with a sharp clap. I yelp, jolting from the fire blooming across my backside, but holy fuck, it sends an intense shot of delight throughout my system. I bite back a smile as he firmly massages the spot, easing the burn, while whispering a few unintelligible words beneath his breath. Then, his other hand joins on the opposite side before they both squeeze my ass in a bruising grip. I’m only capable of a pained mewl as he roughly spreads my cheeks, draws out of me, and slams completely back inside me.

Sparks of bliss ignite right where the tip of his cock hits. My throat strangles the moan before it can make it through, producing nothing more than a choked sound.

I think he just hit my goddamn cervix, and it’s fucking criminal how incredible it felt.

It’s only when he retreats that I can breathe again, but I’m given just enough time to eke out a, “Yes,” before he’s filling me again. He allows me no more time to adjust, immediately setting a steady but harsh pace. Over and over, he plunges inside me, using his bruising grip on my ass to slam me back into him with every thrust. Each time, a delicious moan flies past his lips, only making me impossibly wetter.

It’s all too much—too overwhelming—yet so unbelievably addicting, I never want it to end.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” I mumble, chanting the words between sharp cries. The only other thing I can do is hold on, my nails digging into the bench with desperation.

“Fuck, Rev,” he groans, one hand releasing my ass to slap it harshly again.

The pain feels fucking glorious combined with the ecstasy, sending my eyes to the back of my head. My answering moan is nothing short of pornographic, spurring him on to do it again. Fire lances across my ass, yet it heightens my pleasure in a way that feels so good—it makes me happy. A broad smile splits my face, and my outcry is a mix of a scream and a laugh.

His reaction to it is physical, and it’s explosive.

His hips stutter in surprise before his muscles swell with tension, and the growl that rumbles out of his chest is menacing. Rather than spanking me again, he reaches forward and sloppily gathers all my hair into his fist. He pulls tight, forcing my chest to lift and my back to bow. Sharp pinpricks ignite across my scalp, only making me happier.

“You’re a fucking filthy little slut,” he snarls.

I should hate that. I should be incredibly offended and turn around and smack him. Yet, my teeth clamp down on my bottom lip, biting back a smile as I nod my head eagerly, and mewl, “Uh-huh.”

“Shit,” he curses, and for a split second, he sounds completely thunderstruck.

I said I would ruin him, and I meant it. Admittedly, though, I didn't think it would go like this.

He adapts quickly, his free hand moving to cup my breast. I don’t have time to prepare myself for the blinding sensation of his fingers finding my nipple and pinching hard.

“Fuck!” I shout, my pussy clenching around him with a force that rivals his grip on my nipple.

The heady mix of agony and pleasure has my mouth dropping open and my eyes rolling. It’s breathtaking, and it fills my chest with pure elation, producing more gleeful moans.

“Fucking Christ,” he barks, pounding into me harder. “It’s fucking pathetic how easy it is to make you come.”

As if my body wants nothing more than to prove him right, my stomach tightens, and I soar right to the edge of that cliff again.

“Only with you,” I gasp out, the words slipping from my mouth unintentionally.

His hips stutter in surprise again, though he quickly recovers.

“The fuck did you just say to me, baby?” he asks, sounding like he’s almost daring me to repeat myself.

I didn’t mean to say that. Even if it’s true, it’s incredibly unnecessary for him to know.

But my muscles are tightening, and a knot is forming deep in my stomach, so my concern is at an all-time low.

“You heard me,” I say, my voice terribly faint.

I whine when he releases my nipple, only to yelp when that hand moves down between my legs, and he pinches my clit just as harshly. The agony is damn near beautiful, and my mouth waters, drool trailing from the corner of my mouth as the two opposing feelings crash into one another.

But it’s short-lived, earning another whine from my throat when he moves to roughly grip my cheeks instead while the hand in my hair jerks my head back.

“Don’t think I did,” he bites out.

Groaning, I force the words out, “I said only with you.”

He hums his approval. “You come for me like a little whore. Look at you, even drooling like a whore.” His thumb swipes the saliva over my cheek before releasing my hair and harshly pushing away my face. “What makes you think you deserve to come again?”

He pulls out completely, which instantly has panic overtaking me and damn near has me on the verge of tears.

“No, no, wait,” I beg. “Don’t stop, please!”

“On your back,” he demands roughly.

I’m a shaking mess as I quickly spin around and settle on the bench again.

He instantly crowds over me, his hands gripping the bench on either side of my head and his cock poised at my entrance. The sheer size of his body is overwhelming. When he had me over the edge of the pool, I was in too much of a panic to notice, but fuck, he’s just… everywhere.

My entire body is tingling, my center throbbing from the denied orgasm, and it’s making me feel slightly insane from how badly I need it.

He brushes his lips over mine, and though all he needs to do is just push inside me, he stays still.

“Dread,” I complain before reaching for his dick to put him inside me my damn self. He catches my wrist before I can, only to grab the other and pin them above my head in one massive palm.

I’m not proud of the sound that comes from my throat as I attempt to lift my hips up.

He chuckles, his heated stare glittering with mirth. “You see how desperate you are for my cock, baby?”

“Yesss,” I whine, desperately searching for even a little friction to send me over the edge. “Please, just let me come, Dread.”

He pulls his hips back, denying me, only making me more distressed. I was so, so close.

“Oh my God, please, I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s no thought behind my words, no consideration for what I’m saying to a man who lives to torture me—but at this moment, I couldn’t give a fuck less. I’m so blinded by my need to come, I’d probably get in the goddamn pool if he asked it of me.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his tone conveying exactly where his thoughts are leading. Sinister. Wicked. Evil.

He might as well be looking at me like I’ve just offered him my soul.

And maybe I have.

Yet, I still can’t find it in me to care. All I want is for him to fuck me and pinch my clit just the way he was.

“Yes,” I say breathlessly. “Anything.”

His breathing escalates, and he slams into me harshly, hitting that spot against my cervix again, sending shooting stars across my vision.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, my spine bowing into him, only to be inundated by the static crackling between our bodies.

It’s not normal for someone to feel like this, but all I want is every inch of him pressed against me.

He watches me intently as he plows into me, his parted mouth staying within an inch of mine.

“I don’t think that’s enough for me,” he rasps.

My brow furrows, trying to process his rejection through the shot of euphoria circulating through my system. His free hand reaches between us to strum my clit softly, teasing me with pleasure but not giving me nearly enough.

“When you tell me I own you—every fucking part of you—then I’ll let you come all over my cock,” he says. “Can’t have you going around acting like such a desperate slut for anyone else, can I?”

I groan, and somewhere lost beyond the intense throb in my pussy, my subconscious screams at me not to tell him that. But then he softly pinches my clit again, rolling his hips just right, and that voice grows muffled and indiscernible.

“Okay, yes, fine, you own me,” I rush out, impatient for him to resume now.

He bites his bottom lip and moans, appearing damn near drunk just from my concession. Still, he doesn’t give in, and my frustration grows.

My brows pinch, and I let loose a distressed noise that has him pressing a placating kiss to my mouth.

“Tell me you won’t let anyone else fuck you,” he asserts against my lips. “The only cock you may beg for is mine. And the only one who can make this pussy come is me.”

I nod eagerly, lifting my hips again to get him a little deeper. He lets me, and so I swivel them, gaining a little more friction, but it’s still not enough.

“Let me hear it, Reverie,” he orders, nipping my bottom lip to get my attention.

“Yes, yes, okay. I won’t fuck anyone else. Just you. Now, please, Kellan, I need you so fucking much. Just fuck me.”

I don’t know which part of what I said has him cursing harshly and sending his fist cracking against the bench beside my hip, but I wish I did so I could say it again.

Utter euphoria engulfs me, and he pounds into me with even more vigor. I look down, and the butterflies in my stomach nearly shoot out of my throat at the sight of him disappearing inside me, his length soaked in my arousal.

I’m hit with a sudden moment of clarity. I can’t believe this is Dread fucking me.

It will forever be burned into my brain—him pounding into me so punishingly, it's like watching him physically stuff me with his hatred, shoving it deeper and deeper inside me until I'm full of loathing, and I can no longer tell if it's his or mine.

Yet, it's fucking incredible to witness, and should mankind find a way to preserve memories, I only hope I die alone so it can deteriorate in obscurity. No living being deserves to see something so extraordinary.

Not even me.

I soar straight back to the edge again, but this time I fight against it, wanting this to last just a little longer.

I peer up at him from beneath the bangs falling in my eyes, and the second our crazed stares collide, I lose myself to him again.

His upper lip pulls up into a scowl, seeming like he's barely controlling himself from tearing me apart with his teeth.

That just won't do—I need him to be in shambles, too.

I let out a vulgar moan. “Yes, yes, like that,” I encourage breathlessly against his lips, delight and awe saturating my tone. “Keep fucking me just like that, Kellan. You make my pussy feel so fucking good.”

He whimpers, his expression twisting with bliss, but I’m not finished ruining him.

I tug at my wrists still trapped in his hand, and when he releases them, they shoot straight into his hair.

I pull his head down into me and capture his lips in a salacious kiss that has us both trembling from the intensity. But just as his tongue curls with mine, I tear myself away with a groan. The orgasm is becoming almost impossible to hold off.

“You’re gonna make me come so hard all over your cock,” I mewl, my breath hitching when the pressure in my core deepens. He growls, and I ensure I have his full attention before I say, “And no one’s ever made me do that before.”

“Fuck!” he curses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he whispers helplessly, “Fuck you.”

I grin, though he instantly wipes it from my face when he reaches between us and pinches my clit again. The sound that bursts from my throat is between a yelp and a moan. For a few short seconds, I teeter somewhere between agony and pleasure, and then, I’m gone. I careen off the cliff with no safety net and crash-land, creating an explosion so catastrophic, I fear I’ve killed every living thing on this planet.

“Kellan!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants from above me, his voice cracking as he continues to stuff his cock inside me, despite how hard I contract around him.

The last thing I see is liquid sputtering out between us, pooling on the bench before it spills off the sides.

Then, the orgasm sweeps me away, forcing my soul out of its vessel. It’s a complete out-of-body experience, my consciousness floating somewhere above us while the pleasure rips my body to shreds.

At some point, Dread stills for several seconds, his head kicking back with a hoarse shout. Then, he drops his chin and senselessly grinds against me, groaning and panting, violently trembling as he rides it out. He’s coming inside me, filling me until it spills out around him. Yet, I’m only aware of how it feels, like my bones are cracking from the force of the orgasm.

I'm slow to return to my body, and when I do, there’s a brief moment of panic that I’m paralyzed. I no longer feel like a human being with muscles and bones, but a gelatinous blob with no motor function.

Dread pants above me, his head tipped, cheek beside mine. I glance down, almost in a daze as I take in his sculpted physique, muscles in places I didn’t know existed, his tattooed, olive skin. His hand is gripping the side of the bench at my waist, veins roping from his wrist up to his flexed bicep. Then, my gaze slides over my body, from the swells of my breasts down the planes of my wet stomach to the curved dip in my waist, only to flare out into wide hips, my legs spread even wider to accommodate his large form, and finally there, between my thighs, where we’re still connected.

A fine layer of perspiration coats our skin, where shadows and light collide, depicting a haunting story across the canvas of our bodies. If my eyes were cameras and I took a snapshot of this view, it’s a picture that would sell for millions. It’s art, a masterpiece created by two people amidst a war with one another.

My stomach clenches, once again in utter disbelief that the man above me—inside me—is Dread.

The man who's been tormenting me for so long just fucked the absolute life out of me, and I've no fucking clue what I'm supposed to do with that information.

He exhales a heavy breath and then hisses as he slips out of me, a cocktail of our releases spilling onto the bench. I close my eyes with a forlorn sigh—I’m really embarrassed about that, but I have literally no energy to do a single thing about it. I suppose it’s the least humiliating thing I’ve done in the past several minutes, let alone the past hour.

He sits up and backs away, and while a very tiny part of me mourns the loss, I focus all my energy on avoiding eye contact with him. I snap my legs shut the millisecond he’s cleared from between them, and then I quickly sit up, sliding to the very edge of the bench, facing opposite him.

The silence is heavy, and as each second passes, the urge to hide grows stronger until, even if I somehow was paralyzed, it wouldn’t stop me from running out of here.

My legs are still violently shaking, and while I don’t trust my useless skeleton to hold me for a second, sheer willpower makes up for it. Without looking at him, I stand and speed walk to the pile of clothes waiting for me by the door. I’m unstable as fuck, and there’s cum splattered against my stomach, soaking between my thighs, and steadily trailing down them, but I tug my clothes on anyway without stumbling once, and that’s a win in my book.

I desperately need to shower tonight, preferably with bleach and a power washer.

By the time I’m finished, Docs laced and all, I stuff my hands in my pockets. I’m met with crumpled duct tape and the broken zip ties, remembering with a sinking feeling that he quite literally kidnapped me before stealing my phone and charger.

And I went and fucked him in return.

A rock forms in my throat, composed purely of self-loathing. Begrudgingly, I look up at Dread, who's casually sitting on the bench, dressed and resting his elbows on his spread knees. He studies me carefully with a blank expression, giving nothing away, while I very deliberately avoid looking at the goddamn puddle a foot from where he sits, which continues to drip onto the floor.

I am not cleaning that up. That is one thousand percent his fucking problem.

My stomach flips, and it’s impossible to maintain eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. I turn my focus to the lockers straight ahead.

“Can I have my phone back? I need to call an Uber.”

He remains quiet, and after a few stilted beats, I return my attention to him with exponential resistance.

“You were trying to leave in an Uber when I took you. Why?”

I blink, not expecting him to go that direction at all. It takes me a moment to find my words.

“I already told you. Lionel left a note in my room, and I don’t want to see him,” I answer, my voice hoarse but emotionless.

“You're scared of him.” It's not a question, but a conclusion.

“Who wouldn't be?”

“Someone who isn't a target.”

His implication is clear. He thinks I'm supposed to be exempt from Lionel’s wicked urges. It's already been proven possible, considering my mother was never an actual victim of his—at least not of the Locksmith, but rather, of a terrible husband.

So if I'm scared of him, it's because I am a target, but not for the same reasons as his other victims.

But he’s not ready to hear the entire truth, mostly because he was right. If I tell him everything, he will hate me more than he already does.

So, really, it’s me who isn’t ready, and as selfish as that is, I can’t bring myself to confess to it.

My truth is mine to bear, mine to eat at my soul. I may not have murdered his mother with my own hands, but that doesn’t mean my actions didn’t ultimately lead to her death. It doesn't mean my hands are clean of her blood.

“Are you a target?” he pushes, his tone sharp.

“Isn’t everyone?” I deflect. “He’s obviously dangerous. I may be his daughter, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be his victim too. He knows my dorm, so I can’t go back there tonight. So if you would please give me my phone, I’d like to call an Uber.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle within thrumming. For several moments, I watch the gears in his brain turn, considering something deeply before finally asking, “Who are you staying with?”

I give him a dirty look. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but no one. I’m getting a hotel.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and his expression grows colder. “It is my business. I recall you telling me I now own you.”

I scoff, shifting uncomfortably and hating that the moment I do, I feel a twinge of pain in my core, a disheartening reminder he was very much inside me only five minutes ago. And that’s… really fucked up.

This whole situation is fucked up.

But he got what he wanted, and, regardless of my stupid ramblings and meaningless promises, it’s over now. Now, I want nothing more than to move on and pretend it never happened.

“That meant nothing.”

His brow arches in challenge, and slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, he stands. His precious namesake lives up to its reputation. Foreboding pumps into my veins, slowly circulating through my system until it’s all I feel. Then, my heart thumps heavier as he prowls toward me.

I stiffen but hold firm, even as I crane my head back to look up at him when he stops before me. His chest brushes against mine, and it's truly awful how familiar it feels already.

His hand rises, and I flinch away as he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. My skin hums, sprouting from the abysmal point of contact and spreading to the tips of my toes.

“You signed over your soul to me, and I have every intention of collecting.”

I sneer, muttering snidely beneath my breath, “God fucking help me.”

He hums, amusement sparking in his gaze. He tilts my chin up higher, and though I resist, he holds more strength in his pinkie toe than I do in my entire body.

Grinding my teeth, I glare up at him, keeping my gaze trained on him even as he presses a soft kiss to my lips. I don’t return it, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He retreats, though he remains close enough for his mouth to brush against mine as he whispers, “He won't. You can’t make a deal with the devil, and then expect God to save you from it, darling.”

CHAPTER 16

DREAD

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life.

Letting my mom walk out that front door was the biggest. Fucking Reverie Adams definitely takes second place.

I said one time was all I needed, and I meant it.

Except, by the time she finished stripping and sat on my lap, I was already bargaining with myself. And when I saw her spread open for me, her pink cunt sopping wet and so goddamn pretty… I settled on one more time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more perfect in my life. I’ve never felt a hunger like that, either, especially after hearing no one had licked her there before. It was made even worse when she came so hard, her cum squirted from her cunt and all over me.

I would be a goddamn idiot to indulge in that only once.

Then, she looked up at me with those big, penny-colored eyes while she swallowed my cock, and I couldn’t remember why I settled on just one more time. When I felt her tight cunt wrapped around me, I told myself I’d need three max—until I slapped her ass, and she got so fucking excited from the pain, she started laughing. I tried to find a reasonable number after that, but then I made the mistake of picturing her doing that for some other asshole, and I gave up.

I made her promise me something I never should have, because now, I can’t let it—no, her—go.

Maybe I could’ve if she didn’t fucking tell me I’m the first to make her come like that, and I’d still really like to know if that’s even true.

It fucking better be.

I'm seeing red just thinking about it being a lie.

Fuck.

I should’ve never touched her. I should’ve just drowned her and let her father take the fall for it. Two D’Amours out of my life in one sweep.

You still can.

I can’t.

She’s a huge mistake, but a mistake I’ll repeat until I get her out of my system. Because I will get her out of my system.

My right wrist rests on the top of the steering wheel as I navigate the dark streets, my left elbow propped up on the door while I run the pad of my middle finger over my bottom lip.

Guilt eats me alive, my head conjuring my mom's voice, the same three words whispered brokenly on a constant loop.

How could you?

How could I? I don't fucking know, but I hate myself for it so goddamn much—especially because I don't think I can stop.

The taste of her pussy still lingers on my tongue, and it’s driving me insane that it’s fading. I make a right turn with the heel of my palm, igniting a burning pain in my neck. When my hand returns to the top of the leather steering wheel, I squeeze it with all my strength.

Not only was that the best fuck I’ve ever had, but for the first time in my life, I came so hard, I pinched a goddamn nerve in my neck.

Which is really unfortunate for me, considering I have practice early in the morning. Coach has been pushing me harder after my sleeping med mishap, and a pinched nerve will fuck up my time.

Reverie shifts in the corner of my eye, her body tucked as far into the door as it’ll allow. She’s nearly face-planting the window with how close she is to it. The reflection offers me a glimpse of the soft frown on her face, but nothing about what she’s thinking.

Probably the same thing I am.

Except she’d be happy to let this go and pretend it didn’t happen. She’d rather go back to the way things were before: I make her miserable, and she finds some way to get back at me.

Rinse and repeat.

But tonight changed everything, and it’s impossible to go back.

If her pussy didn’t make sure of that, her father getting out of prison sure as fuck did.

Her phone pings, prompting her to look down at it. I gave it back when we got into the car five minutes ago, and she’s spent the entire time texting Barry.

Her thumbs fly across the keyboard while she anxiously chews her bottom lip, her leg bouncing, a nervous energy radiating from her.

There’s the distinct sound of an incoming message, followed by Reverie cursing beneath her breath.

“You want to share with the class?” I ask dryly.

She turns to burn a hole in the side of my head. “You caused a lot of fucking issues,” she snaps. “Officer Nichols reported me missing. The police have been all over campus looking for me for the past couple of hours.”

Oops.

I glance at her, my chest tightening with an emotion I refuse to name. “Who the fuck is Officer Nichols?”

She rolls her eyes. “He was escorting me before you pulled the fire alarm. He got distracted by the chaos, so I tried to just get an Uber there instead. Poor lady was probably so worried when I didn't come back.” She glances at me, and then grumbles, “Dickhead.”

I glance at her, arching a brow. “Are you expecting me to feel bad about thwarting your plans? Because I can give you one very pretty, pink, and wet reason why I never will.”

It's too dark to tell for sure, but I'm positive her cheeks are burning, even as she growls, “You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

That pisses me off, especially coming from her, of all fucking people.

“I can think of several families I care about a fuck of a lot more than you,” I respond coldly.

Her spine snaps straight before she twists toward me with a murderous look.

“Really? Like you know anything about me or how I feel? You are such a fucking—” She cuts herself off and raises her hands. “You know what? I’m not arguing with you about this right now. I’ve got bigger goddamn problems.” She mutters the last part, settling back into her seat with a huff and resuming her texting.

Except, I really want to argue with her.

Anything to distract me from the taste of her still clinging to my tongue. It’s hard to enjoy the flavor when it’s mixed with guilt for betraying my mother and sleeping with the enemy.

I'm on the verge of spiraling, those three fucking words still on a loop in my head.

How could you?

“What did you tell Barry?” I ask, growing desperate for a distraction. “About where you’ve been.”

She casts me a disgruntled look.

“I told him I thought Lionel was the one who pulled the fire alarm—which I did, by the way, asshole—and ran off. I said my phone died, so I had to take a bus to Sable’s and only just got it charged.” Then she sassily grumbles, “You’re fucking welcome for covering for your ass.”

My lips twitch.

Reverie has gone to the dean about my bullying plenty over the years, but that man refuses to see me as anything other than a dollar sign. He’s gone as far as hinting at her expulsion should she continue to make accusations that threaten my career.

He's actually a huge fucking prick, and I won't act like him dismissing her claims against me hasn't gotten beneath my skin over the years. Not because of Reverie specifically, but because it could be something he's doing to other women, too. Which is why I've made it a point to listen for any women with serious claims, because I have no fucking issue using my resources to go after the asshole and get him fired should he not take them seriously.

So far, Reverie's proven to be the exception, likely only because I'm the exception.

Nevertheless, I'm sure she knows she could sue if she’s wrongfully expelled, but she also knows that while many people have witnessed me fucking with her, they’ve also witnessed her fucking with me right back. If enough people were to take my side and spin things to fit my narrative, she could easily lose—and she’s well aware that’s exactly how it could happen, too.

It hasn’t kept her silent completely, but it’s enough not to take it to the authorities or the media. HCU is her dream school, and she’s made it abundantly clear over the years that I’m not worth losing everything over.

So, I’m not worried about her running her mouth any more than she’s worried about me running mine, especially now, since she’ll be too busy soaking my sheets every night.

She shifts uncomfortably before her hand drifts to her collarbone, only to suddenly drop again. Brows knitting, I stare at her for a moment before I realize why she’s being weird.

“Your necklace. You’re not wearing it.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without it since Barry gave it to her. Ever.

She sniffs. “I left it on my nightstand.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a dumbass, that’s why.”

Her tone is sharp, but it also trembles. So I do what I never fucking do: I take the hint and let it go. I’m not even sure why, but I guess if I'm going to fight with her about something, there's an entire menu worth of better options.

How could you?

My chest constricts painfully, and my desperation for another distraction returns as several beats of silence pass.

“So, was it my cock that convinced you to cover for me?”

Her head whips back to me, an incredulous look on her face. “Now, why on earth would you think something as stupid as that?”

A grin stretches across my face, and my chest eases as I get lost in the joys of pissing off Reverie.

“Because Barry would have me arrested if you told him the truth. Which means I'd go to jail, and you wouldn’t have my dick to suck on anymore.”

And my fucking God, is she incredible at sucking me. It was unlike anything I've experienced before, and I'd get really fucking pathetic to experience it again.

It'll actually piss me off if I think about her skill too deeply, because she obviously had to learn that shit from fucking somewhere, and I'm likely to kill whoever taught her that.

Reverie sputters, and even in the dark car with only passing streetlights to illuminate her face, her reddening cheeks and the flames in her eyes are quite prominent. If it were possible, she’d have smoke blowing out of her ears.

I bite my bottom lip as the urge to laugh arises.

“Are you kid— You are such— I wouldn’t even— Ugh! I seriously fucking hate you!”

I’d have an easier time resisting her pussy than containing my laugh. It bubbles out of my throat, and when her eyes widen and she looks at me like I just confessed my love for her, I only laugh harder.

Her eyes narrow, highly unamused, but that only makes it funnier.

“For your information, I don’t feel like dealing with the fallout of accusing HCU’s golden boy of kidnapping. Not because of… of that.” She waves a flippant hand toward my lap and then deliberately turns her back toward me, crossing her arms and nearly face-planting into the window again—but not before muttering another insult beneath her breath. “Asshole.”

I bite back another bout of laughter. I glance over at her, pouting and angry, and a weird feeling erodes my chest before sinking to my stomach. It’s something like happiness, but sharper and more thrilling. I’ve never felt it before, but I refuse to dissect it. It’s been a long fucking night, and we’re both a little out of sorts.

Reverie’s phone dings, and she glances down before she seems to freeze. The energy immediately shifts, turning the surrounding air into ice.

Any trace of humor is gone as I ask, “What?”

She swallows thickly, hesitating to look up from her phone and meet my eyes. When she finally does, she looks like a deer in headlights—shocked, confused, and like she’s struggling to process something.

“I called Barry after I found the note in my room. He just got off the phone with Lionel’s parole officer,” she rasps, her voice hoarse. Then she licks her lips, before saying, “I… I guess Lionel’s home.” She frowns, as if she can’t believe she said that.

My eyebrows jump. Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure how to feel about that.

Relieved? Pissed? I don’t even know what to think.

“Lionel never asked to come to Colorado, so he would’ve been breaking parole if he did come here. His officer went to his house to check, and I-I guess he’s there.”

I nod slowly, trying to process that. I feel her eyes boring into the side of my head again, a suspicious weight to her stare.

“Before you accuse me, no, I didn’t leave you a note,” I tell her dryly. “What I want to know is why you thought it was Lionel in the first place.”

“He called me Angel. He used to call me that when I was a kid, and I haven’t ever told anyone about it. Not even the media.”

“Can’t say I knew that, either. And he never called you Angel in your interview with Connor,” I confirm.

That, I do know. I’ve watched that goddamn interview so many times, I’ve memorized the entire thing.

Brows pinched, she stares down at her phone sightlessly.

“He could’ve still put someone up to it,” I say. “It was probably Roxi.”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's not what either of us truly believes.

“Or the copycat,” she whispers. “They could be working together.”

My jaw clenches, almost irritated with her for saying it aloud. Because the second she does, a potent fury fills my chest. Except, for what feels like this the first time, it's not at her, but for her. And I really don't like that.

“Staying in my dorm is the best option,” I declare, my tone firm. “Regardless of who put the note there, it was obviously on Lionel’s behalf, which means he might not be here yet, but it sounds like he will be soon.”

I fucking hope he comes.

I would be happy for that motherfucker to show up at my door.

Fucking hell, the mere thought of getting to see him again and do everything my eight-year-old self wished to do but never could… That thought has my muscles swelling with a bloodlust that makes my mouth water.

I pull into the parking lot of my dorm and park the car before shutting off the ignition.

Reverie doesn’t move, arms crossed again, stubbornly glaring out her window.

“Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder,” I warn, keeping my voice calm.

She sighs softly and thumps her forehead against the window.

“I’m not just going to move in with you, Dread,” she grumbles. “We can’t even stand to be around one another on a good day, and you want me to stay with you?”

I give her a confused look. “I’ve always enjoyed being around you, darling.”

A growl rumbles from her throat, and she’s snapping her head toward me, her stare full of fire. I don’t bother containing my smirk.

Now when I see those eyes, all I can picture is the way she stared at me while I ate her cunt—bright, pleading, and so goddamn open. I could read every thought in her head. And when she sucked on my cock like I was feeding her for the first time in years…

I need to see it again. Just… a few more times.

“I’m pretty sure we’ve already established you don’t get to go back on your word,” I remind her, and her gaze goes from a match flame to a wildfire in a matter of seconds.

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” she snaps. “You gave me an ultimatum, and I chose. It’s done.”

My brows rise and my smirk widens. “Until you made me a new promise.” I lean across the armrest between us, and she shrinks farther back, only deepening my amusement. I fucking love making her squirm. “If you need reminding, you said you’d do anything. So you agreed I own every part of you, that you won’t take or beg for anyone else’s cock but mine. And like any decent human being, I let you come.”

Her jaw hardens, and her eyes narrow into thin slits. “We both know you're far from decent,” she spits. “But it doesn't matter, anyway. Even if I don’t fuck someone else, that doesn’t mean I have to fuck you. You didn't exactly give me something to keep begging for. In fact, I would be perfectly content to never be so unfortunate as to see or touch your dick for the rest of this lifetime, and every one thereafter.”

Every word feels like claws sinking into my chest, tearing it apart, leaving a gaping hole behind. What was left of my rational thinking was hanging on to the edge of that crater by a fingertip, and she went and fucking stomped on it. Now, it's forever lost in the deep chasm her ire created.

I refuse to let her see just how deeply bothered I am by it, giving her a faux frown instead. “Come on, Rev. You’re my girlfriend now. You’ll be sleeping in my bed for the foreseeable future. Last time I checked, boyfriends fuck their girlfriends. Often.”

I had absolutely no intention of saying that, but the second it leaves my mouth, I realize it's fucking perfect. Not only does making her my girlfriend provide me with a great excuse to kiss and touch her, but it'll humiliate her, too. Everyone will see her as pathetic for fucking the guy who spent his entire college career degrading her. But even better, it allows me to protect her, which means she'll be spending a lot of time at my side. When Lionel finally shows up for his daughter, I'll be right there with her.

Her mouth pops open, and she sputters at me. It’s truly adorable the amount of time it takes for her to regain control over her motor function again.

“I am not your fucking girlfriend, Dread!” she shouts, getting in my face.

There’s my little spitfire.

Excitement packs the wound in my chest, and her rage stitches it back together again.

I grin, my eyes dropping to her pretty lips as she yells at me.

Yeah, it’s definitely the perfect plan.

“Did your brain short-circuit when you came? Because I don’t know what the hell makes you think I’d ever date you. Clearly, you’re not fucking thinking at all.”

Little does she know, I’ve done nothing but think since the moment I finished coming inside her. Maybe it's not rational, but it's productive.

My smile widens as I lean closer to her until our noses are only inches apart.

“I think it’s mutually beneficial. I’ll protect you from Daddy dearest, and if he comes knockin’, I’m very fucking happy to answer that door for you.”

I glance at her lips again, my tongue darting out to wet mine. I keep my stare locked on them until I’m finished saying, “And in the meantime, I’ll keep you warm at night while you keep my cock warm.”

She blanches. “Absolutely not. I don’t even need your protection.”

“You do,” I say bluntly. “You said it yourself, he’s dangerous. And as I see it, you have no one else here to keep you safe.”

She scoffs, a humorless laugh tittering out of her. “And you’re going to be the one to do that? Last I checked, I need to be kept safe from you.”

I shrug. “Not anymore. Things have changed, baby. You’re all mine now, and there isn’t a goddamn soul on this planet who will touch a hair on your little head, including your father.”

She blinks, and I pull away to open the door, stepping out into the frosted air. Her eyes track me the entire way around the front of my car to her door. By the time I open it, she’s still gaping at me.

“You’re insane,” she whispers.

I lean in and unbuckle her seat belt. She’s frozen solid as I pause right before her, caging her between my arms, her sweet mouth less than an inch from mine.

“And you’re mine,” I murmur.

She swallows thickly, and after very deliberately dropping my gaze to her lips again, I grin and return my focus to her just before pulling away, taking all her breath with me.

“Let’s go, darling. It’s freezing out here, and I have an early, drug-free morning.”

“Never again, brother. Never. Fucking. Again.”

I’ve only just emerged from the water, where Rogue crouches at the end of my lane, glowering down at me.

Coach has been on the verge of drowning me today, and I’ve already puked up my breakfast once. Not that it stopped him from shouting at me to get back in the water once I finished.

The rest of the team left an hour ago, but Coach kept me after to run a few more drills, and Rogue hung back to wait for me. I’m finally done for the morning, but I’m due back here later this evening for yet another practice.

I wave at him to back off, which he does with an eye roll, giving me enough room to pull myself out of the water. My arms are fucking noodles, and my blood sugar is dangerously low. The perfect time to listen to Rogue’s bitching.

“Next time you need someone to watch over Sable, make Severen do it,” he tells me, plopping down next to me. He wears the same knee-length swimsuit as me, and his swim cap still covers his head.

I can very clearly see his arms and legs trembling from the workout too, yet he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy glaring at the pool water.

“Why?” I ask dryly as I yank off my goggles.

“Because she’s fucking insane,” he exclaims. “She tried to inject this embalming shit into my fucking dick, bro.”

I huff out a breathless laugh, shaking my head as I swipe off my swim cap next, running my fingers through my hair and releasing a few tangles.

The only reason I had Rogue go there was because I was expecting a completely different kidnapping. He went there to scare Sable, and I knew she’d instantly call Reverie, freaking out. Cue Reverie running out of her dorm to drive to Sable, but I’d intercept before she made it to her car. I intended to make her think Sable was in trouble while also avoiding a huge commotion in her dorm from trying to kidnap her.

Because even I know better than to think Reverie wouldn’t go down without a fight, and that would’ve attracted a lot of attention I didn’t want.

Except, Reverie never came running out. Just as I gave up waiting and went to get her anyway, a police cruiser pulled up. When the officer went into her building, I snuck in after him and hid behind the wall by the staircase while he went straight to her door. With her room being almost at the end, I couldn’t hear why he was there, but I assumed it had something to do with Rogue and me, so I immediately texted him. By the time I finished, I overheard Reverie asking the officer to escort her to a hotel. I figured she knew I was coming for her and was trying to safely get away.

I wasn’t letting that happen, so I immediately ran back down to the first floor and pulled the fire alarm.

Then, I ran to my car in the parking lot and waited inside, biding my time until there was a good moment to take her. I got lucky that her Uber driver got blocked in and didn't seem inclined to drive in the grass to get around. The driver's refusal forced Rev to run back to the dorms after the officers and firefighters vacated the lot, providing me with the perfect opportunity to snatch her, throw her in my trunk, and—very easily—drive over the grass to get out. Even if the driver did just go around, I was entirely prepared to follow her to the hotel, especially since the officer all but abandoned her.

Regardless, I didn’t notice until Reverie and I got back to my dorm later that Rogue never responded. I don't know if his phone died or what, but he’s damn lucky Rev didn’t call the cops, because he wouldn’t have even known until they showed up. I don’t know why the hell he disappeared for so long, but based on his current ranting, I get the inclination Sable was the reason.

“The fuck you laughin’ for? Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if she succeeded?”

“No,” I say dryly, glancing at him. “Do you?”

“No,” he barks. “But it would’ve been really fucking bad—that, I do know.”

He shakes his head, huffing and puffing like a bull as he angrily mutters something beneath his breath. I’m too goddamn dizzy to make sense of it, let alone care.

“Lionel is out of prison,” I say, shifting the subject to important matters before he starts googling the effects of embalming liquid injected into a dick. Personally, I’d love to never know the answer to that.

Rogue’s head snaps toward me, and I scrounge up the energy to drag myself to my feet. I need to get my blood sugar up before I pass out and then get to the cafeteria so I can eat several thousand calories before Coach makes me burn it all off again later.

He’s instantly on his feet to follow me. “The fuck you mean, he’s out of prison?”

“What I just said,” I snap. “His parole was approved three fucking weeks ago. Rev stole my letter informing me of it, and it hadn’t been the full one hundred twenty days to make a decision, so I had no idea. Good behavior on top of being a real stand-up motherfucker in prison convinced them to let him go.”

After I dragged Rev into my dorm last night, I let her shower in the men’s stalls while I stood guard outside, ensuring no one else popped in. I was tempted to watch her, but instead, I spent the time scrolling online to see if anyone else had gotten word of Lionel’s release.

I looked him up on the site like I’d done several times before, only for it to show no results—meaning he’s no longer in the prison system.

Since the media became aware of his parole hearing last month, people had been checking the CDCR website on the status, much like I was. A few noticed and were speculating online, but it hadn’t caught much traction since they, too, thought the CDCR would’ve posted it if it were true, and chalked it up to a glitch.

So when Reverie emerged from the showers, she filled me in on the details of why he was approved. Even her naked body beneath her towel couldn’t completely distract me from the fact that the justice system let a serial killer loose. It’s fucking mind-boggling. To this day, I can’t wrap my head around how the fuck they couldn’t find a shred of goddamn evidence against him other than my testimony.

He had to have fucked up at least once. If I could slip past him, then I’m confident something else did, too.

News broke of his release this morning, and, as expected, it’s a fucking circus now. Lionel was spotted this morning buying coffee at a café, confirming he was, in fact, released from prison. Pictures were taken, they obviously went viral instantly, and it became a beast that couldn't be contained.

Article after article repeated everything Reverie told me last night—all the wonderful things he did during his time in prison, including starting a nonprofit that’s doing really well.

Inevitably, they're already well aware of not only my attendance to HCU, but Reverie’s. Already, old pictures of myself, Reverie, and Regina are resurfacing. Tabloids lament how I grew up to be an Olympic medalist, as if I don't deserve my celebrity status after sending an innocent man to prison. Inevitably, they're now aware of Reverie's name change, and the speculations and conspiracies are running rampant, along with wondering how she was affected by Regina’s suicide, and if there will be a reunion between her and Lionel. One tabloid mentioned yet another documentary coming out about us, as if there aren’t several already. So, until authorities catch the copycat, the media won’t let any of us become a thing of the past.

Suffice to say, they've fucking flooded campus, trying to get interviews from both of us.

“He’s stuck in California, though, yeah?” Rogue questions.

We enter the locker room and head straight to the showers. The moment I glimpse the bench out of the corner of my eye, memories of last night resurface, of a different locker room and a different bench. The phantom sound of her moans—especially those fucking gleeful little giggles when I hurt her—haunt my every waking hour, and it’s hard enough concentrating when all I want to do is see how far I can push her.

I force myself to focus on the conversation before I’m stuck taking a shower with a goddamn hard-on.

“Depends what you mean by stuck,” I say as we step into our respective stalls and undress before draping our swimsuits over the half walls between each one. “He left Reverie a note in her dorm while she was at work yesterday. Guess it said something about seeing her soon.”

He snaps his head toward me in shock. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“Nope. But Barry said Lionel’s parole officer confirmed him to still be in California last night.”

He frowns as he turns the water on and grabs his soap. I crank the water to scorching hot, prompting goosebumps to rise across my skin.

Coach tortured us today by dumping ice in the pool water. I swear to Christ, the method should be outlawed. It’s the main reason I’ve become a little bitch with cold water.

“So, how did he leave her a note?”

“There are two options,” I say with a sigh.

“The copycat,” Rogue supplies, but his unspoken question hangs at the end, having no idea who the second could be.

“Turns out, Lionel’s dating a student here. Roxi. She could’ve left it on Lionel’s behalf.”

“Hold on, I'm pretty sure my ears are clogged with water, because there’s no way you just said what I think you fucking said,” Rogue says, shaking his head, bewildered.

I repeat everything Reverie told me last night about Roxi and her relationship with Lionel.

Blows my fucking mind, yet it doesn’t surprise me. Women have obsessed over serial killers for decades, sending them love letters and hoping to be the one they’ll respond to. With Regina dead, it was only a matter of time before Lionel took one of them up on their offer.

When I’m finished, Rogue stares at me, his brows raised with incredulity as he silently mouths, “What the fuck.”

“Regardless, Reverie apparently cut off contact with him when she was thirteen or some shit. Claims she has no interest in reconciling with him.”

Rogue recoils in shock.

“Hold the fuck on a second,” he interjects, waving his hands in a time-out motion. “She told you all of this last night?”

“Yup.”

He stares at me, the wheels in his head turning. Rogue likes to play the part of a big, dumb oaf, but his 4.1 GPA says otherwise. “Sounds pretty fucking convenient.”

I glance at him before running my shampoo through my hair. “Yup.”

He hums, quiet for a few beats.

“So why did she go no contact? I thought she and Daddy dearest were best buds,” he finally asks.

I shrug.

Lionel targeted a student specifically attending HCU for a reason. It’s a thinly veiled threat—he knows exactly where Reverie is.

What I want to know is why Lionel’s threatening her. She’s still tight-lipped about it all, but whatever she’s hiding has something to do with it, and it’s driving me fucking insane.

She swore she didn’t take part in my mother’s death, and for now, I believe that. I wouldn’t be able to fuck her otherwise. But if she’s worried, it relates to my mom somehow, and that’s enough to put me on edge.

Christ, I’m tempted to find Lionel and ask him my goddamn self—just before I slaughter him.

“Says she’s always believed me and knows he’s dangerous, so she doesn’t want to see him. Obviously, he’s not listening. I know nothing more than that.”

I clench my jaw, still irritated by her saying she’s always believed me. She’s always believed me, yet she stayed silent for over a decade.

But that’s not what pisses me off most. No, it’s that she finally said the words my eight-year-old self dreamed of hearing, and it changed everything while changing nothing.

Reverie is still the Locksmith’s daughter.

I’m still the son of the Locksmith’s last victim.

Yet, the moment those words left her mouth, I hated her a little less.

And that’s what changes everything.

Rogue’s silence is heavy as he processes, his movements slow and distracted while we finish rinsing off residual soap and then shut off the water. We grab our towels on the way out, wrapping them around our waists while we head to our lockers to get dressed.

“So what now?” Rogue asks once we reach them, only to drop his towel without a concern.

Anyone can see he has nothing to be ashamed of, and I’m fucking ecstatic for him, but it’d be nice if he didn’t do that shit the second I bend down while he’s standing right fucking next to me.

I straighten and settle a glare on him, my tongue rolling along my inner cheek.

When he meets my eyes, his brow furrows, and he glances around, confused. Clearly, he’s oblivious to him putting his dick in my face.

Fucking idiot.

I sigh and finish getting dressed. “I made her my girlfriend.”

This time, his silence is loud. I don’t bother meeting his burning stare, and instead, I sit down on the bench to pull my socks on, all the while concentrating very hard on not thinking about locker room benches.

“Are you going to make me ask for elaboration, asshole, or are you going to pick up on social cues and offer it?”

This time, I do cast a glare his way.

He’s one to fucking talk about social cues.

“Simple. I want to see Lionel, and Lionel wants to see her,” I say tonelessly while putting my shoes on. Then, we grab our shit and head toward the door. “So, if he wants to get to her, he’ll have to go through me first. And the only way to ensure I’m around when that happens is by keeping her at my side.”

Rogue barks out a laugh, reaching the door just as I do and slapping a heavy palm on my shoulder. I’m still really dizzy, but the dickhead didn’t pick up on those social cues either.

He doesn’t seem inclined to because the idiot looks downright excited, as if he just won the lottery. Why he looks like that, I’ll never ask.

“You dirty dog. She doesn’t have to be your girlfriend to keep her around, which means you’re fucking her, too.”

I flick a glare his way, which he dutifully ignores, instead grinning at me like the Cheshire cat. He damn near spends more time horizontal than he does vertical, so if anyone would assume those intentions, it’d be him.

For once, he’s not entirely wrong, though. Which is why I don’t bother denying it.

Soon enough, the entire campus is going to know Reverie is my possession, and every fucker will know she’s off-limits, too. If anyone touches her—her father or otherwise—they will have their funeral at the bottom of a lake.

I quickly glance through the notifications on my phone. I click on Olive’s messages first, reading through a thread of her asking how I am and informing me of the paparazzi already posted outside her door, assuring me she and Junie are okay. I pause on a picture she sent of Junie with a huge smile stretched across her freckled face, absolutely covered in chocolate, as if to physically show me they're good. I smile, tap out a quick message to let her know I'm fine too and to wish her luck on getting Junie to bed later, then scroll through my other notifications. Once I see nothing else of importance, I put it away just as we reach the parking lot, a fresh blanket of snow covering the ground.

Reverie’s class ends in ten minutes, and I’ve already told her I’m picking her up before we head to the cafeteria. By the look on her face, I got the inkling she’s planning on skipping out early to avoid me, so I’m anxious to get there before she can.

“Just don’t fall in love with her, man. There’s already some weird-ass energy between you two,” Rogue calls, reaching for the door handle to his car parked to the right of mine.

I’m slow to turn my head toward him, and when he glances over his shoulder at me before getting in, he pauses, and his smile slips.

“Oh, come on. Don’t get pissy with me. I’m just sayin’.”

My stare is cold as I snap, “Next time you decide to just say, expect to do so with a few missing teeth.”

He scoffs humorously and gives me a sarcastic salute before getting into his car and slamming the door shut. My friends aren’t scared of me, but we respect one another enough not to test who would win in a fight, so we tend not to push too far.

Except it feels like he already has, and that thought burrows beneath my skin.

The fact that he thinks I even could fall in love with her has me on the verge of grinding my molars to dust.

Especially because he’s placed multiple bets with others that I would never fall in love.

So why the fuck does he think I would now, and with Reverie, of all people?

And where the fuck did his goddamn social cues go?

CHAPTER 17

REVERIE

“The residence life director assigned me a new room this morning. I’ve already moved my stuff over to the new one,” I tell Dread.

The first thing I woke up to was Barry calling to let me know an officer would be picking up the note and hair clip in the next hour, as well as an email from the life director letting me know my new room information. So, I rushed to my own room, refusing to think too hard about waking up in Dread's bed for the second time now, and gave the items to the officer when he arrived. Then I spent the entire morning packing up all my shit, moving it to the new dorm on the opposite side of campus, and unpacking it all over again. 

I’ve also rubbed my nape raw from constantly fiddling with my necklace. Every so often, I’d panic, thinking I somehow forgot to put it back on, even though it was the first thing I did when I got back to my room.

I’m not sure which is worse: taking it off like a dumbass right before getting kidnapped, or Barry asking me if I had it on and making up a stupid lie about the chain breaking and accidentally leaving it on my nightstand. I didn’t have the heart to admit I took it off on purpose. He wasn’t upset, of course. As far as he’s concerned, I went to stay with Sable like I promised.

But I’m upset with myself. For years, it’s kept me grounded and made me feel safe when no one and nothing else did. It was stupid to take it off when I needed it most. It’s a mistake I won’t ever make again.

So, in conclusion, I’m tired, cranky, my fucking vagina hurts, and I already know this conversation is going to piss me off more.

He’s sitting across from me at a table in the cafeteria, slowly chewing his cheese pizza as he stares at me blankly. No emotion, no reaction, not even an eye twitch. As bland as his pizza.

I sigh. “So that means I’m not staying the night with you again,” I explain slowly, as if he’s stupid.

Because he is.

“Truthfully, you’re lucky I’m even sitting here with you.”

All I get is an eyebrow raise.

We both know I’m not sitting here because he’s lucky, but because he threatened to bend me over his knee and spank me in front of everyone. And while Dread talks a lot of shit, I had zero doubt he’d follow through on that threat.

Maybe I would've doubted it a week ago, but after last night… he looked far too hopeful for me to disobey him.

I always have to choose my battles with Dread, and that was not one I was willing to engage in.

All day, his stares have been a lot more heated, and considering I woke up this morning with his hand holding my tit again, I’ve had enough of him touching my body. Honestly, Dread has spanked me more than enough to last a lifetime. I have no plans to let him ever repeat it. Especially because, evidently, I can’t trust myself not to act like a goddamn masochist about it.

My reaction to what he did continues to plague me, something I’ve tried really hard not to think about. In fact, I’m content to act like it never happened at all. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

“Do you really want the entire cafeteria to see how excited you get when I spank you?” he asks tonelessly, appearing bored as he picks up his fourth slice of pizza and bites into it. “Maybe this time, I'll slap your pussy. We can place bets on how many it takes before you're squirting all over my face again.”

Because, of course, he’ll never let me live in blissful ignorance.

My face slackens, entirely unamused, despite the way my stomach burns from the visual that assaults my brain.

I should press charges just for that.

“Do you really want the entire campus thinking you’ve gone to the dark side and are dating the spawn of your mom’s serial killer?” I retort snidely.

He lifts a shoulder, seeming unconcerned as he chews and swallows. “What better way to piss off a serial killer than to fuck his daughter?”

I narrow my eyes. I’d love nothing more than to tell him Lionel wouldn’t even care, but truthfully, I think he would.

“That will not happen again,” I bite out through gritted teeth.

Before either of us can respond, there’s a flash in the corner of my eye, and someone is loudly slamming their hands on the edge of the table.

My heart rockets up my throat, causing both of us to nearly jump out of our skin. My wide eyes fly to a girl I don’t recognize leaning over the table with a thunderous expression. The entire cafeteria falls deathly silent, thousands of pairs of eyes turning to me.

The girl bares her teeth, accusation filling her dark, murderous eyes as she gets in my face, and shouts, “Did you do it? Hurt Mindy? Are you just like your sick fucking father?”

My heart pounds a mile a second as my jaw unhinges, speechless, still reeling from her scaring the absolute fuck out of me. I also have no fucking idea what the fuck she’s even talking about.

Dread recovers quicker than me and jumps up to his feet before shoving his arm between us to create a barrier, though he’s careful not to touch her.

“Get the fuck out of her face,” he snarls.

The girl doesn’t even spare him a glance. She heeds his order enough to straighten, though she doesn’t step away from the table.

I barely process her waist-length blonde hair, pale face, and squinty eyes before she’s yelling again.

“Tell me where she is!” Her face flushes bright red, her chest heaving.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I yell, finally finding my voice. I stare up at her, eyes round and brow furrowed with incredulity.

I’m beyond baffled, but I’m also fucking pissed now.

Tears rise to her eyes as she trembles with fury. “Mindy Sackler,” she snaps.

I blink. “Oka-ay,” I say slowly, drawing out the vowel. “Can you tell me who that is?”

She scoffs, hurriedly pulling her phone out of her back pocket, her hand trembling as she taps the screen a few times. Then, she shoves the phone in my face.

I recoil, my brows pinching as I stare at a picture of an unfamiliar girl with sun-kissed skin, long chocolate brown hair and caramel highlights, vivid moss green eyes, and a bright white smile.

I shake my head, racking my brain for any memory of her, but recall none. I open my mouth, prepared to tell her so, until something that is familiar catches my eye.

My heart drops, and I barely catch my expression from falling, though I don’t know if I can stop the blood from draining from my face.

The pink barrette.

Mindy is wearing it, pinning a small section of her hair away from her face.

The same pink barrette I found in my room beside a note from Lionel. Barry has it now, but that hair clip is imprinted into my brain.

Adrenaline releases into my veins, my racing heart circulating it throughout my system with every erratic beat.

Did Lionel fucking kidnap her before he left that note? Not even twenty-four hours out of prison, and he's already kidnapped someone.

Dread leans into my shoulder, and the girl swings the screen toward him, allowing him a better view. He gives no reaction, seeming not to know her based on his blank expression.

I want nothing more than to lie down on the floor and cry, but that would make me look crazy. So instead, I attempt to swallow—though I don’t know why, considering my mouth is drier than a camel's ass—and meet the girl’s fiery stare.

“I don’t know who she is,” I tell her, praying she can hear and see my sincerity. “Did we share classes or⁠—"

“Don’t act stupid,” she spits, lowering the phone. My response seems to have only enraged her more, based on the way her cheeks darken to a deeper red. “She went missing two days ago after she left for a date with some guy she met online, and I haven’t heard from or seen her since. The authorities are fucking useless and aren’t doing shit to find her.”

The crease between my brows deepens.

Two days ago? Two days ago was the 5th, the day Lionel got out of prison. Depending on what time he got out, and what time Mindy’s date was, it could’ve been possible to make the twelve-hour drive here in time to meet Mindy, but he would’ve had to leave straight from the prison.

It also means he would’ve had access to dating sites prior to release to set all this up, but that’s not difficult to do these days. It’s common to see inmates interacting online, even when they technically shouldn’t be. All it takes is having the right connections, and if anyone would, it’s Lionel.

“Okay,” I say gently. “But I’m not understanding what this has to do with me.”

The girl barks out a laugh, though it’s riddled with disgust. She returns her focus to her phone, angrily clicking a few buttons before holding it up to my face once again.

For the second time, I stare at a picture of an unfamiliar person, this one a man. He appears to be a model, sculpted abs, tanned skin, unnaturally bright blue eyes, and, well… hot as hell.

“Show me,” Dread snips impatiently. The girl does, the phone shaking from her trembling hand.

“I don’t know who he is, either,” I say quietly as Dread studies it. It’s clear by his furrowed brow he also doesn’t recognize the guy.

She drops her hand again and glowers at me with a hatred I’ve only seen in the shade of ice blue, staring at me as if I’m stupid while Dread glares at her, the muscle in his jaw thrumming.

“It’s obviously some random fucking model. He was catfishing her. Fake pictures, fake name, fake everything. So was it you, Charlotte?” She spits out my old name like it’s tar. “Did you pretend to be some guy and kill her, just like your daddy?”

“All right, that’s enough,” Dread barks, now pushing more in front of her and forcing her a few steps back.

The girl swings her gaze up to him, incredulous at Dread defending me.

Truthfully, I am, too.

“Since when do you defend her?” Then, she points to me accusingly. “You know who she is! That fucking D’Amour blood runs through her veins. The Locksmith or the copycat aren’t all the way here in fucking Colorado, so who else would it be?”

She turns her stare back to me, as if she’s genuinely expecting me to answer.

My chest feels as if it's beginning to bruise from how hard it pounds, adrenaline overloading my system, but I work to keep myself relatively calm. Any type of big emotion will validate her and make everyone think I’m as violent as she claims me to be.

But beneath it all, I’m panicking and would really like to vomit. The cafeteria is still silent and focused on the three of us. A cold sweat blooms across the entirety of my body beneath their scrutiny, and it only exacerbates my nausea.

“I’m really sorry about your friend, but I had nothing to do with it,” I say calmly, injecting every bit of sincerity into my voice as I can. “I’m not sure why you would even think I did?”

She scoffs out a humorless laugh and, for a third time, taps at her phone screen to pull something else up. Then, she’s turning it toward Dread and me.

“Look at his fucking name.”

My brows knit as I lean closer to look at a dating profile, a different image of the model as the profile picture. Written below in bold, black letters is: Charlie Love.

An obvious variation of my birth name.

My blood runs cold, though I work hard not to react outwardly. Internally, my organs are withering away from anxiety.

“Go ahead. Read his bio,” she urges, venom dripping from her tone.

I bristle, bothered by her attitude yet starting to understand why she’s convinced I was involved as I skim over the words.

Name: Charlie Love

Age: 22

Occupation: Car salesman

Interests: Horror movies, Hunting, Collecting

If there was a drop of blood left in my face, it’s gone. I pull back and straighten, repeatedly swallowing in a desperate attempt not to spew vomit all over the table.

Dread, however, releases a bark of laughter, startling the girl. She looks at him like he grew another head.

“You can’t be fucking serious. You think she would be that obvious and stupid?”

She recoils, blinking at him in shock.

“I mean, use your head for a second here,” he continues. “She would have to be the dumbest serial killer alive to create a dating profile with basically her own name and curate it to look like a serial killer. And using her father’s old job? Obviously, someone is framing her.”

Now the girl’s face flushes red, but with embarrassment.

“Maybe that’s what she wants,” she argues, clearly floundering. “To make it so obvious, no one suspects her.”

Dread settles a dry look on her. “She has a solid alibi two days ago.” He ticks off his fingers as he speaks. “Class. Work. Me.”

My eyes fly over to him, shocked. Two days ago, Dread crashed my forensics class and then disappeared, and I definitely didn’t see him until the next night when he kidnapped me. I went to work and then went home and crashed. So why the fuck is he lying for me?

The girl’s mouth flops for several moments, and then she works to swallow and takes a step back, glancing back and forth between the two of us, as if she isn’t sure what to make of Dread’s response.

Her chin trembles, and then she whips around and storms off without another word.

I deflate, but the tension doesn’t release from my muscles, even as Dread and I sit back down. I’m on edge, and slowly but surely, everyone goes back to their own conversations, though I’m sure there’s only one topic at hand.

For several long moments, I war with my body not to descend further into panic. I’m fully prepared to bolt, and truthfully, all I need is someone to cough or fart, and I’m fucking out of here.

My father has to be behind this, and that kind of makes me want to die.

I clear my throat, and quietly ask, “Why did you lie?”

He goes back to eating his cheese pizza.

“Because I know it wasn’t you,” he answers simply.

I wait for him to give any further explanation.

He doesn’t.

“But you think it could be Lionel,” I guess.

He looks up at me from his food, his eyes frosted.

“Or the copycat, if they’re working together.”

I close my eyes, trying really hard not to fucking cry.

“Or someone else who’s just as sick and wants to frame you.”

I’m definitely going to cry.

“Frame her for what?”

The sudden sound of a male voice behind me has me jumping out of my skin once again. I startle, and this time, a squeak makes it through my throat. I glimpse Severen sauntering up to our table, his lunch and a romance novel in hand, then cover my eyes with both hands, attempting to gather myself.

For several seconds, I just try to breathe and calm my abused heart. I drop my hands just as he takes a seat next to Dread while a beautiful woman with fiery red hair sits beside me. I vaguely recognize her but can’t place her name.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I stare at them, very uncomfortable by their presence. Mainly because Severen and Rogue are my secondary bullies, going along with whatever diabolical plan Dread cooked up. They’ve just as easily become objects of my hatred, and even more so now, I feel like I’m sitting in a den of wolves that haven’t eaten for days.

This day is getting worse and worse, my nerves are fucking fried, and I just want to go fucking home.

“Frame her for what?” Severen repeats.

“A girl has gone missing, and someone created a dating profile to make it look like Rev,” Dread answers casually, his tone bored.

Severen’s eyes jump up his forehead, and the girl beside me gasps.

They go on to ask questions about what just transpired, but I tune it all out, too focused on Severen’s body language. I’m on high alert, and truthfully, I’m wondering if that girl was just acting, they’re pretending to be none the wiser, and this is all another prank.

The more I settle with that idea, the more it makes more sense, and it needles beneath my skin, poking at my nerves. Now, the adrenaline is morphing from fright to anger.

“Reverie, relax,” Dread assures lightly, bringing me out of my spiraling thoughts.

I’m slow to pull my suspicious stare away from Severen, who returns it with one of amusement. When I land on frosted blue eyes, they don’t look quite as apathetic as they did before.

“Jesus, why the hell is she acting so scared of you two?” the woman pipes up, sounding both cautious and unimpressed.

I don’t exactly appreciate her calling me scared, but her comment does make me aware of how my shoulders have hiked to my ears, how my bones are solid steel. I’m leaning away from them, seconds from getting up and running.

I’ve never cowered from any of them, but something about this particular situation feels more disconcerting than when their pranks are more obvious. They’ve never pretended they’re not fucking with me, so sitting at a table with them, acting like civilized humans? This is uncharted territory, and I don’t fucking like it.

However, I decide not to accuse them of fucking with me yet, just in case that girl really did go missing. But I refuse to let my guard down, either. It feels like they’re trying to lull me into a sense of safety, only to pull out the rug from beneath me when I least expect it.

I don’t trust any of them, and if they think I’m going to sit beside them and not be on high alert, then they’re fucking oblivious to how well they’ve trained me.

“Should we leave?” Severen asks slowly, hesitantly glancing between Dread and me.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Mine and Dread’s answers come at once, but there’s no question who Severen is going to listen to.

Dread cracks open a Gatorade, his movements still casual and unconcerned. “No, you shouldn’t. My girlfriend will have to get used to you guys, eventually. Right, babe?”

My face twists in disgust. Babe?

Absolutely the fuck not.

“First off, disgusting,” I say. “Second, I’m not your girlfriend. And finally, I don’t have to get used to anyone, including your asshole friends.”

Severen whistles, his amusement returning tenfold. He directs his glimmering stare toward Dread, a delighted grin curling his lips.

“Girlfriend? The fuck did I miss?”

“Nothing different from his usual bullshit,” I interject, drawing Severen’s focus. “Another day, another cruel game.”

“Tell him who’s out of prison, babe,” he quips, now scrolling on his phone, still completely nonchalant.

I glower at him while he dutifully ignores me, taking another sip of Gatorade while he scrolls.

Severen’s stare burns into my face, and with an annoyed sigh, I turn to him.

“Lionel is out of prison and wants to see me. We're not on good terms, and I don't want him anywhere near me, and the why for that is none of your fucking business. Regardless, Dread is now using me to get to Lionel, probably so he can murder him.” I don’t bother keeping my voice down. If Dread succeeds and goes to prison for it, then they’re both out of my life, and I can live freely.

“Interesting,” Severen murmurs, turning his attention back to his friend. He’s less amused and more intrigued now.

Finally, Dread sets his phone down and slides it toward Severen, a news article on the screen for him to read. From my angle, I can only make out a few bold words in the headline: Lionel D’Amour, wrongfully convicted, released, and that’s all I need to see.

Over twelve years have passed, but not a damn thing has changed.

Severen ducks his head closer and reads through the article while Dread picks up his fifth slice of pizza. I stew, glaring at my half-eaten baked ziti. The last twenty-four hours have completely decimated my appetite.

“I’m Octavia, by the way,” a feminine voice whispers from beside me, drawing my attention to the redhead.

She has pretty, cobalt blue eyes framed by thick auburn lashes, pale skin, and, naturally, a killer body. Most notable, though, is her fiery auburn hair that coils around her face and down her chest. It’s a beautiful color that resembles a perfectly ripe red apple, and I’d bet money it’s natural, too. I’m fairly certain she’s the captain of the soccer team. Or maybe it was lacrosse.

At this point, I honestly couldn’t care less.

She’s willingly dating the enemy, so by default, that makes her mine as well.

“Reverie,” I offer with a tight smile, though I’m sure she’s figured out my name by now. Still, it’s not in my DNA to be a complete bitch to someone I’ve never met before, even if I don’t trust them as far as I could trip them.

Her boyfriend, however, has earned every bit of my ire.

“Yeah, so, I don’t really subscribe to the whole women being pitted against one another thing. And you’re really on edge and looking at Severen like he’s the Joker, so I’m going to assume he was a dick to you? He failed to tell me that information, if that’s the case, so I’m not here to, like, hurt you.”

I eye her closely, not detecting any dishonesty in her expression, but a little wary of her ignorance on the matter. Granted, HCU is a fucking massive university with over fifty thousand students on campus, so it’s impossible for everyone to know everyone.

I’m sure she’s very much aware of who Dread is, and maybe even who I am, but as far as his bullying—he doesn’t exactly hide it, but he doesn’t broadcast it to the world, either. So, unless she was in our vicinity often or even associated in the same circles, it’s entirely possible she doesn’t know much about what Dread and his friends have put me through these last four years.

And by the way her jaw is set with irritation as she glances at Severen with reservation, she truly does seem out of the loop.

“Good to know you’re not here to hurt me,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, though it draws Severen’s and Dread’s attention. “I’ll try to keep that in mind next time Severen chains me to a flagpole in five-degree weather in the middle of the night and then leaves me out there to die.”

Am I slightly hoping to sabotage Severen’s chances with her? Absolutely. But unfortunately, I can look at him and see that, objectively, he’s a very fine specimen of a human being. So the chances are low, but the attempt might be fun.

Octavia’s eyes round at the corners, and then her head whips to Severen, silently demanding an explanation. He sighs, glancing at me with contrition, like I sold him out.

That gets a triumphant smile out of me.

“I also texted Dread to let him know she was two seconds from taking the Grim Reaper’s hand, so technically, you could argue I saved her life.”

Oh, that pisses me off. I lean into the table, narrowing my eyes and staring at him with all the venom I can muster.

“The hoops you just jumped through to make yourself the hero are truly astounding,” I say dryly. “You almost forgot to mention how the three of you left a chopped-up, bloodied dummy in my room that you made to look very real and very much like the Locksmith murders. Then, you proceeded to beat down my door dressed as a cop and pretended to arrest me.” Severen opens his mouth, but I hold up my pointer finger, stopping him. “Oh, but let’s not forget, there’s still a fucking copycat murderer on the loose, and the FBI thinks he and Lionel could be working together. And guess who just found out earlier that day Lionel was being released, and thought he was sending me a message through the copycat? I had every fucking reason to believe that dummy was real.”

“Shit,” Dread curses beneath his breath, but I remain unsympathetic to his realization. He doesn’t get to act guilty now. None of them do.

Severen’s expression drops, any trace of amusement having vanished. “I didn’t know that part,” he defends quietly.

I scoff. “Would it have changed anything?”

When he only rolls his tongue in his cheek, I have my answer.

I swing my gaze to Dread, glowering at him. “I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised. It shouldn’t be shocking to hear my mind went to the copycat, considering he hasn’t been fucking caught yet. Isn’t that what you wanted, anyway? For me to think it was real?” He opens his mouth to speak, but I’m too heated to let him get a word in. “Just like you probably wanted me to think it was real when you kidnapped me last night, right? Except little did you know, Lionel’s actually out now, so I thought it was really him this time.”

“What the fuck?” Octavia mutters.

Dread’s face hardens, sharp angles creating a beauty that can only be described as cruel.

“No, Reverie. There wasn’t a single fucking second where I wanted you to think anyone else had you but me,” he snarls. “The copycat has never murdered outside of California, and you seem to have forgotten I didn’t know Lionel was being released. So, no, I didn’t consider your mind would go to either one of them. If you needed me to announce myself, then maybe you shouldn’t have stolen my fucking letter so I’d know that’s where your head would go.”

“I wouldn’t have stolen it if you didn’t nearly kill me the night before! You were willing to go that far before you found out, and I knew you’d do worse after. And guess what? You did! You gave me that stupid fucking ultimatum, remember?”

His eyes turn ice cold. There’s the Dread I know so fucking well. He’s pissed off because I said fucking him is worse than almost dying.

Good.

“What did you do last night?” Severen asks quietly, his brows pinched as he peers at his best friend with an emotion I’m too enraged to decipher.

Dread clenches his jaw, keeping his gaze locked on me while I turn my focus to Severen. A humorless laugh escapes me before I snap, “He fucked me.”

Severen’s brows jump, clearly not expecting that response.

I look at Dread again, holding his tundra stare as I tell his friend, “But only because if I didn’t let him, he’d drown me. Right, babe?”

Octavia gasps while I vibrate with rage. I hadn’t even realized how furious I’ve become until my bottom lip trembles.

However, Dread doesn’t deign me with a response, probably because the fucker knows there’s nothing he can say right now.

Inhaling deeply, I straighten and glance at Octavia, who’s gaping at the two men like they’ve shape-shifted right before her eyes. I suppose, in a way, they did.

After a few beats, she turns to settle a death glare on her boyfriend. Her left eye steadily twitches, and her reddened face gradually brightens, like it’s on the verge of exploding.

I’m too angry to feel any sense of victory.

Releasing my breath, I refocus on Severen and tilt my head while the corners of my lips stretch into a tight, sardonic smile.

“Maybe Octavia here will realize who she’s fucking now—someone who’s not much better than his best friend or my father. Evil comes in different shades, Severen. You don’t need to kill someone to make them feel dead inside.”

The table is deathly silent as I quickly stand, grab my book bag from the floor beside my feet, and swing it over my shoulder.

I meet Dread’s eyes. The muscle in his jaw pulses while he glares at me with a look no different than the Colorado mountains, hard and frozen.

“And I’m not your fucking girlfriend.”

Then, I turn and stomp out of the cafeteria, and, for once, Dread doesn’t follow me.

CHAPTER 18

REVERIE

There’s something deeply unsettling about walking across campus to get to and from class while people stare and whisper as I pass.

After storming out of the cafeteria three days ago, I called Sable and asked to crash at her place for the weekend. I wanted—no, needed—to get away from Dread, and I didn’t want to go to my new dorm where he could easily find me.

He texted me that night a few times to ask where I went, and I only responded after he threatened to call Barry if I didn’t answer. I told him I was fine and to leave me the fuck alone, and he’s been quiet ever since.

Which made the last three days at Sable’s oddly peaceful. All we did was go to work, stuff ourselves full of rice with beans, tostones, and arroz con dulce, and watch trash TV while venting about how much we hate men. She’s been very vague about what happened with Rogue the night Dread kidnapped me, aside from how much she loathes his existence. I tried to do the same. However, after some stern glaring, I eventually admitted Dread fucked me, to which her face promptly paled like she’d seen a ghost.

It was an odd reaction, but one she distracted me from by asking about what happened.

I keep hoping it was all a disturbing dream, but the soreness between my legs is slow to fade.

This morning, I was tempted to hide at Sable’s for another day, but I can’t avoid him forever. I kind of need to go to class in order to graduate, so I forced myself to return to campus today, and now, I deeply, deeply fucking regret it.

On my way to ancient history, I noticed several people staring and muttering to one another. My hackles immediately rose, and they haven’t come down yet, even as I sit in class, listening to the prof’s lecture. Dread didn't even come today—I assume for some reason related to swimming—yet glances are still being tossed my way, and my paranoia is bubbling from my pores.

I don’t even need to ask to know it’s some reason related to either Dread or Lionel, because, apparently, my entire life revolves around them.

At HCU, I don’t even think Reverie Adams exists outside of one of them.

I glance at the girl beside me, noting she’s texting, her thumbs flying over the screen rapidly. From the corner of my eye, I peek at her messages. It takes a second of subtly shifting in my chair to get a better view, but once I do, I'm convinced I'm hallucinating.

My heart skips a beat and then immediately plummets the second I read the first sentence.

I can’t believe he posted that picture of them. Since when did he stop hating her? After everything her father supposedly did?

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

It doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to deduce who she’s talking about, considering how everyone is looking at me like I have toilet paper sticking out of my pants. And that was definitely something I already checked for.

So what the fuck did the asshole do?

Pulse racing, I slip my phone out of my pocket, open social media, and search for Dread’s name.

I never post anything, especially not my face, but I made accounts solely to keep up with current events.

Dread’s profile loads, and I immediately want to vomit.

His last post is from two days ago. It’s a picture of him and me lying in his bed. I’m on my side, eyes closed, hands holding the comforter against my chest. He’s behind me, shirtless and propped on his elbow, his head bent down, black tendrils falling over his forehead and long, thick eyelashes splayed across his cheeks. All the while, he—the fucking asshole—bites my shoulder.

My bare shoulder.

My mouth drops, tremors slowly building in my extremities while I comprehend what the fuck I’m staring at.

There’s no caption, no context, no explanation that he’s declared me as his girlfriend—not because he actually likes me, but because he simply wants to fuck with me and piss me off. Even worse, it's very fucking clear I'm naked, which means he took it the night he chained me to the flagpole after I fell asleep, considering that's the only time I've been naked in his bed.

A slimy feeling slithers across my bones, like venomous snakes coiling around branches, and tears burn the backs of my eyes.

He manipulated my sleeping body to look as if I’m willingly cuddling with him and then posted it on social media to show his four million fucking followers.

The post has over eight hundred thousand likes. My brain screams at me not to, yet my thumb clicks on the comments anyway.

Is that Charlotte D’Amour???!

A comment responds to them, saying: Heard she changed it to Reverie Adams.

Noooooo, the man of my dreams is taken? loudly crying faceloudly crying face Lucky bitch.

DREAD I LOVE YOU PLS MARRY ME INSTEAD I’LL BE SO GOOD TO U.

Oh my God, someone please don’t gaslight me when I say that’s Charlotte D’Amour.

Another commenter responds to them: Why does everyone think it's her just because she's blonde? That's literally the last person he'd date.

To which the original commenter responds: I literally said not to gaslight me.

I would break my neck giving you the best head of your life, just let me prove it king loudly crying face

I vibrate as I close out of the app and tuck my phone into my back pocket. A new kind of awareness surrounds me, and with every sly glance and whisper, it’s a needle prick against every one of my nerves.

For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, it feels like more of a violation than when he fucked me.

It’s one thing to manipulate my body against me when it’s just the two of us, but it’s another to do so and then show the entire fucking world.

I should’ve known he’d do something like this. I should’ve known he’d see my rejection as a challenge and try to teach me a lesson.

I don’t know why the fuck I never considered for a single second he’d take it this far, though. I figured he’d pull something to make it known across campus, but social media?

He’s not just claiming me in front of the world, but my father.

It wouldn’t surprise me if there’re already articles posted about it.

The man would attract attention about his first public girlfriend anyway, but to call the daughter of his mother’s murderer his girlfriend? That’s a whole new level of fucked up, and the media is going to eat it up.

Pride glues my ass to the seat for the rest of class, though my cheeks are on fire, an anxious sweat coats my back, and I repeatedly swallow down the vomit bubbling at the base of my throat for the remaining thirty minutes.

The second the professor wraps up, I’m bolting out of my seat and toward the door. I keep my head tucked down, letting the thin curtain of bangs hide my eyes as I quickly make my way out of the building.

My head is loud and in disarray the entire way to my car and on the drive back to my new dorm. There are a million things I think about, but shock and denial keep them from being coherent.

So when I walk into my dorm, I don’t even process what I’m seeing. It reflects the chaos in my brain, and for several moments, it feels exactly how it should be: messy, broken, and everything ripped to shreds.

But eventually, clarity sets in, and then, slowly, realization.

The room is destroyed, all my belongings strewn across the floor. My clothes, shoes, bedding, school papers, textbooks. Just… everything.

My mouth drops, incapable of doing anything but stare through tear-filled vision at the wreckage.

All those jumbled thoughts come to a screeching halt, and then I go numb. Just completely, utterly, implicitly, fucking.

Numb.

My vision tunnels as I pull out my phone from my back pocket and call Sable.

No answer.

She’s already at work and likely tied up. So, I call Barry next.

He doesn’t answer but sends a text instead.

Barry: Another body discovered and in the middle of that. You okay?

No. But I don’t want to pull him away, especially if it’s someone who’s been missing for a long time and definitively tied to Lionel, not the copycat. Someone’s family could be getting the worst kind of closure soon.

Me: Yeah, no rush. Whenever you have a minute to talk.

Barry: Okay, honey. Will call soon.

Sighing, I walk over to my bed and sit on the edge, continuing to stare blankly at the mess. I don’t have the emotional capacity to feel anything other than exhaustion.

I don’t even have the energy to contemplate which one of them did it—Dread or Lionel. I should feel scared over the latter option, but for once, I just… don’t.

I feel nothing.

Lifting my phone, I snap a picture and then text it to Dread, asking if it was him.

The screen blurs as I sightlessly stare at it, getting lost in a fantasy of packing a bag and just running away. I could let go of my dream of helping children who were victims of crime, leave this all behind, and drive off into the moonlight. Maybe I could find a cute cottage somewhere in the wilderness, where the closest neighbor is a mile away. Go off-grid, get rid of my phone, and just live. I’d get a dog, maybe two, and take them on hikes with me. We’d explore nature and live in a tiny little bubble where I need or want for nothing.

My phone pings, and I snap out of the fantasy.

The Antichrist: No. I’m on my way.

I close my eyes with a heavy exhale, defeated. I don’t want him anywhere near me, but fighting him is useless. He won’t listen, and I’ll end up expending more energy than I have for nothing.

I heavily slump to the side and curl up on my mattress, half the sheet ripped off, my comforter crumpled beneath me, my pillow on the other side of the room. Then, I close my eyes and let my mind drift back to the corner of my brain that houses two dogs and a cottage somewhere far away.

I’m unsure of how much time passes before I hear the door opening and then softly closing.

Dread’s presence is suffocating, and I realize that maybe all this time, I’ve been training myself to hold my breath so I could survive him.

He’s the water trapped inside my lungs.

So, I inhale and start counting.

I keep my eyes closed, even as I feel him move toward me. His breath fans across my face, indicating he’s crouched in front of me, but I still don’t acknowledge him.

Nineteen… twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two…

He says nothing. Neither do I.

He knows I’m not sleeping, and he knows I know he knows.

Yet, still, we say nothing.

Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty… thirty-one…

He gets up, and I hear him moving around the room. Objects clatter, fabric shifts, bags crinkle, and I hold my breath.

One hundred ten… one hundred eleven… one hundred twelve… one hundred thirteen…

Papers shuffle, furniture moves, drawers slide, and I continue to hold my breath.

One hundred eighty-one… one hundred eighty-two… one hundred eighty-three… one hundred eighty-four…

I tremble, my lungs screaming and dogs barking in the distant recesses of my mind. I hear myself laughing, then feel my eyes burn.

One hundred eighty-eight… one hundred eighty-nine… one hundred ninety…

I exhale, but the rush of oxygen inflating my lungs isn’t soothing.

It hurts.

And I wonder if this is why my mother chose to suffocate, too. Because it's agonizing to inhale.

Dread’s presence returns. I feel the air move as he throws my pillow at the top of the bed and then leans over my legs to pull the sheet down beneath the mattress again. When he’s finished, my computer chair rolls toward me, and he sits on it.

I slowly open my eyes, finding him exactly where I thought he’d be. He leans forward, his elbows perched on his knees, and holds something in his hands. It looks like a piece of paper, a newspaper clipping, a knife, and… hair. 

A chunk of black, curly hair, tied together with a tiny elastic band at the top. Notably without the follicles attached.

The urge to vomit arises again, but the lid on my emotions stays in place for now.

I’m not ready to address what he’s holding, because the moment I do, I might not be strong enough to keep the lid on. So, I glance around the room instead. It looks exactly as it did when I left it three days ago. Clean, organized, not a thing out of place outside of the items that were broken and are now bagged in a trash bag by the door.

Except the man sitting in front of me.

I don’t understand why he cleaned, but I don’t care enough to ask.

I meet his stare, and though his expression is blank, there’s something sinister swirling in his gaze.

“The note was pinned to your desk with this knife next to transfer papers, the newspaper, and this piece of hair,” he explains evenly, still giving nothing away.

My eyes drag up to the wooden desk behind his right shoulder, where he neatly stacked my textbooks next to my lamp with the now missing cracked light bulb.

“Oh.”

I’m slow to return my gaze to his. When I do, the darkness in them has deepened.

“What’s it say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“‘There’s nowhere for you to go but home, Angel.’” His answer is monotone, but Dread has never been emotionless where my father’s concerned. He’s just good at keeping his emotions contained.

Until he’s not.

“Gotcha.” He raises an eyebrow at my lack of reaction. I just… don't know what I'm supposed to say or do at this point.

I clear my throat, forcing my brain to function a little more so we're not stuck staring at one another in tense silence.

“And the clipping? What's that about?”

He huffs out a small, quiet laugh. “An article written while he was on trial about how amazing of a father he is, and how lucky Little Miss Charlotte D’Amour is for having him.”

I would vomit if I had the energy.

But I don't.

“They can have him,” I say quietly.

Dread studies me carefully, seeming almost inquisitive, as if he's trying to figure out a math equation. I don't like it, so I nod toward the hair in his hand. 

“That doesn’t look like Mindy Sackler’s hair,” I whisper.

One of the first things I did after storming out of the cafeteria was look up Mindy, only to discover the girl in the cafeteria who accused me of taking her was being very serious. Her name is Gabi Loren, and she’s Mindy’s best friend.

Mindy’s social media was flooded with family and friends posting about her, begging others to help them find her. Each and every post and comment chipped away a piece of my heart until nothing remained by the time I stopped torturing myself with them.

I flipped through dozens of pictures of Mindy, wearing that pink barrette in several of them, and all with her smiling or making some goofy face. She seemed like a fun, outgoing girl who had an entire life ahead of her.

Not anymore.

I sent every picture of her wearing the hair clip to Barry. Problem is, one Google search proved exact replicas of it can be ordered online, and according to Barry, the one in my dorm had no trace of DNA on it. It could very well be hers, but it also could be Lionel fucking with my head.

I'd bet money it’s hers, but there's no way to prove it. He left it in my dorm the day after she went missing.

That’s no coincidence.

Regardless, the hair Dread holds now looks nothing like Mindy’s, but it’s only a small relief.

“What about Roxi? What color is her hair?” Dread asks, pulling my attention back to him.

I tighten my lips. “Black. Curly. Exactly like the hair you’re holding.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “We should make sure she’s alive.”

“She is,” I say, my tone scarcely above a whisper. He arches a brow, silently asking for an explanation. “It’s a threat. He’s telling me to come back to Silent Mist instead of running. If I don’t…”

I don’t need to finish the rest.

Dread briefly rolls toward the desk to grab a thin stack of papers and then shows them to me. “Transfer papers to a school in London,” he says, confirming what I said.

I nod. “Yeah.”

That’s it.

There’s nothing else to say or give.

“Do you think he’s here this time?” he asks.

I shrug a shoulder. “Won’t know until his parole officer checks. Could've been Roxi herself.”

A small crease forms between his brows, appearing unconvinced. “You think she’d do something like this? Threaten you? Wouldn’t that disprove he’s this good guy she believes him to be?”

“Maybe. But he’s really good at manipulating people, and he’s had her under his spell for years now. Anyone can make someone believe they’re good if they spin it in a way that makes it seem justifiable. Why do you think evil politicians have so many supporters? Why do you think you have so many?”

He hums, clearly not offended. “Good point. But he didn’t need to trash your room and threaten you to make you stay. I would’ve done that myself.” There isn’t a hint of amusement on his face.

The lid over my emotions is frosted glass. I can see their faint shadows swirling beneath, trying to escape, but I can’t see what they are. I imagine fury and humiliation. Panic, resentment, hate.

My expression stays blank as seconds tick by. With a sigh, I sit upright and swipe my bangs out of my eyes. They’re getting too long.

“I still might go. I don’t want anything bad to happen to Roxi, but I don’t exactly want him to kill me, either.”

“He won’t.”

He’s so confident about that. Doesn’t possess a single atom of doubt in his body. I, however, can’t relate.

“You can’t stop me from leaving.”

As soon as the words spill past my lips, I instantly know they were a mistake. Not because he can stop me, but because I challenged the fucker, and now, he’s going to go the extra mile to sabotage me.

Another sigh. My stupid-ass mouth just made a lot of shit harder for me.

He juts out his bottom lip and nods, as if what I said was interesting, reacting exactly how I knew he would.

“Okay. Come sit,” he orders.

He stands and tosses the hair and note on the bed beside me, nodding down at the chair. “I’ll let you fill out your paperwork. If you can finish, you can go to London, and I’ll watch over Roxi instead.”

My mouth parts, and I side-eye him with wariness. There’s a catch to it, obviously. There’s always a catch.

Yet, he keeps his expression perfectly clear of his intentions.

“I think I’d prefer to do it on my own time,” I say cautiously.

He cocks a brow. “Do it now, or no deal.”

If I’m being honest, I’m sure I could work out a way to do what I need to do behind Dread’s back, but I also wouldn’t put it past him to straight-up lock me up. As he said before, I’m his favorite instrument, and he won’t let me disappear without a huge fight.

“My little violin.”

A shiver crawls down my spine from the memory of him whispering that to me in the pool. Butterflies swarm my stomach while the emotions fester beneath the lid, pushing against it until it slowly starts to pop off. My body has gone rogue, and despite me throwing all my weight onto that lid, I’m in a losing battle.

I force the memory away and focus on him.

“What’s the catch, Dread?” I ask with a heavy exhale.

I really don’t have the energy to fight.

“You’re going to find out. Now, get on the chair, or I’ll make you.”

I glance at the door, estimating how likely it is for me to get past him and run.

“I dare you.” The deep timbre of his voice vibrates with warning, clocking what I’m thinking.

I work to swallow and opt out of responding. Better I stay silent and not antagonize him into blowing it off the rest of the way. I’d rather remain in the comfort of my indifference, and I don’t trust my vocal cords to operate properly, anyway.

So, I clench my jaw, stand, and sit on the chair, tension inflating my muscles. The surrounding air thickens as he rolls me to my desk and sets the paperwork on the wooden surface before me. He plucks a pen out of the cup holding several writing utensils and tosses it on the desk.

I’m frozen.

Something is coming, especially because he didn’t roll me completely up to the desk and left a good several feet in between.

He moves to stand in front of me, and my spine snaps straight, alert and wary.

My heart skips a beat when he bends at the waist and lowers his face to mine. I lean away from him, but it does nothing to help me breathe easier. The tendrils of hair falling over his eyes only deepen the intensity radiating from his heated stare.

He reaches for the button on my jeans, and I instantly grab them to stop him, ignoring the feeling of my hands holding his. I’ll never understand how even the simplest of touches awakens something deep inside me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, though it comes out more like a demand.

One corner of his mouth curls upward, and my stomach tightens around the butterflies taking flight within me.

“I’m hungry, so while you fill out your paperwork, I’m going to eat.”

My heart drops, and that lid goes flying off. Everything releases at once, and I’m flooded with a rushing wave of emotions—so many, I don’t know how to discern a single one. So while a million different protests build on my tongue, I can only manage one.

“Absolutely not,” I snap, attempting to get up from the chair.

He’s quick to grab my hips, his hands like massive bear paws pinning me down. My limbs tremble with the need to escape this—him.

“After what you did? Posting that fucking picture online? You think I’m going to allow you to touch me again?” I spit, familiar fury swirling in my chest.

He holds no remorse as he asks, “Are you trying to make me feel bad for posting a picture with my girlfriend?”

Thunderstruck, I sputter at him before I manage to get a handle on my tongue. “I’m not your girlfriend!”

His grin widens, and he leans in until his lips are within an inch of mine, overwhelming me with his mouthwatering amber and sandalwood scent. He glances down at my mouth before flicking his stare back up to meet my eyes.

I tremble, my nerves tingling. The soft strands hanging over his forehead tickle my cheek, sending another shiver down my spine.

“Should we skip to wife?” he asks sensually, his voice hushed. I know he’s fucking with me, trying to get beneath my skin. The mirth in his gaze gives him away.

Except, it’s working. I can’t breathe. I know I’m angry—I feel it. At least, I think I do. There’s a fire in the pit of my stomach, yet it’s sinking lower, and I’m having trouble extinguishing it.

“Delete the picture,” I croak.

He needs no elaboration.

He cocks a brow. “What would that accomplish? It’s already out there. There’s no taking it back.”

“I’ll tell everyone it was AI,” I counter.

He grins, wrinkles framing eyes that glimmer with mirth as he briefly glances at my lips again, then says, “Okay.”

I don’t even know why I try. There’s no getting through to him, no changing his mind.

He’s a psycho—it’s useless to expect him to be anything else.

“Get away from me,” I say instead. “You’ve crossed so many lines, you might as well have leaped over a trench at this point.”

He hums an amused sound before murmuring, “If that’s what you want, then you better finish your paperwork.”

CHAPTER 19

REVERIE

He watches me carefully as he pops open the button on my jeans, his stare intense. When I stay frozen like an idiot, he drops his gaze, his lips parting with anticipation as he slowly parts the metal teeth.

My heart pounds, and I war with myself. Do I let him do this and give myself a chance to get away from him and Lionel?

He’ll watch over Roxi, and I won’t have to feel so guilty for running away, despite my father’s threat.

A clean break.

If he actually lets me go.

He could be lying. In fact, he probably is.

I grab his hands again, stopping him.

“I don’t believe you,” I whisper. “You’ll sabotage me or you won't follow through, or you'll just do… something.”

Holding my stare, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Frowning, I watch him open our text message thread and hit the speaker button to record a voice message.

“If you ever tell anyone I’m taking steroids, I’ll fucking kill you.”

My mouth pops open, baffled, at a loss for what he’s doing when he hits send.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket with a straight face. “If you finish your paperwork and I try to stop you from leaving anyway, then you can send that to the dean and my coach and ruin my entire life.”

I blink. “Wh—” I can’t even finish my sentence, I’m so stunned.

“But if you don’t,” he continues, “then you’ll delete that from your phone, and you stay here with me.”

He’s insane.

“H-how long do I have?”

His hands return to either side of my waist to hook his fingers inside my waistband and roughly jerk my pants down. I gasp and instinctively lift my ass, allowing him to slide them down my legs, taking my underwear with them.

“Until you come,” he answers, his tone wicked. “But it better be complete by the time you do.”

This is a huge mistake.

An absolute massive one.

Yet, I can’t find my voice, even as he lowers to his haunches, pulls my boots and socks off my feet, and slides my jeans the rest of the way off my legs.

You’re being stupid.

My heart pounds, and the butterflies are flying rampant in my stomach as he backs up while simultaneously rolling me toward him. The desk is tall with no drawers, providing him just enough space to fold himself beneath it and bring me right up to it.

I’m trembling and on edge, so when I feel his hands part my thighs, I jump. My cheeks burn and my chest heaves. Only a single thought replays over and over in my head.

Why the fuck are you letting him do this?

I startle again when he grabs my hips and jerks me forward, sliding my ass to the edge of the chair. Hot breath fans across my center, and holy fuck, I don’t know why the hell I’m so nervous, but I am.

“I hope you’ve started, darling,” he purrs a moment before his wet tongue runs along the seam of my pussy and up to my clit.

For the third time, I jump then whimper, scrambling for the pen. A groan vibrates against me as he licks me thoroughly, and already, I’m struggling to keep my vision straight.

This is only the second time I’ve ever had a man’s mouth on me like this, and I had already completely forgotten how fucking good it feels.

Clenching my teeth, I blink rapidly to refocus and then force myself to concentrate hard on the words.

Name. I need to write my name.

First name, then last name.

Easy.

I get R-E-V-E out before he sucks my clit into his mouth, wrenching a sharp gasp out of my throat. Then, I feel his thumbs spread me before his pointed tongue flicks up and down my clit. My brow furrows, my jaw drops, and my eyes drift shut for a moment as intense pleasure overtakes my core.

Holy fuck.

My left hand curls into a fist while the other squeezes the plastic pen until it digs into my fingers uncomfortably. However, it’s hard to feel anything outside of his mouth.

A strangled moan leaks out, and I pinch my eyes shut even tighter, my head drooping as waves of ecstasy roll through me with each lick. My thighs tremble violently, and all I want to do is grab his hair, tug him harder against me, and fuck his face.

Fucking concentrate.

Forcing my eyes open, I quickly finish writing out my first and last name. Then, I move on to my date of birth, penning that in, and start writing my address next.

Except the words blur when Dread suckles on my clit again with a pleased whimper, as if he’s drinking down water after weeks of dehydration. Wet, squelching noises emit from my pussy, only adding to the eroticism.

“Oh,” I breathe, my eyes threatening to roll.

He releases it with a pop, only to immediately dive back in with an eager grunt. His tongue is both sloppy yet precise, rolling and lapping at all the right places to make me see stars.

He’s stupidly fucking good at this, and I’m going to lose if I don’t get it together.

I fill out two more spaces when I feel his blunt fingers probing at my entrance.

“Dread, n-no, that’s cheating,” I pant out quickly. I know better—I’ll last a total of two more seconds if he uses them. “Only your mouth.”

He grunts out an acknowledgement, though they linger, as if waiting for something.

I try to quell the strengthening pleasure by ignoring him for the paper again. It works long enough to fill in my phone number, though I think I got two of the numbers mixed up. I'm staring at it, trying to remember, when he sucks on my clit again, and all the numbers jumble together. This time, he lets his teeth scrape along it as he pulls away.

“Fuck,” I groan, my stomach clenching as I fly dangerously close to the edge.

He delivers another sharp nip, a heady mix of pain and pleasure swirling together.

And that feels fucking delightful.

My eyes roll, and my mouth drops on a husky cry, though a smile threatens to curl my lips. When he does it again, the next moan borders on sounding happy.

I’m quickly spiraling, and I’m struggling to remember why I’m supposed to care.

My head drifts back, and my hips roll into him, little pants sawing from my throat as I greet each lick eagerly.

I’m so close already, and I both want to soar while never wanting it to end.

Dread steadily pushes me toward the edge, and I've only made it three-quarters of the way through one page. Just when I think it can’t get any better, I feel the pad of his thumb pull back the hood and expose my sensitive nerves to his lashing tongue.

The pleasure is so sharp, my entire body convulses against him, a high-pitched squeal leaving my lips.

The pen clatters to the wooden surface, and I lean my upper back against the chair, offering me a salacious view of him licking me as I dive both hands into his hair.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck, Kellann-ng,” I blabber, my thighs widening as I pull him closer into me. “I’m gonna come. Don’t stop.”

Except he doesn’t listen.

With a growl, he pushes my chair back, sending me rolling back several feet. My hands fly to the sides of the seat to hold on, and I don’t recognize the sound that comes out of my throat, something between a whine and a gasp. Then, he slowly crawls out from the desk on his hands and knees, his parted mouth dripping as he peers up at me through the black strands falling over his forehead.

My heart stops before plummeting into my stomach, and everything fades away outside of watching a mythical beast prowl toward me.

Never in a million years did I dream I’d see Dreadful Sharpe crawl for me. And I’m glad I didn’t, because it would’ve been an insult to how fucking breathtaking it is.

I’m paralyzed, even when he reaches me and uses his thumbs to spread me for him again, licking along the seam of my cunt, keeping his glittering stare locked on me.

I let out a shuddering gasp, and all the feeling comes rushing back in. My pussy throbs hard, an outcry from how close I was to coming, only to be left hanging.

His mouth descends, and I inhale sharply and then release a loud moan when he flattens his tongue and glides it up and down my clit in blunt strokes.

My hands tangle in his hair again, climbing straight back up to where he left me dangling precariously over the edge.

His lust-drunk eyes are half lidded as he watches me watch him, licking me relentlessly. My moans are loud and unabashed, the euphoria a sword-wielding apparition holding its sharp blade to my neck until I have no choice but to submit.

Then, his tongue hits a spot that sharpens the ecstasy until I'm face to face with God, and he's nowhere near as impressive as the man between my legs.

“Ohmygod, yeah, yeah, right there,” I rush out, my eyes rolling as my body tightens with anticipation. “Fuck, Kellan, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He drops one hand to tease my entrance with his middle and ring fingers, causing my stomach to flutter. It feels like a threat, but I’ve never been one to back down from him. I go from loud to silent, amplifying the vulgar, sticky sounds from his mouth, and then I careen over the edge.

I explode with a hoarse scream, and the second I do, he plunges them inside me and curls them up to hit my g-spot. I nearly go flying out of the chair from how hard the orgasm hits.

My head snaps back and my spine bows as I violently tremble against him, losing complete control over my body. A rush of liquid spills out of me as he rapidly flexes his two digits against that sensitive spot, and I go blind, choked cries scarcely squeezing past my throat.

His muscles stiffen, and his other arm bands around one thigh to keep me somewhat contained, battling against my seizing hips. His tongue and fingers are relentless, prolonging the orgasm until my face twists with a sob.

It becomes too much, and my thighs snap around his head as I push at him.

“Kellan! I can’t, I can’t, nnng, nomorenomore,” I squeal.

He tears his mouth away, but he doesn’t relent completely, continuing to finger fuck me into oblivion as he gets to his feet. He leans over me and grips the back of the seat to balance himself. His face, throat, and chest are drenched, large wet splotches darkening his heather gray hoodie from the collar down his sternum.

My hands snap to his strained forearm, his tendons and veins popping as my release continues to spill into his palm. With staccato cries, I dig my nails into his skin, overwhelmed with the pressure in my core.

“Kellan,” I sob, the syllables broken and strained.

“Give me more,” he demands through gritted teeth, his voice guttural and hoarse.

The orgasm ebbs, but the bliss is never-ending, and I feel myself climbing up the cliff again, heading toward another.

He leans down until his mouth brushes across my ear. “Tell me who owns this cunt,” he whispers darkly.

I shake my head with a whine, refusing to fall for this again, refusing to give him any more ammo to use against me.

“You want your pussy to ever feel this good again?” he challenges. “’Cause I promise you, baby, no one else is gonna fucking touch you.”

“I can do it myself,” I gasp.

He removes his hand, careful not to spill the liquid pooled in his palm. The panic is instantaneous.

“No!” I whimper, my core pulsing painfully from the loss. My hips involuntarily undulate, seeking the pleasure he denies me.

Frustrated, I growl, “Kellan.”

“Let’s see, Reverie. You think you can fuck your pussy as good as I can? Show me.”

I can’t.

The only thing that’d come close is a toy, and while those have given me plenty of great orgasms, they’ve never come close to the ones Dread has given me. I’m definitely going to grieve that later—but after I grieve over the annoyed words spilling out of my mouth. “Okay, fuck, fine! You own me.”

He chuckles, inserting his fingers back inside me. My back arches with a pleased mewl.

I loathe how badly I want to smile in relief when he resumes stimulating my g-spot, though not as intensely as before.

I bite it back, my eyes fluttering when his lips feather down my neck to press a sensual kiss below my jaw.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

Goosebumps scatter across the surface of my skin, and a shiver tumbles down my spine. Two words and a simple kiss shouldn’t be so fucking sexy, yet, combined with his ministrations, it sends my eyes to the back of my head.

It’s evil how easily he turns me on, how easily he works me up with so little effort.

“You know I’ll always take good care of this needy little pussy, yeah?” he rasps.

Fucking Christ.

Even in my heightened state, I hear the ‘always’ and it is incredibly frustrating, but only because it has the intended effect on me. I want to purr and rub myself all over every inch of him so he’ll do exactly that—always take care of me.

Which is why I desperately need him to shut the hell up.

“Uh-huh,” I gasp, just as his fingers fuck me harder.

My body moves on autopilot as I reach for the waistband of his joggers and yank them down far enough to free his cock. I don’t wait for him to process what I’m doing before I have my fingers wrapped around his thick girth, twisting my wrist up and down his length. I release him briefly to run my hand over my pussy, wetting it thoroughly before returning it to his length to stroke him.

He lifts his head to let out a moan before whimpering, “Fuck.”

Those moans have haunted me almost more than his filthy words from the other night. The fucker must know the power of them, because he drops his lips back down to below my ear and lets out the sexiest raspy moan I’ve ever heard.

I shudder violently, that sound alone nearly sending me soaring off the edge.

I’ve never been with a guy who’s even half as vocal as he is, and I’m almost shocked he hands them out so freely. They’re as dangerous as his laugh and make me absolutely feral.

Instead of shutting him up, I’ve only made it worse, but I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. I’m hooked, intent on pulling more of those sounds out of him.

“This is all mine, too?” I ask breathlessly, dutifully ignoring how the possibility alone makes my heart flutter. I expect him to resist just as I do, but somehow, he never fails to surprise me.

“Fuck, yes, baby. All yours,” he groans, giving me ownership without a second thought, not a single moment of hesitation. And goddamn, I can see why he’s so addicted—the confirmation sends a surge of pleasure straight to my core.

And I feel… happy.

His body trembles, and he starts to lose control.

Until the chair suddenly jerks back, his weight sending the wheels gliding across the floor, causing us both to startle, followed by his growl of frustration.

“Fuck it,” he snarls, and removes his hand again, still taking care not to spill the small pool in his palm.

“Kell—” He takes his weight off the chair and grips my throat instead, prompting me to release him.

“Open your mouth,” he snaps impatiently.

Reflexively, I do, expecting him to direct me to his cock. Instead, he tips his other hand over my parted lips and pours my release into my mouth.

My eyes widen, and he squeezes my throat harder. “Don’t swallow it.”

I don't know why, but I listen. I’m disoriented when he grabs my waist and lifts me into his arms. It’s instinct to wrap around him, at a loss for what’s happening until he slams me against my door harshly. I yelp then nearly scream when he grabs my ass to shift me up an inch, only to slam me down on his length, though the sounds are restricted to my throat with all the liquid in my mouth.

“Fuuck,” he groans while I stop breathing.

It burns as he stretches my pussy, ruthless in his endeavors as he shoves himself inside me. And with one final push, he bottoms out.

I groan low in my throat, my head thumping back against the door.

“Uh-uh,” he admonishes, his voice guttural. “That cum is mine. Give it back.”

He roughly pinches my cheeks and crushes his lips over mine. I operate on instinct alone, so when he opens for me, I push the liquid into his mouth with my tongue.

He growls, and his hand releases my cheeks to dive into my hair, fisting it tightly as he begins to fuck me. I follow suit and tangle my fingers into his strands, our moans clashing as we lick my cum off one another’s tongues. The kiss is sloppy but insanely hot, both of us too turned on to care about being controlled.

He pounds into me, our skin clapping and the door rattling with each thrust while I clutch him. Renewed pleasure seizes my core, far more intense than before.

I lose myself in the heat and passion, utterly consumed by him. Within moments, we become frantic. He releases my hair to drop his hand back down to my ass, now using both hands to bounce me on his cock while I claw at him all over, unable to settle on just one area. From his hair, to his neck, to his shoulders and chest, I’m so desperate for the orgasm he’s denied me several times now that it’s making me anxious.

He fucks me too hard for either of us to continue to kiss without our teeth knocking, but we stay close, our parted lips brushing and gliding as we moan into one another’s mouths.

My stomach clenches as the ecstasy mounts until my eyes are rolling again. Pressure builds in my bladder, and my lungs tighten, making it harder to breathe as the orgasm rises.

“Kellan.” His name comes out as an alarmed whimper, as if we’re in a car speeding straight toward the side of a bridge. “Please make me come, please make me come,” I chant anxiously.

He snarls, his teeth gritted as he bites out, “You have five fucking seconds, Reverie, or I come without you.”

Then, he reaches between our bodies and pinches my clit harshly—the perfect blend of pain and pleasure to break me apart.

My scream is sharp and strangled as I shatter around him, my inner walls contracting around him so hard, it strangles his cock.

“Fuck!”

He slams into me one final time before stilling, flooding me with his cum. His moans are stilted, and they come out like a skipping record player. His knees waver, and we drop a few inches before he catches himself and pins me against the door, barely able to keep the two of us from collapsing.

His teeth sink into the side of my neck, eliciting another burst of tingles throughout my body, and then he sends a fist cracking into the door next to my waist, his entire body shuddering.

I’m vaguely aware of it all, yet I view it from above, my consciousness transcending into another plane. The euphoria is far too intense for me to handle, just like going unconscious when pain becomes unbearable.

Eventually, he carefully lowers us down to his knees, spreading them wide to sit me between his thighs, though my legs remain hooked over his hips and he stays firmly inside me. My upper back presses into the door, my hands grip his hair, his forehead resting on my shoulder, his fists planted on the floor on either side of my hips while we sensually grind against one another, wringing out the last of the pleasure.

Our small, breathless moans fill the air as our bodies move like a wave—rolling, arching, and seeking, as if they’re physically incapable of being separated. It’s heated, passionate, and it's beginning to feel like we're making love rather than riding out the aftershocks.

I don’t understand what's happening, only that we can't seem to stop, and instead of slowing down, our movements become a little more insistent. He’s still hard inside me, so when he rolls into me with a little added pressure, it sends warm electricity between my legs.

“Oh,” I gasp before my jaw unhinges when he does it again and again.

Our breathing grows louder and heavier, dense with renewed pleasure. He lifts his forehead from my shoulder to press hot, wet kisses along the side of my neck. My lashes flutter from the intensity building and building with each press of his hips, his pace steady and measured.

“That feel good?” There's no cocky lilt to his tone or teasing nature, though it's not lacking in confidence. It's raw and genuine, like he's checking on me and willing to take direction if needed.

I don't know why it's so attractive, but it turns me on so much more.

“Yes,” I breathe, nodding my head vigorously as I tug on his hair.

“Yeah?”

Again, there's an undertone of seeking confirmation, but this time it’s like he just needs to hear how good he makes me feel.

“Yeah, yeah, it feels so good.”

His response is a pleased moan that sends shivers down my spine.

The surrounding air has thickened until it feels like I'm inhaling steam rather than oxygen, though it's lined with static electricity that zaps every one of my nerves as it invades my insides. Sweat dampens my nape, and a thin layer coats our skin, only intensifying the energy as euphoria commands our oscillating hips.

His mouth latches onto the column of my throat, trading between bites that border on painful, wet kisses, and sucking at the delicate flesh. He travels up to the underside of my jaw and then captures my lips in another searing kiss.

It's nothing like the way he's kissed me before. There's a desperation to it now, as if we only have seconds to live.

Then, he angles his hips the slightest bit, the tip of his cock hitting a spot that has my head kicking back and eyes rolling, wrenching my mouth away as utter bliss consumes me.

“Oh my God,” I choke out. “Yes, like that.”

“Yeah, like that?” he murmurs, watching me carefully. “How about right here?”

He shifts again, and I realize he was only skirting the edge of the spot before. Now, it feels like he's directly hitting the target. It sends my spine bowing while a loud moan tears out of my throat.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, right there. Stay right there,” I plead, my voice pitching higher as my eyes roll back further.

Tingles spread throughout my core, and my muscles tense as the pleasure intensifies until I'm tasting colors and seeing sounds. It's so incredibly blissful, it brings a smile to my face as he pushes that button over and over. I never want it to end, never want to feel anything else. I would do terrible, evil things to stay just like this forever.

“Fuck, that's s-so good, Kellan. Oh my God, please don't stop, please don't stop.”

He must hear the fear of losing this feeling in my tone.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, the deep timbre of his voice sending a shiver down my spine as he skirts his lips along my jawline. “I know what this sweet little pussy needs.”

Our eyes connect as he lifts his head to brush his lips over mine, sending my heart soaring straight out of my throat.

He keeps his pace consistent, never faltering or losing his angle. It's almost torturous how slow the ascension is, yet it’s so fucking perfect, the way he draws it out.

Then one hand slides between us, and his thumb presses into my clit, rubbing firm circles that send my eyes crossing.

My mouth drops open, silent for several moments before a stuttered, choked moan comes free, and my entire body quakes as I draw closer to yet another devastating orgasm.

His upper lip pulls up into a scowl, and a low grumble emits from his throat, staring at me with a primal sort of hunger.

“Ooooh, Ke—fuu⁠—”

The sad attempt ends in a squealed scream, my eyes pinching shut as ecstasy tightens my core.

“That’s it, that's it,” he encourages, his rough voice hushed but urgent. “You can take it, baby.”

His thumb moves faster until I'm panting out cries, the pleasure coming to a sharp point. His brow furrows and his jaw falls open, sonorous moans painting my lips. His pace quickens, grinding into me with a passion, as if he's creating a masterpiece inside me with every stroke of his cock.

The last thing I hear before the pressure bursts is a tortured groan, and him saying, “Fuuucck, Reverie.”

Every muscle in my body seizes, and my inner walls contract around him with a ferocity that reflects the carnage inside me.

I think I scream his name, but I also think I'm shattering into tiny pieces, and it could just be the sound of them hitting the floor.

Our bodies tremble viciously against one another as he lifts me further onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me and burrowing his face into my neck as we come undone.

By the time I come down, I'm dizzy, breathless, shaking hard enough to rattle my bones. My entire body buzzes, and there’s a low ringing in my ears. I’ve never been in the vicinity of an explosion, but I imagine this is what it’d feel like to stand too close.

We eventually slump, and he carefully sets me back to lean against the door. My head thumps back against it again with a heavy exhale.

I’m covered in sweat, and it feels like all my bones have melted. I’m delirious and truthfully, deranged.

Because what the fuck.

This… Whatever the fuck that was… I don’t even fucking know.

He lifts his head and straightens, and I take that as a fantastic opportunity to cross my arms over my face with a groan.

He cheated.

He pushed me away from the desk, and that was definitely fucking cheating.

Who cares if I was two seconds from coming? I didn’t yet, so it shouldn’t count.

“You cheated.”

I feel rather than see him plant his hands against the door on either side of my head. His breath fans across my neck, and it takes effort to suppress the shiver from racking my body.

His voice is deep and throaty as he asks, “How far did you get into the paperwork before you begged me not to stop so you could come?”

My face burns, and it takes several seconds to muster up a response. “Doesn’t matter. You pushed me away from the desk prematurely.”

He lets out a breathless chuckle. Probably because I sound like a pouting child.

“Do you want a redo?”

“No,” I snip.

“I think it’s very fair to say you were going to lose, even if I let you shower me with your cum at that moment.”

My cheeks burn hotter, and I press my arms deeper against my face so I don't have to see his soaked hoodie. Instead, I clench my jaw, refusing to answer. Mainly because I know he’s right, and I’m torn between being devastated, pissed, and embarrassed.

I should’ve fucking known to bargain with something else. It was easy to forget just how intense his mouth feels when I’ve refused to think about it as much as humanely possible. I also should’ve known purely by his confidence. He never would’ve sent that damn voice clip if he knew he wouldn’t win.

And the fucker was right.

This time, I can’t even hate him. I just hate myself.

I stiffen when he grabs my hips and lifts me up to slide out of me with a quiet hiss. The rush of liquid shouldn’t come as a surprise, yet I never expected it to be… so much.

Now, my entire face is on fire, and I try my best to ignore it—him—and just pray he leaves so I can go back to being numb again. It was nice for the short time it lasted, but I suspect it’s also why Dread challenged me. It’s not so fun to break me down when I have no reaction to it.

“Stay right there.”

I would prefer to die and sink into the floor instead, but staying put suffices. I crack open an eye long enough to see him get to his feet, pull up his pants, and adjust his clothing again before disappearing into my bathroom.

I briefly hear running water, followed by his footsteps. I still don't look at him, even when I feel the warm press of a rag against my thighs.

The silence is thick as he cleans me up. There's the distinct sound of the rag hitting my hamper, and then he scoops me into his arms again. My hand flies to his shoulders for balance as he stands. Before I can ask what the hell he’s doing, he carries me to the bed and plops me on the mattress.

Then, he bends and grabs my underwear and jeans he left on the floor, handing them over to me. I waste no time pulling them on again while he steps over to the desk to look down at my paperwork.

I can feel myself getting defensive, but because I don’t have a good excuse, I just get angrier instead.

“You can leave now,” I snap while rebuttoning my jeans.

When I’m finished, I toss his coat at him, ignoring his grin when it hits his chest, then focus on making my bed from when… whoever… fucked it up, just to give myself something to do. Dread fixed the sheet while I was lying on it earlier, but now I feel compelled to tuck the bedding in so tightly, a quarter could bounce off it.

He watches me silently for a few moments, mirth swirling in his gaze, but I pointedly ignore him.

“You’ve had this room for two seconds, and he already found it. You’re not staying here,” he says casually.

My blood simmers, slowly crawling to a boil as I aggressively fluff my pillow, practically punching it.

“I’m not staying with you,” I tell him.

I hear him approach me, and then I feel him. His presence is so goddamn strong and overwhelming. I just wish I could snuff it out like a metal cup over a flame.

I freeze when his fingers whisper across my nape, brushing my hair over my shoulder. Goosebumps cover my entire body in a second flat, and I suppress the urge to shiver.

However, I don’t contain my exhale that’s rife with irritation.

There’s an extremely prominent ache in my core, a constant reminder he manipulated his way inside me yet again, and as a result, it’s taking effort to move and walk normally. Those two things make it very frustrating that he’s touching me again.

“We’re not going back to my dorm right now. We have somewhere else to go, and then I have practice after,” he says quietly in my ear.

“No,” I clip.

He’s trapping me between the bed and him, making it almost impossible to escape without shoving him away first or kneeing him in the balls. I know from experience that he’s a fucking mammoth, basically impossible for me to move, so the first option is out. As for the second, I'm admittedly extremely terrified of the repercussions, especially when him wanting to fuck me is a slightly better scenario than him wanting to kill me.

But only slightly.

My breath falls short when his fingers come around to my front, lifting the bottom of my shirt just enough to drag them lightly over my bare skin toward the button of my jeans. Clenching my jaw, I close my eyes and work hard to ignore the electricity his touch ignites, the heavy tension weighing down my bones.

“Dread,” I growl in warning.

“If you don’t want to put your coat and shoes on, I’m happy to get you naked instead. I’ll suck on your pretty tits this time, bite them while you bounce on my cock—I know how happy that’d make you.”

It should be biologically impossible for a sore vagina to get wet again. Aren’t our bodies designed to protect us? I don’t understand why something that hurts would demand more of the thing that made it hurt.

Especially when that thing is attached to the actual devil.

“Or how about you just leave?” I bite out.

“Mmm, don’t recall that one being an option.”

My fingers curl into my palms, and my knuckles bleach white from how hard I squeeze them. I’m on the verge of swinging and punching him when my coat appears in front of me.

“It might be somewhere you want to go. Maybe to get answers.”

With another irritated sigh, I snatch the coat. He retreats instantly with a devilish chuckle, only prodding at my raw nerves.

I shrug it on and then turn to find my socks and boots already in front of me. It’s impossible not to have anger injected into my every movement as I sit on the bed to tug on the socks, shove my feet in the boots, and tie the laces.

When I’m finished, he’s right before me, holding out his hand. I glance at it as if it’s a snake before looking up at him like he’s the idiot snake.

He cocks a brow, and I really wish I could punch him in the eye right now.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.” He wiggles his fingers impatiently, and something about seeing Dread’s fingers wiggle at me is very off-putting.

I regard him carefully. “Tell me now.”

“Reverie. Grab my hand, or I throw you over my shoulder,” he warns, his tone deepening with impatience.

Always with the fucking ultimatums.

However, I choose option C.

Ignoring his offer, I sidestep him with an annoyed sigh to head for the door.

He allows me to open it and step out into the hallway before he’s forcefully snatching my hand and closing the door behind him. He holds tight, preventing me from dislodging it, despite how hard I try to yank it free.

God, his hand really is like a snake. He has the grip of a fucking python. Or maybe he's a leech, since he's so goddamn draining.

I grind my teeth and exhale heavily through my nose, settling a hard look on him. “You’re a leech.”

He’s unfazed as he drags me down the hallway. The dorm buildings are all identical, and they put me on the second floor again, though not as far down the hallway.

“Considering I just sucked on that sweet little clit of yours and made you squirt all over me, I’d have to agree with you.”

My face twists with distaste while he smirks. There’s definitely a reaction in both my heart and stomach, but I refuse to acknowledge it, instead concentrating on keeping my brain from recalling any memories of twenty minutes ago.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” I snap.

The way he flicks another look at me suggests he knows exactly why I changed the subject.

“We’re going to visit Roxi. I’d like to meet her before I see her face on the news.”

CHAPTER 20

DREAD

Roxi’s dorm is a two-minute walk from Reverie’s, which really fucking bothers me.

“How the hell do you even know where she lives?” Reverie asks from beside me, like I’m the serial killer, while her little legs struggle to keep up.

“I asked Severen and Rogue if they knew who she was. Severen recognized her name. Guess she’s on the lacrosse team with Octavia.”

“And she told you where Roxi lives?”

“Well, she told Severen, and only because he told her Roxi is dating your dad and we’re concerned about her.” I flick an amused look her way. “By the way, you broke them up.”

Her expression doesn’t change as she deadpans, “Oh, no.”

I shake my head and grin.

He’s the only one out of the three of us who doesn’t avoid domestic relationships like the bubonic plague. Unfortunately for him, he was falling in love with her.

And now she wants nothing to do with him.

I’d feel bad about it if half the shit we pulled weren’t his and Rogue’s own ideas. I never asked for their help, but they gave it anyway, because they’re loyal-ass fuckers who couldn’t stand to see her happy while I walked around with a hole in my heart.

I may be a dick, but I can’t say my friends are any better.

“After you stormed out, she dumped her iced tea over his head, and he just sat there and took it,” I tell her.

She purses her lips, and though she doesn’t appear guilty, per se, she doesn’t exactly seem thrilled, either.

I almost hate that I'm getting to know her, because now, I'm beginning to see her as someone who feels compassion for people who probably don’t deserve it.

And I haven't entirely decided if she's someone who deserves my compassion, either.

We get to Roxi’s dorm, the warm air inside a balm to the chilly winter frost clinging to my skin. I lead Reverie down the hallway on the first floor and stop in front of Roxi’s door.

Rev flicks a glance my way and wets her bottom lip. “What are we supposed to say?” she whispers.

I cross my arms and casually lean my shoulder against the wall. I’m a few inches back from the doorframe, just out of sight, so Roxi won’t see me right away. I anticipate she won’t be thrilled to see my face.

“We need to ask if it’s her hair, see if she’ll confess to seeing Lionel here.”

She nods, but she doesn’t knock. She just stands there and stares, fidgeting with her shirt, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, raising and dropping her hand.

I grin. She’s really fucking cute when she’s nervous.

I can read her thoughts as easily as if she were an open book. She’s worried that her father’s inside the room.

I hope to fucking God he is.

“Knock, darling,” I urge quietly.

She casts me a glance that tells me to shut the fuck up and raps her knuckles on the door.

So fucking lightly.

I’m fairly certain only an owl or a bat could hear that.

I drop my chin, my face falling flat as I give her an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ look. She huffs, blows her thin, overgrown bangs out of her eyes from the corner of her mouth, and knocks again.

A little better. Barely.

But it’s enough to trigger the sound of footsteps heading toward the door. Reverie’s hand trembles, and I have the indescribable urge to grab it.

The door swings open, and Reverie instantly forces a too large smile to her face, those copper eyes swirling with panic.

“He-ey,” she says awkwardly.

“Rev?” Roxi asks.

Reverie clears her throat. “Are you, uh, busy right now?”

Silence for a beat. “Uh, no? How did you know where I— Oh my God, never mind!” She laughs to herself. “I’m sure you spoke to Lionel. Duh! Anyway, yeah, come on in.”

Reverie flicks a wide-eyed stare my way, and I roll my eyes. I was hoping she’d get more information first before making me reveal myself, but the girl can’t act for shit. So, I straighten and swing my body into the opening, causing Roxi to startle. She gasps and takes a step back, her hand flying to her chest as she stares at me with rounded brown eyes.

She’s a cute girl, I guess. She has that shy, girl-next-door look going for her, but I would hazard a guess she’s a little spitfire, based on her obnoxiously bright red cat-eye glasses.

My theory is proven when she takes less than a second before blinking at me, anger creasing her brows. Then, she glances at Rev, appearing suspicious and maybe a little hurt, before returning her focus to me with disbelief. Her chest is panting a little too quickly, and her eyes dilate.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps.

“Am I that scary?” I ask, one corner of my lips curling with amusement.

She scoffs, puffing her chest as if it’s going to make her any less of a shrimp compared to me.

“I would never find you scary,” she spits. Then, she swings an accusatory glare to Reverie. My muscles instantly tense, and I’m tempted to snap her neck just for looking at Rev like that. “Why did you bring him here?”

I reach into my hoodie pocket to pull out the note and curled lock of hair, presenting them to her on a splayed palm. Frowning, she looks down at the items, and then, with a cautionary glance at me, she grabs them. Her eyes skim over the words on the note, and then she rereads it.

“What is this?” she asks, annoyance filtering into her features.

“Uhm, can we come in and explain?” Reverie asks, peering down either side of the hallway anxiously.

“No,” Roxi snips.

Reverie sighs. “Okay, fine then. I came home earlier to my room completely trashed, that note stabbed into my desk with a knife. I was getting ready to transfer schools, and the letter and the hair were next to the application. I thought it looked like your hair, so I wanted to make sure you were okay first, see if you knew whether Lionel had been around.”

“What? Lionel isn’t even in Colorado, silly. And why would I do that to you? Also, what do you mean ‘transfer schools’?” She fires off the questions one after the other, her thick brows furrowed with incredulity.

Reverie side-eyes me, her mouth open but no words coming out. She appears unsure of how much to say, waiting for my input.

I don't come to her rescue, however. I’m still pissed she even tried to transfer.

“Uh, I was c-considering studying abroad,” she stumbles awkwardly, attempting to smooth over the half-truth.

Roxi blinks, jerking her head back, hurt settling into her frown. “Why? Where? Your father just got out of prison. He hasn’t even gotten to see you yet, Reverie.” Her voice rises as she continues to admonish Rev. “He’s been going on and on about how excited he is to grow your guys’ relationship and see you again. Have you talked to him about this yet, at least? I can't imagine he'd approve.”

My brows fly up.

“A-approve?” Reverie echoes, blinking rapidly, clearly offended now. Her cheeks tinge pink, and fury flashes in her eyes.

Roxi’s brow furrows, staring at Rev with incredulity.

There's a sharp point digging in the middle of my chest, demanding I doubt Reverie and wonder if she's been feeding me lies along, claiming she and Lionel are estranged to save her skin while secretly having a relationship with him all along.

Because the way Roxi is talking, Rev and Lionel seem to be on great fucking terms. Whatever compassion I was beginning to feel earlier wavers.

You saw her transfer papers.

I did. She wasn't lying about that, and she wouldn't be trying to leave the country if she and Lionel have reconciled. Furthermore, I would expect her to have gone and seen him already if that were the case.

I grind my teeth, regretting coming here. It's already fucking with my head, distracting me from the matter at hand: the fucking hair and if Lionel’s in Colorado.

So either Roxi’s a fantastic actress, or she genuinely doesn’t believe Lionel to be here. Nor does she show the slightest bit of guilt about Rev’s room.

Except none of it is convincing when she could be the copycat and a goddamn sociopath, just like her boyfriend. Guilt is the last thing people like Lionel are capable of feeling, and for all we know, she's no different. Maybe she even cut her hair off her goddamn self.

However, all those spiraling thoughts come to a screeching halt when Roxi’s bottom lip trembles.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

She's so offended by Rev wanting to transfer, she’s got tears welling in her eyes, and dealing with her crying is definitely not what I fucking signed up for.

“You’re not her mommy yet, Roxi. No need to lecture her like she’s your child,” I say tonelessly.

Her fiery stare snaps to mine, and phew, she does not like me. How utterly tragic.

But what is tragic is the way she subconsciously cups her stomach.

I feel Reverie’s energy go ice cold, and I know her focus is exactly where mine is.

“You still haven’t answered why you’re even here,” Roxi snaps.

I’m slow to bring my eyes back up to hers, and when I do, Roxi’s hand quickly drops to her side.

“You’re pregnant?”

No sense in beating around the bush.

Her cheeks flush red. “No.” A beat passes. “I don’t know.”

My brows jump up my forehead again, and I silently mouth, “Wow.”

That’s… that’s going to be a fucking problem.

Truthfully, it makes me sick to my stomach. Lionel bringing more life into this world while carelessly stealing it away from others is…

My entire body heats, anger steadily filling my veins.

It's fucking disgusting.

Reverie's mouth flops, staring at Roxi as if she's seen a ghost.

“Did he come here?” she asks.

“No, I went and visited him soon after he got home.”

Why does she sound so fucking defensive?

“Jesus, you two wasted no fucking time, huh?” I say, flicking my gaze up and down her form with distaste. “He's been out of prison for how long, and you're already letting him knock you up?”

Roxi’s entire face resembles a cherry as she fumes at me. “That’s none of your business, Dreadful.”

She spits out my name like it’s rotten food. I stare at her blankly, confused if that was supposed to hurt my feelings.

“And anyway, it’s not like we were trying to. I wanted to get married first. I just… Well, I’m not on birth control and the condom bro⁠—”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up, Roxi,” Reverie cuts in quickly, waving her hands in front of her face to stop her.

Disgust curls her upper lip, and she stares at Roxi like she’s spawned a new head. Technically, she might be spawning one as we speak.

Roxi’s teeth click shut, and her shoulders hike to her ears, defensiveness sinking into her tense muscles.

“We’re in love,” she says, her tone clipped. “And he’s a really great man. So, would it really be the worst thing in the world, Reverie? I mean, I know we don’t know each other very well, but if you would just let me in, we can be friends. You could watch your sibling grow up and help give them an amazing childhood where he won’t be around to strip it away like he did yours.” She casts a nasty look my way when she spits out ‘he’ and then softens when she returns her focus to Reverie, her gaze almost pleading. “You could have a little brother or sister. I'm sure it was lonely growing up as an only child, and your dad mentioned you always wanted a sibling and never got to have one. I can give you that now.”

Rev’s face pales, and her eyes glaze over, a faraway look in her eyes as she stares at Roxi. She’s solid stone, and I don’t think she sees us anymore, only ghosts from her childhood.

She no longer appears repulsed, but devastated. Triggered, even.

And I really don’t fucking like it.

My hackles rise, and I'm really getting fucking pissed now.

Steeling my jaw, I focus on Roxi, simultaneously wanting to slap her and slap sense into her.

I have to remind myself she’s being manipulated. Brainwashed. But fuck, if it doesn’t also trigger me and bring me back to that eight-year-old kid no one believed. Down to the look on her face, staring at me as if I’m the monster.

I flex my fingers and breathe in deeply, then slowly let it out.

Then, I offer her a pitying smile. “You are so ill-informed, I just might feel bad for you when you inevitably find you’re willingly fucking a deranged murderer.”

She narrows her eyes into thin slits, a snakelike quality overtaking her features.

“I see you haven’t changed,” she says, venom dripping from her tone. “Still trying to convince everyone you’re not a liar. The world saw through you back then, and I still see through you now. You’re a liar.”

My vision blackens.

“Roxi,” Rev barks, her sharp voice bringing me back from the edge of a total blackout.

I would never lay my hands on her, but I’m positive I’d walk out of this building and utilize its brick wall to crack my knuckles.

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Rev snaps when Roxi’s startled gaze flies to meet her glare. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so watch your fucking mouth. He’s not a goddamn liar and never has been.”

Her words set off a visceral reaction inside my body, but I wouldn’t know what to call it—it’s not something I’ve felt before. It’s intense, like a punch to the chest without the pain, and it takes my breath away.

I slowly drag my stare to Reverie, taking in the raging fire within her eyes, seething beneath the wispy bangs falling in them, her flaring nostrils, her clenched fists.

My hands flex with the need to do… something. Fist her hair, squeeze her throat, and… fuck, crush those pretty lips against mine.

The need burns through my system until it’s all I can feel. Keeping my body stationary feels like resisting the power of a black hole pulling me in. My bones are bending toward her, and soon, they’re going to snap if I don’t heed to the force field.

“Why are you defending him?” Roxi gapes at Rev, stunned and furious, based on her face turning a bright red.

I turn my focus back to her, the words bursting from my mouth before my brain can give them permission. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Reverie closes her eyes with a defeated sigh, which prompts me to arch a brow at her. It’s really fucking cute that she thought I’d magically let that go, especially after spending an hour playing with her squirting pussy.

I figured the locker room was just a fluke from years of tormenting one another building up to a point of explosion. There's no way sex that incredible can happen more than once, so I convinced myself the next time would be different.

And I was right.

The problem is, it was even more amazing.

I mean, fuck, I poured her cum into her mouth and then made her spit it into mine. We’re practically fucking married now.

“What?!” Roxi shrieks, her voice ear-piercing.

Rev winces while I kind of want to punch her. It should be against the law to reach that high of a decibel unless you want your teeth knocked out.

“Why would you date him? He’s the reason Lionel went to prison, Reverie! That’s like… that’s like a huge betrayal to your dad! How could you do that?”

Reverie splays her hand in a placating gesture. “We’re not⁠—”

“Going to let you shame us,” I cut in firmly.

Rev groans this time, and I make a mental note to talk to her later about how trying to make me her dirty little secret really hurts my feelings.

I mean, my hoodie is still wet from her cum.

She doesn't get to fuck me the way she did on her dorm room floor, come here and defend my honor afterward, make me want to bury my tongue back inside her for it, then act like I mean nothing.

That's fucking hurtful.

Aghast, Roxi’s stare pinballs between the two of us for a few beats before settling on me. Pure hatred reflects in her gaze, and if all my feelings weren’t reserved for the blonde standing next to me, I still wouldn’t give a fuck.

“You’ve bullied her for the past four years. Why the hell would you date her now?”

I grin wolfishly. “Well, if you must know, Roxi, when a woman has a golden pussy that sprays liquid cocaine and a masterful tongue⁠—”

“You know what?” Rev interrupts loudly, her cheeks flushed cherry red, her copper eyes burning hotter than before. “This was obviously a huge mistake. We just wanted to know if you or Lionel had anything to do with destroying my room and leaving the note and hair. That’s it. But if Lionel isn’t here, then… then I don’t fucking know!” The last part bursts out of her in a flood of frustration.

Roxi is slow to slide her spitting stare from me. “It can’t be my hair,” she says, her voice bitter. “I stayed with Lionel over this past weekend, but he never cut my hair—because he’s not the Locksmith—and he had a parole meeting this morning, so he couldn’t have possibly been here. Plus, he wouldn’t come here without telling me.” Doubt that. “But that’s not even his handwriting, anyway. I have hundreds of letters to prove it. So, the person who destroyed your room is likely standing right next to you and trying to make it look like your dad. Or did you already forget you’re sleeping with your own enemy?”

Reverie’s jaw clenches while Roxi crosses her arms defensively.

“This really hurts to have to say, because I really wanted a relationship with you, Reverie, but you both need to stay the hell away from me. Until you work this out with your father and—” She flicks an unimpressed look up and down my form. “—drop the parasite attached to you, this won’t work.”

With that, she flicks one more vicious stare my way before stepping back and slamming the door in our faces.

Stunned, Rev blinks while her mouth flops, attempting to process what just happened. I, on the other hand, am two seconds away from busting Roxi’s door down to make her apologize to Rev.

That was really fucking rude.

Rev meets my stare, a windmill of emotions spinning through her eyes. She’s pissed—that’s the most obvious.

“I… I need to go home,” she says, robotically turning and walking past me. Without looking back, she calls out, “And for the love of God, Dread, do not fucking follow me.”

Narrowing my gaze, I watch her storm away, that plump ass angrily swaying in those tight jeans. I’ll give her until after practice to cool off, but she’s not staying in that goddamn dorm.

When she disappears around the corner, I turn and knock on Roxi’s door again.

“Ugh!” I hear from the other side, just for her to loudly stomp toward me and swing the door open again. She startles when she sees me, and I hold out my hand expectantly.

“Give me the note and hair.”

She works her jaw from side to side, contemplating if she wants to listen. Ultimately, she pulls them out of her back pocket and slaps them in my palm.

“Now leave,” she barks.

I grin wickedly and lean in an inch, causing her to bristle, fear flashing in her gaze.

“Gladly. But first, don’t ever talk to my girl like that again, or I'll make waking up next to the devil after I send your ass to hell a fucking relief. Understood?”

She rears back in shock, but I don’t wait for her to answer.

She’s not the only one with a boyfriend capable of murder. The only difference is, I’ll do it for my girl, whereas Lionel will only do it to his.

Severen: Are you alive?

I exit the gym and step out into the chill air just as I get a text in my group chat with Severen and Rogue. I frown, not understanding the question. I just finished with swim practice for the USA team and am on my way to find Reverie to kidnap her back to my place.

Me: Should I not be?

His text is immediate. It’s a video, and the preview is of what looks to be a door to a dorm room. Another text comes through.

Severen: Sound on.

Foreboding builds as I click the video and turn up the sound. The door rattles violently, and I immediately recognize the faint sounds of mine and Reverie’s moaning, her screaming my name. There’s a loud thump, likely from when I punched the door, followed by giggles from whoever’s recording directly across the hallway.

Fuuuuuck.

Texts fly in almost immediately.

Severen: She’s so going to murder you dude. It’s all over campus and social media. You’re only lucky you can’t see her room number and your name is muffled enough to cast reasonable doubt.

Severen: I’ll write your eulogy, but I'm making Rogue deliver it. He could speak publicly while naked without blinking, but you know words aren’t his strong suit.

Severen: Also, I am very traumatized from hearing you have sex. I didn’t even think you were capable of making a sound like that.

Rogue: Duuuude!!! That sounds hot as fuck. I’d pay premium to watch that

Rogue: But I will absolutely deliver your eulogy naked. I’ll need to blink though

Severen: My guy, that wasn’t a suggestion. This is why I said words aren’t your strong suit.

Severen: You know what? Never mind. Do it naked.

Rogue: Fuck yeah

Rogue: Thoughts and prayers though, brother

Rogue: Especially when Coach finds out

Tightening my lips into a firm line, I heave out a heavy breath through my nose and click out of the chat, though the two continue to blow my shit up with nonsense.

Severen’s right, however.

Reverie is definitely going to kill me—but only if Coach doesn’t kill me first.

I have a shit ton of messages—several from my manager, Jonah, and my publicist, Carrie, four reporters from different outlets asking for a statement, my teammates, some from unsaved numbers…

Fucking fuck.

I close out of the messages before I lose my goddamn mind and wipe my hand down my face roughly with a groan, trying to decide which one of them to deal with first. This is going to be a big hit to my reputation. It’s definitely all over social media, and if fucking CVN doesn’t have an article written already, it’s because every single journalist miraculously died.

I speed walk to my car and slide in. Then, I start the engine and turn up the hot air to defrost my windows. Once I'm settled, I unlock my phone to make my first call.

And fuck me, if my screen saver of licking Rev’s tear isn’t an omen, I don’t know what is.

I pull up Coach’s number first and hit call. He already left for the night, and I don't know if I'd have the balls to deliver the news to his face, anyway.

He answers before the first ring completes. “I was just about to call you, asshole. You better have a goddamn good fucking explanation for why the fuck you have a fucking sex tape circulating online, you fucking idiot.”

Yeah, he’s pissed.

“I wouldn’t call it a sex tape,” I mutter. “No one can see us.”

“What the fuck are you doing in the video, Kellan?” he barks.

I tighten my lips, preferring not to answer that.

“Well?”

I sigh. “Having sex.”

“So then it’s a goddamn sex tape!” he bellows. I wince, holding the phone an inch away from my ear before he blows it out.

“I’ll deny it’s me,” I quickly placate. “I mean, I’m sure there’s another fucking student here with the same name.”

“You’re goddamn right you’re going to deny it. You’re so fucking lucky the video doesn’t show the door number to identify who the girl is.” He pauses for a beat, and then his voice drops as he asks, “Do I need to know who it is?”

Coach knows all about my past and, therefore, Reverie. He’s reamed me out until he went purple in the face more times than I can count for fucking with her, usually because she complained to the dean or a witness posted about one of my pranks online. My management team has scrubbed the internet of shit like that a few times now. However, this time is going to be a little harder.

“Probably,” I mutter.

“Please tell me it’s not someone different from who you posted on that fucking Gram app.”

“It’s called—never mind. No, it’s not someone different,” I answer.

We haven’t exactly talked about the picture. As long as it doesn’t cause problems, he doesn’t give a fuck what I do. I wasn’t even sure if he was aware of it, but I suppose, with the video out and speculations arising, my post was bound to get roped in. Especially because if I fucked anyone else but the girl in that picture and people found out, my rep would go up in flames.

It’s a damn good thing my dick isn’t interested in anyone else.

“So Reverie,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“God fucking dammit, Kel. People aren’t going to just let this go. Her father was just released from prison, and you deciding to let the world know you’re fucking her is one thing, but showing the world you’re fucking her is another!”

“Yeah. Yup. I know that,” I snap, growing irritated. I rest my elbow on the door and use my forefinger and thumb to rub my eyes.

He mutters a string of insults beneath his breath while I pinch the bridge of my nose, attempting to combat the headache building in my skull.

With a sigh, I drop my hand and look up, only to find someone standing directly in front of my car with a fucking camera, snapping pictures.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss, instantly clicking my seat belt on before I do something even more stupid, like get out and knock the fucker’s teeth in. “I got paparazzi in front of my car, Coach. I gotta go. I’ll talk to Jonah and put out a statement soon, I promise.”

I put the car in reverse and quickly pull out of the parking spot, switching to drive. Time to tackle Rev next.

“Yeah, don’t fucking mind me. Once you figure out what the fuck you’re going to say, I’ll be on calls all fucking day tomorrow with the board doing damage control so you’re not disqualified from the next fucking Olympics.” Then, he grumbles, “Fucking dickhole.”

“Thank you. I’m sor⁠—”

“Get off my fucking phone, Kellan.”

Don’t gotta tell me fucking twice. I hang up, only for a call from Carrie to pop up next.

I groan and spend the rest of the drive to Reverie’s dorm talking it out with her and putting together a statement.

Basically, we got very lucky there are no identifiers in the video. No room number, nothing to prove the girl was even recording in her own room. The video starts and ends with the phone angled toward Rev’s door, and luckily, the buildings are all identical, so there’s no way to distinguish Rev’s from someone else’s down the hall. If the chick had recorded any part of her room, where it might’ve showed her bedding or a decoration on the wall, maybe I could’ve denied it was me fucking her, but it would be impossible for Reverie to deny any involvement.

And I'd rather die than let the world believe anyone else was fucking her.

At this point, it’s my word against hers.

Whoever she is, which I intend to find out.

Except, the second I round the corner into the hallway toward Rev's dorm, I find her standing outside it, her arms crossed defensively while two girls talk to her.

My heart instantly kicks up a notch, and I’m halfway down the hall when the three notice me.

However, Rev refuses to look at me. A mid-sized bag hangs from her shoulder, which seems to be packed with clothes. I’m guessing she was on her way out when she ran into the girls, and I’d bet the little brat wasn’t on her way to my dorm.

The girls watch me approach with wide eyes, though their stares consistently dart around, as if I’m the sun and they can only stand to look at me in small increments.

One of them has pin-straight black hair flowing down to her plump waist and pale blue eyes with whatever black shit girls put on the bottom of their lashes. The other has thin, curly orange hair piled in a messy bun, a nose slightly too large for her pale face, and is wearing an oversized T-shirt with no pants.

I stop before them, and a tense, awkward silence settles over the four of us. The two girls shift on their feet while Rev stares at them expectantly, arms crossed, silent.

I just watch them, my face set in stone.

“Uh, hi?” the orange-haired girl says finally, though it comes out more like a question than a greeting.

I arch a brow. “Hi.”

A bright red flush blooms at the base of her throat and slowly crawls up toward her cheeks. More silence, until the black-haired girl clears her throat after a few more stilted beats.

“Meet my neighbor, Kaitlin, and her friend Hannah.” Reverie’s voice is tight and rife with annoyance as she waves a hand toward the orange-haired girl and then the black-haired one, respectively.

“Reverie was, uh, just asking to see something,” Kaitlin explains.

I feign intrigue. “See what?”

She backs up toward the door and grabs the handle—directly across the hall from Rev’s.

“Reverie can show you,” she says quickly. “It’s easy to find.”

I hum and nod at her door. “This your room?”

She glances at her friend, her throat bobbing. “Yes, why?”

I shrug casually. “Just making sure you’re easy to find for when my lawyer has questions.” My grin is as warm as if I’m made of solid ice and a sculptor carved it into my face.

Both of their faces fall, terror sparking in their gazes as they look at one another again.

“W-we didn't do anything,” Hannah says, attempting to chuckle, but it falls flat.

“I sure hope not,” I say, my smile widening. “Posting videos of people fucking without their consent is classified as revenge porn.”

“Okay, well, it wasn't us,” Kaitlin snaps defensively, repeatedly glancing at Hannah with absolute terror. Her entire face is flushed, and Hannah's isn't any less red.

They don’t know real terror yet.

It's pretty fucking obvious one of them posted the video anonymously, and I will ensure they understand the repercussions of not only recording and posting that video, but opening their mouths to a single soul should they dare confirm our identities.

“Great,” I say, my tone overly chipper. “Then you won't have anything to worry about when they track the IP address it was posted from.”

I've never seen faces bleach of all color in such a short amount of time, but I've also never been recorded fucking someone, so today is a day of firsts, it would appear.

Kaitlin squeaks out a, “We won’t,” before they both scurry inside her room, quickly shutting and locking the door behind them.

The ensuing silence is heavy while Reverie stares at their closed door. I want to know what she's thinking, but her energy is a flame held over gasoline.

She’s a ticking time bomb, and I truly am too tired to deal with an explosion.

It’s been a long fucking day.

“Let’s go,” I urge quietly.

Silently, she turns and walks past me. Her energy has exceeded hellfire and reached the tundra, where her fury is ice cold.

I grind my molars and trail after her. I’m not exactly looking forward to an ice cube in my bed, but I’d take her cold than not at all.

CHAPTER 21

REVERIE

Dreadful Sharpe’s scandalous sex tape makes waves across the internet only days after posting salacious picture with new girlfriend.

I skim over the article, my heart sinking as I read. It talks about how the public is speculating if the sex tape is of Dread, along with my identity—if I’m Charlotte D’Amour or someone who only resembles me. They’re also questioning if I’m the one in the video, or if he’s been caught cheating just days after announcing his relationship.

It also laments over how Dread’s made no appearances with a girl or acknowledged any romantic relationships prior to his post, to the point people were questioning his sexuality.

If it’s confirmed to be him, there’s no longer a question mark where Dreadful’s sexual preferences are concerned.

I bristle, immediately irked by the underlying tones of homophobia.

“Like it’s anyone’s fucking business,” I snap aloud, giving the article a nasty look.

And why does it matter so much, anyway? Whether he's gay, straight, pan, or even ace, his sexuality has no bearing on his athleticism.

Grumbling more insults at the journalist beneath my breath, I skim over the rest of the article. It touches on Dread’s statement, denying the video is of him and his girlfriend, how it’s set off a wave of people flooding social media with videos of them listening to the part where I moan his name on repeat, trying to discern what I'm saying. People have even gone as far as uploading it to audio programs to isolate and slow my voice.

Apparently, there’s a divide between people who think I said ‘Kellan’ and those who think I said ‘Kevin.’

As far as the anonymous poster who shared the video on Reddit, they still haven’t come forward with any further insight. So, tragically, the world may be left forever wondering if our elusive Olympic star’s skill set goes beyond destroying records to destroying doors.

Another filthy look twists my face.

Tragically?

Her life must be pretty fucking tragically boring if the worst she’s suffered is never knowing if a complete stranger is dicking someone down in a leaked sex tape. The bitch is lucky I don’t find a witch to hex her ass and make her life actually tragic.

Scoffing, I throw my phone on the fluffy white comforter and drop my head to my hands, my elbows seated on my crisscrossed knees.

It’s a good thing I’ve squirreled away all my money the past four years, because I’ve dropped over a grand the past six days just hiding away in a hotel thirty minutes away from HCU.

It’s been a week since Dread fucked me against the door and the girls across the hall recorded and posted it. I stayed with Dread that night, but I wouldn’t talk to him. I didn’t even know what the fuck to say, anyway.

How dare you fuck me against the door where people could stand outside and record it?

Admittedly, I don’t think either of us were thinking about those repercussions at the time, and Dread has come under fire far more than I have.

Especially because there are still many people questioning who I am. The picture he posted allows for some obscurity, with my bangs over my eyes and my head tucked down. The public hasn’t seen a picture of me since my senior yearbook photo, when I was going through a phase of dyeing my hair brown, straightening it to a crisp, and keeping it all one layer. I didn’t have my nose piercings yet, either.

It also doesn't hurt that most people think we still loathe one another and wouldn't touch each other even if we were the last two people on Earth. That's how it should be, but the dickhead can't keep his hands to himself, apparently, and I’m just a fucking masochist.

Nevertheless, plenty of people from HCU confirmed it was me, but since there aren’t any recent pictures to verify, there’s still a lot of skepticism. The last time I went to class was the day I found out about it, and I haven’t been back since. But I can’t hide forever, and all it’ll take is showing my face on campus one more time for someone to snap a photo and clear up the confusion.

It’s inevitable.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t delay it as long as possible, which is why I ran like fucking hell to this hotel when he left for swim practice the following morning.

Only Sable knows exactly where I am, and because she’s the best friend in the world, I gave her Dread’s number so she could take on the daunting task of dealing with him. She’s assured him plenty I’m somewhere safe, but for the first several days, it didn’t stop him from texting me every other hour.

So, I blocked him.

On everything.

His phone number, email, all across social media.

My heart was in my asshole with each click of the button, and it hasn't come back up since.

There are never not repercussions where Dreadful Sharpe is concerned.

Two hours and seven minutes. That’s how long it took for me to receive an email. And then, countless more.

From youaresophucked@gmail.com:

I hope you don’t mind me stealing your thunder for when you get your first tattoo, considering you’re going to have my handprint permanently branded into your ass.

From youaresophucked@gmail.com:

Enjoy your freedom while you have it, darling.

From youaresophucked@gmail.com:

Because blocking me? Then making me spend fucking Valentine’s Day without my girlfriend? Now you’ve gone too far. I’m not above surgically implanting a fucking tracking device inside you, Reverie.

And it sure as fuck isn’t the only thing I will shove very fucking deep inside you.

From youaresophucked@gmail.com:

I assure you, you’re going to need fucking surgery to get me out of you too.

My heart might’ve fluttered at that last email, which is why I refused to respond.

Fuck him and his sexual advances.

What the fuck happened to hating each other? He comes inside me twice, and suddenly, he’s incapable of coming anywhere else?

He thinks we’re, what? Fuck buddies who now spend Valentine’s Day together and get each other cute teddy bears and chocolate-covered strawberries?

Absolutely not.

I still hate him.

And I hate Valentine’s Day.

After everything he’s put me through, everything he’s done to me, that’s not something a handful of orgasms will make go poof.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I almost ignore it until I glimpse Sable’s name.

Followed by ten more texts from her.

Frowning, I snatch it up and open the message thread, only for my heart to officially drop out of my ass.

Sable: Reverie.

Sable: Es una emergencia.

Sable: Your boy had enough and came to work and cornered me.

Sable: All these years, and that was the first time I saw him in person. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me the motherfucker was a redwood tree?

Sable: I mean, honestly, Rev, my fucking neck hurts from looking up at him, and I’m taller than you. You probably need a chiropractor.

Sable: But I can totally see why you fucked him now…

Sable: Objectively, of course.

Sable: His pictures online don’t do him justice.

Sable: Sus ojos? Panty-melting. His body should be immortalized. I’d push him in front of Medusa in a heartbeat.

Sable: Imagine if his dick was hard when he turned to stone? You STILL weren’t walking right when I saw you a few days ago.

Sable: That would be the most abused and most consecrated statue in modern history.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Me: Sable! Get to the point, maybe???

Sable: Lo siento.

Sable: For the well-being of your sanity and your pussy, you might want to reconsider letting his stone phallus poke your cervix tonight.

Oh my God.

Me: What the fuck do you mean by that? What happened??

Sable: He’s on his way grimacing faceloudly crying face My phone was on the table, and the fucker stole it, and he’s so fucking TALL, I couldn’t get it back.

Sable: And he’s quick! I put my arm up to reach for it, and he snatched my wrist, used my thumb to unlock it, and found our messages.

Mother.

Fucker.

Sable: He did it so quick too??? Like I blinked, and he was scrolling through my goddamn phone. No wonder you keep fucking him. I can clearly see your willpower never stood a chance with how quickly those hands do their job.

Sable: Don’t worry, I still ripped him a new asshole, because frankly, I’m offended by how smooth it was.

Me: Oh my fucking God, focus, Sable! How long ago???

Sable: So here’s the thing.

Sable: loudly crying faceloudly crying faceloudly crying face

Sable: No me odies.

Sable: He deleted your contact from my phone, and I never thought I’d need to memorize that shit.

Sable: We’re really going downhill as a society.

Me: Sable!!

Sable: Like forty-five minutes ago grimacing face I’m so sorry, I love you, don’t be mad.

Sable: I had to find mi papá and get your number from his phone, and he was dealing with una familia, and then I got pulled into that shit…

Sable: Te quiero. I’m sorry. Avanza y corre.

Hurry up and run?

Did she really just tell me to fucking run when I’m lucky he isn’t already in the parking lot?

Oh my God.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.

I scramble up from the bed and look down at myself. I’m wearing a T-shirt three sizes too big with a pizza sauce stain on it from, like, five years ago, no pants, no bra.

I was planning to do laundry at Sable’s tomorrow morning, as I’m on my last clean pair of underwear.

Fuck it. Better dirty sweatpants than let the heathen come near me without them on at all.

I’m sliding them on just as I hear a few low raps against the door.

Jesus, why did that sound so ominous?

My heart is pounding against my rib cage hard enough to bruise, and tendrils of panic unfurl in my stomach, coiling around my organs, squeezing them tight until my lungs aren’t alone in being deprived of oxygen.

I put my hands on my hips and stare at the door.

I don’t have to answer it.

My phone dings with an email notification.

From youaresophucked@gmail.com:

Guy at the reception desk is a huge fan. Don’t make me take advantage of that.

Fucker.

Sighing, I trudge down the short hallway to the door and take a moment to pause before it. My heart is pounding harder than it ever has, but I refuse to set it free. If I have to stay here and face a very angry beast of a man, then so do all my goddamn organs.

I attempt to inhale but fail miserably when my chest tightens, and it whooshes back out of me in a shuddery wheeze.

He knocks again, slow and ominous. I’m not proud of the tiny whimper that escapes my throat.

Before I lose any more courage, I unlock the door and swing it open, a sour look on my face.

He’s casually leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, head down as he looks at his phone. He wears a black snapback hat backward, a few strands creeping out on the sides, curling around his temple.

When he lifts his stare to meet mine, way more of his face is visible than I’m used to, and I forget the entire concept of linguistics. The butterflies in my stomach take flight, wanting out of his vicinity just as desperately while I try to recall a singular letter in the alphabet. Even if I do, I don’t know where the fuck to begin pronouncing it. And phonetics? Never heard of her.

He keeps his expression carefully blank as he drags his eyes down my form and then slowly back up again. By the time they return to my face, flames melt the ice within them and subsequently light me on fire.

I’m fucking burning up inside.

He’s pissed.

Probably turned on, too.

And that’s already proven to be a really fucking dangerous combo.

I work to swallow and silently step back to let him pass. The gears in my brain turn at a breakneck speed, calculating the velocity with which I can move my body out of this fucking door and the probability of it being faster than him.

Ultimately, my hypothesis is not a fucking chance, so I keep my feet glued.

His bottom lip curls between his teeth, and he keeps his gaze locked on me until he can’t anymore as he passes, an intense, suffocating, soul-sucking energy radiating from him. It’s so visceral, it might as well be a goddamn demonic entity of its own, possessing his body as needed.

I watch him emerge into the main room, my gaze frozen on the backpack casually hanging on his shoulder.

Yeah… See, I don’t like that shit. Because what the fuck does he need a backpack for? He’s not staying the fucking night, and he’d sooner drag me back to his dorm anyway.

Fuck.

Heart in my throat, I close the door behind him, pausing there for a moment while I try—and epically fail—at gathering my wits.

I kind of want to cry, but instead, I force myself to spin on my toes and slowly walk into the main room, kicking up my heels sheepishly and suctioning air through my pursed lips, feeling very much like a kid in trouble.

Not that I’ve done anything wrong. I don’t owe him a single goddamn thing.

But I have to tread lightly, because whether I like it or not, there’s only one apex predator in this room, and it’s unfortunately not me.

He stands on the left side of the bed, closest to the wall, the backpack on the mattress in front of him. He’s staring at me intently, his lips parted as he rolls his tongue along his inner cheek, as if he’s trying to decide what to do with me.

I’ve been in a lot of tense situations with Dread, but this is different. It’s charged, like the room is full of methane, and one flick of a lighter, we go boom.

I feel it in my tight lungs, my racing pulse, the pit of my stomach… and deep in my core.

“Let me guess,” I start brazenly, forcing bravado into my tone that I definitely don't feel. “You tell me you own me, that I’m a very naughty girl for running away and blocking you. I tell you to fuck off. You punish me by… Hmm…” I look up, pursing my lips again and feigning contemplation. “Fucking me. Maybe even making me suck your dick. I know spanking me was on the table, of course, but I imagine it wouldn’t end there, no?”

He looks down at his feet with a dark chuckle before lifting his burning stare to me again. “I think we both know if I spanked you, you would beg me for more, darling.”

Asshole.

“I think you should keep your hands to yourself,” I retort, a bite to my tone.

He hums, scrutinizing me in a way that has me shifting my weight to the other leg and my hand flying to my necklace. I glide it back and forth along the chain as I bake beneath his burning stare.

I'm very uncomfortable.

Except my nipples harden and my stomach fills with the same heat radiating from the inferno in his eyes before slowly sinking between my thighs.

“Why did you run from me?” he asks quietly.

“I didn’t run from you. I ran from what comes with you.”

His jaw clenches, but he stays silent, waiting for me to explain.

I turn my focus straight ahead to the wall. “If you didn’t post that picture of us, no one would’ve thought for a second it was you in my room. She probably wouldn't have recorded it all.” I shrug a shoulder. “Or maybe she would've, but she probably would’ve just sent it to you to use against me. People only care about me because of you.”

Still, he stays quiet, studying me.

“Now, we’re all over the internet, and because of our past, the world is having a goddamn field day theorizing how we came to be. People are questioning why the fuck we’d want anything to do with each other, and the worst part is, I don’t even know the answer to that.”

I huff out a humorless laugh, returning my attention to him and finally releasing my necklace to toss my arms out to my sides. I feel almost defeated as I say, “I mean, seriously, Dread. What the fuck are we even doing? I don’t know what your end goal is here—to fuck me until you can get revenge on my father and then…” I struggle for words and then throw up a frustrated hand as I question, “We break up and go our separate ways? So all of this is for, what? What’s the point in dragging me into the public eye, declaring me as your girlfriend, and fucking me, only to eventually let me go, anyway? Just to torture me some more?”

His brows jump up on his forehead, sounding genuinely shocked as he asks, “You think I’d let you go?”

I shake my head, at a loss for words for a few beats.

“I suspect you'll eventually meet some girl you'll want to marry and breed with, no? I'm pretty damn confident she won't be okay with you continuing to terrorize another woman for the rest of your life. I mean, graduation is in three months, Dread.”

He releases another humorless chuckle, as if I’m a silly child who just doesn’t get it.

My heart dips and my spine snaps straight, prickling at the condescension and ready to pop him in the mouth.

He casually prowls toward me, each thunderous step rattling my bones like they belong to a hundred-foot giant. He comes to a stop before me, his chest brushing against mine and agitating my sensitive nipples. I inhale, letting my head fall almost all the way back as I glare up at him.

I jolt as he softly brushes my bangs out of my eyes, his gaze almost reverent.

“Why would I marry someone else when I can marry you and have you right by my side to torment forever?”

My mouth pops open, confounded by his audacity. It takes several seconds to find my voice again.

“Like I'd ever marry you,” I say, spitting out the words like they're rotten. “Why would I marry someone who only wants to hurt me?”

He smirks as he pinches my chin and leans down until barely an inch of space remains between our mouths.

“Because it makes you so fucking happy when I do,” he rasps quietly, gravel lining his throat. “You make those sexy little giggles and give me such a big smile, right before you come so fucking hard for me.” He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, a pleased hum vibrating his throat as he glances between my lips and eyes, settling on the latter before saying, “The day I never see that again will be the day you bury me six feet under wearing a black dress, my mourning little widow.”

Chills roll down my spine, and my abdomen contracts around the boiling pit within.

Even if I had something to say to any of that, my voice box is out of order, no longer in operation.

“I'm all you’ll ever have, Reverie. I would never claim you to the entire world just to let someone else have you,” he says, as if I'm just a silly little goose.

I recoil. “So this is just about possessing me? So no one else can have me? You hate my guts, but I’m a fun toy to play with, is that it?”

He smirks. “Not a toy, baby. You’re my little violin, remember?”

It’s my turn to laugh, except all I feel is fury and something akin to hurt.

“I’m not a fucking possession, Dread, so you can fuck off.”

I go to turn away, but he fists my hair and jerks me back into him, wrenching a gasp from my throat. Our chests press together, and my neck strains from him forcing my head back to meet his burning eyes, flames consuming them entirely.

“Then why is it you possess me?” he snarls, his voice demonic. “Why do you get to torment me, but I should let you live in peace?”

“I don’t do anything to you!”

“You breathe!” he shouts, his gaze turning wild as our chests heave. “That’s what you fucking do, Reverie. You breathe. You exist. You take up so much fucking space, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing you. You’ve ingrained yourself so deeply in me, I would die if I cut you out.”

I tremble from the storm of emotions raging inside me. Frustrated tears burn the backs of my eyes, and all I want is for him to let me hate him.

“Then die!” I growl, shoving his chest roughly with both hands. “Cut me out of you and give it all back to me!”

He only pulls me into him harder, banding his other arm around my lower back and crushing me against him. I plant my hands on his abdomen, pushing against him, but to no avail.

“Yeah? That’s what you want?” he bites out through gritted teeth, fisting my hair harder. “You want me to die, baby?”

“Yes.” I spit the word in his face.

His flames devour my body from the inside out, leaving me panting and seething and burning. I’m melting into him, and I can no longer tell where he ends and I begin.

His mouth is inches from mine as he says, “Killing me won’t make you whole again, darling. You’ll spend a lifetime searching for your broken pieces, but you’ll never find them all without me.”

I shake my head, vehemently denying his words. I refuse to believe them.

His voice drops into a deep, rough timbre. “The only time you feel complete is when I’m inside you.”

A distressed whimper leaks from my throat. “Not true,” I say, the words trembling.

“No? Let’s test it then.”

He whips us around and pushes me onto the bed. I land with an embarrassing squeal, but he’s on me before I can collect myself.

However, nothing prevents me from getting angry. I ball my fist and send it flying into his shoulder as he climbs over me. Our bodies move in sync. As I try to drag myself out from beneath him, he follows, pinning my hips down once I reach the middle of the bed.

I growl and kick at him, except I’m only angry with myself for helping him rather than successfully escaping.

“I’ve been thinking so hard about how to punish you,” he bites out as he reaches above me to grab the black backpack he left there.

I freeze as he unzips it open, both terrified of what he’s going to pull out yet needing to see. It’s like watching a fucking shark charge straight toward you. It’s horrifying, yet I need to watch so I know exactly when to brace for the pain.

“And it’s so fitting you do exactly what you always fucking do and try to run away. But I know the truth. I know you feel what I do when I'm inside you.”

I sputter at him. Clearly, the man has lost the plot, because that almost sounded like a confession of real feelings, and that’s just fucking insane.

“You sound crazy right now,” I say seriously, right as he reaches into the bag and pulls out an object that immediately has my eyes widening in horror.

“Oh my fucking God, Dread. Why the hell do you have a Fleshlight?” The question comes out more like a screech, but mostly because that was… that was the last fucking thing I was expecting.

He tosses it on the bed beside me. I get so caught up in staring at it like it’s a goddamn python that when I finally drag my attention back to Dread, I’m struck over the head with shock again.

He’s shirtless and just finished putting the cap backward on his head again, though my brain is stuck trying to compute the expanse of chiseled, tattooed body. More specifically, his defined chest leading past his sculpted abs and to a very prominent V, which frames the thin happy trail disappearing into the waistband of his joggers.

Him keeping his hat on proves he’s very aware of how insanely attractive it is, and paired with his scarred brow and the silver hoops in his nose and ears…

“You look like a fucking slut, Dread.”

He pauses, shock flitting across his expression before he laughs, and ohmyfuckinggod, that made it so much worse.

The deep divots stemming from the corners of his eyes and the fucking dimples on his upper cheeks—I can’t.

I just… cannot do this anymore.

I’m on the verge of spontaneous combustion, and frankly, being the first real case in history is not the legacy I want to create for myself.

I use my elbows to drag myself out from beneath him again, needing to get the hell out of here, but he quickly grabs my hips and tugs me back down.

I gasp, stiffening in his hold as he roughly grips the waistband of my sweats and yanks them down my legs, taking my underwear with them.

My eyes widen. “No, no, absolutely not,” I rush out, desperately trying to pull them back up.

It’s embarrassing how easily he overpowers me, even more embarrassing when my legs just randomly stop functioning, allowing him to slide them off without so much as a toe wiggle.

Fucker.

Though, at this point, I don’t know who I’m directing the insult at—him or me.

A nervous sweat blooms across my nape, and my racing heart swan dives straight into my stomach the moment he crawls back over me. Only then does my body finally remember I'm supposed to be halfway out the door by now. I go to turn over onto my knees this time, hoping I’ll make progress that way, but I’m quickly proven wrong when he grabs my hips and twists me back around with an impatient growl.

In a matter of seconds, limbs fly, and though I try to resist whatever he’s doing, he moves too fast, too smoothly. Before I can process a single fucking thing, his hips are between my spread thighs, both wrists pinned above my head in one of his hands while the other shoves up my T-shirt, exposing my bare breasts.

“Dread!” I growl, my frustration mounting.

What the fuck is he, a vampire? I don't know how else he could've moved so goddamn fast. He only deepens my concerning theory when his teeth clamp around my hard nipple. The sharp pain wrenches a yelp from my throat, my spine flying into an arch, goosebumps scattering across my skin from the heady mix of pleasure and pain.

“Dread!” This time, his name sounds more like a hoarse moan than an admonishment.

Excitement blooms in my stomach, and I have no control over the shuddering exhale that follows or the way my eyes flutter as his tongue soothes the sting.

It’s absolutely pitiful how easily I give in to him. I loathe it, yet my legs hook around his hips before I roll against his hard length nestled against my center. I'm just as much at war with myself as I am the pain and pleasure fighting for my attention.

He pulls away with a pop and sits up straight on his knees. I settle flat on the bed again and hastily scrape my wits back into a neat little pile so I can get my shit together and kick him in the mouth before I run for my life. Unfortunately, while I’m doing that, he quickly steps off the bed and toes off his shoes before removing his socks, sweatpants, and briefs.

Two seconds in, I freeze and my mind goes blank, completely forgetting what I was supposed to be doing. His hard cock has commanded my attention, and though it’s my third time seeing it, it still instills wariness in my bones.

He’s back on the bed and arranged between my thighs before I even blink again. Only then do I finally remember I'm supposed to be running—until he grabs the Fleshlight and lays it on my pelvis, effectively swiping an arm across my wit pile and sending it all flying again.

My mouth parts in confusion when he fixes the opening of the toy directly above my entrance. I frown, preparing to ask him what the hell he’s doing, but his fingers swiping up through my slit has a gasp shouldering past the words and rushing out instead.

“Dread,” I snap breathlessly.

“Jesus, Rev. You're so fucking sloppy,” he scolds, his tone sharp. It's like turning on the burner to a stove, and my entire face instantly becomes inflamed. “You're already close to soaking the bedsheets, and I've barely touched you.”

I inhale sharply when the tip of his middle finger lightly brushes across my clit, little zings of pleasure shooting through me.

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I could cough on your dick, and it'd make you come.”

He chuckles wickedly, not appearing offended in the slightest. Then, his finger presses into my clit harder, and I jolt against him from the sharp pleasure shooting through me.

“You give yourself so little credit, darling,” he purrs. “The mere thought of you is all it takes. You don't even need to be in the same room to make me moan your name.”

My throat tightens, and I swear, him so readily agreeing with me is some reverse psychology shit. He has no goddamn shame, and somehow, him admitting to the power I wield makes me feel utterly powerless.

He could at least have the decency to deny it.

“I know how empty you are without me filling you,” he continues quietly. “I know how you ache for it.”

“No,” I deny. My lips part on a shuddering inhale when he applies a little more pressure on my clit, gently circling it until I’m unsure if the flashing electricity is in the air or in my vision.

I possess no control over the way my hips roll into his touch, desperately seeking more. To my frustration, he evades me, retreating from my clit and sliding his finger down my drenched slit again.

My heavy pants quickly bleed into breathless moans as he teases my entrance. Wet, sticky noises fill the air, only proving what a liar I am.

I push into his hand, needing to feel him inside me, but once again, he rolls with the movement, keeping his touch light.

“Dread,” I whimper, staring up at him pleadingly.

He bites his bottom lip, picking apart every microexpression on my face as he pulls his hand away to lean on one fist next to my hip. Then, he uses the tip of his cock to tease my clit, softly circling it again.

“Kellan, please,” I whine, attempting to grind into him again.

“You think you can live without this? Without me?” he asks, ignoring my pleas.

I groan, desperate to reject him, but it’s almost impossible when I feel like I’m missing a vital piece of myself and the only way to get it back is through him.

“No,” I say, my voice small.

“Good,” he whispers, rubbing me firmly until my eyes roll. He stops all too soon, and my clit throbs painfully from the loss.

“Kell—” My frustrated growl morphs into a startled scream when he leans forward and sinks his cock inside me, making it less than halfway before he meets resistance.

I barely process the burn before he retreats to the tip and drives in again, this time making it to the hilt and ripping another yelp from my throat. The lightning storm of pleasure and pain sends my spine bowing off the bed, and my ankles hook around him, locking him in place.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan, my brows knitting when he presses his pelvis into my clit and grinds his hips against me in deliberate circles.

“Feel that, baby? How good it is when I stuff your pussy?”

“Mmmhm,” I hum, letting my eyes drift shut as he continues to rock into me.

“Good,” he whispers, sounding pleased. He leans over me, planting his hands on either side of my head and tilting his to ensnare my eyes. “Now listen to me carefully, Reverie. You’re going to pack up all your shit, and you’re going to come home to me. Tonight.”

I whimper, my core throbbing around him. I need him to move.

“Hey,” he calls softly to catch my slipping attention. “You listening?”

I nod weakly. “Uh-huh.”

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Then you’re going to climb into our bed, tuck this little body into mine, and you’re going to sleep in my arms.”

Again, I nod, more eagerly this time in hopes he’ll give me what I need.

“You’ll go to class tomorrow, ignore all the fuckers who stare at you, because you have nothing to be embarrassed about, since that wasn’t us in that video. And if anyone gives you shit, you’ll tell me, and I’ll fucking handle them. Yeah?”

“But Kaitlin,” I argue weakly.

“She won’t be a problem,” he assures gently. “You understand?”

I’m too lost in the throes of lust to question how—to ask what he did. “Uh-huh.”

“And if anyone asks if you’re my girlfriend, what are you gonna say, baby?”

I bite my tongue, just barely mincing the words that instinctively rise, refusing to give in to him. I’m in so much agony, though, so instead, I breathe, “I’m gonna say yes.”

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, rolling his pelvis against my clit again, rewarding me with another shot of utter bliss. It’s like a lightning strike, and my spine bows from the potency.

“Ahh, yes, yes,” I moan, my eyes fluttering.

“Everyone will know you're mine, even your fucking father. If being mine is a disgrace to him, then you will be my fallen angel.”

I bite my lip and nod again, vibrating with how much I need him to fuck me.

With another pleased hum, he straightens once more, pulls out completely, then slams home again on a moan.

I frown, confused when I feel nothing. I lift my head and look down, my mouth dropping in shock when I realize he’s inside the Fleshlight instead.

What the fuck?

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good,” he praises as his eyes roll with ecstasy. My core clenches in response, the emptiness almost painful.

I prop myself up on both elbows, staring at him in absolute disbelief.

“Dread,” I say, my tone somewhere between pleading and serious, begging him not to do what I realize he’s doing.

He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t fucking listen.

Instead, he fucks the toy faster, his brow furrowed with pleasure as he stares down at his dick sliding in and out of the soft silicone.

“Fuck, Rev, I’ve missed this cunt wrapped around me so much.”

I snarl and go to slide out from beneath him, but his free hand flies to my hip, pinning me down, preventing me from moving.

“Dread, stop it,” I snap, my cheeks flushing with anger. Worse, a massive black hole forms in the pit of my stomach, hurt and mortification swirling within.

He ignores me and clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, slowly dragging it free as he quickens his pace.

Even as tears burn at the backs of my eyes, I can’t help but watch, a part of me enthralled by the sight of him fucking the Fleshlight. Between his swollen muscles causing the veins in his arms to protrude from his skin, the divot between his thick brows, and his lips parted around the delicious moans leaking from his throat, he looks like a goddamn masterpiece crafted in scientifically impossible circumstances.

No one should be that beautiful.

And it’s utterly cruel he’s forcing me to bear witness to it yet not allowing me to feel him too.

“Dread,” I growl, my voice shaking. “I get your point. You can stop now.”

He lifts his chin toward the ceiling and sends his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he continues to not fucking stop.

He groans, and says breathlessly, “God, I hope you never make me go this long again. I’ve felt so fucking incomplete without you.”

The effect on my body is instantaneous and involuntary. My heart takes off and then flutters down to my stomach, as if it sprouted paper wings too weak to hold its weight, only for it to get caught up in the whirlpool in my stomach. I clench my jaw, hating him for so effortlessly saying the words I refused to. As if it’s just so goddamn easy.

But I hate him most for meaning it.

He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

I could convince myself he’s lying and only taunting me, but I know Dreadful Sharpe far too well, and I’ve seen him in almost every emotional state there is—except I’ve never seen him hurt. At least, not since we were kids, and certainly not because I left him.

But I see it now, hiding beneath his pleasure, driving him to fuck a toy instead of me.

I don’t know how to handle a hurt Dread, nor do I know how to feel about him professing something other than hatred for me.

Words bubble up my throat like shaken champagne, and though I try to swallow them back down, it’s like the cork pops free, and physics takes control.

“Then complete me,” I plead quietly.

My clit pulses painfully, as if to urge me to beg more—we’re in agony over here.

His eyes lift to mine, a thread of electricity connecting us. It’s always there. The farther we separate from one another, the thinner it becomes until it finally snaps, the buzzing ceases, and I feel… dead. Stagnant. It’s only when we’re close do I feel so alive.

Holding my stare, he deliberately pumps his hips forward, an indecipherable emotion written across his face, though it's quickly hidden behind his wrath.

“Why?” he challenges, his tone just as low. “You only cry to be filled when I’m around to remind you how empty you are. That’s why you run and hide the second I look away.”

I bite my lip, battling with what to say. Because he’s right. We both know I don’t want to want him, and for reasons I can’t quite figure out yet, that pisses him off.

“You’re right,” I say, settling on the truth. I chew on my next words for a beat before deciding to just spit them out. I’ve already lost all my dignity. There’s little remaining to strip me of, anyway.

My voice dips into a whisper, sounding vulnerable when I say, “But maybe I like it when you chase me. Maybe I like to see how badly I affect you to remind myself I’m not alone in feeling this way.”

His hips slow while his eyes pick apart my expression, a seriousness smoothing over his features. Except it’s a mask on the verge of shattering, and his lust and ecstasy shine through the cracks as boldly as sunlight.

After several long seconds, a deep, amused harrumph emits from the base of his throat. Then, he’s fucking the Fleshlight harder, and when my stomach dips, this time, it’s with disappointment. Rejection. Humiliation—again.

It’s hot and slimy, making my skin fucking crawl as he drops his gaze to the toy, poised so close above my center, his tightening balls slapping against me.

I gather vitriol on my tongue, but it only makes it as far as the tip before I'm swallowing it back down in surprise.

With a muttered curse, he grabs my legs and forces them together before pushing my knees back toward my face, locking the Fleshlight in place between my thighs.

Then, he sets a rough but steady pace, pounding into the silicone with a ferocity I've experienced only twice before. Yet, my body recalls the feeling as if I've known it my entire life.

“Dread, please!” I whine, a tear bubbling to the edge of my eyelashes as my bottom lip trembles.

With each thrust, it's becoming harder to stifle them. It hasn't been long since everything changed between us, since we went from pure hatred to a milder contempt. But this feels like it did before—cruel—and I've almost forgotten how badly it hurts.

“Fuck, you take it so fucking good,” he groans, ignoring me once again.

Growling, I try to launch my foot into his face, but he easily stops me without a single stutter in his pace. He leans his weight more onto the backs of my thighs, ensuring the Fleshlight stays firmly in place as he fucks it.

In fact, he only slams into it harder, jolting my entire body up the bed inch by inch until he's forced to quickly grab my hips and roughly drag me back toward him, resuming his position and pace.

All the while, I try to wiggle and kick out of his bruising hold, only to fail miserably.

He acts as if I don't exist except for when filthy words pour out of his mouth, as if he's actually fucking me.

“Oh, fuuuck,” he groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. The veins cording his neck down to his hands protrude, only making him so much more devastating to look at.

I've never been so turned on and so fucking humiliated at the same time. In my entire miserable existence, I think this takes the fucking cake as far as torment goes.

“I hate you!” I shout, but he only moans over my words, like I'm screaming at him from behind soundproof glass and he can't hear a thing at all.

As usual, he doesn't have any filter over the sounds pouring from his throat, vocalizing his pleasure through toe-curling grunts, moans, and whispered curses.

A low whine leaks out of me, growing exhausted from fighting him. Finally, I deflate, and my chin trembles harder.

I hate him so, so much.

Yet, I've never needed him inside me more.

Craving someone who thrives on your misery is a feeling worse than pure agony.

Especially because you can't help but invite it in when it comes back for more.

I cover my eyes with the heels of my palms, my entire body shaking with the effects of him slamming into me.

A sob bubbles up my throat, and I only just swallow it back down when I feel Dread lean his chest against the backs of my legs, spreading my calves enough to make room for his head.

Then, he grabs my wrists, pulling them away from my face. I shake my head and resist with all my might, but he easily overpowers me, wrenching them away before pinning them above my head with one hand.

He says nothing as he continues to fuck the Fleshlight. Instead, he leans down farther and catches a stray tear on the tip of his tongue before gliding it up my cheek.

“I hate you,” I whimper again, turning my face away from him.

“How bad does it hurt, baby?” There’s a hint of curiosity in his breathless voice.

He releases another soft moan that finds its way to the center of my thighs.

“I wonder if it's anything like what I felt when I realized you left me without a word,” he pants before another soft whimper falls from his throat. “And when you rage and threaten me, but your words don't reach me, do you think it's like how I felt when you blocked me? When I begged for you to come home to me but couldn't get through to you? When I raged and threatened, but you carried on as if I didn't exist? Tell me how bad it hurts, baby. I need to know if it's anything like how you hurt me.”

I clench my jaw and shake my head, furious for allowing him to get beneath my skin like this.

Leaving shouldn't hurt him. Why does it hurt him? Why does any of this hurt me?

None of this should.

We hate each other, loathe one another’s entire existence, would rather die than breathe the same air.

Except that's not how any of this feels, and I just… I don't understand why.

“I hate you,” I repeat, my voice a mere whisper. It's not a declaration this time, but a reminder to myself.

“Maybe,” he concedes alongside another groan. “But I think you hate your desperation for me more.”

I bite my bottom lip, fighting back the tears as wildly as I did him mere moments ago.

“And that, my darling, is a feeling I can't escape, either.”

He lifts off me, but the disappearance of his weight fucking crushes me.

His brows knit, and his upper lip twitches into a scowl as pleasure consumes him entirely. Just as I go to close my eyes, he pulls out of the toy, tears it from between my closed thighs, and then carelessly tosses it to the side, slamming his hips forward.

A startled yelp tears from my throat as his cock stretches me again. There’s no resistance this time, nothing to stop me from instantly seeing stars as he fills me.

It’s as relieving as it is breathtaking.

And despite how angry I am, I’m still so goddamn turned on from watching him fuck a pussy that isn’t mine, I already feel too close to coming. A few more hard thrusts, and he’ll get me there.

“Fuck,” he whispers beneath his breath as his eyes roll again. It's so fucking sexy, and my pussy contracts around him from the sight alone.

“Kellan,” I whimper, my lashes drooping in relief as I roll my hips up, urging him to keep going.

I don't care how awful I feel, I only care about the pleasure thrumming from between my thighs.

“God, there's nothing better than this,” he groans, though I get the inkling he didn't mean to say it. But he doesn't take it back. Instead, he keeps going, watching himself disappear inside me while torment pinches his brows. “Nothing has ever come close to you, Reverie. You're everything I never want to lose again.”

I can't even compute his words. My internal system is in too much disarray, and I'm so anxious to come, I can't properly understand what he's saying.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he gives me two more hard thrusts, bringing me to the precipice before he stills and lets out a hoarse moan.

My mouth drops in panicked disbelief as he shudders, filling me with his cum as he softly grinds against me.

“Wait, no. Please don’t stop,” I whimper, rolling my hips in hopes of getting enough friction against my clit to send me over.

But his hands clamp on my hips, preventing me from moving, forcing me to endure the slow fade of an orgasm that was a hairsbreadth away from my fingertips.

“Don’t you fucking dare, asshole!” I snap, attempting to fight him but failing miserably.

With a grunt, he withdraws from me completely, warm liquid seeping out of me as he backs off the bed and steps away, leaving me bereft.

“Kellan!” I complain, my legs trembling violently from how much it hurts.

A mix of lust and anger swirls in his gaze when we lock eyes. He points toward my oversized bag in the corner of my room, stuffed full of clothes.

“Start packing your shit,” he commands coldly.

My mouth drops, utterly incredulous and quickly descending into a state of denial.

No, no, no.

There’s.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

He’s actually going to leave me like this?

My vision blackens, and for several moments, I try to make sense of what the hell is happening. I'm so thunderstruck, I can only watch him redress in stunned silence. He packs away the Fleshlight in his bag and zips it up. The sharp metallic noise knocks me out of the weird daze I'd fallen into.

He takes another step back, a severe expression on his face.

“You insisted on sleeping alone, so you can come alone, too,” he says, nodding toward my throbbing core. “I'll see you when you get home.”

“You cannot be serious,” I say breathlessly, finally registering the existence of my limbs again and that they can move.

I sit up as he heads toward the hallway, his backpack slung over his shoulder. I sputter, and just as I go to scramble from the bed, he pauses at the entrance to the hallway, settling icy crystalline eyes on me.

There isn’t a single trace of lust remaining. In its place is anger and—fuck, a hint of hurt again.

“Never make me come find you again, Reverie.” It's beyond a threat, an ominous promise that settles in my stomach like curdled milk.

Before I can get a word out, he disappears down the hallway and out of the room. I startle as the door slams behind him.

Still bewildered, I stare blankly at the empty space he filled only seconds prior. My core is pulsing, I’m fucking breathless from the vacuum he created in the room, and my heart is beating a million miles a minute.

My hand drifts over my mouth as I try to process what the hell just happened.

Holy fucking shit.

He’s a goddamn psychopath. Completely unhinged. The man is better suited in a prison.

Yet, I slowly slip my hand between my thighs, my breath hitching as I collect his cum leaking from my pussy and slide my middle finger over my swollen, neglected clit.

My head drifts back as my legs widen, and the pleasure renews. It’s not as potent as it is when Dread’s inside me, but it’s so much better than nothing at all.

After I come… then I’ll pack.

Because I’m going back to him.

And I guess that makes me a fucking psycho, too.

CHAPTER 22

DREAD

Kaitlin Cosgrove would probably have a pretty signature if she wasn’t shaking so hard.

Her best friend, Hannah Troutman, sits beside her and signs her own contract, shaking like a leaf as well.

Having already signed myself, I stare at them from across the conference table in my lawyer’s firm, my hands cupped and pressed against my mouth as I study them. Their lawyer, Jude Albright, sits between them, softly muttering something to Hannah.

They’re the two girls who were talking to Rev in their dorm hallway a little over a week ago, the ones responsible for the sex tape. Kaitlin recorded it, and Hannah posted it on a burner Reddit account with the caption: Dreadful Sharpe fucking Charlotte D’Amour.

Real fucking couth.

After I saw them in the hallway looking guilty as fuck, Rev knew both their names, so I found their student emails and forwarded the information to my lawyer, Mark, who had an email sent to both of them the next morning. We let them know we knew they were responsible, and if they chose not to settle, we’d be pressing criminal charges for revenge porn.

Scared absolutely shitless, they folded like fucking lawn chairs and fessed up immediately. So, we’ve spent the last week going back and forth with their attorneys, working on an agreement.

Within the time of them recording and posting the video and receiving Mark’s email, they swore they didn’t tell a single soul. In fact, their lawyer demanded I not release their names to the public, fearful of online harassment if I did.

Ultimately, they agreed to sign an NDA, to delete the video and Reddit account, and keep their mouths shut for good. Neither of them can so much as hint at it, even through fucking charades. In return, I agreed to keep their names private and not press charges or sue the fuck out of them for revenge porn unless they break the contract.

They’re not willing to face jail time, so there wasn’t a single protest.

“Okay, we’re all squared away then,” Mark announces, collecting the contracts and tucking them away in a folder.

“Great,” Jude chirps, clapping his hands, Hannah startling next to him. “Again, we’re so sorry for all the trouble and appreciate the two of you being so gracious to Kaitlin and Hannah.”

Mark shakes his hand before Jude heads for the door, the girls silent with their heads down as they follow him. Once the door snicks shut, Mark turns to me.

When I first met Marcus Agassi, he had a full head of black hair, a thick black beard, and youth to his brown skin. Now, white has taken over half his facial hair up to his temples, and he’s developed quite a few wrinkles.

He blames me for aging him, and he’s probably not wrong.

He’s been my lawyer since my mother’s murder trial, and he’s been a loyal friend ever since. He damn near helped raise me when my grandmother was too burnt out to deal with a little kid going through absolute hell.

I was angry and got into a fuck ton of trouble—constantly getting in fist fights with kids at school, failing my classes, mouthing off to anyone with a fucking pulse. He was the one who put my ass into swimming to redirect my energy. It changed my life, and I owe him everything.

“Did you hear back from your manager about the data removal service?” Mark asks, stuffing his hands in his suit pants pockets and leaning his hips against the table.

“Yep. As of this morning, they scrubbed it from the internet in every corner they could find. We can’t get it off people’s phones, obviously, so they’re contracted to continuously remove it any time someone re-uploads it.”

Mark nods. “Good.”

He stares expectantly. I arch a brow. We both wait for the other to crack.

After several beats, Mark rolls his eyes. “You’re seriously gonna make me ask?”

I furrow my brow. “Ask what?”

His face flattens into a deadpan stare. “Don’t be a dick. Reverie Adams? Or, rather, Charlotte D’Amour? You’re—” He waves his hand, silently emoting rather than just saying the word.

“Fucking? Am I fucking her?” I offer.

He scoffs. He’s like a typical parent who doesn’t want to hear about their kid having sex.

“Yes. That. You two are doing that together?”

I grin. He grew up in a strict Armenian household, where openly discussing sexual matters was rather taboo—something that’s still ingrained into him in his fifties.

“She’s my girlfriend,” I say.

He just stares at me, as if he can’t tell if I’m fucking with him or not.

I heave out a heavy breath and lean back in my chair. He’s one of the very few people I can talk to about this shit. He, more than anyone, understands my sordid history with Reverie.

“I don’t know what happened,” I confess quietly, pinning my stare on the cherrywood table.

It was only yesterday when I finally decided to track Sable down to find Rev and showed up at her hotel. It took everything in me to give her space for those eight days. Campus was a fucking circus, between the nosy-ass students whispering and staring and reporters bombarding me every chance they got. So, I let her go, deciding to spare her from the worst of it until the next scandal took over the internet.

But fuck, there were no words for how pissed I was when I realized she ran away and then fucking blocked me. The moment I saw my messages were going undelivered, it was a horse kick to the chest.

Part of me is still pissed.

After I left her in the hotel room, it took her all of ten minutes to text me a picture flipping off the camera, her eyes half lidded and sensual, those pink lips wrapped around a finger glistening with her arousal, a trail leading down the back of her hand. I damn near crashed my fucking car, and my dick hardened into solid diamond, as if I didn't just come in her pussy.

I've had too many women send me unsolicited nudes, but that was by far the sexiest picture I've ever seen, and I couldn't even see the imprint of her nipple through the T-shirt she still wore.

It was clearly her way of showing me she unblocked me, but it didn't completely soothe the sting.

Which is why I left her like I did at the hotel, and when she came back to my dorm later that day, regarding me like she didn’t know how to handle me, I still didn’t touch her. Even when she hesitantly curled up against my side last night and fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

My insides burn just thinking about it, continuing to war with myself, trading between fury, lust, and—fuck, I don’t even know what else. Half of me still hates her, but the other half needs her so fucking viscerally, it makes me sick.

“I assume it started with Lionel getting out,” Mark says, bringing my attention back to him.

I nod.

He was pissed when I told him Reverie stole the letter informing me about Lionel’s release. He thought I read it and knew throughout those three weeks of him checking in on me, that I just wasn’t ready when I kept telling him I was fine and didn’t need to talk. He doesn’t like to text regarding sensitive info, so he never mentioned the release specifically, and figured I’d call or stop by to visit when I was ready.

“She kissed some dickhead on the football team to prove a point, and I just… lost my mind and ended up kissing her. Then, things just kept progressing, and we—” I wave my hand, imitating Mark when he couldn’t say the word.

He purses his lips and nods, processing that. “And now you’re in lov⁠—”

“No,” I snap, cutting him off before he can even get the word out. My stomach twists from the mere thought of being in love with her.

He just raises his brows, either not impressed by my interruption or not convinced.

I don’t care to figure out which one.

“No,” I repeat, softer this time, offering a silent apology with a glance.

Mark’s quiet for a few moments, taking in my every microexpression. Then, he taps his fingers against the table, signaling that he’s done asking questions.

“Okay. Well, if you need to talk about it, you know I’m here for you, bud.”

I nod and get up from the chair, feeling like I’m coming down from an adrenaline rush.

“Until then, stay out of trouble and don’t star in another damn tape, you hear me?” he lectures, pointing a thick finger at me. “You’re responsible for every single one of my white hairs.”

I grin. “I’m pretty sure your wife and five daughters have a couple hairs with their names on them.”

He scoffs, giving me a wide-eyed look that says, You have no fucking idea.

“Women, man. They’re just—” He bites his bottom lip and holds out both hands like he’s holding an invisible ball and shakes them aggressively.

I chuckle. “I know exactly what you fucking mean.”

“Baby, would you please listen t⁠—”

“Do not call me baby, Severen Fox. I’m giving that privilege to someone else now.”

I hear the voices the second I step out of Elizabeth Magie Hall, where my marketing lecture just finished. I look over to see Octavia shoving a finger in Severen’s face as she spits the words out at him. Her cheeks are almost as red as her hair, but their vibrancy is nothing compared to the flames in her robin's egg blue eyes.

Severen’s head jerks back, staring at her like she slapped him in the face. Then, his head tips back with a dangerous laugh, and when he drops his chin again, there's an insidious energy radiating from him that I know all too well.

It's also my cue to leave.

The last thing I see before turning away is Severen seizing her by the throat and slamming her against the brick wall of the building.

That would be cause for concern if Octavia didn't instantly arch into him, if they weren’t currently poisoning each other with sexual tension. She glares up at him, except she also looks like she wants to maul him.

Severen can be an asshole, but never that type of asshole.

Shaking my head, I pull out my phone to text Rev to meet me at the cafeteria for lunch. I'm halfway through the message when I hear a male voice call her name.

My head instantly snaps toward said voice, only for my blood to boil when I see Bryan grabbing Reverie’s hand, spinning her around, and pulling her back into him.

Surprise flashes across her face while fury unleashes in my chest.

I charge toward them, grinding my molars to dust while Bryan flaps a jaw that’s two seconds away from being crushed beneath my fist.

There’s absolutely nothing the fucker should have to say to Reverie. They’re not even in the same classes—I fucking checked.

Reverie spots me over Bryan’s shoulder, and her expression drops into an ‘oh shit’ expression.

Oh shit is motherfucking right.

“You got two seconds to point your teeth in a different direction than my girl before I do it for you and send them backward,” I bark.

Bryan visibly stiffens a moment before he turns to see me and then instantly backs away, holding both hands up in surrender with a smart-ass grin on his face.

“Whoa, buddy. Easy there. I’m not making out with her this time, I swear. I'll wait for her to whisper that sweet little question in my ear, asking if she can kiss me again.”

Then, he winks at her, and I decide right then and there he no longer deserves to have the privilege of eyeballs.

My vision flickers, and I take one step before Reverie is throwing herself in my path, shoving at my shoulders with both hands.

“Dread, stop it,” she hisses.

It does nothing to deter me until she plants a hand against my chest and holds it there.

I only stop so I don’t mow her down. I also happen to like her hand there.

Then, she twists to point an angry finger at Bryan. “You, too. Don’t fucking antagonize him, Bryan.”

The fuck is she saying his name for?

Bryan grins.

The fuck is he smiling for?

Reverie quickly faces me again, pushing at my chest to get my attention. I’m slow to drag my stare away from the fucker and meet her stern gaze. Her thin bangs are getting too long, and somewhere beneath the fury, I'm annoyed I can't see her copper eyes as well.

“He touched your hand,” I say quietly. “So I need you to move so I can break his.”

She blinks at me in bewilderment. “Can you not act like a fucking caveman who's pissed off because someone touched his wheel?”

I’ll have to dissect that analogy later.

For now, I return my attention to the dead man standing behind her, grinning like a fucking clown.

“There a reason you’re still here?” I clip.

“Just wanted to check if she was okay, my man. A reporter cornered her when she came out of class ten minutes ago, and I stepped in. She took off before I could finish telling the dickhead to leave her alone.”

I drop my gaze to Rev, finding her glaring at Bryan.

“I didn’t need your help, but thanks anyway,” she says, and then turns back to me.

“I also wanted to see if you wanted to study with me again.”

Every atom in my body freezes, and I go cold. When I lift my eyes back to Bryan, my fingers tic with the need to wrap them around his tongue and rip it out of his mouth.

“Again?” I ask, my voice devoid of emotion.

That slimy, burning feeling returns, the same thing I felt when I watched Rev kiss him. It twists my stomach until it’s all I can feel through the ice in my veins.

Bryan points his thumb at Rev, feigning an innocent expression. “Oh, she didn’t tell you? We studied together in the library a couple of days ago.” He shrugs casually. “It was a good time, so I figured I’d ask for a repeat.”

Two days ago—when I spent the morning with Mark, silencing the two girls who posted our sex tape. The rest of the day, I was getting my ass handed to me by Coach at practice.

I didn’t get home until late, and Rev was already sleeping. Then yesterday, I spent yet another day at practice before and after class and didn’t get home till late.

She didn’t mention it to me this morning before we left for class, and that only enrages me more.

Again, I drop my gaze to Reverie, who's staring up at me with a pleading expression for me to calm down.

But ice has corroded my insides, and her little puppy dog eyes don’t do shit to thaw me out.

“He’s trying to get beneath your skin. I was at the library studying alone—” She spits the word over her shoulder at Bryan. “—and he sat at the other end of the table.”

Bryan places a hand over his chest in faux hurt. “Damn, girl. Way to put a knife into my heart. You certainly didn’t seem to mind my presence the other night. No need to suddenly act like I was a bother now that your boyfriend’s here.”

Reverie’s nostrils flare, and her eyes burst into flames a moment before she whips her head around to glower at Bryan.

“Don’t play fucking stupid, Bryan. I kissed you once, and Dread punched you for it. Which was a dick move on his part, but what's really fucked up is how you're using me to get back at him like a fucking child,” she spits.

I pivot on my heel and walk away before I actually do something stupid and murder a man in broad daylight. Truthfully, I don’t even recall hitting Bryan. I blacked out, and by the time I got my bearings, I was throwing Reverie into the pool.

This time, I’m on the verge of doing the same, except I can’t trust myself not to take it too far.

My body operates on autopilot. I head to my car in the parking lot and get in, only vaguely aware of Rev sliding in the passenger seat.

If she speaks at all during the drive, I don’t hear. I don’t even remember driving, nor do I remember getting out of the car and walking to my dorm.

I hang my coat on the rack next to my door, but the second I finish kicking off my shoes, a fist goes flying into my shoulder, knocking clarity back into my system. With that comes the burning rage flooding my insides again.

Clenching my jaw, I exhale slowly and turn to meet her spitting stare.

“Stop it,” she snaps.

“Stop what?” I ask through gritted teeth.

She waves her hand at me. “This! Stop icing me out just because you can’t regulate your emotions!”

I swear to fucking God⁠—

Snarling, I grab a handful of her hair and jerk her against me.

“You’re only going to get one warning from me, Reverie. Be very careful,” I growl, my voice low and rough.

“We didn’t even study together!” she says, her voice pitching high with exasperation. “He asked if he could sit. I had a six-person table to myself and the rest were taken, so I said yes. We barely even spoke!”

I believe her. In fact, I already knew it wasn’t nearly as deep as Bryan was making it out to be.

But that’s what fucking enrages me. It was effortless for Bryan to use her against me. She’s a goddamn weakness, a soft spot that shouldn’t even exist. I could accept the physical attraction, but otherwise, I should feel nothing but loathing and resentment for her. Instead, I’m burning with jealousy and—fuck, it’s a needle digging beneath my skin, seeing her give any man even an ounce of fucking attention.

“Okay,” I say, releasing her and stepping away.

Reverie blinks, her head jerking back in shock. Then, she frowns. She doesn’t seem satisfied by my answer, but what the fuck else is there to say?

You’ve got my head all fucked up, and I’m starting to loathe that more than you?

Fuuuuck.

I need to get out of here.

Immediately.

I go to turn, but her hand shoots out to fist the collar of my hoodie.

“Absolutely not,” she snaps as she jerks me against her.

She gives me precisely zero seconds to process before she’s rearing up onto the tips of her toes and crushing her lips against mine. Instinctively, I kiss her back, but my brain short-circuits, and my heart skips several beats.

Reverie has never initiated a kiss of her own volition—not without being under duress. Which makes this kiss vastly fucking different from the rest.

Because for the first time, she wants to kiss me.

And that really fucks with my head.

It also causes a catastrophic event neither of us can ever come back from, like an asteroid colliding with the planet and wiping out mankind in a matter of seconds. It will scar the Earth for ages, telling our story even billions of years from now.

Sensing something’s off, she releases me and pulls away, her brow furrowing as she stares at me hesitantly, unsure of herself. I had kissed her back, but the rest of my body froze, my arms hanging limply at my sides.

When she realizes that, her cheeks flush red, and she goes from being unsure to mortified.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she says quickly, her thoughts written across her face as her gaze darts around awkwardly. She thinks she misjudged what’s between us and overstepped, that maybe I only want her on my terms.

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

Because that would require me to have even a microscopic fucking morsel of control over how badly I want Reverie.

And I have none.

She's a whisper in my bones. Even if I could locate where she lives inside me, I'd only ask how to make her more comfortable.

It’s the trigger that clicks my brain and body back into sync.

Growling, I grab her head and slam my mouth against hers, my insides lighting up like an exploding star. She gasps, granting me access to tangle my tongue with hers, and the second they connect, it’s as if a thousand sparklers ignite inside me.

I moan, and she responds instantly. Her arms fly up to circle around my neck as she damn near climbs me to get closer, though her short stature prevents her from getting far. I band an arm around her waist and lift her against me while the other dives into her hair.

Gasoline has replaced every drop of blood in my system, and her little mewl is the lit match. I taste it on my tongue, swallow it down, only for my body to burst into flames.

My cock swells against the band of my joggers, and it screams for just a little pressure. I can’t help but grind my hips into her.

She rips herself away, forcing me to release her. It’s sudden, and my head is a few seconds too slow, but I instinctively step forward to give chase.

Except she evades me by stepping to the right and standing before the side of my bed. A single second passes, and I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw tight, frustration rising, along with the need to dominate her.

“Rev—”

She grabs the end of her tight red T-shirt with both hands and pulls it over her head, shutting me up immediately. My mouth waters when she reaches behind her back and unclips her black lace bra before tossing that at her feet, too.

Biting my bottom lip, I groan as I take in her perfect tits and rosy red nipples, already hardened and aching for my teeth. Christ, one of these days, I’m going to fuck them, too.

I expect her to unclasp her jeans and remove them. Instead, she sits on the edge of the mattress.

My brows pinch, confused why she stopped undressing. She reaches forward and grabs the front of my waistband, using it to jerk me toward her. I step forward as she spreads her legs wide, directing me between them.

My lips part in shock as realization dawns on me. The second it does, I nearly come right then and there.

Initiating a kiss was already one mindfuck, and now, she’s sucking my dick unprompted.

I don’t know if the little brat is privy to the havoc she’s wreaking on my brain and decided to amp it up just for shits and giggles, or if her timing truly is that impeccable. Either way, it’s fucking torture.

She shoves down my joggers and frees my cock, the tip only centimeters from her pouty lips. Round penny eyes peer up at me from beneath her bangs, and I don’t think she has any fucking idea how sexy she is.

My stomach dips, like I’m free-falling from the sky.

“Why?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t need me to clarify my question.

Her brow arches sassily. “Because I can.”

That pulls a grin out of me, and it also has an undefined emotion surging in my chest.

“Start slow,” I murmur, softly dragging the pad of my thumb down her plump bottom lip.

Keeping her gaze pinned on me, she opens her mouth and envelops me in her wet heat. I suck in a sharp breath, black spots already darting across my vision.

Jesus, she has no fucking clue what she does to me. No clue how close I am to losing control with the simplest of touches.

It’s why there’s a part of me that still wants to expel her from my life, but a significantly larger part can never let her go. No other woman has ever come close to pulling this reaction out of me, and I can’t stand how weak I am for her.

Concentrating on staying calm, I slide my right hand to her nape to keep her controlled while my left drops to her breast. She arches into my touch and inhales a shaky breath before she focuses on me, even as my fingers tease her nipple. Her tongue glides along the underside vein, eliciting a pulse of euphoria and forcing me to lock my knees tight.

I moan, and her eyes flare as she does it again and again. I bite my lip, pleasure surging through me, and it takes effort to keep my eyes pinned on her.

Slowly, tortuously, she bobs her head back and forth, taking a little more of me each time. Breathless moans and whispered encouragement spill past my lips, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. Her breathing becomes erratic as she swallows me deeper, clenching her thighs tight, making little pleased noises in the back of her throat.

It’s painfully beautiful, and easily the best blow job I’ve ever had, despite her being only thirty seconds in and not even halfway down.

And God, do I fucking loathe it.

When she has me thoroughly wet and dripping with her saliva, she slides down as far as she can, suctions until her cheeks hollow, then slowly drags me out. Her half-lidded eyes stay locked on mine, a crease forming between my brow, and my mouth dropping from the pleasure tightening my balls.

“Ahh, fuck, good girl,” I whimper before pinching her nipple hard.

Pausing, she jumps, a startled sound vibrating around me before her cheeks redden and her eyes flutter.

My cock jerks in her mouth as I groan. Her reaction is almost more euphoric than the blow job itself.

“You stop, I stop,” I tell her hoarsely, pressing on her nape to urge her to continue.

She does so immediately, moaning as she sucks on me eagerly. I’m simultaneously tightening my grip on her nipple while applying pressure on her nape, forcing her to take more of me.

I twist my wrist, and a squeal reverberates around my cock while another loud moan breaks free from me. She mewls and writhes from the pain, pleasure softening her features.

“Fuck, look at you. Drooling like a little slut,” I rasp.

She retreats until only the tip remains and then sucks hard while flicking her tongue along the vein running up the underside again. I toss my head back, my eyes rolling as ecstasy shoots through me.

“Fuuuck, Rev,” I groan, my knees weakening.

I drop my chin to swoop her hair up in my fist and roughly jerk her head. “Easy,” I admonish, my voice bordering on demonic.

Big, round eyes peer up at me innocently while mischievousness quirks her brows.

Fucking brat.

My upper lip twitches into a snarl, and the need to ram my cock down her throat heightens until I can’t contain it anymore.

“That funny, baby? Let me see you laughing when I break your fucking jaw from how hard I fuck your face,” I threaten, withdrawing from her completely.

Twisting her hair harder, I jerk her closer, using my other hand to grab my dick and roughly slap her cheek.

She gasps in shock, and then her eyes narrow. It only brings another grin to my face, especially as her skin reddens around the area.

“Hold out your tongue,” I order.

Heat and sass swirl in her gaze as she obeys. I tilt her head back and slap my cock on her tongue several times, groaning.

“Such a good little slut,” I murmur, my upper lip twitching into a scowl from the potent lust swirling in my veins.

There’s an odd moment of clarity that strikes me, briefly reminding me who’s beneath me. Rather than ruining the mood, it only makes my stomach flip, the taboo nature of it spurring me on.

Can’t say I ever thought I’d slap my cock on Reverie Adams’s tongue before fucking her face, but I’m not entirely upset about it, either.

I should be, but I'm not.

“Swallow me,” I order, releasing myself to squeeze her abused nipple again.

She heeds my demand, enveloping me in her mouth once more with a greedy moan. I’m unforgiving as I shove my length deeper and pinch her nipple harder, satisfying the beast she insists on instigating. Brows pinched, she cries around me, her body jerking and bouncing as agony courses through her. When I release it, she lets out a loud, throaty moan, her lashes fluttering and hips grinding from the lingering pain. I quickly lick my thumb and gently circle over the abused peak, soothing and coaxing her into a whimpering puddle, just to pinch tight again, causing her eyes to roll while mine become entranced.

“Fuck, that’s it,” I groan, ecstasy racing down my spine. My balls draw up tight, and if I lose concentration for even a second, I’ll explode in her mouth.

But I’m not ready for this to end. It’s so fucking addicting. No God constructed from a simple human mind could save her from becoming my little whore.

She’s fucking lucky if I let her leave the bed, let alone put on a single scrap of clothing.

I use her hair twisted around my fist to push her down deeper again, until the tip reaches the back of her throat, still a few inches to spare. She gags, slobber spilling from her mouth and dripping onto her lap.

“What, can’t take it, darling? I didn’t think you’d be the type to disappoint me,” I taunt, the words a breathless growl.

After an irate glance, she wraps a hand around the base of my cock before she inhales and feeds me into her mouth deeper, her tight throat squeezing the fucking life out of me. The sharp pleasure is quick to pull a raspy moan, and my thighs tremble from its potency.

My reaction only spurs her on. She wiggles her head back and forth slightly, inching it down until her mouth presses against my pelvis.

“Ooooh, oh, fuck, oh fuck, Rev, fuck, baby,” I gasp, my knees threatening to collapse again.

Stars pop in my vision, and just as I’m on the verge of losing it completely, she slackens her jaw and tilts her head back, slowly withdrawing, revealing my cock inch by inch while tears fall in rivulets down her cheeks.

Gnashing my teeth, I force her to stop halfway with a rough, “Wait.” I release her nipple and hurriedly grab my phone from my pocket. My hand trembles as I open the camera app and snap a few pictures of her, my bones rattling from how fucking beautiful she is.

Then, I shove the device back in my pocket while she resumes. Her tongue is stiff as it glides along the vein on the underside of my length, her cheeks hollow from how hard she sucks on me as she moves her head back and forth.

If I let go, I could come in a second. Yet, I still hold out, greedy and obsessed—until she wraps both hands around me, stacking them and twisting them in opposite directions as she pumps me while her mouth greedily sucks on the tip.

The effect is fucking devastating on my control. It slips between my fingers like sand.

“Fuuuuuck, fuckfuckfuck, Rev, oh, oh, that’s it,” I blabber, the pleasure sharpening.

All I can do is desperately tweak her abused nipple until the two of us are battling for dominance over who will make the other come first.

She pants and squeaks around me while her hips roll against the bed, seeking friction.

“Look how easily you melt for me,” I taunt, my breathless scoff full of mockery. “All it takes is stuffing your face with my cock and pinching your nipple, and you’re fucking the bed like a needy whore.”

She can only groan in response. I release her hair and slightly bend to reach her jeans and unclasp them, eternally grateful for having long arms. She widens her thighs further, and I shove my hand down into her panties. Her cunt is sopping wet, instantly drenching my fingers as I target her clit. She cries out around me as I play, her eyes crossing.

“Christ, you’re fucking soaked, baby. Can barely rub your little clit with how slippery you are.”

The bliss twisting her face, mixed with her desperately sucking my cock, is nearly my undoing. I’m so fucking close, and she must be, too, because she suddenly shifts her hips down, causing my fingers to slip from her clit. She’s denying herself an orgasm, wanting me to come first.

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me no, Reverie,” I snarl, hardly recognizing my voice. I twist her nipple harshly, and she jerks, squealing. “Be a good little slut and give me what’s mine.”

She tries to resist, keeping her pussy inaccessible for a few beats. But whether it’s pleasure, my command, or her need to come, she lifts her hips again, allowing my middle finger to circle her swollen clit. The growl that releases from my throat is both bliss and satisfaction while a shudder racks her entire body.

“There you go, baby girl. See how good your pussy feels now?” I say, my voice filled with pride. Heaving out a throaty breath, she nods eagerly. “Yeah, I know how much you love me playing with this needy little cunt. Especially when I lick and fuck it.”

The sounds in her throat mirror mine, breathless, relentless, desperate.

I inhale deeply, just barely keeping my orgasm at bay, and release her nipple long enough to slap her tit harshly. In response, she tightens her hands around me, continuing to twist them until it makes me see stars. Her flushed chest vibrates with trapped moans, and she grinds against my fingers unabashedly, her clit slipping and sliding beneath my finger.

“Fuck, Rev. You have two fucking seconds to come before I fuck your face so hard, I snap your goddamn neck,” I bark, black orbs dotting my vision.

I pinch her nipple and clit simultaneously, ensuring it fucking hurts. She nearly shoots off the bed like a rocket before crashing back down just as quickly, exploding into millions of pieces. It’s the only thing I need to let go and allow a jaw-breaking orgasm to rush through me.

A hoarse shout rips free as I release her breast and fist her hair, jerking her away until only the tip remains. She goes completely boneless. Her head flops back and her mouth slackens, offering the most erotic sight of her eyes rolled and tongue out while I paint it white. Moans and high-pitched cries pour steadily from her lips while I continue to rub her clit with one hand, pumping my cock with the other. I move back a couple of inches, letting my cum spurt across those pretty tits, all the while fighting not to lose my vision.

She’s so fucking breathtaking, I refuse to lose sight of her, so by sheer desperation, I force the blackness from my vision and hold on to the most perfect image of her.

By the time I empty the last of my release over her face and breasts, her glazed eyes droop, and she trembles violently as she works through the remnants of her orgasm.

My phone is back in my hand before I can stop myself, once again taking more pictures of her. Still in the throes of ecstasy, and my cum painting her pretty face and tits.

Pure, animalistic instinct puppeteers my body as I shove my phone back in my pocket, push her shoulders back onto the bed, and tear at the zipper on her jeans. Once they’re fully undone, I grab the waistband of her jeans on either side and forcefully rip them down her legs.

Disoriented and dazed, she’s slow to respond, and by the time she regains her bearings, I’m kneeling between her spread thighs and shoving my tongue inside her cunt.

“Kellan!” she gasps, grabbing my hair and releasing a stuttered moan while her thighs violently tremble.

But I possess no coherent thought, only pure need to drink from her leaking hole. I lick inside her inner walls thoroughly, and the sound that comes out of my mouth is feral.

She tastes so fucking good. If I could nourish my body with her pussy, I’d drink nothing else for the rest of my life.

“FuckohmygodKellanwait,” she rushes out, the syllables slipping and crashing into one another. She tries to pull away, but my grip on her thighs tightens, preventing her from moving an inch. “It’s too much, it’s too much!”

If I had any fucking concern for her well-being, she wouldn’t be screaming right now.

Yet, she is, and it’s still not enough.

Swallowing my fill, I glide my tongue up to her clit and suck it into my mouth while shoving two fingers into her tight hole.

She writhes beneath me, and her expression twists, teetering somewhere between pleasure and pain as a mix of moans and sobs stutter from her throat.

“Fuck, fuck, ohhh, fuck, Kellan. Oh my God, holy shit, I can’t, I can’t,” she cries. She attempts to pull her hips away, prompting me to growl in warning, my mouth firmly suctioned to her cunt.

Holding her distressed stare, I only flick my tongue faster and curl my fingers deeper into the little rough patch on the underside of her pussy. A scream wrenches from her throat, her upper body curling toward me as her stomach contracts.

“Shit, shit, oh my God, Kellan, you’re gonna make me come. Fuckfuckfuck,” she babbles, pleadingly shaking her head while my cum glistens on her rapidly pumping chest.

I whimper against her, my cock hard as fucking steel again purely from the sexy sounds pouring from her throat.

She’s unable to keep from going cross-eyed just as her orgasm hits.

Instantly, I rip my mouth away, and, while keeping my fingers steadily pumping, I land a succession of quick, firm slaps right over her clit.

Her mouth drops wide open with a sharp squeal, her hips jumping. “Fuck, oh my God, I’m coming, baby, I’m coming!”

She throws her head back before her spine bows completely off the bed, erupting with a scream. A jet of clear liquid shoots from her pussy onto my face, prompting me to lean closer, open my mouth, and stick out my tongue with an eager whine. Her hips shoot off the bed from the power of her orgasm, forcing me to pin her down with my elbow so I’m able to continue slapping her clit and pumping my fingers with my other hand. Spurts of cum gush out of her like a fountain, splattering across my tongue, chin, and cheeks.

I’m fucking high off it, and it shoots straight to my cock. Pure excitement takes over my body until I’m whimpering and undulating against the air like a fucking dog as she feeds me, but I can’t find it in myself to give a fuck when she’s creating a goddamn masterpiece across my face.

Soon, the excitement peaks, causing my dick to seize with euphoria. The orgasm takes me by surprise, having never been so worked up that I come without physical stimulation before.

“Ah! Fuck, Rev, fuck, you’re making me come,” I bark hoarsely, an edge of disbelief to my tone as I once again fight to keep my vision straight. Cum leaks onto my leg, and thunderous tremors rack my body.

My moans grow louder, and my hips stutter while my cock contracts almost to the point of pain. Still, it fails to distract me from her, caring for nothing else but her spitting pussy.

After several long, drawn-out moments, she collapses onto the bed with a tortured wail, her bones completely melting. I’m fucking drunk on her, withdrawing my soaked fingers and sucking on them with frenzied, eager whimpers so as not to waste a single drop.

Meanwhile, little mewls leak from her throat. She either has violent aftershocks, or she’s having a seizure. Either way, she’s sobbing into her hands, and I’m torn between crawling up on the bed to soothe her and shoving my tongue back into her hole to lick her clean.

I spare her one more second of consideration before I dive back in.

She squeals and weakly pushes at my head, but I’m too mindless to care. I shove my tongue inside her and collect as much of her cum as I physically can, once more drinking down everything she has to offer.

All the while, she pleads through sobs, her chest jumping from the force.

Still, I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

I lick and suck with a single-minded focus, lapping up her release as desperate little whines leak from my throat.

I pay no heed to the words she’s screaming right before her body stiffens again and her cries silence abruptly. Several seconds later, her upper half comes flying off the bed again, and her knees snap around my head, cradling me against her as she comes for a third time.

It’s almost impossible to keep her still while her thighs try to force me out, but I resist until I’ve drained her of every last drop, my saliva the only thing left.

When I retreat, she instantly curls up on her side and tucks her knees into her chest. She trembles so hard, her teeth chatter.

Only then do I use my joggers to wipe up the small pool of cum on my leg from my second release. Then, I pull them up and climb onto the bed beside her. I gather her into my arms and say nothing, basking in the taste lingering on my tongue and the wetness dripping down my face and neck, soaking my hoodie.

She hiccups, and I hold her tighter.

“Shhh,” I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her sweaty forehead.

Crooking my pointer finger beneath her chin, I gently lift it until I’m able to capture her lips with mine, setting off a low hum of electricity between us that makes me dizzy. Her hand fists my hoodie, as if she, too, needs something to ground her. The taste of my cum on her tongue mixes with the taste of hers on mine. And while the kiss is slow, it’s also deep, and the intimacy and passion of it is jarring. I refuse to think too hard about it, and instead, I just focus on the addictive feel of her soft lips lazily moving against mine.

I don’t think about what I’m doing as I feel for my phone in my pocket and slip it out for the third time. It takes half a second to peek open an eye and swipe up the camera icon from the lock screen. Aiming it at our faces, I close my eye and deepen the kiss just as I snap a picture. I keep tapping the screen, taking a multitude of pictures while we make out, the kiss languid yet sensual.

If she notices, she does nothing to stop me.

In fact, it only seems to grow in intensity. Our breathing becomes shaky and erratic, and my teeth nip at her while she taunts me with her tongue, reminding me just how skilled she is at using it.

Something indescribable and acute fills my chest, and I’m overcome with the overpowering urge to get even closer to her, to mold myself into her, to crawl inside her until there is no end, no beginning between us.

And that scares the fuck out of me.

With a groan, I rip myself away just as I drop my hand and tuck the phone away. Our breathing is heavy as I place a few more quick kisses on her lips and then cup the back of her head, tucking it beneath my chin, desperately needing a breather from the moment.

I can admit, I had zero intention of it ending this way, which only proves she quite literally makes me lose my mind.

She’s dangerous, and that alone should convince me to save myself and run, to settle back into my hatred and resentment for her, where I’ve long since grown comfortable.

But I’ve never been able to leave her alone, and with each passing day, the odds of that even being possible disintegrate.

Eventually, our breaths calm and even out, and we allow ourselves to be lulled into a peaceful silence. At some indiscernible point, I began playing with the ends of her hair while she does the same with the string on my hoodie, neither of us feeling inclined to break the pleasant fog around us.

Her phone buzzes from the floor, causing us both to jump from the sudden noise. Groaning, she rolls onto her back, pausing for a few seconds before sitting up with a very heavy sigh and swiping her vibrating phone from beside her feet.

Annoyance has my upper lip curling as she lazily answers it, mumbling out a, “Hello?”

Not even a half second passes before she stiffens into solid stone, effectively putting me on high alert. I lift my head, adrenaline flooding my system before I even understand why.

Her head slowly turns before her eyes find mine over her shoulder, wide with horror as her face pales.

“What? What's wrong?”

She doesn't answer, only staring at me as if I'm a demon.

My heart pounds hard, my stomach twisting with both concern and anxiety as I sit up straight, frowning at her.

“Put it on speaker,” I demand sharply, rife with impatience.

She blinks and then slowly drops the phone from her ear. It lights up again, showing an unknown number as she hits the speaker button.

It's silent for several long moments, and then…

“Angel?”

CHAPTER 23

REVERIE

The second I hear that damn word through the speaker again, I close my eyes, my organs collapsing from two simple syllables spoken in a voice I prayed to never hear again. I'm paralyzed. I can’t get my vocal cords to work, can’t get my body to function.

I had hoped the first time I heard him say it after I answered, I was hallucinating from the post-orgasm. But the way Dread's entire presence goes utterly still when he says it the second time, I know my personal nightmare has returned, and it's not waiting for sleep to haunt me.

That voice was my very first memory after he saved my life from a mother so lost in grief and darkness, she didn’t understand what she was doing. That voice soothed me and gave me solace through one of the darkest moments of a life that had barely begun.

He was my safety. My home base. The person I ran to when I awoke with night terrors because I thought I couldn’t breathe.

Then, he became my boogeyman. The monster lurking in the shadows. The person I hid from when he came home at night.

Nausea swirls in my stomach, and even still, I can’t get myself to utter a single noise.

Dread comes closer, the energy radiating from him angry and potent. It’s stifling and overwhelming. Everything feels overwhelming.

“Angel…” He sighs the nickname this time, sounding resigned. “I wish you would talk to me. That’s all I want. It’s been nine years since I’ve even seen you, honey, and I know you’re confused about a few things. I… I just want to clear things up. You were so young, and I know everything you heard about me—the things I was being accused of—it must’ve gotten into your head. I’m so sorry it did.”

One burning tear slips from my eye while my chin trembles.

I knew he would do this the moment he got the chance. Gaslight me. Claim what I saw at six years old was all in my head, that my imagination got the better of me.

I dreaded this moment because I also knew it might work. He would needle into my brain and convince me that maybe I did make it all up. Maybe I wasn’t living in fear of him for those two years before Barry arrested him. Maybe, in those moments, I was actually hiding from my mom.

“You shouldn’t be calling me,” I choke out. The tips of my fingers tingle, numbness slowly working its way through my extremities. “And you shouldn’t have come here.”

“What makes you think I was there?” he questions. There’s an edge to his tone, like he’s suspicious.

I have vague memories of Lionel being very paranoid. I've learned a lot about criminal psychology, how paranoia in criminals is common due to the building pressure of avoiding detection. Considering how prolific the Locksmith cases were, Lionel was under an immense amount of pressure. One tiny mistake could lead to his entire world crashing down around him.

I can’t remember much about the episodes or what caused them, but I have flashes of him scouring through the couch cushions, the cabinets, anywhere he could think of, searching for ‘bugs.’ I thought he meant insects back then, and I would always help him look, even though I was terrified a spider would pop out at me.

“No one knows you call me that, Lionel. No one else who's still alive, anyway.”

There's no hiding the bitterness in my tone as I say the last part.

He’s quiet for a beat.

“You don’t know that,” he says vaguely.

“I do,” I argue through gritted teeth. “Just like I know you made that fake dating profile and kidnapped Mindy Sackler. You left a note in my dorm telling me to come back to Silent Mist with her hair clip, and when I didn’t and you saw my transfer papers, you trashed my dorm and gave me a lock of hair and an article about what a great father you are. I’ve already accepted you’re a psychopath, Lionel. The least you could fucking do is not pretend like you aren’t and actually give a shit about anyone.”

The sheer amount of adrenaline surging through my veins should be deadly. I’m trembling, and my heart is racing, but there’s an odd sense of calmness, too. A focus that stills any erratic thought and allows me to home in on him and him alone.

“Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never do any of those things to you,” he says earnestly, almost sounding hurt.

God, I don’t know how I never noticed it, even as a child. He just sounds so… empty. Even when he’s trying to infuse emotion into his voice, it sounds so wooden and unnatural. Or maybe it’s only obvious to those who know better and can see beneath the façade. Truthfully, his charm is a mirage, and the moment you get too close, the illusion fractures, and it’s impossible to see anything but reality.

“Is Mindy Sackler dead?” I ask bluntly.

“I don’t even know who that is.” The words are broken with exasperation, like he’s in such disbelief he’s being questioned like this.

I let out a humorless chuckle as I shake my head, realizing I’m only wasting my time and breath.

Why would he admit to anything over the phone? He’s too paranoid and calculated, and probably thinks I’m recording the call. Or maybe even have someone else listening in. It’s something he would’ve considered before he even dialed my number, and he won’t break character, no matter what I say or do.

“Sweetie, listen, I do want you to come back home to see me. You mentioned transfer papers, but please tell me that isn't true. Not when I’ve only just gotten home.”

I glance at Dread. “It is true.”

He lets out a scoff, still sounding hurt. “You can’t at least visit your father after almost a decade of not seeing me? I hate that you’ve been alone all these years. Your mom—” I squeeze my eyes shut, a sharp ache blooming in my chest. “—she had her struggles with depression before you came around, but she always wanted kids. And she was happy, until she wasn’t.”

Until I killed my little brother, he means.

“What she did on your birthday… it was selfish. She left you all alone, and I can’t stand that.”

Derision twists my features.

“It wasn't selfish,” I snap. “If she were truly selfish, she would've done it the day you were sentenced. She had the strength to wait until I wouldn't have to go into foster care, and that was the most selfless thing she could've done. She lived in misery so I could have somewhat of a childhood, despite your best efforts to fuck it all up.”

I may hold a lot of resentment for my mother and how she treated me, but… not for that. Not for when I was four, and not for when I turned eighteen.

He's quiet for a few moments, and my chest and throat are burning from rage.

“You're right, I'm sorry,” he says.

Funny thing about Lionel—if you pay really, really close attention, you can hear how hollow emotion sounds in his voice, a pretty mask with nothing real beyond it. He's not dead inside.

He's just empty.

He sighs, as if he's upset with himself. “Listen, Angel, my point is—we only have each other left now, and I want to fix this between us. Put everything behind us, start fresh, rebuild, and go back to the way things were before that boy targeted me.”

Dread’s instantly flying to his feet, startling me and sending my heart into my throat. A thunderous expression blackens his features, dilating his eyes until there isn’t a trace of blue remaining. He's already readjusted his joggers while I'm still naked.

I tuck my legs into my chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable. I attempt to make myself as small as possible, but there isn’t a single place for me to hide.

Clearing my throat, I rasp, “That’s not going to happen, Lionel. I’m not confused, and I want you to stay away from me. Just… just stay in California, or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re violating parole.”

His silence is heavy. It feels as if the bugs I once thought infested our house are actually inside me, burrowing beneath my skin and crawling along my nerves. The discomfort builds until I can’t stand it anymore. I need to move, to do something other than wallow in it.

Desperate to escape it, I stand and hurry over to the dresser, setting the phone on top of it before pulling open the drawer Dread cleared out for me. I grab a new pair of underwear and quickly slip them on, then snatch up my clothes scattered across the floor. Forgoing my bra, I slip on my red T-shirt, quickly pulling on my jeans, while Dread glares at my phone resting on the dresser.

“You won’t do that,” Lionel says, his tone hardening and sounding much more like the monster he truly is—the one he carefully hides until he can’t anymore.

It’s deep and sinister, lined with a sharp edge that cuts through muscle and bone. He could kill with just that voice alone.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand as I pick up my phone again, casting a nervous glance toward Dread. Anything to distract me from the demon on the other end of the phone.

Finally, I work up the nerve to say, “I will.”

My voice shakes, but it’s firm, and that’s all that matters.

He sighs again, and it still sounds resigned, but it’s no longer ‘I hate that you’re angry with me,’ and now, ‘I hate that you’re making me do this.’

Before I can think of what to say, Dread charges toward me and snatches the phone out of my hand. My mouth opens, a protest on my tongue, but no voice to give it life.

“I wouldn’t mind if you came and visited me,” Dread croons, a clear challenge in his tone. He turns his back and slowly paces, looking like a caged animal waiting for the day the gate opens so he can run free.

Again, Lionel’s silence is heavy.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no, no.

This is bad.

“Dread—”

“Who am I speaking with?” Lionel asks, calm and unaffected.

“The boy who’s still targeting you.”

My trembling hands cover my face before diving into my hair, then dropping to fist my T-shirt, having no idea what the fuck to do with myself. Anxiety eats at my nerves while my heart races, beating at a pace that’s making my vision swim.

“Kellan,” Lionel says, now adopting a pleasant tone. “I didn’t realize you were there. I’m surprised my daughter befriended you, considering all you’ve put my family through.”

Dread chuckles wickedly, and I close my eyes as my heart sinks, feeling utterly doomed.

“Don’t play stupid, Lionel. I’m sure you’ve seen social media. If having to change my bedsheets every night means we’re friends, then sure, we’ve never been closer.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, anyway, and hurt punches me in the gut. It lingers for a moment before red-hot fury unleashes in my chest, traveling up my throat until my face burns with it.

I haven’t had a single second to truly process what just happened. This last time was different than before. Not because of the sex, but because of everything leading up to it.

We both acted out of character.

He got jealous. Not just possessive. But truly jealous, so much so, I could taste its pungency on my tongue, like a real boyfriend would.

But rather than rage at him for it like I did the last time, I explained myself and assured him Bryan meant nothing—because he is nothing. I fought for him to hear me so he didn’t think for a second I was going behind his back, like a real girlfriend would.

That's when his panic surfaced. He tried to run from me, and like an idiot, I didn’t let him. Like an idiot, I kissed him. I took control in the locker room because I had no choice. None of that was my decision. But this time… it was all mine.

I knew the second I did it—the second I felt him freeze, staring at me like he couldn't believe what I just did once I pulled away. I knew he knew everything had changed, too. He felt it, too.

Or maybe he didn't, and it was all an act to get revenge on me. The thought alone makes me want to vomit, but it's one I'd be fucking stupid not to consider.

Up until this past month or so, all he's ever done is pursue my misery. So maybe things changed for him when he kissed me in the pool and fucked me in that locker room. But instead of no longer wanting to break me, he just found a different way to do it.

None of it matters anymore, anyway. There’s no uncertainty that all of it was a huge mistake.

Because yet again, Dread has proven there’s nothing he cares about more than revenge. Against me and against my father.

Even if he hates me less, he doesn’t hate Lionel less, and he will choose that hatred first, even if it’s at the expense of my life. It’s incredibly fucking stupid to believe differently. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be inviting Lionel to come to Colorado. He wouldn’t be dangling me in front of a serial killer’s face, the proverbial red flag taunting the bull.

Now that Lionel is free, I’m nothing more than bait.

God, I’m so fucking stupid.

“I see,” Lionel responds quietly, giving nothing away.

But I know better. He’s boiling inside, and if the chance of him showing up was nothing more than a seed, Dread just planted it deep into the dirt, where it’ll fester and grow.

“Then I presume Charlotte has told you all about her delusions. She’s always had quite the imagination. It seems you two are similar in that regard.”

Dread flicks a resentful glance my way, a cold reminder I haven’t told him a single thing about my ‘delusions.’

Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. It would be so easy for him to ask Lionel what he’s referring to, and though I don’t know if Lionel would tell him, it’s also entirely possible he would once he realizes I’ve been keeping secrets.

Regardless, this entire situation has vomit kissing the back of my throat, and I want out of here and away from these two psychotic men.

You know what—they deserve each other, actually.

Fuck them both.

I stomp toward Dread and snatch the phone out of his hand, spearing him with a vicious glare. His upper lip curls, and just like that, any trace of peace between us vanishes. Once more, we’re left with nothing but contempt for one another.

“Stay away, Lionel. I’m serious,” I bite through gritted teeth. “You got everything you could ever want and are a free man now. Don’t be stupid and jeopardize that for someone who wants nothing to do with you.”

There’s a hum beneath my skin, and the sound of a thousand bees fills my head. I need this man off my goddamn phone and Dread far away from me.

“I don’t have you, Angel, and that’s all I could ever want.”

The phone clicks, leaving me on an ominous note that has the vomit rising to my uvula.

Instantly, I’m running into the half bath and bending over the toilet just as I lose my meager dinner from last night. I’ve barely eaten anything since they set Lionel free, so there’s nothing more to cough up other than bile.

I dry heave for several minutes while hot tears track down my cheeks. Tremors rack my entire body, and by the time I straighten, wipe my mouth with a square of toilet paper, and flush, I’m on the verge of collapsing.

I turn toward the sink, stopping short when I see Dread leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, an indifferent look on his face.

Ignoring him, I grab my toothbrush from the holder right beside his. Something about that disturbs me greatly right now.

While I concentrate on the porcelain sink as I scrub my teeth and tongue, he watches me closely, his stare burning into the side of my head.

When I’m finished, I wipe my mouth and face him with a sigh.

“If you wanted me dead, you could’ve just taken me back to the pool and done it yourself,” I tell him, my voice raw and hoarse.

Dread arches his scarred brow, and it’s so reminiscent of the look he’d give me when there was nothing more than hatred between us, it almost hurts.

“That didn’t sound like a man who wants you dead,” he says tonelessly.

Vitriol builds in my throat just as quickly as the bile, and right now, I’m not so sure which I’m going to spew at him first.

Just as I open my mouth, he cuts in, “Let me guess. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” His tone is dry yet cynical. When I don’t respond immediately, he chuckles humorlessly.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I hiss. “I don’t owe you anything, Dread. I’m not the one who took your mother from you, so why can’t you leave me out of this?”

His eyes are frosted glass as he stares at me, sending a shiver down my spine, as if I’ve put my hand against the icy surface.

“Tell me what you’ve been keeping from me first,” he demands coldly.

My instinct is to tell him to fuck off, to hold everything close to my chest because that means I’m safer.

But I realize now, I’m not safer. At least, not from my father. There’s no doubt Lionel’s coming for me, but I didn’t realize Dread saw it for what Lionel wanted him to see it for. Reconnection. He doesn’t think Lionel will kill me, which means he’ll continue to use me as bait, dangling me like a worm on a hook, and Lionel will bite.

If I confess, Dread will have yet another reason to hate me, and maybe he’ll kill me instead. Truthfully, though, I think I’d rather die at the hands of a man who was tormented because of my family than die at the hands of a father who sees me as nothing more than a loose end.

“Fine,” I choke out, motioning for him to back off so I can get out of the bathroom. “Let me at least sit down. If I get to pick my death location, I’m not going out next to a fucking toilet.”

His brows jump, a mix of wariness and suspicion swirling in his gaze. However, he silently steps back and lets me pass before following me into the room.

My heart races as I sit on the edge of the bed, every part of my body revolting against this, but now that Lionel is free, I don’t have a choice. I glimpse the huge damp spot on Dread’s bedsheets and pointedly ignore that.

That already feels like ten years ago, and it sure as fuck will never happen again, that’s for sure.

Dread stops a few feet away, standing before me with his arms crossed and a blank, though expectant, expression. Clearing my throat, I wipe my sweaty palms down my thighs, racking my brain for the right words.

“My first memory is of my mom drowning me in a bathtub when I was four years old. I spilled apple juice on the floor, and she slipped. She was twenty-eight weeks pregnant with my little brother. She miscarried because of it. The doctor diagnosed her with major depressive disorder with peripartum onset and psychotic features. She wasn’t in her right mind and blamed me, so she decided she was going to kill me, then kill herself. My dad walked in on it and stopped her.” I relay the facts like I’m reading them from a scientific research paper.

Most days, it feels like the least terrible thing I’ve experienced.

Dread’s expression stays carefully blank, though his right eye twitches, and I think I hear a couple of his fingers crack.

“I refuse to demonize her for something she couldn’t control. She got help, and she recovered from all her postpartum symptoms by the time she came home from the psychiatric hospital,” I explain firmly. “However, my mom struggled heavily with mental health her entire life, and she wasn’t exactly a good person. I think she loved me—or maybe just a part of her did—but she also still blamed me and heavily resented me for it. In her weakest moments, she wished she succeeded or that I died instead of my brother. But she deeply regretted that moment and spent the rest of her years feeling extremely guilty. She never, ever felt like what she did to me was deserved or okay. So if you want to call her a monster for anything, don’t let it be because of that, okay?”

Dread nods stiffly, so I blow out a breath and continue.

“When I was six,” I say slowly, my voice cracking. I pause and take another deep breath, a poor attempt to calm my nerves. “I had a really bad nightmare about my mom. My dad was the only one who could calm me down, so I ran into their bedroom, looking for him, but he wasn’t there.”

My heart races as the memories from that night trickle in. I’ve worked so hard over the years to suppress them. My brain never allowed me to forget them, and it took years before I could go a day without thinking about it.

“I was panicking, and Mom said he left, so she tried to console me instead. I only panicked worse. My dad had a really large shed he converted into a man cave or whatever, and he was in there all the time, so that’s where I went looking.”

I inhale another deep breath, images flashing through my mind’s eye. My tangled blonde hair sticking to my sweaty nape. The pink nightgown I wore, princesses printed over the chest, as I ran outside into the muggy summer air. Tears streaked down my cheeks, and my lungs were tight, as if the bathwater still clogged them.

“Mom was at the back door, yelling for me to get back inside, but I kept running to the shed. I thought if I didn’t find my dad, didn’t hear his soothing voice telling me everything’s going to be okay, I would never breathe again.”

I look down at my fidgeting hands, shifting in discomfort from Dread’s scrutinizing stare. It feels like nails raking down my skin.

“He told me before to never go in there without him, to never go in without knocking. He said there were dangerous tools in there, and I could hurt myself, so it was a huge rule. But I was panicking and couldn’t breathe, let alone think straight, so I just barged in.”

I glance at Dread, and if not for the subtle movement of his chest, I’d think he was cast in stone. He’s devoid of all emotion, eerily still as he listens to me.

I drop my gaze again as a new image sweeps me away. My voice turns almost robotic as I rehash the memory, yet I feel everything I felt when I was six. An indescribable horror, a terror unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

“He had just finished sawing through the woman’s head, wearing this white plastic suit, a clear mask covering his face. He was absolutely just… drenched in blood. He’d already cut up the rest of her body. Her torso was in two pieces, each limb severed from it, then those cut at the elbows and knees. Even her ankles. And they were all just scattered, none of her body parts where they were supposed to be. I saw her face, but I couldn’t make sense of it because it was… it was frozen in this expression of absolute terror. She almost didn’t look real, but her insides were coming out of her and⁠—”

“Stop.” The sharp, hoarse command startles me out of the memory, and I look up to meet Dread’s haunted stare. The tears in my vision blur his face, but it does nothing to soften the torment carved into the lines around his eyes and mouth.

And then, it hits me: I'm also describing his mother. The guilt is a punch to the chest, and I lower my head and cover my eyes, both mortified and so angry with myself.

“Shit, Dread. I’m so fucking sorry,” I say quietly, dropping my hand from my face to look up at him, my brows pinched with regret. “I'm such an idiot. I wasn’t thinking, and I-I shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

The muscle in his jaw pulses, his eyes blackened with a darkness I understand all too well. But he doesn’t respond—doesn’t move—for several long moments.

“Just… just skip over that part,” he says finally, his voice hoarse.

I nod, rolling my lips as I stare down at my fidgeting fingers, taking a second to gather my thoughts.

“I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad so enraged before,” I mumble. The pit of anxiety in my stomach yawns, widening until it's all-consuming. “His eyes were black, and he looked…” My throat closes, remembering his face as if it were yesterday. It takes several attempts at swallowing to loosen it again.

“He looked so fucking evil. Inhuman. I-I’ve never seen anything like it before. Just… just pure evil.” My throat tightens, forcing me to pause and swallow a few times. “I went to run, but he screamed at me not to move. I just froze in terror, and I remember wanting to run so, so bad. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I didn’t want to be like her.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I struggle to swallow down a sob. I sniffle and quickly swipe at a few loose tears trailing down my cheeks with trembling fingers.

“He took off the protective mask and crouched in front of me, but all I could focus on was the smell of blood. It was so strong, I could taste it. He demanded to know why I broke his rules, and I told him about my night terror. So he took my hand and led me over to her body. I-I started crying and freaking out because the closer I got…” I trail off, forgoing the gruesome details of her mutilated body.

At six years old, my brain was incapable of computing exactly what I was looking at, just that it was the worst thing I could ever—would ever—see. I was in too much shock to do anything but stare and panic. My body wanted to vomit from the sight, but I couldn’t even manage that.

“He told me to look at the woman’s face and imagine it was my mom’s,” I say, sniffling again. “Then, he said if I told anyone what I saw, I’d be looking at Mom’s face next, and it’d be all my fault.” My voice cracks at the end again, so I quickly tuck my head away from him, squeezing my eyes shut. It takes several moments to swallow the rock back down my throat.

I sense Dread move, but I don’t look yet. My mind splits between the six-year-old version of me and the twenty-two-year-old. For several minutes, my brain can’t decipher which timeline I’m in. I can feel Dread pacing in front of me, yet that potent copper smell is coating the inside of my nose and mouth. I’m sitting on Dread’s bed, yet I still feel my dad’s rough, calloused palm squeezing mine.

Both versions of me inhale, panic strangling our lungs. When I open my eyes and turn back, it’s only Dread I see.

He’s turned away, both hands balled tightly into fists, his knuckles completely bleached of color, his skin mottled red and white. His chest pumps rapidly, and he seems to be glaring at the opposite wall.

“My mom terrified me,” I rasp. He probably doesn’t care about anything else I have to say, but the silence feels suffocating, and for whatever reason, I feel the need to explain why I didn’t want to see my mom dead. “But I still loved her. It was just mostly at night, when I’d have those dreams, that I needed my dad, but in that moment, I was far more terrified of him than I ever was of her. He went from being my safety to being the monster hiding under my bed, and my mom was now someone I needed to protect.”

Again, he’s silent, and my anxiety heightens. That familiar hum returns, like hornets buzzing beneath my skin. I’m filled with a restless energy, with the overwhelming urge to just… run. But I don’t know if it’s the memories I want to run from, my guilt, or from Dread.

Maybe he’ll snap and kill me now. Maybe he’ll torture me first. The suspense is damn near sending me into cardiac arrest.

“He didn’t threaten to kill you?” he questions finally, turning his head just enough to give me his side profile. His voice is eerily quiet, his expression now smooth marble once more. “Why would he threaten your mom and not you? Especially if you were so scared of her.”

“He did,” I answer hoarsely. “But he said I’d have to watch him kill my mom first. Then, he told me not only did he know how to make sure the police found no evidence, he knew how to make someone disappear without a trace, make their death look like an accident.”

“I call you Angel because Mommy almost made you one, but this time, Daddy would have to be the one to do it. And there’d be no one left to save you.”

“Would it be scary, like last time?”

“It would be so much worse.”

“It didn’t really hurt before.”

“I would make it hurt, Angel.”

Dread’s hands flex, and he looks like he’s working himself up to ask the one question I’m scared of.

“Who was it?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He turns to me, agony written into his face, and it kills me because I know I’m going to make it worse.

“Georgia Farrell,” I answer quietly.

He stares as he processes that.

“The Locksmith’s third known victim,” he states robotically.

I nod, chewing on my lip while the gears in his head spin. Inevitably, I know he’ll reach the same conclusion that’s haunted me for sixteen years.

He steels his jaw again as realization dawns, and my heart sinks.

“Did you know he kept murdering women?” he asks quietly, his tone grave.

My face twists as I drop my gaze, my shame embedded in the marrow of my bones.

“I… I don't know how to answer that,” I whisper. “At the time, I don't think I fully understood it. I knew it was wrong and scary. But there were moments where he'd tell my mom he was going to the shed, and he'd… he'd just give me this look like he was reminding me to keep quiet. And I… I think I knew what he was going to do. I just wasn't…” I shake my head, the words becoming harder to find. “I was terrified. That's what I knew.”

Dread steps forward, pulling my attention back up to him, fury melting the ice in his gaze.

“Did you see any of them? Like how you saw Georgia?”

I shake my head. “I never went into that shed again, so I didn’t see any others⁠—”

“But you knew there were others,” he cuts in abruptly, his tone sharper now. I tighten my lips, having expected his reaction but still fucking hating it.

“I-I never asked, and he never told me. I was six years old and barely understood what I saw. I-I didn’t understand what a serial killer was, or that they keep killing⁠—”

“But you must’ve known about all the women disappearing,” he says harshly. “They had several counties in Northern California on high alert. It was all over the news that there were women going missing left and right. Several counties had strict curfews for over a year before they even arrested Lionel, and all the kids at school talked about it because we couldn’t play outside after dark anymore. We're the same goddamn age, Rev, and for a long time, women being murdered was all anyone could talk about.”

His body seems to inflate with fury as he stares down at me, his stare menacing and blazing with anger.

“Georgia died in 2009. My mom died in 2011. She was his last victim before he was arrested. Do you know how many women he could've killed between their deaths? I mean, fuck, Rev. The man was probably on a fucking spree for decades before he killed Georgia. Families in all of Northern California were terrified for years because they couldn't find him, which is why we were virtually on fucking lockdown. And all along, you knew exactly where he was. You had to have connected the dots eventually, right? That he was the one doing it?”

I nod, several more hot tears searing paths down my cheeks. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I knew and was too scared to say anything.”

Dread stares at me like I’ve morphed into a beast, like he doesn't even recognize me. Unshed tears well in his eyes, glassy, offering a stark reflection of his agony.

“You knew he was still murdering women, and you didn’t tell anyone.” It's a statement, not a question.

I nod rapidly and roll my lips, because what else is there to say? I understand why he’s so angry. It’s the same reason I’m so angry with myself.

“You could’ve saved them,” he whispers, the words breaking at the seams. Then, his face twists with fury and disbelief. “You could’ve saved her.”

I close my eyes just as another tear slips free. “Yes,” I say, my voice hushed.

“If you just… if you just would’ve told someone⁠—”

“Your mom would still be alive,” I finish, my voice cracking.

He stares at me with wide eyes, thunderstruck, hurt, filled with so much rage.

I was a witness. I even knew he kept trophies from the murders.

And I stayed silent.

And because I did, Lionel D’Amour was free to meet Katherine Sharpe two years later. He was free to ask her on a date. He was free to pick her up at her house, leaving behind a grieving little boy who’d already lost his father. And he was free to murder her, to scatter her remains in a fucking junkyard.

Dread takes a step toward me, his expression battling between disbelief and anger.

“It took five months before we went to trial, and the trial took another month. That entire fucking time, I fought with everything I had to get people to believe me, and almost no one did, except that jury, Barry, and Jeff.” Another step, and my spine curves, feeling so incredibly small. “That whole time,” he points an accusing finger at me, baring his teeth, “you sat in on all those interviews, praising what a wonderful dad he was while knowing he was a fucking monster!”

“I was a little kid⁠—”

“SO WAS I!” he roars, his voice cracking.

I wince, rivers rushing down my cheeks as he struggles to breathe, his face flushed red.

“They all called me a fucking liar. For years, Reverie! They still fucking do. They said I was putting an innocent man behind bars, that the real Locksmith was still out there. Kids bullied me fucking relentlessly because their parents said I was evil. The world wrote hundreds of articles about the little boy who manipulated a jury into ruining a man’s life. They fucking stalked me, sent my grandmother death threats, vandalized her home more times than I can count. I-I couldn’t go out in public without someone recognizing me and giving me dirty looks or telling me I should be ashamed of myself. They fucking tormented me!” I flinch as he trembles violently, so much fucking agony reflecting at me. His voice quietens, though his words are raw as he says, “But no one gave a fuck about how my life was ruined. No, they only gave a fuck about how I ruined yours.”

He takes a deep breath, seeming to struggle to hold back the tears threatening to spill over his waterline. That, more than anything, almost sends my spine crumbling to dust.

“And I-I get it, Rev. You were fucking terrified. You saw something traumatizing, and even though it fucking hurts, I can understand why you were too scared to tell anyone. But when they arrested your father, he couldn’t hurt either of you anymore. He wasn’t allowed out on bail, so he was in jail for a year before the trial even began.”

“There were a few times he mentioned having friends, and they sounded like threats,” I defend weakly.

“They sounded like it, or they were?” he questions.

“He never explicitly said they'd do anything bad to me. It was just the feeling I got. Except for when I was thirteen. I think he knew I was pulling away by then, so he told me he had friends who weren’t in prison. That's when I decided to walk out and never go back.”

Dread hums. “But you never saw these alleged friends? Never heard of them or saw them outside of these vague mentions?”

I bite my lip, my chin trembling, and feebly shake my head, understanding how stupid it sounds now. Admittedly, I've always wondered if he really did have friends, or if he was just trying to scare me.

Regardless, even if he didn't then, he might now—if he and the copycat truly are working together.

“Did the police ask you if you saw anything?”

Another hot tear trails down my cheek, and the guilt in my eyes is answer enough.

“And you said no.”

I roll my lips together, and after a beat of hesitation, I nod again.

“You stayed silent. You knew the truth. And you didn’t say a fucking word,” he says quietly, a bone-deep sorrow embedded in every syllable.

“Why?”

By the time the word squeezes past his throat and falls from his lips, it’s in fragments, whispered so brokenly, I barely hear it at all.

I take a deep, shuddering breath. No matter what I say, it will never be sufficient. It will never take away the fact that someone out there had the opportunity to save his mother, and they didn’t take it. Nor will it change the fact that he went through hell to put my father behind bars and then went through hell for succeeding. Not a single time did I step in to help him.

Dropping my gaze, I clear my throat again and swipe away a few more stray tears before wringing my fingers together.

“All I can say is that I was a kid, Dread. That won’t make it better for you, and I get that, but I was a child who walked in on the most evil thing you could possibly imagine, only to be told the same thing would happen to me and my mom if I spoke a word. When Barry arrested him, my mom told me every day they were going to release him. She said over and over that they had nothing substantial against him. So every day, I expected him to come home. I was terrified, and I didn’t understand everything, but I understood what it felt like to die.”

He remains silent long enough to draw my gaze back up to him. He glares at the floor, the muscle in his jaw on the verge of tearing through his flesh while his knuckles repeatedly flex, though he seems to be working on calming himself.

“I wrote a letter to the parole board telling them this,” I say after the silence continues to drag. He slowly brings his attention to me, and his gaze is cold enough to turn my lips blue. “I also told them when I was in the shed, he showed me a box. He called it his lockbox, where he kept locks of hair he’d take from all the victims. He was proud of it, and he made me…” My voice starts to crack, so I take a second to regain my composure again. “He made me touch the pretty hair. That was the last time I saw it, of course. And when the FBI raided our house, they obviously never found it. I… I don’t know where it is, but I know it’s out there somewhere.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, wishing more than anything a black hole would open beneath me.

“You told them all this, and they still let him out?”

I hold out my hands in a shrug, as if to say, What’re ya gonna do?

“They spoon-fed me the same medicine they shoved down your throat. They questioned the integrity of my claim because I stayed silent for so long. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the petty daughter wanting revenge for my mother’s death. In her suicide note, she’d said she couldn’t take the pain of being separated from the only person she’s ever loved.”

Repeating those words should hurt, but I’ve long since accepted my mother didn’t know how to love me.

“The warden sent them a glowing letter about what a stand-up man he is, how he deserves to be free, so they ignored it and basically tossed my letter in the garbage.”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Of course they did,” he mutters beneath his breath.

I sniffle and then inhale deeply, attempting to gather myself somewhat, despite the absolute carnage inside my body.

“Look, I’m not asking for your protection, but I mean it when I say my father won’t allow me to live if I continue to defy him. I’ve already broken my promise and tried to tell the parole board the truth. My mom isn’t alive to hold it over my head anymore, and, well, my life was always going to be on the line anyway. I’m a witness to his crimes, and I know there’s evidence out there tying him to the murders. I’m a loose end he’s not going to just let go.”

He looks off to the side, his eyes darting back and forth as the muscle in his jaw continues to pulse, mulling that over for a moment.

“He could’ve destroyed the box. Gotten rid of it,” he says finally.

I shrug. “It’s possible, but I don’t think he did. He knew he was going to get out one day, and I don’t think he would’ve destroyed such a coveted collection. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and obviously knows how to hide shit.”

The gears in his mind churn, and truthfully, I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to get out of this anymore. I sure as fuck never thought he’d save me. I hoped he’d at least stop dangling me as bait, and take me seriously when I said Lionel will kill me.

Except I realize now that maybe I’m giving Dread the perfect opportunity to get revenge on me, allow him to keep using me to draw my father out, let him kill me, and then either kill Lionel himself or send him back to prison for my murder. Whichever of the two serves him best, I guess.

Either way, I’m dead.

And, well… that fucking sucks.

“You don’t know where it could be?”

I tighten my lips into a firm line. “I guess I’ll try to find out when I’m back home.”

His brow knits, perplexed as to why I'm planning to return to California.

I give him an ‘isn’t it obvious?’ look.

“Did you think I was going to get to stay here?” I let out a derisive laugh. “I tried to hide from him for a reason, Dread. I knew the moment he found me, he’d force me back to California. Transferring schools out of the country was my only option, but he fucked that up by holding Roxi over my head. I already feel guilty for all the women who came after Georgia. I don’t know if I can handle any more blood on my hands.”

But I might have to bear that weight, anyway. I bargained with Dread to transfer to London and lost miserably, but I could break our deal, go anyway, and hope like hell he protects Roxi.

What's the value of a promise if I won’t be alive to keep it?

Making that promise was allowing a broken bone to heal incorrectly, and because of it, I have to live a life of pain. The only way to truly heal is to break and reset it. It'll hurt like fucking hell at first, but in time, I'll be okay again.

Unless Dread plans on kidnapping me and locking me away somewhere, he can’t stop me from doing what I need to do, especially with his swim career keeping him so busy.

“You baited him. You basically threw me out like a piece of meat, and now, the monster is coming to get his dinner,” I say simply.

“He already believes I know all of this,” he says calmly, seeming unconcerned. “So if he’s coming to get you, he’s coming for me, too. And that’s exactly what I wanted.”

My smile is full of pity. “You still don’t get it. He’s not worried about you. You’re the dreadful boy who put away an innocent man. A broken record with no evidence. You've skewed your reality and created an echo chamber by becoming the king of HCU, but there's an entire world outside this campus, Dread.” I lean forward, my gaze patronizing with a touch of mirth, as if to say, You silly little boy, you have no idea what you're talking about. It's not funny, but all you can do is laugh at how deluded they are. “They didn’t believe you then, and they sure as hell won't believe you now. Your Olympic gold medals mean nothing compared to a white, heterosexual man who's been deeply wronged. You're still a fucking liar, Dreadful Sharpe.”

His jaw hardens, and my smile bleeds into a saddened chuckle as I lean back.

“Hate me while you still can, because as long as I stay here under your thumb, Lionel will find me, and he won't take you with me.”

My smile fades completely as I stare at him blankly, feeling as dead inside as I will be in the near future.

“And once I’m gone, we both know I’m not coming back.”

CHAPTER 24

DREAD

My muscles burn as I kick off the cement wall and cut through the water. My arms grow weaker, my breath shorter with each stroke.

Still, I keep pushing.

Because the moment I stop, so does my will to live.

I complete two more laps before I’m physically incapable of moving another muscle. As tempted as I am to just let myself sink to the bottom, I can’t betray my mother like that.

With the last drop of energy I possess, I put my hands on the cement floor and propel myself out of the water. My muscles give, and I nearly eat concrete, but I make it far enough out to collapse on the floor, my legs still submerged up to my knees.

I pant heavily, my vision still swimming despite my body being motionless. Every breath feels like inhaling fiberglass, and my extremities tremble so hard, they appear completely still.

It’s exactly what I needed—to make the physical pain so loud, it drowns out the mental.

For twenty blissful minutes, I’m left in utter silence while my system struggles to regulate.

Until my body calms, and the thoughts start creeping in again, slowly at first, then all at once.

I battle with getting back into the water again, but I know I’ve already pushed myself too far and am on the verge of tearing a muscle. Then, I won’t need to worry about taking myself out. Coach will handle that for me.

Groaning, I sloppily pull myself the rest of the way out of the water and get to my feet before slowly trudging to the showers. Reverie’s face pops up in my head, and I instantly push it away. Only for her to reappear, over and over, until it feels like I’m playing fucking table tennis with her memory, driving me even more insane than I already am.

My rage is a constant state of being, but the direction it points is ever-moving. It’s been nonstop since I stormed out of my room after she dropped a fucking bomb on me yesterday. I needed space, but with Lionel or whoever the fuck leaving her notes, I couldn't allow her to be alone, so I asked Rogue if he could post up outside my door while I slept in his dorm instead.

I felt bad for forcing him out of his bed to sleep on a hard hallway floor, but after I gave him an extremely brief rundown of what I'd just learned, he made no complaints.

He's watching over her today while I figure out where the fuck my head is at.

And right now, I'm just… pissed.

At fucking everyone. Reverie, Lionel, Regina, the copycat, whoever her stalker is, Roxi—fuck, myself.

However, at this moment, I’m currently inundated with fury because of everything Reverie’s parents did to her. She was adamant about not demonizing Regina for her actions when she had postpartum psychosis, and I know enough about it to understand why. However, it doesn’t make me any less furious. It doesn’t make me any less sick to my stomach that she experienced something so horrific. It doesn’t make me hate Regina any less for continuing to blame Rev for it.

And what she witnessed from Lionel… to see something as brutal as she did, only for the sole parent she felt safe with threaten to make her watch him do the same to her mother?

My fists curl tightly, and the yearning to make Lionel suffer is a scream that never quietens.

Fuck, I want to kill him so fucking badly. But first, I want to torture him so fucking slowly, so painfully, he’ll beg me to end it. And I won’t. I fucking won’t for as long as I can.

But then, a voice in the back of my mind will softly whisper to me, Lionel would’ve never taken your mother’s life had Reverie just said something. None of this would exist if not for her silence.

It’s not fucking fair of me—I know that.

It’s irrational to think a six-year-old who had experienced more trauma than most do in an entire lifetime should’ve spoken up after witnessing the horror she did.

But fuck, it doesn’t make it any easier not to feel that way, anyway.

It doesn’t make it any easier accepting so many women would be alive today had she done it.

However, my anger doesn’t end there. What hurts is that she watched the world rip me to pieces and did nothing, even after Lionel could no longer make good on his promise. I can rationalize her silence at first, but I can’t do the same with her silence after Lionel’s arrest. I can’t, not when she was silent after the copycat invalidated me to the public.

She was a kid, but I fucking was, too. I stood on that stand for two days, one of them under constant interrogation, while the entire world sneered and called me a liar. But I told them the fucking truth. Despite my fear, the death threats and relentless bullying, I did it, anyway.

So I can't help but question why she couldn’t have said something to anyone. I mean, I know why. She was fucking terrified. But I wish she just did… fucking something. Even if it was to make people suspicious of Lionel. If she had, he might’ve never gotten out of prison. Because regardless of Lionel’s good deeds behind bars, what truly led to his release was their belief in his innocence.

Is it so selfish to wish that, at the very least, she spared me some goddamn torment? Even if it changed nothing but the way people treated me, is it so wrong to resent not having that?

I shake my head and force myself to shower quickly and then exit the pool, where people stand outside the windows in the center's hallway to watch me.

Excitement and appreciation light up their faces as I pass, but my thunderous expression must be severe enough for them to bite their tongues.

By the time I’m slamming open the door to the gym and charging into the cool February air, my head aches from all the back and forth.

There’s only one place I can think to go that might clear it.

I knock on the red-painted door, my porous bones soaking up my anxiety until I'm vibrating with restlessness.

Instantly, quick little taps come running toward me, followed by a feminine voice yelling out, “Juniper Kelly! You know not to answer the door without Mommy.”

Her giggles bring a smile to my face. She’s been a hellion since the day she was born.

The door opens, and I only make it to three seconds before Junie launches herself at me. I crouch down in just enough time before she’s leaping into my arms.

“Kelly!” she exclaims excitedly, nearly bursting an eardrum.

“Oh no, she’s gotten too heavy!” I shout before dramatically falling backward, my arm banded tightly around her.

She cackles loudly, and her hair gets caught in my mouth as I teeter onto my back. She doesn’t even give me the chance to spit it out before she’s scrambling out of my arms.

“Do it again!” she demands, going to run back into the house so she can launch at me a second time.

“No, no, Junie. Let him get in the door,” Olive says, catching Junie just in time before she jumps into the air.

If she hadn't, I one thousand percent would’ve gotten a head, hand, or foot landing in a terribly painful place. It’s a toss-up between my eye, my mouth, or between my legs. Actually, no, she would’ve managed to land at least two out of three.

I get to my feet just as Junie takes off flying down the hallway toward the living room, already intent on wreaking havoc some other way.

Her mother and my best friend, Olive Benderman, meets my gaze with a tired, exasperated expression, though a smile tips up her lips. Junie looks just like her—same sapphire blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and face full of freckles.

“I told you when you were pregnant with her she’d never stop running,” I remind her, lifting my brows with a ‘you did it to yourself’ look.

“Yeah, well, I was hoping you were wrong for once.”

I scoff. “I’m never wrong.”

Rolling her eyes, she nods for me to follow her inside. “Come in before the paparazzi see you and you have another scandal on your hands. I’m pretty sure Junie already drew with a Sharpie on half the house by now.”

I snort but do as I’m told, instantly greeted by the aroma of marshmallows and vanilla. She has that damn fragrance diffuser running at all hours. If I ever walk into her home and don’t smell that exact scent, something is terribly wrong.

She leads me down the hallway into her kitchen, the dark wooden floors creaking beneath my feet. To the left is the living room, Bluey playing on the TV while Junie—surprisingly—calmly plays with her Busy House.

I give it eight minutes before she’s back to being a menace.

“So I assume you’ve had people camping out on your lawn,” I surmise as we step down two steps into the living area and sit perpendicular from one another on her L-shaped, gray plush couch.

Junie is sitting on the floor in front of us, completely absorbed in her activity.

Olive scoffs and rolls her eyes derisively. “Since news broke that he got out. They finally started getting bored with me a couple of days ago, when they realized the playground, grocery store, and her preschool didn’t make for a very juicy story.”

I shake my head, hating Junie had to see those fucking vultures stalking them.

However, Olive is unfortunately used to it. Her mother, Olivia, was one of the Locksmith’s more infamous victims, mainly because the discovery of her remains was one of the more morbid.

Olivia went missing August 18th, 2009, from a country bar a couple towns over from Silent Mist. Two months later, an eight-year-old boy discovered their family dog chewing on her leg in the backyard of their farmhouse. When the little boy went in to tell his mother, she lost her mind and called the police. Authorities found the rest of Olivia’s remains buried throughout a corn maze nearby. The officers were constantly getting lost while recovering them, and I guarantee, Lionel did it for his own sick amusement.

But what made it so disturbing is the corn maze being a huge attraction for Silent Mist during Halloween, especially for children. They hosted a variety of activities throughout the fall season and drew in thousands of people, where they unknowingly trampled all over her. Lionel deliberately buried her there before the holidays began, likely hoping someone would discover her in the maze.

What happened to her mother is sick, and Olive has not made her hatred for Lionel D’Amour a secret.

Lionel may never be charged for the murder of Olivia, but as far as Olive’s concerned, that doesn't mean she can't let everyone know she still believes he's the one who did it.

“So, spill,” Olive demands, drawing her knees up and tucking them to the side while arching a brow at me.

“Spill what?” I ask, furrowing my brow and peering at her innocently.

Another eye roll.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a decade, and your knee is bouncing hard enough to shake the entire house,” she states dryly.

My knee freezes. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it, but now that I’ve stopped, the restlessness screams, the urge to resume building until I can’t take it anymore and start bouncing it again.

I groan and swipe a hand roughly down my face. “That’s because I haven’t slept in a fu—” I pause, glance at Junie, and correct myself before letting the expletive fly. The girl is a sponge, and Olive has already credited me for teaching her too many cuss words. “In a decade,” I finish.

Her expression flattens, her eyes half lidded as she gives me a deadpan look.

“Jesus, you’re nosy,” I grumble. “Some shi—stuff went down last night, and my head’s all fu—messed up.”

“You mean besides the S-E-X tape?” she questions, spelling out the word. I absolutely cannot wait for the day Junie learns how to spell and demands to know what that means.

“That wasn’t me.”

She stares blankly. I stare blankly.

Junie farts.

“Oh, my God,” Olive groans, and both of us bust out into laughter. Junie giggles for no other reason than because we’re laughing and then goes back to playing and watching her show three seconds later.

“Don’t lie to me, Kellan James,” Olive scolds, pinning me with a stern look. She holds up a hand and ticks off each point, finger by finger. “You moved to this state because of her. You live in those dorms to be as close as possible to her, despite being able to afford a goddamn mansion by now. You lost your ever-loving mind when she got a boyfriend your sophomore year and, in my personal opinion, were extremely caught up on her having S-E-X with him.”

“Did fucking not,” I snap defensively, cursing be damned, but Junie’s too engrossed in her Busy House to notice, anyway. “And excuse me for caring about safe S-E-X practices when her getting pregnant by some stupid-head would’ve been extremely inconvenient for me and all my nefarious plans.”

I might as well be a ghost because she acknowledges absolutely nothing I said.

“You lose your mind every summer when she disappears to go travel or whatever she does, because you won't see her until fall semester.”

“It's dangerous to travel alone.” Again, she dismisses me as if I didn't speak at all.

“You think about her when you're eating, sleeping, breathing—probably even when you're pooping.” My mouth pops open to tell her I do not, in fact, think about her when I'm shitting, but she moves along before I can defend my honor. “You could not have, for a single second, actually believed your obsession with her wouldn't eventually lead to S-E-X.”

I can only stare at her while I roll my tongue along my inner cheek, extremely unamused by her very misconstrued observations.

She gives me a sassy look, appearing satisfied with herself. “What, nothing to say now?”

“I have plenty to say. Are you going to actually listen now?”

She arches an expectant brow. I cross my arms.

“I don't think about her when I'm pooping.”

Her face falls flat with exasperation. “Yes, you do,” she states dryly. “Also not the point. You've been so far up her ass these past four years, it's a wonder you didn't visit next door to explore her vagina sooner.”

I glance at Junie, who's still too preoccupied to hear Olive’s slipup, then settle a narrow-eyed glare on my ex-best friend. “I'm sorry it's come down to this, but sometimes people just aren't meant to be. You keep the house. We'll set up a visitation schedule for Junie, and be cordial for her sake. And we'll have fond memories of one another moving forward.”

Olive snorts, her eyes glittering with amusement, unfazed by my breakup attempt, and offers a wry, “Cute.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, turning my stare to Bluey. “Mark took care of the tape, and we might be done anyway after last night. Lionel called Reverie, and there were a few revelations.”

The mirth bleeds from her expression, replaced by a serious but gentler stare.

“Okay,” she says softly. “You want to tell me about these revelations?”

With a long-suffering sigh, I repeat the Cliffs Notes version of everything Reverie told me, obviously barring the details of when we were shoving our faces in each other’s genitals prior to Lionel’s phone call.

I can’t even think about that without my stomach flipping and chest squeezing painfully. There have been moments today where I was pissed off purely because I wanted to rewind to that moment so desperately, and I couldn’t.

Olive’s silent for a few long moments while she processes, sightlessly staring at the TV screen. Lionel murdered Olivia after Georgia, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fucking chomping at the bit to hear her thoughts and feelings.

I’d also be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping it’ll help me decide what to feel, too.

When Olive drags her stare back to mine, a light sheen of tears coats them, but she doesn’t appear angry, just sad. “That poor fucking girl.”

I nod, working to swallow, focusing hard on Junie to distract me from thinking about Rev’s story. It’s the wrong move, though, because I instantly realize I’m staring at a little girl almost the same exact age as Reverie when Regina drowned her. It feels like shoving a flamethrower down my throat before flipping it on, the burning waves billowing throughout my insides.

She’s so fucking tiny. Still a baby, for Christ’s sake. And the version of Rev who witnessed the sheer brutality of Georgia’s murder is only three years older than her.

I quickly look away, needing to think of anything else before I explode.

“But that poor fucking boy, too, Kellan,” Olive says quietly, referring to the eight-year-old version of me. I bring my attention back to her.

She doesn’t even care that she’s slipped several times with curse words. Whether it’s distraction or Junie senses it’s not the right time, she keeps her focus pinned to her Busy House.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” she continues. “I won’t sit here and act like that what-if didn’t run through my head too. But it’s just one of a million other what-ifs. What if you made yourself known to Lionel when he came to pick Katherine up? What if you went to your friend’s house like you were supposed to and never saw Lionel, so he was never caught at all? What if I didn’t go to my friend’s house, so my mom would’ve had to stay home from the bar where she met Lionel? What if the entire world believed you? There are endless possibilities for what could’ve happened differently, but none of them change a damn thing.”

I open my mouth to respond, but she interjects, “From the time she was four, Reverie lived every minute feeling threatened in her own home by the two people in the world who were supposed to protect her. She had nowhere else to go but to a place where she lived amongst people who, at one point or another, wanted her dead. Even worse, one of them actually attempted to kill her. Then, she saw exactly what the other was capable of in a way that would deeply traumatize the absolute hell out of the average person. That is a pain and terror neither you nor I will ever understand.”

Dropping my stare to the floor, I clench my jaw and nod my agreement.

“As for you, you lost a mother in a horrific way after losing your dad a few years prior. That pain is one I do understand, and it's a pain I'd only wish on Lionel himself. But what I will never understand is the absolute hell you went through when you accused Lionel. Adults break under half the vitriol you dealt with from eight years old to today. Millions of people harassed, bullied, and outright terrorized you for years, all because you were the only one capable of putting the Locksmith behind bars. No one can take any of that from you. No one can take away your trauma. No one involved can say they had it worse than you. Reverie held on to something that could’ve changed what you went through. Maybe she couldn’t have saved you from it, maybe speaking out wouldn't have changed a single thing—we'll never know. But she never tried, and that’s what hurts you.”

My lungs are strings, and I can't pull in a breath to respond.

She softens her voice further as she says, “What we do know, however, is that if a six-year-old little girl defied a serial killer who, to this day, has outsmarted the fucking FBI, something extremely bad would've happened to her.”

I grind my molars harder, whittling them down to stubs, and nod again.

It's nothing I didn't already understand. I just don't know how to stop hating her, resenting her, when it's all I've done for nearly fourteen years.

“I didn't experience what you did. No one did but you, Kellan. Which means no one can tell you how to feel about it,” Olive says after a few moments of heavy silence.

God, I hate how fucking transparent I am sometimes. It’s a wonder how the world finds me so mysterious when I’ve never been able to hide how I feel—at least not where Reverie’s concerned.

“But if you want my opinion⁠—”

“I do.”

“Let yourself be angry about it, but don’t let it eat you alive. Go home tonight and be angry. Be as furious as you need to be and let yourself feel it. Spiral, rage out, punch a fucking wall or two, do whatever you need to do to get it out of your system. You’re absolutely entitled to that. But once you’ve felt it all, let it go. Both of you were kids, but you lived two entirely different lives with very different traumas, and neither is more or less valid than the other.”

My gaze lifts to Junie, and it’s a fucking punch to the chest seeing how utterly innocent and pure she is. It’s inconceivable picturing Reverie that tiny and experiencing everything she did.

“Two people can hurt at the same time, Kellan,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other, and it doesn’t have to be who hurts worse.”

I blow out a heavy breath before shutting my eyes and thumping my head back against the couch.

This isn’t the first time Olive’s had to talk me down from the edge of insanity. Funny how at the crux of it is always the same fucking blonde who torments me worse than her father ever did, except in a completely different way.

A few minutes pass in silence while I consider Olive’s words.

Part of me wants to pile this resentment on top of the rest and use it to build a fortress around myself, where I can live in its gilded cage forever. But if I’m being honest, I’m so fucking tired of being angry. I’ve been angry for so long, I’ve forgotten how to feel anything else.

Or, at least, I used to forget. Slowly, over the past several weeks, that’s been changing, and even though I’m still battling with the guilt of it, it’s a breath of fresh air, too.

Although it goes against everything I've done since freshman year, Olive’s right. I need to release this burning wrath boiling in the pit of my stomach, and then I need to let it the fuck go.

“So, uh, are you guys dating now?” Olive asks, bringing my focus back to her.

I keep my eyes closed as I mumble, “Define dating.”

I can feel how unimpressed she is, especially because she knows I posted a picture of us online, and I imagine she's staring at me with that same dry expression she always does.

“You’re having S-E-X.”

I can’t help but grin. Having children around undeniably makes these conversations so much more entertaining.

“I believe we established that already.”

She rolls her eyes—I can feel that, too.

“Do you have feelings for each other?”

My smile drops. “Define feelings.”

“Kellan James,” she snaps, impatience tightening her voice into a sharp edge.

I snort. Her mom voice does not work on me, even if she feels like one some days, despite being only three years older.

“I don’t know how to answer that, Olive Piper. There are feelings. I don’t know if they’re all entirely positive.” I let the silence hang for a few beats, resisting saying the words aloud. “I can’t say they’re all negative, either.”

“You’re such a man,” she groans. “So, you’re falling in love with her but you really don’t want to. Got it.”

She might as well have karate chopped the strings holding up my heart, sending it plummeting, only to roundhouse kick me in the stomach. In conclusion, my heart is not where it’s supposed to be, and I’m breathless.

All the other emotions running through me muddle until they’re as clear as brown paint. I can’t discern any of the individual feelings anymore—just that there’s a fucking lot of them.

Attempting to appear unaffected, I peek one eye open. “I never said that.”

She arches a brow and tips her chin down, giving me a look like I should know better.

“You didn’t have to.”

I don’t like that response one fucking bit.

I close my eye. “I think you’re reaching.”

“I think you’re in denial.”

“I think it would be a slap in the face to my mom.”

I didn’t even mean to say that—it flew out of my mouth before I even realized I thought it.

Olive is quiet for a beat. “I think, considering Reverie’s circumstances and what she endured, that’s not true at all.”

I clench my jaw, almost hating how fucking happy it makes me to hear her say that. Even if I don’t know I agree.

“She’s still his daughter.’

“She didn’t choose that for herself, and you know it. You said she wants nothing to do with him, and she’s just as much in danger of him as you are. You think she wants to be his daughter?”

I creak open my eyes to find Olive staring at me with a stern look.

Frowning, I say, “No.”

“And do you think Katherine would’ve punished Reverie for that? Do you think your mom would hold her responsible for Lionel’s crimes?”

My chest aches as I repeat, “No.”

“Then why the hell would it be a slap in the face? She would want you to be happy. And if Reverie can make you happy, then I think she’d make your mom happy, too.”

Insects crawl beneath my skin, and if she keeps talking, I might need to take a vacation from my skinsuit.

I groan and close my eyes again, extremely uncomfortable with this conversation, though more so with the idea of Reverie being someone capable of bringing me happiness. It’s such a foreign concept to consider, it’s jarring and deeply uncomfortable.

Kissing and fucking her was difficult enough, so it’s nearly unimaginable to accept how I could build a future with her—or fall in love with her.

A month ago, I would’ve cried from laughing so hard if anyone suggested for even a millisecond that’d ever happen.

Yet, here I sit, thinking it could fucking happen, except it’s not so funny now.

The couch subtly shifts next to me, as if someone is sitting beside me very carefully. I have a feeling the heavy, fast breathing next to my ear suggests someone is doing exactly that.

Saved by the bell.

A smile cracks across my lips, and I open my eyes, only to jolt when I see Junie kneeling beside me, only two inches from my face.

“Jesus,” I mutter, not expecting her to be that goddamn close. “Ever heard of personal space, kid?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head and giggling. “I dunno what that is. Is that somethin’ you did when you was havin’ S-E-X?”

My mouth pops open, completely stunned.

Olive cackles loudly, but the second she catches sight of my face, she loses it completely, bending over at the waist and laughing so hard, she goes silent and her face turns cherry red.

Meanwhile, I’m floundering and trying to think of a proper response for a goddamn three-year-old.

Nothing comes to mind, so I settle on a dry, “No.”

That only makes Olive laugh harder, and Junie joins in, clueless and only doing it because her mom is.

I let out a heavy sigh and shake my head, though my lips curl upward. The kid has no fucking idea what she even asked, but I will have precisely zero percent involvement in that conversation should she probe further.

When Olive recovers, I flick her a narrow-eyed look that says the words I can’t speak—fuck off.

She continues to chuckle while wiping tears from beneath her eyes. “Oh, my God. I need to check the cameras to see if they caught the look on your face. I’m selling that shit for big money.”

I give her a deadpan glare while Junie crawls onto my lap and settles back against my chest, her focus back on Bluey already. Easily entertained but the attention span of a squirrel.

“That was extremely traumatizing,” I tell her, earning a loud guffaw.

“Just wait. It only gets worse from here, dude. Especially when she actually learns how to spell.”

I gather Junie against me, pressing my cheek into hers, and squeeze tight until she squeals and giggles.

“Nah, she’s staying this little forever. Right, Junie-pop?”

“Nooo,” she draws out, still laughing. “I’m gonna be bigger and stronger than you.”

“Nuh-uh,” I tease in a childlike tone.

“Yes-huh!” she shouts, once again nearly bursting my eardrums. She whips her head around, scarcely missing my nose as she looks up at me with sparkling blue eyes. She boops my nose with her tiny pointer finger. “Don’worry, Kelly-pop. I protect you.”

I grin, though it makes my throat tighten.

My voice is considerably raspier when I say, “I couldn’t ask for anyone better to protect me than you, Junie-pop.”

But there's a distinct voice in the back of my head, pitying Reverie for having no one to protect her later tonight.

Because I'm going to take Olive’s advice.

The only way to truly get over this persistent anger at Reverie is to let myself feel it.

She said to do whatever I needed to do and then let it go.

And I know exactly how I want Reverie to pay—just one last time.

CHAPTER 25

REVERIE

The impenetrable cold sinking into my bones is the first sensation that alerts my subconscious to danger. Something is wrong—very fucking wrong.

The ominous feeling bubbles in the pit of my stomach, and instantly, my heart picks up speed while a cold sweat forms on the back of my neck.

My eyes fly open, but only pitch-blackness surrounds me. I can’t see a thing, but I can feel I’m in a confined space. The air is denser, making it harder to breathe.

Adrenaline floods my system, and my hands fly above me, slamming against cold metal. I realize now that I’m lying on it, too, the surface beneath me uncomfortably hard and unforgiving.

My first thought is that Dread put me back in a grave, but after flailing out my arms, there’s open space on either side of me. I’m not inside a coffin, but I’m inside something.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, the words breathless and cracking with panic.

Chest pumping, I feel around my body, only to let out a breath of relief when I feel my phone protruding from my sweatpants pocket. I don’t know if I fell asleep with it in there or what. I don’t even remember going to sleep.

With trembling fingers, I grapple with the device, fumbling around until the screen lights up and I manage to click on the flashlight.

I instantly regret it.

“No, no, what the fuck,” I whimper, my rounded eyes staring at the body on a metal pan next to me, a white cloth covering them.

My head snaps to the other side, confirming another body on that side.

I’m inside the fucking mortuary rack.

With another whimper, I set my phone on my stomach with the flashlight pointed up and then reach above my head and slam my hands against the door. It’s locked—obviously it’s fucking locked. There are no handles on the inside, because why would there be? The dead don’t get fucking claustrophobic.

“Stupid,” I mutter, grabbing my phone again and searching for Sable’s number. Tremors rack my body, making it difficult to navigate the phone, but I finally click on her contact. Except the phone doesn’t ring, and, with horror, it instantly dawns on me. I look at the corner of the screen to find no signal.

My bottom lip trembles as tears rush to the surface of my eyes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

With Rogue up my ass all day and staying outside the dorm at night, this has to be Dread’s doing.

After he stormed out of the room, I just sat there and cried, contemplating if I should go back to my own dorm or not. Until, that is, I received a text from Rogue twenty minutes later, letting me know Dread’s staying in his room, and he'll be staying the night outside the door to watch over me. I didn't even have the energy to argue or respond. I just went to bed.

Or, at least, I tried to.

I woke up in Dread’s bed earlier this morning, surrounded by his amber and sandalwood scent but feeling so empty and cold with him gone. I was groggy from tossing and turning all goddamn night and barely got a few hours of sleep.

There was another text from Rogue waiting for me, letting me know he’d be skipping his classes to shadow me all day, at Dread’s request.

Which turned out to be entirely annoying, but it was a fight to even keep my eyes open, so I stayed silent while Rogue followed me around. The entire day passed in a blur, ignoring Rogue's attempts at chitchat, moving like a zombie through each class, then later at work.

Sable let me help with some of her embalming duties to get my mind off things, though it didn’t help very much as she hovered around like a mother hen the entire time.

After work, I remember Rogue waiting in the parking lot to tail me the entire way back to Dread's dorm, muttering, “Good night,” before leaving him at his post outside the door, ordering takeout, brushing my teeth, and then… nothing.

My hands dive into my hair and squeeze tight, and I pinch my eyes shut as I rack my brain, attempting to recall if I ate or drank anything aside from my takeout before bed. Unfortunately, my mind is frustratingly erratic, unable to settle long enough to concentrate.

Wait…

Fuck!

I drank a fucking Gatorade, and I thought little of it at the time, but the motherfucker must’ve kept a bottle I tapped with melatonin and ensured it was the last one left in the fridge.

Thank God I only drank half of it, so I’m not too groggy.

It's after two a.m., so it’s Saturday now. Thankfully, the funeral home is open every day, but Lord fucking knows how long it'll take before someone comes into the morgue so I can alert them I'm trapped in here. At the very least, I'll be stuck in here for hours, and that has a cold sweat blooming across my entire body.

“Let me out!” I scream, banging on the door again. “Dread! Let me the fuck out!”

No answer.

My hysteria worsens with each passing second as I struggle to draw in a full breath, involuntary moans and whimpers leaking from my throat. Sweat coats my back and along my hairline, and my muscles tighten to the point of pain.

I need to get control over myself and calm the fuck down, but the second I open my eyes again, I glimpse at the dead body next to me. My chest squeezes, feeling as if my lungs only shrink further.

Normally, the bodies don’t bother me, but being trapped in the mortuary rack with them? My mind gets the better of me, imagining their heads slowly turning to the side to stare at me. Even with the cloth covering their faces, I can vividly imagine their milky white eyes locked on me, a terrifying grin curling their lips.

I move the heel of my palms over my eyes and press tightly, attempting to banish the images from my head.

Calm down, Reverie. Just calm the fuck down. They’re dead. They won’t come alive and fucking eat you.

I repeat that mantra over and over, and while it’s not necessarily relaxing, it gets the creepy image out of my head, which is just enough to keep me from vomiting everywhere.

As the tears begin to bubble out of my eyes and past my palms, I hear a metallic squeak before the door suddenly swings open. I move blindly and scramble off the metal pan as he slides it out. I fall off it and land painfully on my hands and knees while my phone skids across the cement floor. I feel nothing but stark relief, my head bowed as sobs overtake the staggered breaths sawing in and out of my throat.

Dread’s presence is suffocating as he stands over me, his shoes just in my field of vision, eyes peeking through the curtain of hair falling around my face.

“Didn’t take you long to become an asshole again,” I rasp, my entire body trembling from the lingering anxiety.

“Didn’t take you long to give me a reason to be,” he retorts coldly.

I huff out a humorless laugh and straighten to rest my ass on the back of my heels. The pain in my knees flares, demanding my attention now that my adrenaline has depleted.

Dread stares down at me, his expression stoic and devoid of emotion. However, there’s a dark glimmer in his eyes, prompting my heart to sink into the pit of my stomach. I recognize that look—it’s the same one from the night in the pool, when he gave me an impossible ultimatum after learning my father was being released from prison.

He’s furious.

He’s hurting.

And he’s spiraling.

Which means he’s really fucking irrational.

“Kell—”

He’s lunging toward me, hauling me to my feet by my arm before I can blink.

“You want to say my name, darling?” he bites out. “Then let me give you a reason to.”

I gasp, instinctively resisting him. However, it doesn’t faze him, and he’s dragging me out of the small room down the familiar hallway in the funeral home.

I open my mouth to question how the hell he got us in here until I remember I have a spare key on my car keys. Which I left on his desk.

“Dread, stop,” I snap, yanking on my arm uselessly. He ignores me as I fight to keep up with his long strides, stumbling over my feet.

We reach the door at the end of the hallway, and he pushes it open before swinging me inside, releasing me so I trip and fall flat on my ass.

For the second time, the fresh wave of adrenaline keeps me from feeling the pain shooting up my spine. Instead, my attention is on the massive metal structure in the middle of the room, with its square door wide open. Beyond it is the inside of the retort—where they burn the bodies to ash. He brought me to the crematorium, and I don’t need to be a goddamn mind reader to know exactly what he intends to do.

With wide eyes and a heaving chest, I slowly turn back to Dread.

He grins, and I’m staring at the pearly white teeth of the fucking devil.

“Don’t you fucking dar⁠—”

Again, he lunges for me, and I scream as he grabs me, forcing me toward the retort.

I thrash in his arms wildly, clawing at whatever part of his body my hands reach first.

“No, no, no! Let me go!”

He doesn’t, and despite all my kicking, he shoves me inside the brick chamber, leftover ash sticking to my hands and arms. It’s still very warm to the touch, having not completely cooled down yet. Thankfully, we hadn’t used it for the past few days. Otherwise, my clothes would’ve caught fire by now while my skin bubbles and melts.

It's a high-capacity retort, which means the chamber opening is much larger than average, granting me about six inches of space above my head sitting upright and a little less than a foot of space on either side of me, allowing me to twist onto my hands and knees and quickly crawl toward the opening.

Except he stands at the end, blocking me from getting out.

Panicking, I sit on my butt and bring my knees to my chest, prepared to kick the fuck out of him if I need to. He was nice enough to put my coat and boots on for me, and now, I'll thank him by shoving one of them up his ass.

“Dread, let me out,” I demand, my voice trembling.

A small computer stems from the side of the retort, easily within reaching distance of his stupidly long arms. With a push of the red button, he could close the metal door on me, and then if he pushes the black… I’m fucking toast. Literally.

I have no idea how long it takes for this thing to reach its maximum temperature, but I would guess I have a solid two minutes before it’s hot enough to engulf me in flames.

I know he can clearly see the whites of my eyes from how wide they are, but not even a needle tip of sympathy reflects from his face. The fucker looks nothing but amused.

“You’re fucking insane, you know that?” I spit, glaring at him with a heat that would rival the goddamn crematorium. “Burning me alive won’t bring back those women. If it did, I would’ve happily crawled in here myself years ago.”

He leans forward, planting his fists on either side of my hips, getting in my face. I bristle and pointedly bend my spine away from him, derision curling my upper lip.

“Do they haunt you?” he asks, his expression appearing contemplative, but it’s only a mask he wears to hide the demon beneath. “Do you see them everywhere you go, knowing you could’ve saved them and didn’t?”

I try to shove the tears down, but they’re stronger than me. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. My weakness got me into this situation, after all.

“Yes,” I bite out through gritted teeth, hating how blurry my vision becomes. “Every day,” I say truthfully.

Parting his lips, he rolls his tongue in his cheek, his contemplation shifting, as if now, he’s deciding what he wants to do. I can only imagine, with a psychopath like him.

“How long do you think the victims suffered before he ultimately killed them?”

I frown. “I don’t know.”

He cocks his head, black strands falling over his cold eyes while an unsettling smile curls his lips. “I’d love to know what you’d guess. Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? Hours?”

Instead of trying to guess, I consider why he’s asking. There’s always a fucking motive with him.

My heart races, and a sense of foreboding swirls in my stomach. Whatever he’s planning, it might have something to do with time.

I chew on which direction to go with my answer. If I say what I truly believe—that Lionel made them suffer until death was a mercy—it might enrage him further, and knowing it would apply to Katherine only makes matters worse.

What if my answer is how long he’ll keep the oven on with me inside?

But if I say they were quick deaths, that could also backfire if it’s something where I need more time.

“Ten minutes,” I say finally, deciding to aim somewhere in the middle. Less likely to upset him, and if he intends to burn me alive, I’m dead if I choose any number over a couple of minutes, regardless. Anything less, he’d know I’m lying.

He stares silently, seeming to consider my answer. It’s fucking unnerving, and my muscles swell with tension in response.

Seconds tick by, and the surrounding air grows denser until I’m breathing in static. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and I suppress a shudder. I can’t tell if I’ve made a mistake or not, and my panic is steadily increasing with every passing second.

Then, his eyes drop to my lips, and they heat while my stomach upends. The tension shifts, and that one subtle movement is like a lonely sailor praying for company. My body instantly sings, enticing him into my depths.

Nervously, my tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, something his gaze tracks intently.

After a few beats, he slowly drags his eyes to mine, and I sense his intentions instantly.

“You’ve spent your entire life thinking of yourself more than anyone else,” he says softly, briefly flicking his stare down again. “Let’s see if you can spend your last ten minutes thinking only of me.”

My mouth flops while I try to process what the fuck he means. “W-what?”

He straightens, staring down at me like an ant trapped beneath his poised boot, seconds away from crushing me.

“You have ten minutes to make me come,” he explains coldly. “If you fail, then you can stay the night inside with your fucking ghosts.”

I can only gape at him, at a complete loss for what to even think. “Wha— H-how?” I stammer.

He reaches inside the pocket of his joggers and slips out his phone. My heart picks up speed as he opens the stopwatch app and sets the time to ten minutes.

“I’ll let you decide,” he says, setting the device on the edge of the brick chamber, butted up against the interior wall.

I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the screen, his finger poised over the red start button. My heart hammers inside my chest, and panic scrambles all coherent thought into a pile of mush. It takes several seconds before I’m able to force myself to focus.

I’m terrified to argue, scared anything I say will have him either reducing my time or starting it before I’m prepared.

It’s no use negotiating with him. While I’m tempted to kick him in the dick and make a run for it, I’m terrified of what he’ll do if he catches me. The odds of that happening are uncomfortably high, especially when three of my steps amount to one of his.

In conclusion, I’m fucked.

I either give myself up to him or spend the night trapped inside a fucking oven.

The same feelings from the night in the locker room arise. If he wants me to cry and beg him not to fuck me, I won’t give him the satisfaction. Deep down, a sick, twisted part of me craves this, too.

It feels better than when he makes me cry.

“You went through all this trouble because you want to fuck me again? You could’ve accomplished the same goal in your bed.”

He cocks his head, peering at me like I’m a silly little girl. “I think my dorm recognizes your screams well enough to know if they need to call the cops, darling.”

My cheeks burn hot as I glare at him.

Asshole.

I glance to the side of him toward the exit, contemplating if my life is worth kicking him in the dick at least one time. It might just be satisfying enough that I’ll happily accept my death.

“Even if you got incredibly lucky and got away, you can’t run forever,” he drawls lazily, though it still sounds sinister. “And whatever you think will happen when I catch you—it’ll be so much worse.”

That sends a cold chill down my spine.

Working to swallow, I shuffle closer to the edge of the chamber and spread my legs on either side of him, letting them dangle over the edge. Sex or a blow job are my only options, and although I seemed to do well enough a couple of days ago, I’m not as confident on my knees as I am on my back.

His stare burns into me, hotter than the flames he threatens me with. I hesitate for a second longer and then meet his eyes, nearly choking on my tongue when I do.

Jesus, he’s fucking intense.

Even with ink black strands falling over his eyes, the flames crackling within singeing the tiny hairs on my body, merely an appetizer to my impending fate.

“Fine,” I say, my voice hushed and resigned.

Before I think about what I’m doing any deeper than necessary, I shrug off my coat and toss it past him. Then, I pull my arms through each sleeve of my T-shirt and tug it over my head before throwing it on top of my coat. Cool air coerces my exposed nipples into hard peaks, drawing his stare to them.

Next, I toe off each boot, leaving me barefoot, since the shithead didn't bother with putting socks on me. I'm surprised he even bothered with my boots.

Then, I rock side to side as I quickly pull my sweatpants and underwear down past my ass, trying not to cringe as I do. The brick warms my bare skin, but all I can focus on is the fine layer of ash coating the surface.

Thousands of bodies have been cremated in this retort, and this deranged psycho is about to fuck me on top of what remains of them.

This is so completely, undeniably fucked, and I’m definitely going to hell.

I slip the pants down my legs, ensuring to lean back on my tailbone and keep my lower half angled so the ash doesn’t touch any sensitive internal areas.

I would quite literally rather die than allow human remains inside my fucking vagina.

It takes monumental effort to force my thoughts away from what I’m sitting on and focus on the demon before me. How he managed to crawl out of hell, I’ll never know, but if anyone belongs in this chamber, it’s him.

Dread steps back far enough to allow me to kick the clothing off before returning to stand between my spread legs. Exhaling an uneven breath, I lean back on my elbows, the rough brick digging into my skin uncomfortably.

I don’t need to see the hard outline protruding from his joggers to know what he’s feeling. The slow swipe of his tongue across his bottom lip and his hungry eyes eating up the expanse of my naked flesh speak for him.

My blood heats, and a sharp throb pulses in my clit, as if my body crows for his attention. It remembers his touch well, and it’s undeniable how easily he makes me feel good.

His gaze slowly rises, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight into my heart the moment it connects with mine.

“Fuck me, Kellan.” Desire coats my words as thick as it coats the inside of my thighs. His nostrils flare, the silver hoop in his nose glinting in the light, and his hand flexes. “If you want me to think of only you, then give me a reason to scream your name.”

He growls before his palms fly to my hips, roughly tugging me closer to the edge of the chamber, directly against the hard length of his cock, my elbows scraping painfully against the brick. I gasp from both the suddenness and the burning in my elbows, but I’m easily distracted when he rolls his hips against mine. He presses directly into my clit, earning him a raspy moan.

He releases me long enough to quickly pull his hoodie over his head, revealing a masterpiece composed of muscle and inked flesh. Then, he’s squeezing my hips again, though this time, it’s me who grinds against him.

His upper lip curls with pleasure before he’s clamping his teeth into his bottom lip. He drops his gaze to my center and groans deep in his chest. The veins snaking from his neck, down his arms, to his massive hands swelling beneath his skin as he grips me harder, harshly tugging me against him, as if to fuse us together.

It’s effortless how sexy he is, and if I wasn’t already wet before, my pussy is fucking drenched now.

“Do you think this pretty little cunt is going to be enough?” he questions. “What makes you think it’s not like any other pussy I’ve had?”

I try to ignore the twinge of hurt in my chest or the taste of ash on my tongue, as if I licked the brick beneath me. He wants to tear me down—to make my confidence falter. But if Dread didn’t consider sex with me different, I’d already be a pile of ash. He’s not trying to convince me I’m just like any other girl, but himself.

“Because it’s the only pussy you can’t stay away from,” I say boldly.

His jaw tics, confirmation despite keeping his teeth stubbornly glued together.

I arch my spine as he peers at me intently from beneath long, black lashes, thick brows, and those stubborn pieces of hair that always fall forward. It’s a terrifying sight, but also a breathtaking one.

Slowly, I trail my fingers over the planes of my stomach and up to my bare breasts, pointedly ignoring the fine layer of dust coating my hands. I refuse to touch anywhere sensitive, but I can handle ten minutes with the ash on my skin.

“I can’t make you come if you’re not inside me,” I push, just wanting the timer to start so this can be done with. I’m turned on, nervous, and irritated all at once, but even more, I want out of this fucking oven.

One side of his lips curls, the grin almost condescending as he shoves down his joggers and reveals his cock. His size deepens my anxiety, and I pray he doesn’t rip something. There aren’t enough minutes for him to take his time stretching me.

He clicks the red button on his phone, officially starting the countdown. My heart dips, and I have just enough time to inhale before he’s shoving inside me.

I’m plenty soaked, but the intrusion still burns. A strangled noise from my throat mingles with his moan. Pinching my eyes shut, I inhale deeply through my nose, only for him to withdraw and sink inside me deeper, taking my breath away.

Truthfully, when I was convinced Dread and I would never fuck again, a tiny part of me was relieved I wouldn't have to deal with the initial discomfort of him stretching me again. As much of a masochist as I seem to be, this is the type of pain I could live without.

He continues to work himself in, little by little, while I pant heavily, each short breath accompanied by an equally short, rough thrust until he buries every inch inside me.

Normally, I’d want a few seconds to adjust, but the descending numbers blare bright red in the back of my mind, urging me to just get through it.

Swallowing down my discomfort, I cup both breasts in my hands, squeezing them firmly as I bow my spine with a low moan. Streaks of dark gray ash mark my skin, and I wrestle with my brain to just ignore it for now. If I spend too much time fixated on how I’m dirtying myself with human remains, I’ll end up spending the entire night with them.

Dread offers a gracious half second before he’s retreating and slamming back inside me, pulling a sharp whimper from my throat. The brick scrapes against my back, but the little pricks of pain travel straight to my core.

He sets an even, steady pace, chasing away the discomfort and coaxing out the pleasure in its place with ease.

“Fuck, Kellan, that feels so good,” I whimper, my lashes fluttering as my chin tips back.

I grapple with the decision to just let him fuck me like normal or attempt to speed up the process and find something different to say. If I don’t, I risk him holding out for longer than ten minutes, but if it sounds fake or overdramatic, I risk turning him off completely.

One idea comes to mind—one confession. Even the thought of sharing it agitates the butterflies in my stomach, but Dread is fucking stubborn and will do whatever he needs to win. I quickly lick my lips, hesitating to let the words rise on my tongue.

I glance at the timer on his phone and see a minute and a half has already passed, my heart surging with adrenaline.

“The first time I came while fantasizing about you was freshman year,” I admit, my voice small and shaking.

His hips freeze for a moment, and his stare snaps to mine. Shock with a hint of suspicion swirls within, as if he isn’t sure if I’m lying. I don’t pretend to be lost in the throes of pleasure and instead allow him to see my shame and embarrassment. I give him the truth.

“I-I was in my room and using my vibrator,” I continue.

After another second of hesitation, he moves again, his gaze locked on my face. The previous burn in my core relocates to my cheeks, making it feel like my head has burst into flames.

I’m fucking nervous as hell, but a euphoric buzzing beneath my skin overwhelms my entire lower half, down to the tips of my toes. I want to grind back against him, beg for more, but I force myself to focus on a secret I subconsciously swore I’d take to the grave.

I suppose I’m not breaking that promise, considering I am in my grave.

“Earlier that day was the first time I’d actually watched you swim on TV. Th-they were going over your highlights from a national championship, and I saw the clip of you s-standing by the pool, waiting for your t-turn.” A small moan interrupts the last word, and his jaw clenches while the veins in his body seem to swell further.

I gasp, losing focus as he slams into me roughly, clearly affected by my words. It’s enough to convince me to keep spitting out the confession.

“I-I hated how beautiful you looked, and I couldn’t get the image out of my head. So, I pictured you between my legs, watching me use my vibrator.”

“Fuck,” he curses beneath his breath, and his grip on my hips surpasses bruising.

Again, he roughly slams inside me, earning a sharp whimper from my throat.

His reaction spurs me on, giving me the confidence I need to tell him the details.

“You had just said s-something cruel to me that morning, but I-I didn’t care at that moment. All I wanted was for you to see how wet I was.” I moan again, my hands squeezing my breasts as he fucks me harder. “H-how I str-struggled to keep the tip on my clit because I was so slippery.”

Growling, he releases my hips and leans forward enough to plant his closed fists on either side of me. His chin drops, and the muscle in his jaw pulses, seeming to struggle himself as he pounds into me, making it nearly impossible to think straight. To get a sound out that isn’t a cry of pleasure.

“I moaned your name,” I squeak out, one hand flying to his strained forearm before digging my nails deep until crescent moons form in his skin, needing something to anchor me while he threatens to send me flying. “Over and over, while I imagined you l-leaning down to lick the inside of my pussy, then up to m-my clit.”

“Rev,” he snarls, and it sounds like a warning. One I don’t dare heed.

“I tried to pull it away, but I came t-too quickly and couldn’t s-stop it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, tilting his head away as if to shut me out. It only makes me talk more, spilling the sordid details of a moment that haunts me to this very day. It was the day that began a fucked-up habit I desperately tried to shake.

Except I never fucking could, and now that I’ve had him inside me, I don’t know if I ever will.

“It wasn’t enough,” I breathe out. “So I g-got my dildo⁠—”

“Fucking Christ, stop,” he hisses beneath his breath.

“—and I fucked myself with it, pretending it was y-you.”

He shakes his head as if to physically throw my words out of his brain. He forces himself to slow his pace, retreating slowly and then slamming inside me with a punishing thrust. Each time, a sharp cry releases from my throat while his grunts border on a growl.

He glowers down at me, wild black strands falling over his eyes, wide lips parted.

“Did I say dirty things in your ear?” he rasps, unable to help himself. He needs me to stop, but he can’t stand to make me.

I nod eagerly, my eyes rolling when he hits a spot that has my pussy clenching.

“Tell me what I said,” he demands roughly, his voice sounding more beast than man.

He looks like he doesn’t want to know so he can hold out, but it doesn’t seem like he can help himself.

I lick my lips, the confession coming out easier now that his control is slipping.

“You told me how good my—my pussy feels wrapped around you.”

“It feels so fucking good,” he moans, though I’m not sure he meant to respond. The words tumble out faster than I can think.

“I-I tried to tell you to slow down, and you told me I need t-to take it like a good little slut.”

“You are my fucking slut,” he spits.

My stomach flips wildly as my vision darkens. “S-so I told you how much I hate you,” I say, my voice cracking. “And it made you fuck me f-faster.”

“And do you, baby? You hate me?”

“Yes,” I groan. “I hate you so much.”

He hums, a deep, rumbling sound from his chest, and his pace quickens again. Just like in my fantasy, the proclamation spurs him on.

“Is that what you think?”

“Uh-huh,” I whimper, pinching my nipples and sending a jolt of electricity down my spine that has it arching off the brick. “I hate you even when you make me come, and you’ve made me come so much more than you’ll ever know.”

Cursing beneath his breath, he grabs my hips to jerk me closer, earning a sharp squeal when the brick scrapes against my back again. Then, he pins my knees against my chest, hitting a new angle. My mouth drops open, my cries pitching even higher as he relentlessly pounds into me.

He settles a fiery glare on me, though it’s not anger in his eyes, but something far more intense.

“How many times, Rev? Huh? How many times did you play with your cunt while thinking of me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, once again hesitating to answer.

“Tell me, baby. I need to know,” he pleads, sounding tortured. My stomach tightens, and the pleasure intensifies until the last of my logic and reason abandons me.

“I-I lost count,” I gasp.

The sound out of his throat is inhuman, and it brings a devilish smile to my lips.

“It was also the first time I squirted when I came⁠—”

“Fuck!” His fist flies out to hit the brick before barking, “Shut the fuck up, Rev.”

I can only manage a short, breathless laugh, delighting in the way he’s so desperate to remain unaffected yet is quickly unraveling.

Ignoring the thin trail of blood leaking down his knuckles, he reaches between my legs and pinches my clit hard. My hips jolt from the shot of pain, only for it to send a pulse of pleasure straight to my core. My eyes roll, and my spine arches again as I cry out, skyrocketing me to the precipice.

“Still funny, baby?” he questions harshly.

I don’t know what my response would’ve been, but the moment the pad of his thumb circles my clit firmly, my tongue derails and emits a choked sound instead.

Even when I’m consumed by pleasure, there's a tiny voice in the back of my head grateful his fingertips haven't touched the ash, otherwise, touching my clit might've freaked me out enough to ruin our progress. And with such a limited time left, that's not something I can afford.

My muscles swell with tension, and my hand releases his other arm to fly back to my breast, squeezing them both tight as I writhe against him.

I’m so close, and while I can feel him losing control, I need to ensure he falls with me.

“Fuck, Kellan, this is so much better than anything I imagined,” I whimper.

“Fuck you,” he spits breathlessly, and while he sounds positively demonic, it lacks the heat he threatens me with.

He’s fighting with everything he has not to come, proven by his furrowed brow and the way his upper lip continuously twitches into a snarl, baring his clenched teeth. But he can’t contain the moans slipping past them, or how he trembles, even as he relentlessly fucks me.

I don’t give myself time to consider if it will work—I just act. I sit up, forcing him to release my thighs so I can spread them before molding my chest into his and wrapping my legs around his waist.

Diving my fingers into his hair, I grip tight and crush my lips against his before he can process what I’m doing. His pace slows for only a second before it renews with vigor, and he deepens the kiss with a moan.

My stomach flips wildly, convinced I’m caught on a roller coaster rather than trapped in the arms of a monster. It’s breathtaking, dizzying, and incredibly dangerous. So easily, I could let him sweep me up with the flick of his tongue.

I rip myself away before I get lost in him, though I can’t resist when he chases after me with a needy whimper, capturing my lips a second time in another searing kiss. One hand fists my hair, holding me against him as his tongue tangles with mine, sending an electric current down my spine. The other wraps around my throat, squeezing just enough to make me almost forget my purpose.

For just a moment, I allow it, letting him devour me while I drop my hands to his broad shoulders then drift them over his firm chest and down his sculpted abs. All the while, his muscles ripple beneath my palms, and a tremor racks his body.

When our lips part an inch and he settles his forehead against mine, I bite back the words just a little longer. Because this doesn’t feel like hate anymore—it’s the complete opposite, and I’m selfish and greedy and want to enjoy it while I have it.

He shifts his hips slightly, hitting a spot that has my thighs quaking violently.

“Ah, Kellan,” I pant breathlessly. “Right there, right there.”

His hand tightens around my throat, and while he picks up his pace a little, he continues hitting that blissful spot. The wet, sticky noises between us grow louder as I become wetter, and that familiar pressure in my bladder arises.

“Yeah? Like that, baby?”

I nod eagerly, my eyes threatening to cross. “Uh-huh, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Brow furrowed, he feeds me sexy, needy moans with every rough thrust, and I swallow them down greedily while continuing to roam my hands over his incredible body. Light dustings of gray ash cling to the fine sheen of sweat coating our skin, but neither of us spares it a single thought, too focused on one another.

I’m losing focus as quickly as I’m losing time, but I know he’s just as close as I am. I never want it to end, but he’s forcing me toward the edge.

With a groan, I tilt my chin up, and groan, “Kellan.”

He shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers, sensing my intention. He knows whatever I say next is it for him, and while I’m not convinced he wants to kill me, I know he can’t stand to lose to me, either.

But I can’t afford to risk my life just to see if he really can live without me.

So, I give him the last piece of my confession—the piece I was desperately hoping I could keep for myself.

“I c-could never get you out of my head,” I pant out.

“No more,” he pleads, but he can’t stop the momentum any more than I can.

His hand moves from my throat to my nape while the other releases my hair to grab my hip. Then, he tilts his head to place open-mouthed kisses up my neck. I inhale sharply and shudder violently when his teeth reach my bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth and biting harshly in an attempt to silence me.

I reach up and twist his nipple between my fingers, causing him to jolt in surprise, allowing my lip to slip free.

“Fucking brat,” he hisses beneath his breath.

“I tried s-so hard, but I was addicted to you. It got so bad that I s-stopped being able to come at all unless I thought of you. I… I still can’t.”

The noise that comes out of his mouth sounds tormented, stricken with both frustration and approval.

Then, he bites out, “I hate you so much.”

I hear the words, yet they sound like a different confession.

He releases my hip to dive his hand between my legs and firmly circles my clit.

It’s all I need to go somersaulting over the edge, and whether he comes with me is no longer my concern.

“Oh my God, Kellan!” I cry out, my legs snapping tighter around his hips, imprisoning him inside me as I explode around him.

My vision blackens just as I feel my inner walls contract around his cock. I come so hard, not even a decibel of sound makes it past the storm sweeping through my insides for several long moments. Vaguely, I feel him lift his lips back to mine with a tortured moan. And then the dam breaks, my throat vibrating from the force of my screams. Sightlessly, my hands fly to his neck, digging my nails in deep as I senselessly grind against him. I’m blinded, practically climbing his body, desperate to be close to him.

Even in the dark, I still can’t let him go.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants hoarsely, his lips moving over mine, just out of reach.

He slams into me a final time, followed by a series of loud, staccato moans. He grinds his pelvis against mine while his hands grapple with different parts of my body, as if he’s looking for something to keep him grounded and failing miserably.

And I’m glad for it. He doesn’t get to stay rooted while I fly through the stars.

His forehead rests against mine as we both seize as our cries engage in a war of their own, fighting to drown out the other.

The orgasm ebbs just as my voice gives out. He captures the last outcry with his lips, sweeping me away in another dizzying kiss. It ends too soon, though part of me is thankful. I can’t fucking breathe, and even as my chest heaves, my lungs feel too tight to inhale properly.

By the time I come down completely, I’m lightheaded, and my head feels like it’s filled with a swarm of bees.

Dread slumps forward, head bowed on my shoulder, his hands back to caging me in at my hips. Not even a second later, his alarm goes off, indicating the ten minutes are complete.

I’m too focused on recovering to feel relief, but it exists somewhere beyond the hum of bliss beneath the surface of my skin.

Dread shuts off the alarm then pulls out with a grunt, a rush of liquid instantly drenching my inner thighs. The silence is loud, but my thoughts have no trouble speaking up now that clarity is setting in.

Sweat and ash dirty our hair and coat various parts of our bodies. I look at my naked skin, finding small gray handprints over my breasts, along with streaks of gray all over my thighs. I’m positive the ash also covers the entire backside of my body. A lump rises in my throat, but I quickly shove those thoughts away before I panic.

Instead, I focus on a different reason to lose my mind.

For the third time, he manipulated me into sleeping with him. The first two times, I tried to convince myself I didn’t enjoy it. This time, I’m having trouble convincing myself it wasn’t so much more than just sex.

To make it worse, I told him something I’ve refused to confess to myself for years. From the first time I fell victim to those invasive thoughts of Dread while masturbating, I instantly pushed what I had done out of my head and refused to think about it. At least until the next time rolled around, and it happened again.

And again, and again.

I wouldn’t allow myself to consider what it meant or why he affected me that way. It was a secret I kept even from myself, and blabbing it to Dread is making it very hard to go back to pretending this dark side of me that only comes out when I’m alone doesn’t exist.

By the time I force myself from my quickly unraveling mind, Dread has already righted his joggers and pulled his hoodie back on.

I bite my lip and wrap my arms around my breasts, feeling awkward, mortified, and full of hope that he assumes everything I said was all a lie to make him come and never bring it up again.

I’m desperate to redress, yet I’m paralyzed, hoping he just leaves.

He bends to scoop up my clothes, and when he straightens, our eyes meet, and my hope fizzles out like a firecracker.

Instantly, I drop my gaze as my face heats. I’m too embarrassed to hold it, and I think I’d rather crawl farther inside the chamber and die than talk about what just happened.

I’m naked, covered in human fucking remains, and have his cum coating the inside of my thighs. I’m already at rock bottom, but Dread loves digging holes and shoving me further down when I thought I was at my lowest.

“When was the last time?” he asks quietly, tossing my clothes at my chest. I’m instantly grateful to have some coverage from his probing stare.

“I think you got enough from me tonight, don’t you?” I mutter, pointedly avoiding his gaze and brushing ash from my thigh. I only smudge more onto my skin.

“I’ll never get enough,” he retorts. I clench my teeth, hating how that makes my stomach flip.

“Answer the question, Rev.” His voice deepens in warning, and while I hate to obey him, I’m also really fucking exhausted and just want him to leave.

At least then, I can have some peace and fucking quiet while I wallow in my own self-loathing before calling an Uber to take me back to my dorm. Fuck staying at Dread's—I can't stand to sleep in his bed without him anymore. If Rogue wants to sleep outside the door again, the hallway in my building isn't any different than in Dread's.

More than anything, I’m desperate for a scalding hot shower and my bed.

“After you left me in the hotel,” I answer quickly, my tone hardened with impatience and annoyance. “You got a picture memorializing it, remember?”

Which I really fucking wish I didn't send now. Clearly, I lost my damn mind.

“How often?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes to the ceiling of the chamber. I think I regret not letting him burn me alive.

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “It’s not like I was fucking counting.”

“I think you know damn well how often you’ve been playing with your cunt for the last four years. Don’t play fucking stupid, Reverie,” he snaps.

My frustration grows to the point of tears burning the backs of my eyes. Anger takes precedence over my shame, and I drop my chin and glare at him.

His fingers are curled tightly into his palms, the muscle in his jaw pulses, and his nostrils flare. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or turned on—sometimes, they look the same.

“A few times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less,” I bite out. “Happy?”

One second, he’s across the room, and the next, he’s prowling toward me, eating up the space between us in a few long strides. I flinch as he gets in my face, planting his hands on either side of my legs and leaning in.

I stop breathing.

“You fucked three men from school,” he states. It’s not a question—he knows this for a fact.

My mouth flops, and I blink several times before I find my words. “How do you even know that?”

“And I’m sure you fucked more when you’d run away all summer break. Did you think about me when they were inside you?” he asks, ignoring my question. “Did you pretend it was me fucking you?”

His stare is intense, and while I don’t exactly know how to interpret the emotion in his eyes, I do know it has my heart racing and electricity humming beneath my skin.

Fire blooms in my cheeks, and I work to swallow, but it feels like a chunk of bread has gotten caught in my incredibly dry throat.

I clear it, a sad attempt to buy more time while I chew on my response: a lie or the truth.

His eyes narrow, sensing my internal battle. “Tell me the fucking truth, Rev.”

I drop my gaze to my lap.

“Sometimes,” I whisper, the admission breaking off my tongue.

Fuck.

I decided to lie, yet that’s not what came out of my goddamn mouth.

You’re such an idiot.

His bottom lip finds itself between his teeth, and now, it seems like he’s chewing on my response.

“And the other times?” he pushes after a moment, his voice considerably rougher. “When you didn’t?”

I don’t know why I answer. He doesn’t deserve it.

I flick a glance at him. “Then I didn’t come.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh and pushes away from me. He nods to himself and starts to turn, but he stops to pin me with a stare I still can’t comprehend, his bottom lip back between his teeth. He sort of looks pissed, but he also sort of looks like he wants to pin me down and fuck me all over again.

He shakes his head, seeming to make a decision I’m not aware of, and turns to leave.

“I'm going back to my own room,” I call, stopping him in his tracks, though he keeps his back turned from me.

I'm convinced he's not going to respond until I hear his low voice.

“I'll let Rogue know so he can keep watch outside your door.”

My heart squeezes, and I don't know why it hurts so much that he's okay with me going back to my own dorm, but it fucking does, and I hate him for it.

He takes another step to leave, but there's a stupid part of me that can't seem to let him go yet.

“Hey,” I call sharply, prompting him to pause once again, twisting his torso just enough for his frosted eyes to find mine. “You could’ve easily killed me, maybe even gotten away with it. Why didn't you just let me burn? It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?”

The muscle is his jaw pulses, and after a few beats, he murmurs, “If I did, I think we both know I would’ve followed you into the flames.”

Before I can respond, he turns away, his tone resolute. “Go home to your dorm tonight, Rev.”

Then, he walks out of the door, leaving me to sit naked in a chamber of human remains.

CHAPTER 26

REVERIE

It’s funny how I have little will to live, yet I cling to life with a fucking hulk-like grip. 

I should’ve told Dread to burn me in the damn crematorium when I had the chance. It’d be painful, but a fairly quick death, at least.

I lost my chance, though.

It’s been exactly a week since he left me naked in the retort. As soon as he was gone, I gathered my clothes, found my phone abandoned by the mortuary rack after I fell off the pan, and went to the restroom to wipe off the ash as best I could before getting dressed. 

By the time I finished, he’d already texted informing me of the Uber waiting outside to take me back to my dorm. He left me there, naked, and then flew out to North Carolina later that same Saturday morning for some swim training thing with Team USA. 

So here I sit, twenty-two years old and still terrified of the boogeyman living in my childhood home.

The news channel plays softly from the small TV on my dresser across the room, but it fades into the background as I sit on the edge of my bed, staring down at the photo of me and Lionel from when I was five. Three days ago, it fell out of my backpack when I was pulling out a few textbooks, rolled up with another photo and a chunk of blonde hair tied around them like a bow, the follicles still attached to most of the strands.

I don’t know who put them there, or even when, but I’ve only told Barry and Sable. 

Well, I didn’t tell Barry about the photos. I knew he’d send an officer to collect them from me, and selfishly, I didn’t want anyone taking them. So when the officer from the Hollow Canyon PD stopped by the funeral home that same night, I only gave him the hair. I should tell Barry about them, but he’s seen both images before anyway—one from Lionel’s old Facebook, and the other from Margaret Lever’s case file.

Deep down, I know I’m holding on to them to punish myself. I bite my trembling bottom lip as I run my thumb over my small face in the picture, feeling like I’m looking at someone else entirely. Except, I know it’s me, because even though I’ve aged and changed, my haunted eyes have always looked the same.

It was taken on June 6th, 2008, digital numbers marking the date in the corner of the picture. Lionel crouches down behind me while I stand between his knees, both of his arms wrapped around me as the two of us smile. My blonde hair is fastened into pigtails high on my head with neon green hair ties with those huge baubles on the end, and I’m dressed in a bright pink T-shirt with purple butterflies all over, neon blue leggings covered in lemons, a rainbow-striped tutu over top, and bright fire engine red rainboots with yellow polka dots.

A fascinating ensemble, yet my attention is locked on to the bright pink cast encasing my arm and thumb, covered in black Sharpie signatures.

I don’t remember picking out my outfit, but I do remember playing at the park that day. It was a minute drive down the road from our house, and Lionel would take me there several times a week to give my mom a break from me.

One of the other kids, Raymond Lever, used to pick on me relentlessly, and his mother, Margaret, was great at flirting with my dad but terrible at disciplining her child. Her favorite thing to say to excuse Raymond’s behavior: ‘Boys will be boys. If he’s mean to you, it just means he likes you.’

The only one who could get Raymond to leave me alone was Lionel himself. The little boy would straighten up immediately once he got involved, and it always made Margaret swoon to see the big, burly man she had a crush on playing daddy to her fatherless child. 

Four days prior to this picture, Raymond challenged me to a race to the top of the slide. Whoever went down it first won. I beat him there, of course, and was in the middle of sitting to slide down it when Raymond came up behind me and shoved me, angry he lost. I tumbled straight off the side and hit the ground ten feet below, landing awkwardly on my wrist and breaking it.

Lionel was enraged. Margaret apologized profusely, embarrassed at her son’s actions but desperate for Lionel not to be angry with Raymond—or, rather, her. I sat in the back seat, cradling my wrist and crying, while Margaret stood outside the driver’s door, attempting to reason away her son’s behavior again. The last thing I heard before Lionel slammed his car door shut and rushed me to the hospital was Margaret pleading with him.

“He didn’t mean it, Lionel. You know boys will be boys. He’s only rough with her because he has a crush on her. Lionel, he’s sor⁠—”

My mom was livid and didn’t want Lionel taking me there anymore, and I had a meltdown over it. I loved that park and didn’t want the stupid boy to think he got the better of me. So when she finally gave in and let me go back, I must’ve picked out a crazy outfit to celebrate my return.

When we arrived, I felt like such a badass. Raymond mumbled an insincere apology to me and was ostracized by the other kids, who all signed my cast and treated me like a warrior princess who survived an attack by the big, scary dragon.

It was the best day I ever had at the park, and also the last time I saw Raymond and his mom. He went to live with his estranged father in Florida after Margaret went missing later that night. He left for a sleepover with his grandmother so she could have the house to herself. According to Margaret’s sister, she was cooking dinner for her first date with an unknown man, though she wouldn’t say who—not until she was sure he’d leave his wife for her.

Except, no one ever saw Margaret again.

My last memory of her is her bright, pink-painted lips stretched into a wide smile, the top half of her face concealed by Lionel’s camera as she snapped a photo of him crouched behind me, hugging me tightly. I remember staring at a strand of her black curly hair sticking to her lipstick, and how she was so happy Lionel was letting her make up Raymond’s mistake to him with a home-cooked meal.

Two weeks later, her remains were discovered outside of a shelter for women escaping domestic violence relationships. Boys will be boys.

The news reporter's voice from the TV filters in, the vague sound of ‘Locksmith’ snapping me back to the present. I blink and bring my focus up to the screen displaying a picture of a mid-sized woman. She looks young, maybe in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair reaching to her shoulders, round blue eyes, and a wide smile with slightly crooked teeth.

I grab the remote beside me and turn up the volume.

“A neighbor of Jennifer Holbrook reported last seeing her at five o’clock Valentine’s Day night, heading to her car and seeming to be dressed for a date. That is, until yesterday morning, when a nurse at the Blackwood assisted living facility found part of Jennifer’s remains in the back seat of her car. Investigators later discovered the rest of Jennifer’s remains strewn across several unlocked cars in the facility’s parking lot, most of the vehicles belonging to staff. Police still have not provided Jennifer’s cause of death or the details surrounding it, but many believe we’re dealing with yet another victim of the Locksmith.”

Barry told me about her a few days ago, though I’m struggling to even remember the days right now. He didn’t get to say much before he was pulled off the phone, only that he believes Lionel to be responsible. I’m sure the internet is full of articles about it, but admittedly, my brain has been checked out since I woke up in a fucking crematorium.

The camera cuts to the news anchor standing in front of Blackwood, dressed in a thick royal blue peacoat while she reports on statements left by several staff members who discovered Jennifer’s remains in their back seats.

However, her voice dims beneath a low ringing in my ear, gradually building in intensity.

Vomit flirts with the back of my throat as I drop my eyes to the photo. Lionel and I fade away, and the background behind us comes into focus. Specifically, a rectangular, acid-washed stone sign with black lettering on the corner of the street, directly across from the park.

The ringing persists, joined by the heavy thump of my heart. I lift my stare to the TV again just as the camera focuses on the news anchor and the woman she’s interviewing, standing beside the sign to the nursing home. Written across the acid-washed stone in bold black letters: Blackwood Assisted Living. 

My lips part as I look beyond their heads, finding a flash of what looks like a bright yellow slide.

Back and forth, my eyes pinball between the picture and the TV screen, but no matter how many times I confirm what’s in the photo is mirroring what’s on the screen, my brain refuses to accept it as real.

Stunned, I grab my phone and open up the message thread with Barry, scrolling back until I find the text. He sent it around seven a.m. Eastern time last Sunday, six days ago.

Barry: Morning, sweetheart. Today is already off to a terrible start, but I wanted to check in still and see how you’re doing. Will call later if you have a minute. Love you.

Later that night, he told me about Jennifer Holbrook’s body being discovered at Blackwood.

I look down at the photo of Lionel and me, taken by Margaret Lever, which has the Blackwood sign clearly in the background. Then I slide the picture away to reveal the second photo beneath—the one I can barely fucking stand to look at.

A crime scene photo of chopped-up body parts that were left outside of a women’s domestic violence shelter. Front and center is the severed head of the woman, and while her features have changed from decomposition, her black curly hair and traces of bright pink lipstick stained over the lips give her identity away—Margaret Lever.

I received these photographs three days ago.

They were rolled up and wrapped in blonde hair.

My hands tremble, and the ringing in my ears becomes shrill as I look up to the TV screen again. As if some divine being decided to do me a favor, the news station cuts to the same image of Jennifer Holbrook smiling at the camera.

She has blonde hair.

What… the fuck.

For several moments, I completely lose time and stare mindlessly at the screen while I try to make sense of what the fuck is happening. The scattered puzzle pieces in my brain slowly move, shifting and clicking into place until the full picture begins to emerge.

I blink and scramble off my bed to rush over to my desk. I sit down and set the photos aside. Then, I grab the first notebook I find and a pencil, flip to a blank page, and write out the timeline of events.

Mindy Sackler went missing on February 5th. February 6th, I received the first note from Lionel demanding I come home, along with a pink barrette. On the 7th, Gabi Loren accused me of having something to do with Mindy’s disappearance. That same day, I searched through Mindy’s photos and found a picture of her wearing the very same pink barrette I received with the note.

On the 10th, I came home to find my dorm room trashed, with a newspaper clipping and another note demanding I come home stabbed into my desk, and a chunk of black curly hair beside them.

Dread refused to let me go to California, and truthfully, I was too much of a fucking coward to go, anyway.

So, on the 14th, Jennifer Holbrook goes missing. Then on the 20th, Lionel calls me. I ask him about Mindy, the dating profile, and all his little gifts, but he plays innocent and asks me to come home again, specifically stating that he has been very patient.

Maybe it was an olive branch, a way of sending me one last warning before I suffer more consequences, but I, of course, don’t fucking go.

The 23rd comes around, and Barry informs me Jennifer Holbrook’s remains were discovered that morning at Blackwood. On the 26th, I receive two photos, one taken by Margaret Lever with Blackwood pictured in the background, and the other of the crime scene photos of Margaret’s remains. And wrapped around them was a chunk of blonde hair.

I set down my pencil and sit back in my chair, my stomach twisting as a mixture of disbelief, horror, and guilt floods my system.

He’s been sending me messages to come home while warning me not to defy him, and each time I did it anyway, there was a consequence. But what’s even more sickening is how he’s doing it—by playing fucking twisted, mind games, sending me warnings that I couldn’t possibly understand unless I disobeyed, all the while purposely misleading me.

I had no goddamn idea who the pink barrette belonged to until after I didn’t heed Lionel’s first request. Then, not only did I not heed it, he saw my transfer papers to London and knew I was actively trying to escape him. So he trashed my dorm as punishment, and gave me a newspaper clipping lamenting about what a wonderful father he was, along with a bundle of black curly hair. Except, I thought it was Roxi’s, and he fucking knew I would assume it belonged to her.

But now, with the crime scene photo laid out before me, he’s showing me it was actually Margaret’s, who was the mother of the little boy who bullied me and broke my wrist. Lionel laid her hair next to the article as if it’s proof of him being a good father for killing my bully’s mother.

And how fucking ironic that is.

Regardless, I still refused him, so Jennifer Holbrook’s death was my next punishment.

He gave me these two specific photos not only to give me the answers I was missing—who the black hair belonged to, and why next to a newspaper article praising him as a father—but to show me how easy it is for him to fuck with me. Proven by him spreading Jennifer’s remains at the location pictured in the background of the photo Margaret took of us.

He didn’t even need to leave a note this time. We both know I’m well aware of what he wants. And the blonde hair he gifted is yet another warning. Especially because, unlike Margaret’s hair, he left the follicles attached to the strands this time, meaning he wanted Barry to be able to trace the DNA.

Which, in itself, is slightly terrifying.

All I know is it can’t be Mindy’s—she has dark brown hair, though it’s extremely unsettling that she’s been missing longer than Jennifer, yet no one has discovered her remains. 

It’s intentional. But why?

She can’t possibly still be alive. Based on the autopsies of every known victim from both the Locksmith and copycat, they were all killed within two days of the dates they disappeared.

However, Mindy is different. Neither the Locksmith nor the copycat has killed anyone outside of California before. If Lionel were to publicly dispose of her remains, whether it’s in Colorado or California, it would be instantly tied back to her attendance at mine and Dread’s school. Obviously, that would make Lionel look really suspicious, which is likely why he created the dating profile, a fail-safe to lead people to believe I had something to do with her disappearance rather than him.

It’s still a risk and likely to make people question Lionel regardless, considering I’ve never been suspected of killing anyone before. So, why would I wait until now? If my only motivation is to make people think it was Lionel and connect him to the Locksmith, even if only to cast doubt on him and ruin his pretty reputation, why would I purposely model the fake profile to look like me taking after him?

Maybe Mindy is alive. Maybe he killed Jennifer as a punishment—but within the safety of Locksmith territory—so he could keep Mindy as a last resort. A warning he’ll ultimately follow through with should I push him far enough.

There’s only one way to find out, and the answer is in California.

Groaning, I prop my elbows on my desk and drop my head into my hands, an ache forming between my brows and throughout my neck and shoulders. All this stress and tension is taking a toll on my body. I’m only twenty-two, yet I’m beginning to feel like I’m in the body of an eighty-year-old.

The thought of returning to that house and living out the rest of my life under his roof makes me want to fucking die. With each passing day, I’m starting to wonder if I just should get it over with. As long as Lionel is alive and well, I will always have one foot in the grave. How I fall in is a matter of who says fuck it first—him or me.

A loud, quick rap on my door startles me out of my thoughts. I just barely bite back a scream, and earn a bonus of biting my damn tongue, too.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, my heart pounding a mile a second while my tongue pulses.

Exhaling heavily, I get to my feet and stomp toward the door. I’m pretty fucking sure I know who it is, and I’m already groaning again before even swinging the door open.

Yup.

Exactly who I thought it was.

“For the actual love of God, can you two please leave me alone?”

“No can do, sweet cheeks,” Rogue sings, his grin taking up half his stupid-ass face. He may be a beautiful specimen of a human being, but it does nothing but piss me off.

“And here I thought you guys were done torturing me,” I grumble.

He grins. “It’s a natural ability of mine.” He spreads his arms out to his sides. “Come on, it’s our last day together before your man comes home.”

My upper lip curls with distaste.

‘My man’ left me sitting naked in an oven, covered in human remains—which is exactly why he’ll never be my man.

I still don’t feel clean.

Once I got home from the crematorium that night, I took the longest and hottest shower of my life, nearly scrubbing my skin raw to rid myself of the feeling of the ash coating my skin.

I also held my breath for two hundred and four seconds.

By the time I got out, I was so exhausted, I didn't even have the energy to acknowledge Rogue, who was waiting for me outside the showers, looking every bit as tired as I was.

I slept until almost noon that Saturday, only to wake up to a string of texts from a new group chat called ‘1 girl, 2 cocks.’ Rogue and an unknown number were texting back and forth, and, amongst all the blabbering, I discovered the other person was Severen, who joined Rogue as a babysitter for the week while Dread is training.

The two of them took shifts with me, passing me back and forth like one of those flour babies my home econ teacher assigned us to care for in high school.

They followed me around everywhere, not allowing me out of their sight except for restroom breaks and showers. At night, they continued to stay right outside my door, which inevitably attracted all sorts of attention. They were already questioning why Rogue slept outside of it those couple of nights before Dread left, so when Severen popped up, they started treating the hallway like it was a fucking catwalk, hoping to take one of them to their rooms instead.

It didn't work, and truthfully, it's surprising Rogue hasn't complained once about having to reject them.

Both laughed in my face when I offered them to sleep on my floor, citing how they’re attached to their dicks and not willing to risk losing them for me.

Valid, but I still felt bad.

Purely against my will, I learned way too much about them. Like Rogue’s yearly trip to Tennessee, where he enters a food challenge requiring him to eat one hundred of the hottest wings within twenty minutes. The prize is free food for a year, and he hasn’t won yet, but he swears this year is the year.

Or the fact that Severen calls his grandma every day to tell her all about his romance novels. Apparently, she's who got him into reading. Except now, he yaps to me about them too. He's currently reading a small-town romance series, and, admittedly, I’m one thousand percent invested in it.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t understand why they’re so willing to put their lives on hold to babysit me for Dread until they spent two hours one night texting in the group chat about all the things they’d do to Lionel if they got to see him.

So I guess that answered that.

Now, our group chat is called ‘1 flour baby, 2 cocksuckers’ and, according to them, Dread is due home late tonight.

“He’s not my man,” I tell him tonelessly.

Rogue’s smile widens.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” he teases. “You were walking funny all day last Saturday, and I’ve seen that man’s dick almost as much as my own. It can do some serious damage. I also have it on good authority he’s never wrecked a vagina more than once or made his two best friends watch the owner of said vagina while he’s away. He’s definitely your man.”

I don’t like how that knowledge feels like the butterflies in my stomach ingested cocaine, so I pointedly ignore it. Instead, I tip my head back dramatically.

“Rogue,” I groan, drawing out his name. Then, I drop my chin to pin him with a pleading look. “It’s a Saturday morning. I’m tired. You’re likely on crack. We’ve seen enough of each other, and both of us would rather spend time with anyone else. Let’s just take the day off, and if Dread asks, I promise to pretend we went frolicking in a park somewhere.”

He puts a hand the size of my face over his chest, feigning hurt. “You’re, like, the fourth person I’d want to spend time with.”

My expression falls flat, and I give him a dry look. He claps his hands, making me jump while he rubs them together excitedly. “So, what’s on the menu today? Robbing a bank? Hijacking a car? Or maybe we can go the heroic route and help grandmas cross the road and save their cats from trees.”

My tone is dry as I say, “The bank closes in, like, two hours. That's not nearly enough time to plan a proper heist. And can you be any more cliché? When’s the last time you’ve even heard about a cat getting stuck in a tree?”

He looks to the ceiling, contemplating that, then nods, clearly coming to a conclusion.

“You’re right, it’s probably really rare.” His eyes light up as he refocuses on me. “Do you know anyone with a cat?”

“You’re an idiot,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “I’m actually going to see Sable today, so I won’t be alone. No babysitting necessary.”

His face drops, and all his humor extinguishes like smoke in the wind, replaced by mild irritation.

It’s a drastic change in expression for someone like Rogue, but it’s also unsurprising, considering Sable has had plenty to complain about regarding him.

Sable still refuses to talk about the night Rogue went to the funeral home, despite my occasional push. The only thing she’s said about it is that he’s an abomination to the male species, and then she went into a very detailed plan of how she’d embalm him alive if she ever saw him again.

Which just might be today, if Rogue insists on following me again. Honestly, the curiosity has been killing me, so I might kill two birds with one stone—find out what happened and watch Sable murder Rogue.

A win-win.

“Rescuing cats is better for the environment,” he states plainly.

Sighing, I close the door behind me and shove past him, trudging down the hallway without a backward glance. Quickly, he jogs after me to catch up.

“Dread will murder me if I don’t stick with you today,” he complains.

I shrug. “Works out. Sable can take care of your body afterward. No one will ever know.”

He groans. “She might be worse. I haven’t decided yet.”

“The hell did you do to her?” I ask, glancing at him.

He goes quiet, drawing my attention back to him, anxiety instantly filling my stomach. The man never shuts up, so him being silent about that night only exacerbates my burning curiosity.

Oh, they’re hiding something, and I don’t like not knowing. I’ve already asked her several times if he hurt her, but her cagey responses weren’t very reassuring, despite her denial.

As women, we’re conditioned to hide trauma close to our chests. If it’s not the fear of being called a liar keeping us silent, it’s the men silencing us themselves.

I stop, fury blackening my vision. “Did you rape her?”

Rogue stops, too, blinking at me like I just slapped him across the face before his expression turns thunderous. Unease builds in the pit of my stomach, but I don’t back down. I’ve never seen Rogue angry, and I’d die happy never seeing it again, but I’d die even happier knowing he didn’t hurt my friend.

“Is that what she told you?” he barks, taking a menacing step toward me.

I cross my arms. “No,” I snap. “She hasn’t told me anything, and now you’re being tight-lipped, so obviously, something happened. I swear to God, Rogue, if you hurt her⁠—”

“Me?” he loudly echoes with disbelief, his anger giving away his real emotions beneath—hurt. “Do you even know your friend? That woman wields a scalpel like it’s a goddamn machete.”

I narrow my eyes, my fury dimming, but not enough to fully trust his word.

“Look—” He shifts his weight onto one leg and splays out his hands, palms facing down in a placating gesture. For once, he’s completely serious as he says, “I’m not a goddamn rapist, and I’m fucking positive she’d attest to that. I would never do that to anyone.” He pauses for a beat. “However, there is a chance I’m an asshole.”

I roll my eyes. We both know it’s not just a chance, but a fact.

He holds up a pointer finger, and I know what’s coming. “But.” Precisely what I thought. “She was an asshole first, so my assholery was purely reactionary. Would’ve been completely avoidable had she not hurt my feelings.” He places a hand over his chest, giving me a heartfelt look. “I’m a very sensitive guy.”

“Uh-huh,” I respond, turning and resuming my walk.

I’m sure there’s a lot more to that story, but for now, I feel assured enough he didn’t physically assault her.

He groans again, this time more drawn out and dramatic.

“No one’s forcing you to come,” I remind him just as I push through the exit door, wincing from the sharp bite of chilly air.

I cannot fucking wait for winter to be over.

“All right, I’ll make a deal,” Rogue says, a hint of desperation in his tone. “I’ll get on my knees and apologize for all the terrible shit I’ve taken part in with you and Dread, but for the love of God, don’t let the woman come near me with a scalpel or needle.”

Rogue stops walking again, and, with another weary sigh, I stop and turn to face his pleading puppy dog face.

“Tell me why you helped him to begin with. I’ve done nothing to you or Severen.”

A shadow passes over his eyes, and for one, vulnerable moment, I can see into the depths of his soul, a well of darkness. The next second, his mask is firmly in place.

“We’ve all been friends since middle school, and he saved our lives in very different ways, but both of us can firmly say we wouldn’t be here without him. And he didn’t just save us once—he kept saving us. Truthfully, he’s never stopped. He never asked for a single thing in return, so we volunteered to help. He was a fucking shell of a person when we met him, and, as fucked up as it is to say, the only time he looked alive is when we made you look dead inside.”

He runs a hand over the back of his head nervously, his face tightening with discomfort.

“We understood his pain more than anything.” He throws out a hand, as if he’s at a loss, while he stammers, “I— You didn’t see him, okay? You didn’t see what your family did to him. You didn’t see the fucking wreck your parents left him with. I guess Severen and I felt like if he had to deal with bullying for telling the truth, then it’s only fair you deal with it for telling all those lies.”

I wince, the last sentence like a kick in the gut. Noting my reaction, he lets out a heavy exhale, staring off to the side as he thinks for a moment then returns it to me. A haunting look reflects in his raven eyes, and I get the feeling it has a lot more to do with his own story than mine.

“He told us about what you saw and why you lied, and I… well, I get why you did it. Lionel put you both in impossible situations, and regardless of what either of you did as little fucking kids, you would never be on the winning side. You two were always going to be pitted against one another. Lionel made sure of that, and I don’t think there’s a reality in which you and Dread don’t suffer because of it.”

The icy air sinks beneath my coat, so I cross my arms. It feels more like protecting myself from his words than the wind.

“I understand Dread’s pain, and I understand why you guys helped, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to accept when I never deserved to be the bearer of his agony,” I say quietly.

He nods thoughtfully. “Truthfully, I think shouldering the weight of all the deaths that came after is torture enough, and I don’t think you need our help with making you more miserable.”

I scoff bitterly. No truer words have ever been spoken.

“Listen, I don’t know shit about what’s happening between you two right now, but what I do know is he’s fucking obsessed with you and will never let you go. You’re it for him, and Severen and I have known that since we were twelve.”

I scoff. “You’re acting like he's in love with me. The only reason he tolerates me now is because…” My face twists, feeling awkward as I say, “Well, because he's a typical man who likes sex.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth.

Rogue smirks. “He hasn't been with as many women as you probably think he has, and there's a reason for that. There's also a reason they've all been blondes.” He pointedly glances at my hair, and my stomach twists.

He puts a hand to his chest. “Take it from me, a self-appointed connoisseur of conducting pussy drive-bys.” I roll my eyes so deeply, they almost get lost in my head. “I've never selected women based on a shared feature. That type of need goes far beyond just wanting to get your dick wet. No matter his reasoning, that man has given you more dedication than the fucking Olympics. Which is exactly why Coach eats his pain for breakfast at practice, because he knows even when Dread is in the water, his mind is always on you.”

Rolling my lips, I stare off into the distance while I try to process that. At this moment, it’s impossible to fully know what to think, though I feel plenty, especially from the coke-addicted butterflies in my stomach and my racing heart.

All I know is whatever Dread feels for me, it will never be love.

He proved that when he used me to lure out my father without a second thought.

Maybe he’s obsessed, and maybe he loves fucking me, but I refuse to live the rest of my life being whittled down to an instrument for his own amusement.

If I’m the little violin, then he’s nothing more than a man with a natural talent for plucking my strings. But he’s no prodigy willing to give up his life to devote himself to me, and I deserve more than to collect dust until he gets the urge to stroke me again.

Blowing out a weary breath, I return my attention to Rogue. “Fine, I’ll keep Sable’s instruments away from your balls.” I hold up a pointer finger, though it doesn’t deter his relieved smile. “But. I cannot, nor will I, help you if you deliberately piss her off or do some shit that calls for her retaliation. As long as you’re a good boy, I’ll make sure she stays a good girl.”

The amused twinkle in Rogue’s eyes returns with a vengeance. Just as I wonder if I’m making a mistake, he drops to his knees on the cement sidewalk and holds his hands together in a prayer position.

“Reverie Adams, I humbly ask for your forgiveness for all the fuckery I’ve bestowed upon your life. I shall never deliberately upset a hair on your head again for as long as Dread allows me to live.”

I loathe how hard I have to fight back a smile. “You’re doing all this because you’re that scared of Sable? More than Dread?”

His face drops into an exasperated look. “And because I don’t think you’re entirely undeserving of an apology.” He pauses for a beat. “But also, yes, she’s fucking terrifying, but if you ever tell her I said so, I’ll deny it.” Another beat passes. “And then run.”

I give up the fight and let a small grin free. “You’re forgiven,” I mutter, waving my hand. “Now get off the ground before I’m tempted to record and blackmail you.”

With a chuckle, he gets to his feet. “Can't say I wouldn't be entirely undeserving.”

He towers above me, only an inch shy of Dread’s height. He’s as packed with muscle, but his demeanor is significantly less intimidating when his goofy expression is a permanent fixture on his face.

“Lead the way, my knight in shining armor,” he beckons loudly like an arrogant superhero, dramatically waving his hand out before him. “We have a dragon to tame.”

I sigh.

I have so many regrets already.

“Sable, for the eighteenth time, put the butter knife down,” I lecture dryly.

We met for lunch at Big Papa’s Lounge, a mom-and-pop diner with the best food in a hundred-mile radius. Thankfully, only locals know about this tucked-away diamond in the rough, and the owners are more than happy with that.

They know they could possibly become well-known, potentially famous, but neither of them want to deal with it. The locals keep them comfortable, and they prefer their simpler lifestyle.

However, it was definitely a mistake bringing Rogue here—not that I had much of a choice, but I could’ve rescheduled with Sable and spared her the very real possibility of bursting a blood vessel.

Neither has revealed anything about that night yet, but I feel slightly assured the only one who’s showing any semblance of fear is Rogue. Sable, on the other hand, might as well be spitting fire.

“I just want him to sit on it, that’s all,” she responds casually, refusing to remove her glare from the man sitting across from her. Her fist rests on the table, gripping a knife pointed straight upward, just waiting for Rogue’s ass.

Rogue arches his pierced brow and leans farther back in his chair, the rickety wood groaning beneath his weight. His stare glimmers with amusement. Seconds before he opens his mouth, I sense exactly what’s about to come out of it.

“I do recall you doing an incredible job when I made a similar reque⁠—”

She points the knife at his face, and snaps, “I dare you to finish that sentence. Te voy a fucking matar.”

Welp, that’s all I needed to hear.

They definitely fucked, that much is abundantly clear now.

Sighing, I park my elbow on the table and rest my chin heavily on my palm, my eyes bouncing back and forth between the two.

Rogue holds up both palms in surrender, flattening his lips into a tight line. Sable snaps her head toward me, almost as if she forgot I was here, her fiery stare fading into panic.

“Perdóname, por favor,” she whispers.

I should be angry with her for fucking one of my bullies. I probably would be, had he not apologized earlier. But deep down, I already knew that’s what happened, and while I’m not exactly pleased, I’m just relieved it was consensual. If I’m really being honest, I have no room to talk, considering I can’t seem to stop fucking one of them, too.

In her defense, even if Rogue wasn’t beautiful, he’s incredibly charming and enigmatic. I can see exactly why Sable couldn’t resist him, and I know that’s at least one reason she’s so pissed.

She’s always in control, always so unshakeable. She moves with intention. Actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her do anything careless or thoughtless in the four years I've known her. She’s a foundation that doesn’t crack beneath pressure. Yet she did for Rogue, and I’d bet that gets beneath her skin more than anything.

Truthfully, her situation is more relatable than infuriating.

I arch a brow, and say dryly, “And here I thought we were besties. You didn’t tell me his dick size.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sable’s face turn from light brown to fire engine red in a matter of point-two seconds before, but evidently, there’s a first time for everything.

A wolfish grin spreads across Rogue’s face. “Probably because she had a hard time taki⁠—”

The speed with which her head whips to him is concerning, solar flares snapping from her irises and lashing at Rogue.

“Shut the fuck up before I paralyze you and bury you alive,” she threatens.

He bites back his smile in response, smart enough to at least try to suppress his inflated ego. I have a feeling he only listens for now because he's so terrified of her.

She’s turning back to me, accusation in her narrowed stare. “And don’t get me started on not sharing details.”

“Ope,” I mutter quietly, dropping my attention to my half-eaten cheesy hash browns.

I texted her a very brief confession that I may have accidentally fallen and choked on Dread’s dick recently, only for shit to blow up when Lionel called, resulting in me ending up naked in the retort. She flipped her shit, of course, but we haven’t had the chance to get into the details yet. I sure as fuck haven’t been making time for it.

At least I told her Dread’s dick size. Or at least my best guess.

Reluctantly, Sable drops the butter knife and settles back into her chair, her sharp stare flicking between the two of us. Somehow, Rogue and I became the scolded children in this scenario. It’s one of Sable’s many gifts.

“Anyways,” she sniffs, tucking her curls behind her ear as if to put herself back together.

Sensing she’s about to change the subject, Rogue leans forward with pinched brows, a concerned look passing over his face.

“Waitwaitwait, you’re not gonna tell her my dick size? This is my first time getting to witness this conversation, and you’re going to deprive me of it?”

Oh, God. She might actually commit murder.

Sable’s face drops into a terrifyingly blank expression, though it only seems to further excite Rogue—the fucking masochist.

Can’t say I’ve seen someone so turned on and terrified by someone at the same time.

When she glances at me, I arch a brow, my expectation clear. I think it’s pretty fair payback for fucking him in the first place—before Rogue and I became civil.

Her mouth parts as her stare darts between us, horror flashing across her eyes.

Her cheeks deepen into a brighter red as she works to swallow. “I am not answering that,” she says sternly.

“Yes, you are,” I say, keeping my tone casual.

Never thought I’d be demanding to know Rogue’s dick size, but I’m pretty sure she broke girl code, so her embarrassment is the price to pay. Dread’s probably going to be pissed when Rogue inevitably tells him, but that’s only another reason to ask.

I’m not sure what she sees in my expression, but she deflates after desperately trying to hold out a few more beats. I think this is the first time I’ve seen Sable look even remotely vulnerable and nervous.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Nine?”

Rogue scoffs, slightly offended, before correcting, “Nine and three-quarters.”

She glowers at him. “You think any woman gives a fuck about three-quarters?”

The smile that slides across his face is evil, and I know exactly what he’s going to say before it’s out of his mouth. “She should, considering it’s three-quarters you couldn’t swall⁠—”

She goes to launch the butter knife at him, but I already prepared for that reaction and quickly snatch her wrist before she can lift her arm.

“If you get me banned from the best cheesy hash browns to exist, that is an unforgivable offense. Drop it.” She grinds her molars, the metal knife clattering against the wooden table.

I don’t release her immediately, instead sliding a look to Rogue, my warning to shut the fuck up no murkier than a bright red neon sign. “For someone who’s so scared, you really like to run your mouth.”

There’s an odd glimmer in his eyes as he turns his focus to Sable, an edge to his dry tone when he says, “What can I say—she brings out the worst in me.”

The air thickens before plummeting to tundra temperatures. She narrows her eyes, something unspoken passing between them.

There’s definitely more to that comment, but I let that stay between them.

Something happened after they fucked, and it’s clearly something they’re both very sensitive about. Lord knows I don’t tell Sable everything that happens between Dread and me, so unless she wants to volunteer that information, I keep my curiosity to myself.

“So, anyway,” I say awkwardly. “Congrats on your dick size, Rogue.”

He’s slow to drag his stare away from her, the tension crackling. By the time they make their way to me, I notice Sable’s chest heaving a little too quickly to be natural.

I bare my teeth in a purposely awkward smile, and he snorts, the tension cracking enough to allow me to breathe.

Rogue settles back in his chair, the wood creaking as he crosses his heavily tattooed arms. The arrogant grin slides across his face again as he says, “Tell her your favorite part about it.”

Sable’s glare is spitting as she snarls, “I don’t have a favorite part about your dick.”

Rogue cocks a brow, his smirk widening, though his body language is positively wary of her, too. He’s fully prepared to dodge a knife, should one fly at his face.

“Your reaction to it said otherwise.”

Sable rolls her eyes before turning her head to glare out the window. She’s done sharing the gory details, so I wave at Rogue in an impatient ‘spit it out’ motion.

His stare is slow to meet mine, as if his eyes are glued to her and he has to physically rip them away. “The piercings don’t end at my face.”

My mouth drops, and I instantly swing widened eyes to Sable, my expression slackened with betrayal. She spares me a glance before pointedly looking away, stubbornness pursing her lips.

“You bitch. That is not the type of information best friends hide from each other.”

Her shoulders deflate as she turns her stare up to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh.

“Can we change the subject now?” she snaps. “I don’t care about your dick, Rogue. I won’t ever see it again, anyway.”

The laugh that bursts from his throat is almost patronizing. “Did you forget I won our first bet?” he asks.

This is only the second time I’ve seen Sable turn so pale so quickly. The first was right after I told her Dread and I had sex.

She glances at me nervously, and my curiosity piques once again.

“That’s not happening.”

He cocks his pierced brow, and the mirth drains from his eyes, replaced with something dark and threatening. Instantly, the tension in the air thickens, and I’m pretty sure I see lightning strike off in the distance.

Sable stiffens, and I can tell she’s fighting not to shift beneath his sinister stare. Even my stomach drops a little.

“A bet is a bet, Sabela.”

My brows jump up on my forehead while her eyes narrow into thin slits. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d think she was unaffected, but her chest moves too quickly, and her throat works to swallow.

“No,” she bites out.

He cocks his head to the side, studying her carefully, not a trace of a smile remaining, nor any fear for her. It’s intimidating even from the sidelines.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Her cheeks brighten again, and that’s my cue. I wave my arm between them like I’m a referee.

“Let’s take a break before you two are either arrested for public indecency or homicide,” I suggest.

Rogue doesn’t remove his stare from her as he slaps the table with both hands. “I have to take a piss, anyway. Don’t miss me too much.”

He winks at Sable before getting up and heading to the restroom, and I just know she felt that in her vagina with the way she seethes at him.

However, the second he disappears, she whips around back to me, devastation twisting her features.

“Perdóname. You have every right to hate me, and I’m so sorry I betrayed you. I kept it from you because I was ashamed and didn’t know how to tell my best friend in the entire world that I did the worst possible thing I could’ve ever done. I’ve been sick over it, not that it makes it any better. I’m so fucking sorry, Rev.”

I bite my bottom lip, hating how badly it’s been eating her up inside.

“You’ve been an incredible friend every single second of the past four years. There hasn’t been a single instance you didn’t put me above all else. For the first time, you did something without consideration for me, and not only would I be entitled and selfish to condemn you for that, but it would be incredibly fucking hypocritical of me, too.”

She’s shaking her head, attempting to disagree with me, but I don’t let her get a word in.

“I know Rogue has caused me a lot of hurt, but I also understand it came from a place of loyalty to his friend, whom I’ve hurt. The circumstances don’t matter. In his mind, he was doing something for Dread I would’ve happily done for you without a second thought.”

A distressed crease forms between her sculpted brows. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

I shrug. “Maybe, but you’re allowed to be a human, Sable. And believe me when I say, I get it. I get the weird pull. Severen is the same way. I don’t know what those three men put in their fucking Cheerios growing up, but it’s sorcery.”

She lets out a soft laugh, though she doesn’t appear to want to forgive herself yet. I wish I knew how much it was weighing on her, but Sable’s always been the type to keep shit close to her chest. I’ve learned over the years that the harder I pry, the tighter she holds it in.

“I still don’t understand how it happened,” she admits softly. “He made a stupid bet, and I just… I don’t know. He got under my skin, and I was dumb and wanted to prove him wrong, I guess. And then it just kept escalating, and it got away from me. I regretted it immediately, and that obviously hurt his fragile little man feelings, but I don’t care. I hate myself for it.”

Tightening my lips, I envelop her hand with both of mine and hold it to my chest.

“Don’t,” I tell her sincerely. “If there’s something between you two⁠—”

“There’s not and never will be,” she denies vehemently.

But it's not sincerity that fills her rounded eyes, but desperation. It’s a lie, though not one she’s aware she’s telling, so I don’t hold it against her.

Because it’s the same lie I keep telling myself with Dread. Yet, somehow, I still end up naked with him between my legs while I scream his name. Even worse, I’ve begun to crave an intimacy with him beyond sex, and that part fucks me up most of all.

“But if there is, you can explore that with him,” I insist, needing her to know that. “You deserve happiness, too, and if Rogue’s big, pierced dick brings you that, then⁠—”

Her face falls with mortification, which makes it incredibly hard not to laugh at her.

“Shut the fuck up, you cabrona,” she mutters, tearing her hand from my grip, albeit playfully.

I laugh. “So let me guess. Whatever Rogue bet you, you failed miserably.”

Her expression darkens before twisting into a sour look, like there’s a bad taste in her mouth. “He cheated,” she mumbles petulantly, looking away.

My inner brows curl upward, feigning a sympathetic look. “I remember my first lie to myself, too.”

She points the butter knife at me. “Vete pal carajo.”

I cackle, but before she can threaten me any further, Rogue reappears.

“Good to know it’s not just me she threatens,” he drawls, sitting across from her again.

This time, when she glances at him, there’s a certain wariness in her gaze, as if she’s afraid she might actually get sucked into his orbit.

She may never allow herself to, purely out of a sense of loyalty to me, but she’s only deluding herself if she thinks what’s between them isn’t on a molecular level.

It can’t be explained, and eventually, she’ll learn it can’t be ignored forever, either.

She sets down the butter knife—for now—and turns to him with a narrowed stare. Propping her elbows on the table, she lays her fingers over each other and rests her chin on them, adopting a prim interrogating stance.

“So, what’s going on with your bestie? Does he often fuck girls in crematory ovens, or is Reverie special?”

Panic widens my eyes. I do not want to talk about this.

“Oh no,” Rogue mutters, looking between the two of us with alarm. He holds up his hands in surrender yet again. “I cannot gossip with you two. Leave me out of this shit, I beg of you.”

“Yeah, I agree,” I pipe up, shooting Sable a ‘shut the fuck up’ look.

She doesn’t even look at me. Instead, she narrows her eyes again, a clear threat. “Dread has muscles, but I have science, and I’m very well equipped at using it.”

Rogue’s expression falls, and he turns a look to me, something akin to a pleading puppy dog.

I throw out my hands incredulously, emoting my exasperated state.

“I’m struggling here, too, my guy,” I say.

He throws his head back with a groan before dropping his chin in defeat. “I’m an empty well of knowledge, okay? I don’t know all the places Dread has fucked a chick before. All I can tell you is that he hasn’t fucked very many.”

Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes, not believing that claim for a second.

“You know what?” I say, putting my hands on the table. “It doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah, okay, Linkin Park. It does matter,” Sable interjects, sass dripping from her tone.

“Look,” Rogue sighs, settling a tired stare on Sable, “I’ve already told you how I think Dread feels, and you didn’t believe me.”

I frown.

“It’s long been established that Reverie is special,” he finishes.

“Then why has he ghosted her since he’s been gone? Usually, you can’t pry him out of her asshole.”

So eloquent.

“I wouldn’t say he ghosted me,” I mutter. “I haven’t texted him, either.”

Sable doesn’t even look at me when she waves a dismissive hand, indicating that doesn’t count, and I roll my eyes at her. She should’ve been an investigative journalist.

“Is he still mad because the same man who victimized him also victimized her?”

Rogue tips his head back, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, seeming to gather patience. I almost tell him not to bother. Sable is like a dog with a chew toy when she wants answers.

He drops his chin again. “I don’t know,” he says as he exhales. “The only thing I know is he wants to kill Lionel even more. We all do. But he’s been asking Severen and me for updates all week. I think half of him was anxious Lionel was going to show up while he’s gone.”

“And if my dad did show up?” I cut in. “Is that something either of you are actually prepared to deal with?”

Rogue’s eyes darken as he meets my stare, something insidious and primal passing over them. “We’ve been waiting a decade to meet that man.”

Noted.

“Okay, so, what? He just needs to think?” Sable pushes, flicking her palm out in a ‘that’s it?’ gesture. “He left her sitting there fucking naked and doesn’t even have the decency to say good morning in the week he’s gone?”

“Oh, my God,” I whisper, slapping a hand over my eyes as mortification burns my face. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, right?

“I don’t know,” Rogue whines while I part my fingers and peek through them. “I guess so. Rev kinda dropped a bomb on him, so he’s probably just processing or some shit. Men don’t talk about our feelings with one another, you know that, right? And Dread is like a goddamn vault with emotions, anyway. I’m sure he’s just brooding.” He waves a flippant hand, waving off his friend and his very volatile emotions.

Sable’s not convinced.

I’m not convinced, either.

I’m so used to his hatred, anything other than that is jarring and, admittedly, something I don’t entirely trust.

Dread always has a motive.

Always.

I drop my hand, ready to change the subject, but Rogue goes on, the two of them practically acting as if I don’t exist.

Which I kind of wanted, but not when I’m the topic of conversation and still present.

“When she ran off to a hotel and disappeared on him for a week, he looked like he was going through heroin withdrawals. I’m pretty damn sure he’s going to come home and be right back up her asshole.”

Sable quirks a brow, glancing at me with a loaded look, which I promptly ignore. Instead, I allow my bangs to conceal my eyes as I stare at my empty plate.

I refuse to analyze anything he’s saying, refuse to even consider it could mean anything other than he misses making me miserable.

It doesn’t matter that we’ve had extremely intimate moments with one another’s genitalia or that he’s kissed me several times now and none of them felt like anything less than worship.

Whatever those moments mean… they don’t matter.

He’s Dreadful Sharpe, destined to hate my fucking guts. There will never be anything pure or loving between us. We will never have a happy ending.

Our agony is carved too deeply into the crevices between our bodies, and it will always keep us apart.

“Tell him to take his time coming home,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I’m enjoying my peace.”

CHAPTER 27

REVERIE

My heart is no longer a working muscle but a pulverized slop of tissue, veins, and blood. It pounds against my rib cage even still, despite how it’s beaten itself to death.

I release a shaky breath and dip my toe in the aqua pool. A shudder works through my body from the gentle caress of cool water.

My hair is still wet from my shower, where I held my head under the stream for one hundred ninety-two seconds. That’s been my time for the last week. I haven’t improved, and I’ve grown frustrated.

I don’t know why the hell I thought getting into a pool would fix the problem. Standing over it now, practically hyperventilating just from staring at it, I’m definitely going to choke on my anxiety and die after two seconds.

“This is stupid,” I mutter, running my sweaty palms through my hair and squeezing tight. Yet, the sharp pinpricks of pain don’t unglue my feet from the cement to carry me right back out of the pool.

After the tense but somewhat pleasant lunch date with Sable, Rogue dropped me off at my dorm, where I spent the rest of the day studying and finishing homework. Afterward, I took a shower and got the insane idea to come here. It’s nine o’clock at night, hours after closing.

Apparently, Rogue had previous relations with a manager at the sports center, and with one phone call, he finessed her into agreeing to let us in. But not before Rogue broke into Dread's room to grab the key to the pool, which Dread always leaves in a little bowl on his desk, so I could have the freedom to panic alone.

Rogue promised to stay right outside in the equipment area, but only after vowing to resurrect and kill me again if I drowned.

I chew on my bottom lip, my body edging away an inch. Cold sweat dampens my entire back. One cough, I’ll vomit my heart out onto the cold floor.

“Yep, this was dumb,” I sigh, pivoting on my heel toward the door behind me.

My heart lodges in my throat the same second I swallow, the muscle trapping my saliva in my windpipe. The two are at a crossroads, both trying to get past one another, all the while I hack and cough.

Dread is standing next to the exit, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his ankle cocked over the other, wearing his usual joggers and hoodie. His ink black hair tumbles over his forehead, ending right above his icy eyes. In the dim lighting, coupled with the blue glow from the pool, they look even more intense.

His scarred eyebrow arches as I struggle to recover, feeling how inflamed my face is while I catch my breath.

I was so lost in my head, I hadn't even heard him come in.

“What are you doing?” I squeak before letting out another pitiful cough.

I knew he was coming home late tonight, but I didn’t know what time, and I hoped he wouldn't come looking for me until tomorrow.

Seeing him for the first time in a week is startling to my internal system. Like always, a potent mix of foreboding and trepidation swirls in the pit of my stomach, but beneath it all, there’s a flutter of excitement, too.

“I’m curious to know the same,” he deflects.

“Just hanging out,” I answer casually.

Dread hums, his expression frustratingly impassive and unreadable. “Why are you here?”

I shoot him an annoyed look. “I asked you first.”

“I just got home,” he says. “Rogue texted to let me know where you two were, so I came.”

What a fucking snitch.

“Oh.”

His brow arches again, but all the words have dried on my tongue. My body fills with awkwardness, and a thick tension builds in the space between us.

I don’t want to tell him why I’m here. If anything, it’ll give him an excuse to throw me in the pool again, and this time, I highly doubt he’ll feel inclined to distract me from my terror.

I can’t tell if he’s still pissed at me, but I’m not chomping at the bit to ask, considering he put me in an oven last time.

He pushes off the wall and slowly prowls toward me. My stomach clenches, my internal system desperately ringing the bell to alert me of the danger and telling me to run, but I'm too goddamn stubborn to prove I'm not scared of him.

Even though I am.

I lift my chin defiantly, which brings a cruel smirk to Dread’s lips, a simple gesture that has his namesake filling my gut.

I work to swallow, my muscles solidifying more with each step he takes, but I never move my stare from him. I’m prepared to bolt the second he reaches for me. I’ll never outswim him, but there’s a small chance I can outrun him.

Rather than approaching me directly, he changes his trajectory and walks up to the edge of the pool beside me, a few feet away. We stand side by side, him facing the pool while my back is to it.

I'm out of arm's reach, but it doesn't diminish the adrenaline pumping through my system.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, staring into the blue abyss.

“Nothing.”

He lifts his gaze to glance down at my body. “You’re wearing a swimsuit.”

I don’t look down at myself, having already forgotten I was wearing my red one-piece.

Despite obviously wearing a bathing suit and standing in front of a pool, admitting my intentions were to get in the water feels like inviting him to force me into it again.

But really, I’m in a bathing suit standing in front of a pool. It’s pretty fucking obvious what I’m doing here.

“Enjoying the view?” I answer.

“Is that a question?”

“Is it any of your business?” I parry.

“Rev,” he growls, his voice deepening with a clear warning.

My hackles rise further, and I glance toward the exit door. I have two options: tell him, or run.

“I’ll give you a five-second head start, but that’s all you get,” he says, angling his body toward me.

Fuck. I fucking suck at keeping my thoughts off my face.

I dart a glance toward the door a second time, then back to him, and, after another tense few beats, I deflate.

I definitely was lying to myself, thinking I had a chance of outrunning him—even with a five-second head start.

“Clearly, when one comes to the pool, it’s with the intention of swimming,” I snip, crossing my arms over my chest and taking a deliberate step to the side, farther away from him.

I may not have a chance of making it to the door before him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going into that pool without a fight.

He nods slowly, studying me closely. It only makes me tighten my arms closer to my chest, as if to conceal myself from his scrutiny. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, as if he’s dissecting my brain and searching for the answers I refuse to give him.

He knows what my mom tried to do to me when I was four, and he knows why I’m terrified of the water. I’m sure he can come to his own conclusions.

He hums, turns to the side in my direction, then kicks off his shoes and socks.

My heart drops, and this time, I take several steps away from the edge before twisting so I'm facing him and the pool, panic and terror coalescing in my system.

“Whatever you’re planning, stop it,” I demand, my voice shaking. “I’m not getting in that water with you.”

He’s going to dangle me over the edge again and make me do something else to escape death.

He stares at me blankly, his hands pausing at the collar of his hoodie.

“I’m not going to drown you,” he says mildly.

As if it’s just another day of assuring me he won’t kill me.

“You do realize I have no reason to believe you, right?” I ask, giving him a ‘do I look stupid?’ look. “Did you forget about the crematorium already? Or your first ultimatum? You might as well be a shark inviting me for a casual swim in chummy water.”

He arches a brow. “I think we both know I couldn’t kill you, Rev.”

“You can drown someone without killing them,” I say, the words coming out smaller than I intended.

His gaze sharpens, and his jaw tightens until it could cut a diamond. For several moments, he’s quiet, that familiar rage melting the ice in his eyes. Except, for the first time, it doesn’t feel directed at me.

He pulls the hoodie over his head in lieu of responding, revealing his bare torso.

Any progress I made on figuring out what he’s doing dies the second I drop my stare to his broad chest and down to his stomach. I’ve seen him without a shirt many times, but it never gets any easier to ignore. The muscle straining beneath his tattooed skin is a sight that has brought many girls to their knees. A sight that, admittedly, has made my own weaken.

I clench my jaw and refocus on his face, where he watches me check him out with amusement. And that pisses me off—but mostly because I’m embarrassed for getting caught.

“So, what? You’re going to avoid talking about what you did and then expect me to get in the water with you like I just hallucinated the whole thing?”

He chuckles. “It was very real, darling, but don’t go looking for an apology,” he says. “The old me would've just left you in there rather than taking my anger out on your pussy and letting you walk free afterward.”

I blink at him, stunned for a second. “Are you implying I should be grateful or something?”

He shrugs casually, though his tone is more serious when he says, “No, but you can rest assured it’s not something I’ll ever do again.”

I frown, not exactly sure how to take that.

He studies me closely for a moment, seeming to contemplate something.

“I gave myself one night to feel everything, so I could let it go. I don’t want to be angry at you anymore.”

My head jerks back, blinking rapidly while I try to process that.

It was the last thing I expected him to say.

I open my mouth to respond and then snap it closed again, having no idea what to even think.

“Uh, okay,” I implore slowly after a few more beats, my brows wrinkling with confusion. “Well, I’m still not going to be your bait.”

“No, you’re not,” he agrees easily. “You’re just going to be my girlfriend.”

I narrow my eyes, staring at him suspiciously. “Because of Lio⁠—”

“No,” he interjects firmly. “It has nothing to do with your father and everything to do with you and me.”

Again, my mouth flops soundlessly, my thoughts fuzzy and disoriented.

“Like… like you’re actually wanting to date me?” I ask, my voice pitching higher with incredulity. “Why?”

He smirks, mirth dancing in his eyes as he saunters toward me. I suppress the urge to back away, my muscles locking tight as he nears. By the time he pauses an inch away, my chest aches from the need to breathe.

He crooks his forefinger beneath my chin before running the pad of his thumb down my bottom lip, further ensnaring me in his intense gaze.

“Because I like you, Reverie,” he whispers, one corner of his lips curling and hinting at the dimple above his cheek. “I like you more than just a friend, and I like more than just your pussy. I like you.” He pauses a beat, and then adds, “So fucking much.”

I recoil again, shock stealing my breath.

What the fuck?

I’ve jumped timelines. Maybe I was even sucked into a wormhole and shat out into a different reality.

It’s the only explanation for why the fuck Dreadful Sharpe is telling me he has feelings for me.

His stare dips to my lips, and when it rises again, my stomach flips.

There’s definitely something brewing beyond the ice circling his pupils, but instead of chilling my blood like it usually does, it heats, building to a boil in a matter of seconds.

Something is different about him tonight. He’s quieter. Serious. I’ve gotten so used to seeing cruel smiles or murderous rage, his contemplative silence is jarring.

“You didn’t talk to me the entire week you were gone,” I state plainly, my voice cracking.

“Falling for the daughter of my mother’s killer is a lot to process.”

If he says any more, he’s going to send me into cardiac arrest. I can only stare up at him, stunned into silence for what feels like the millionth time.

Meanwhile, my insides are in complete chaos. Everything feels out of whack, like a toy disassembled and then reassembled all wrong. All the cells in my body are having meltdowns, nothing where it should be, everything out of order.

“B-but I need to leave,” I say. “I need to go back to Silent Mist.”

Something insidious sparks in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because Lionel wants me to. If I don’t, he’ll kill Mindy, if he hasn’t already. Or hurt someone else.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Reverie.” His voice is dark, and full of promise. “Lionel will find endless reasons to hurt someone. That will never stop, even if you return to Silent Mist.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty if I stay.

“You can’t leave me, darling,” he says quietly, a hint of vulnerability in his tone.

“Why?” I ask, my voice faint.

A crease forms between his brows, appearing tormented as he says, “Because it would break me.”

My jaw falls open, thunderstruck. That was the last thing I expected him to say, and it sends my insides into disarray yet again, making it impossible to respond coherently.

“We’ll keep it at that for tonight,” he murmurs.

My brows wrinkle, not understanding what he means. It sounds like he’s suggesting there’s more to it than that, but he’s turning away before I can press.

“Let’s go, Rev. We don’t have all night,” he calls.

It takes several seconds before I find my voice again.

“W-what?” I stammer. “For what? What are we doing?”

He stops by the steps leading into the shallow end of the water and then hooks his thumbs into his joggers before sliding them down, revealing his black boxer briefs.

I try to swallow, but once more, the saliva crashes into my heart lodged at the base of my throat, making it impossible to breathe again.

“Who do you think can teach you to swim better? Me or yourself?”

My mouth opens and then snaps closed again.

This is a trick.

It has to be.

Again, he must read my expression, because his face becomes eerily serious.

“I’m not going to drown you,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “I promise.” Then, he holds out his hand toward me, that sinful smirk emerging once again. “Swim with me, darling. If I’m going to make you choke, I assure you, it won’t be on water.”

I give him a dry, unimpressed look, but when he only continues to stand there with his hand held out, the urge to grab it takes hold.

It would be incredibly stupid to trust the person who’s gone out of his way to make my life a living hell. The person who, not too long ago, threatened to drown me if I didn’t fuck him.

Yet, I consider it anyway.

Truthfully, I can’t explain why I want to trust him. Maybe because he just admitted to having feelings for me.

But what if that's just another one of his tricks?

I have every reason to question his motives. In fact, I should call out for Rogue to save me.

Except there’s a soft whisper in the back of my head, coercing me to take his hand and let him prove he’s capable of making me feel anything other than agony when he's not between my legs.

Tightening my lips, I regard him with caution as I take a few steps toward him and grab his hand.

My muscles are strung tight, and any second, I’m prepared for the switch. Instead, he closes his fingers around mine, practically swallowing my hand in his, before gently pulling me to the stairs into the pool.

My feet are cinder blocks as we approach, and when we pause before the steps, it might as well lead down into the pits of hell.

Adrenaline releases into my system immediately. Before he arrived, I planned to just go full throttle and jump into the water—albeit, still in the shallow end—so I’m a little confused when he steps onto the first step in the water then sits on the cement with his knees spread wide.

He points to the top step, where several inches of water cover his feet. “Come stand here, between my legs.”

He stares up at me expectantly, so after a moment of hesitation, I slowly inch toward the edge until I'm standing beside him. Except, when I go to step down, my feet don’t move. My muscles have solidified, anchoring me to the floor.

My heart beats heavily against my rib cage, and a cold sweat blooms across my nape and palms.

Just take a step.

That’s it. Just a step.

But I still can’t move.

“Rev,” he whispers, grabbing my hand again. “I’m right here.”

I nod, the movement choppy as I audibly swallow. For reasons I don’t care to consider, his hand over mine feels safe, enough to lift my foot over his leg and step into the cool water. It sends ice shooting through my veins, and every one of my muscles freezes solid.

Dread urges me to sidestep, centering me between his knees. My ass is directly in his face, but that’s the last thing on my mind.

It took me years not to panic in a bathtub, even longer to stand beneath a shower. A pool was something I never dared to even contemplate.

I might as well be standing in a pit of fire. Everything in me is screaming for me to get out. I’m in danger, on the cusp of death, and if I don’t turn back now, I’ll meet an agonizing, slow demise.

“This was stupid,” I squeak, going to turn to get out, but his hands fly to either side of my thighs, stopping me.

“Why quit when you’re already winning?” he asks.

I’m shaking my head before he’s finished. My entire body trembles, and a pressure forms on the back of my head, right where my mother gripped me, holding me beneath the water.

I feel her now. Each finger tangled in my hair. The sharp pricks from her nails digging into my scalp. The weight of her palm pushing and pushing.

My lungs fill with fire, and I can’t breathe. Each inhale invites more and more water into my lungs. I’m drowning, and I can’t fucking brea⁠—

A sharp sting ignites on the swell of my ass cheek, jolting me out of the panic consuming me. I gasp and twist at the waist, finding Dread staring up at me with an intense look on his face.

Rattled and confused, I glance down at my butt to find a perfect set of teeth imprinted into my skin, saliva dotted around it.

“Did… did you just bite my ass?” I ask, the words coming out in a breathless rush.

“You left me,” he says in place of a proper response.

I gape at him, at a loss for how to respond. However, he doesn’t bother waiting for one. He scoots back a few inches, creating space between him and the edge of the pool, then nods toward the gap between his legs.

“Sit.”

My body obeys before my brain can command it, likely because my legs feel like gelatin, and if I don’t, I’ll end up falling instead.

I have just enough room to fit between his thighs, though half my ass is hanging off the edge. He’s pressed tightly into me, body heat emanating from him in waves.

It’s awful how grounding it feels. How safe. It’s absolutely terrible that the residual anxiety ebbs beneath the press of his bare skin against my back.

It doesn’t dissipate completely, leaving me tense and on edge, but I’m no longer wanting to claw at my throat in desperation for air.

I release a shaky breath, embarrassment stinging my cheeks now that clarity is settling back in.

This is a much different approach than when Dread threw me in the pool. Him kissing me had only kept me temporarily distracted, but the second I climbed out of the pool, all I could feel was the weight of the water engulfing my body. The memories flooded my brain by the time I locked myself in my dorm room, and it took hours before I could take a full breath again.

At least then, I could break down in the safety of my room—alone. Dread seeing me freak out is akin to slime coating every inch of my skin. It’s suffocating and uncomfortable.

Silently, Dread reaches past me, scoops up a handful of water, and pours it over my thigh. Goosebumps instantly break out across my entire body, and the little hairs coating my arms stand on end. I shiver, though it isn’t the temperature of the water cooling my blood.

“When you move through water, it separates to allow you inside it,” he says softly. “It yields to you.”

I inhale sharply when he lifts another palm full and pours it over my thigh again. I’m both riveted and sickened by the sight of the droplets splashing over my skin before sliding down my leg in rivulets.

“Water in itself isn’t dangerous. It’s just a tool, something easy to manipulate. It’s what wields power over it that turns it into a monster. The wind creates waves in the ocean. Those waves can turn into riptides when something obstructs its flow. Storms, volcanoes, earthquakes… all powerful forces that turn the ocean into a weapon.”

A shudder works through me as his deep, soft voice rolls against my nerves. It’s as soothing as it is electrifying.

“Be the storm, darling,” he rasps quietly, eliciting another tremor as he pours more water over my trembling thighs. “Command the water, wield it like a weapon. In here, you are the force to be reckoned with, not it.”

Releasing a shaky breath, I nod.

“Move down one step.”

The order has my chest tightening with anxiety, but I force myself to scoot forward and sink onto the first step between his legs, my feet moving down to the second. Yet another shiver works through me as the cool water engulfs my bottom half.

I close my eyes and try to picture myself in the bathtub instead, but the overwhelming smell of chlorine keeps the fantasy at bay. No matter how hard I try to imagine otherwise, I’m not in a safe place, and my brain refuses to let me forget it.

As if sensing my turmoil, Dread pushes me forward until I’m at the edge and then drops onto the step behind me. Instantly, the heat at my back and his strong presence soothe the panic like ointment over a burn.

I’m too panicky to consider what that means. All I can think about is how oppressive the water feels around me, like I’m submerged in thick goo rather than fluid liquid.

“Sit as still as you can,” he orders, grabbing my hands and resting them on each of my thighs. I deliberately ignore how his massive hands feel wrapped around mine, instead focusing on his words.

I try to still the trembling in my body as best I can, and for several long moments, we sit there in silence.

“You see how the water doesn’t move on its own? It can’t climb up your body and suffocate you. It only moves when you do.”

I nod, the movement aggressive and choppy, like I’m trying to convince myself of it. Maybe because I’m not fully confident it can’t become sentient and grow arms to choke me out yet.

“Will you sit on the second step for me?”

The request has my stomach bottoming out. He squeezes my hands, a reminder he’s here. With me. For whatever fucking reason.

Tightening my lips, I nod again.

“Good girl,” he whispers, the sound sensual and full of pride. It completely decimates my control over my body and opens the gates for another shiver to tumble down my spine.

My heart flutters, and a burning heat stirs low in my stomach. His voice is a sickness, the symptoms detrimental to my mental well-being. In a desperate attempt to rid myself of them, I scoot forward and drop to the second step as my feet move to the third, the water rising to my midsection.

The goosebumps return with a vengeance, and this time, when I shiver, it’s from the chilly temperature.

“Why don’t they heat these damn pools?” I bite out through gritted teeth.

He snorts. “That would be too kind. Try swimming with the pool full of ice.”

I frown and twist to look up at him. I wasn’t prepared for the sight of him sitting behind me, black strands hanging over his eyes as he peers down with an emotion I can’t quite pin. The contrast of the dim room with the bright pool creates shadows across his face that sharpen his straight nose and jawline while the water glints off his silver nose ring and the small hoops in his ears.

He’s so goddamn beautiful, it’s almost deadly. It stops the air in your lungs and seizes your heart from pumping.

Every damn time.

Forcing myself to swallow, I ask, “Why would you swim with ice in the pool?”

“According to Coach, it improves your circulation, burns more calories, and helps with sore muscles. I think he just wants me to suffer.”

I jut out my bottom lip in consideration.

“I like his style,” I say while turning back around, but not before I catch one corner of his mouth quirking into a mirthful smirk.

It prods at the nest of butterflies in my stomach, but again, I do my best to ignore that.

He’s not just a sickness—he’s the plague.

“Careful, baby,” he murmurs, those two words a proverbial fist closing around my windpipe. I feel him lean down, his hot breath warming my ear as he whispers, “I can think of a few ways to torture you with an ice cube.”

My mouth dries, and for a few moments, I forget all about the water surrounding me. Instead, an unbidden image takes control, showing me exactly how he’d carry out that threat.

In a matter of seconds, fire erupts in my cheeks, burning hot as the fantasy takes on a mind of its own and completely spins out of control.

I scoot away from him. “I think I’d rather drown,” I mutter. Not only does it lack heat, but conviction, too.

He chuckles, and it only stokes the flames warming my blood to boiling levels. Against my will, my nipples have hardened, and my swimsuit does nothing to hide that fact.

Go back to panicking, Rev. This is so much worse.

“I can help with that, too. Just make sure your jaw is nice and relaxed.”

Growling, I turn and slap his chest, hissing at him to shut the fuck up. Instead, it earns me a deep laugh that has my heart stopping once again. Against my better judgment, I glance at him, taking in the deep crinkles around his eyes, the dimples forming right below them on the swells of his cheeks.

It’s an incredibly rare sight, especially in my presence, and it’s impossible not to let my stare linger. I can’t tell what’s more enthralling—the sound of his laughter or how otherworldly he looks doing so.

Regardless, by the time I face forward, I have no idea why I was irritated in the first place, only that I’m annoyed with myself for the point-two seconds I considered coming up with another reason to make him laugh again.

I’m an idiot.

He’s an asshole, we hate each other, and fucking him a few times doesn’t change our fucked-up history. This may be some weird truce for tonight, but we will never be friends. Never be more than friends.

“Just… teach me how to swim, dickhead,” I mumble, forcing myself to focus on the water. It makes my heart jump, but right now, I prefer it over the way Dread makes me feel.

I don’t know when it happened, but as far as my greatest fears, my feelings for Dread are now the scariest.

He maneuvers out from behind me and descends into the water, bending his knees until it reaches his shoulders. My throat tightens when he grabs my hands and gently pulls me forward. Instinctively, I resist, my muscles straining against him. He easily overpowers me, tugging me off the steps into the shallow water.

An embarrassing squeak leaves my throat as the water climbs up to my neck. My legs flail, and my eyes blow wide, already convinced I’m on the verge of drowning.

“Easy, baby,” he soothes. “You’re only in four feet of water. If it gets to be too much, stand up.”

I stand instantly and try to breathe, resisting the urge to claw at my throat. It feels as if a snake has circled around it, slowly squeezing until only a sliver of oxygen slips through. My chest pumps, and while a distant part of me is aware of how ridiculous I’m being, I’m unable to do anything but fucking panic.

Dread quickly wades toward me and stands, towering over me by too many inches to be reasonable. His palms slide along either side of my face before lifting my jaw up to him. I wheeze, his features blurred and vague.

“Focus on me, Rev, and take deep breaths. You’re not drowning.”

But I am.

I’ve been drowning my entire fucking life.

I blink, and a tear slips free. I hadn’t even noticed them welling in my eyes.

He’s quick to swipe it away with his thumb, but a few more replace it. He catches those, too, tilting my face up higher.

“Do you remember two years ago what you did with all of my swimsuits?”

My brows knit as I try to recall that memory. It takes several seconds before I can get my brain functioning properly again, but after a moment, I remember exactly the incident he’s referring to.

“You hung up pictures of my dad’s mugshot all over campus,” I croak out. “I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing his face. It sent me into a panic attack.”

For once, he doesn’t look proud to hear that, but I’m too distracted to dwell on it.

“And what did you do to get back at me?”

My voice is shaky and breathless as I say, “I… I offered Matt a hundred bucks to sneak me into your dorm while you were at a meet. I had to pick the lock. I found all your suits and cut holes right over the crotch.”

That was actually how Matt and I met. As sophomores, we lived in different buildings with smaller rooms, Matt only three doors down from Dread.

I was lingering outside the building’s entrance, and Matt happened to be the first guy I saw. He was wary of helping me at first, but I eventually convinced him in exchange for money. Except, by the time I broke into Dread’s room, cut up his suits, and came back out, he gave the money back and asked for a date instead.

Apparently, he liked that I had the nerve to do something like that, and I thought he was really cute, so I accepted. It was the first time a guy looked at me with kindness in so long.

But that didn't last forever, of course.

Eventually, his kindness faded to contempt and exhaustion from my constant war with Dread, and I couldn't even blame him.

Dread barely stifles a sneer at the mention of Matt's name. It would appear Dread still hates him, though I don't really understand why. We haven't spoken since we broke up.

“The next meet, I wasn't paying attention and put one of them on in front of the entire swim team, and my dick instantly fell out of it,” Dread says, pulling my focus back to him as he gives me a dry, unimpressed look.

The image has a laugh bubbling out of my throat. I’m picturing what Dread’s face must’ve looked like when he realized; it’s probably one he’ll never make again, and I’m sad I missed it.

He grins, and although my chest is still too tight and I’m trembling violently, my next inhale is a little easier.

“Rogue laughed so hard, he cried. Actually—” He tilts his chin up as he considers something. “—the entire fucking team did. Even more so when I realized I didn’t have any suits with me that didn’t have holes cut into them.”

I bite back a smile, but it’s futile. There’s no trapping the impish grin that curls my lips, the tinge of my pride in my chest for effectively ruining his day.

Dread’s stare drops to my mouth, his eyes both softening and heating, like holding a flame to candle wax. My stomach clenches, and my heart quickens for an entirely different reason. Like an idiot, my own gaze drops, and the air between us thickens to stifling levels.

I’ll never admit how often I replay those lips on mine, exploring my body, going to places no one else has gone before, tasting me and giving me pleasure I never knew possible.

But they’ve also spoken some of the cruelest words I’ve ever heard, smiled while I raged and cried. They’ve made me feel good, but they’ve also done an insurmountable amount of damage.

Clearing my throat, I step back out of his hands and drop my stare to the water. It’s only waist-high when standing, but it doesn’t stop my blood from running cold at the sight.

“So, uh, did you have to wear someone else’s?” I ask, my voice splintering at the seams.

I risk a glance up at him, finding his expression impassive and unreadable.

“The only teammate who’s the same size as me wears briefs,” he answers, flicking his gaze down my body before turning and wading a couple of feet away. “The first and only time I’ve worn that style at a swim meet. The media loved it, so they can thank you for that.”

My lips twitch. Dread only ever wears knee-length suits, much to the public’s dismay.

“Glad I could be of assistance,” I quip, though my voice wavers as I become more and more aware of the water. He’s incredibly effective at distracting me, but apparently only when we’re making out—or on the verge.

“Zoomed in shots of my dick plastered all over the internet while thousands of people tried to guess how many inches it is,” he goes on, dropping into a crouch again and pushing off, cutting through the water with ease.

I wrinkle my nose. “That sounds incredibly invasive and gross.”

“It is.”

He says it casually, as if he's telling me the weather. Somehow, that's even sadder—to be so used to people viewing his body like that, it doesn't even faze him.

“You’d be surprised how many are convinced I’m packing a fucking tree trunk.”

My tongue feels two sizes too large as I mumble, “How disappointing that you aren’t.”

He pauses and quirks a brow. “Darling, are you implying my cock disappoints you?”

Oh, God.

This conversation took a turn, and my brain is only functioning at half its capacity.

I have no fucking idea how to answer that and not dig myself a deeper hole. So instead, I drop my knees and submerge myself into the water, up to my shoulders.

I choke on a groan, instantly feeling panic claw up my throat. Every inhale feels like ice, and it freezes my muscles, preventing me from moving.

Dread swims toward me, his eyes sharp as he watches me, as if to ensure I don’t drown, though amusement colors them, too.

“Did you seriously just throw yourself back into a panic attack to avoid answering that?” he questions, one corner of his mouth curling.

“No?”

I sound like an idiot, and I feel like one, too, because I definitely am on the cusp of another panic attack.

He shakes his head but swallows his amusement and grabs my hands, pulling me into him until a foot separates us.

“The most important thing about keeping yourself afloat is doing it in a way that doesn’t exhaust you. The quicker you tire yourself out, the more likely you are to drown.”

I nod, but the only part my brain latches on to is ‘drown.’ My breaths come out short and heavy.

“First, you need to relax your breathing. Inhale deeply. It makes you more buoyant.”

My first attempt fails, and so do my second and third. It feels as if my throat is the size of a pea, and I can’t suck in enough.

“Rev, focus on me. Try again.”

My gaze shoots to him, and the next several attempts also fail. But the longer I stare into his eyes, the easier they become, until eventually, I’m able to draw in a full breath.

“That’s it,” he encourages softly. “Now, you’re going to point your toes, and when you move your feet, you’re going to pretend like you’re peddling a bike.”

The second I lift my feet from the floor, I sink, causing me to instantly panic and put my feet down again. I didn’t even drop an inch, but my heart pounds against my chest as if I went completely under.

“Hey, hey, relax, baby. I’ll help keep you afloat for now. I won’t let you go under,” he soothes, dropping my hands to grip my waist instead.

My nod is rushed and choppy, and I try to even out my breathing again. Another several minutes pass before I accomplish that, and even more before I convince myself to lift my feet again. The initial dip has me tensing, but, true to his word, Dread bears my weight. He holds me at arm’s length, giving me room to pedal my feet.

“Good,” he murmurs. “For your arms, you’re going to make a figure eight motion. It’s called sculling, creating upward pressure. Keep your hands flat and relaxed, and move them out and then in.”

I do as he says, focusing on his voice as he corrects me on the motion a few times until he seems satisfied.

“I’m not going to let you go, but I’m going to loosen my hold, okay? I want you to keep moving your legs and arms until it starts to feel more natural.”

“Don’t let go,” I rush out despite myself. He already said he wouldn’t, but my body refuses to trust that just yet.

“I won’t, baby,” he reassures gently. “I just want you to feel your own weight and get accustomed to it.”

My movements are stilted and awkward at first. In my panicked mind, it takes several attempts before I figure out how to move my limbs in tandem. All the while, Dread stays quiet, letting me figure it out on my own.

Swimming is something he does nearly every day. He could swim in a goddamn coma, and here I am, subjecting myself to his scrutiny when I look no more apt than a toddler. In fact, I think a toddler would look less pathetic than me right now.

A small part of me is still waiting for him to pull the rug out from under my feet, whether that means actually drowning me or twisting his lips into that familiar cruel smile and laughing at me for how ridiculous I look.

But he does none of those things, even when I finally get the motion down, and he slowly pulls his hands away, allowing me to keep myself afloat.

“Am I doing it? I’m doing it, right? I’m doing it!” I ramble excitedly, forgetting about everything except the thrill exploding in my chest.

He grins, an emotion passing through his eyes I’m too distracted to dissect.

“You’re doing it, baby,” he says, his tone low and full of something that sounds a little like pride. It hits me directly in the heart, but I force myself to focus on my new accomplishment instead.

“Holy shit, I'm swimming,” I breathe, almost in disbelief. His smile only widens as he watches me. “Do I qualify for the Olympics yet?” I joke, almost breathless from excitement.

He hums, his eyes glimmering. “I think I can pull a few strings and get you in.”

I pin him with a warning look. “Be careful. I might steal your thunder.”

“You think so?” he taunts, drifting back into my space. My movements falter for a split second, and any hope it went unnoticed vanishes when one side of his lips curls into a smirk.

“I know so,” I whisper, resenting how a different type of thrill ignites low in my stomach.

His messy black hair falling into his piercing eyes, the tiny bead of water clinging to the silver hoop in his nose, his bottom lip curling beneath his straight teeth—they’re all responsible for making him devastating to look at.

No matter what we do, we always seem to drift back into dangerous territory.

I’m flirting with death, but it isn’t the water threatening to take me. It’s the monster before me, staring at me like he wants to devour me.

The last time I found myself between Dread’s teeth, I met God, only for Him to kick me down to hell when He saw who I let disgrace me.

With his stare locked on my mouth again, his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, the action way too erotic for him to be thinking about anything but the same memory.

We need to stop.

I need to stop.

Every time I fall into this trap, I come out battered and bruised.

For an entire week, he disappeared to one side of the country and then ignored my existence. But not before practically daring my father to come after us—after me—then fucking me in a retort and leaving me there, covered in human ash.

None of that is normal. Despite his claim to having feelings for me, it doesn’t just erase everything he’s done.

He doesn’t erase everything I’ve done to him.

He knows all my dark secrets, everything I’ve burrowed deep in my soul until the shame is only an aftertaste on my tongue. He pulled it out of me until it flooded from my mouth, leaving me to choke on the bitter truth.

I’m responsible for those women’s deaths.

I’m responsible for his mother’s death.

I may have not been the one to take her life, but I’m the one who made it possible.

Not only did I allow a monster to roam free, but I created one of my very own.

And I think that’s the hardest pill to swallow.

I created Dread. In turn, he’s done everything in his power to destroy me.

And now…

He wants me—he keeps wanting me.

And I’m supposed to just… accept it, as if the last four years didn’t slowly break me down and tear me apart. As if half the times we've fucked are completely normal.

He may have had a week to process his feelings, but I haven’t, and this is way too much.

“Thanks for the lesson,” I mumble, letting my feet drop and quickly moving away.

His flicker of surprise appears as quickly as it fades, freezing beneath the cool expression that washes over his face. In an instant, it hardens into ice. I shiver, as if he, himself, is causing the temperature of the water to plummet.

He says nothing as I awkwardly stand and rush back toward the stairs, feeling his stare burning into my back.

The familiar sense of doom floods my system again as I quickly grab my clothes crumpled by the corner of the pool then and rush to the door.

It’s sad how much more comfortable I am with dread when it’s nothing more than an emotion, rather than the man himself.

CHAPTER 28

REVERIE

My heart pounds as my wet clothes drip over the thin carpet in Dread’s room. I was so intent on getting away from him, I forgot my towel and just ran out into the equipment area, quickly tugging my clothing on over my dripping wet suit.

Rogue was gone when I went out there, which means Dread must’ve sent him home when he arrived, so thank fucking God I drove us to the center in my car.

Half of me was expecting Dread to be hot on my heels, but he dragged behind. I wasn’t out of his eyesight for long as I sprinted to my car, though. When I was pulling out of my parking spot, he was getting into his car. Fifteen seconds later, I received a text from him.

The Antichrist: You better be on your way to our dorm. Don't make me come drag you back home.

It was absolutely diabolical the way my heart fluttered at the words ‘our’ and ‘home.’

Now, I rush to put on clean, dry clothes. For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, my heart pounds as I dig through the laundry basket, still filled with mine and Dread's clean clothes from when I was staying here before. It became easier to just wash them all together rather than trying to keep them separate, which is a weird enough concept to send me back to therapy if I think too hard about it.

I snag a T-shirt, set it on top for easy access, then quickly strip off the wet clothes and bathing suit.

Goosebumps consume my entire body from the cooler air hitting my damp flesh. But I'm so worried about Dread walking in on me, I ignore it and rush to put the T-shirt on.

All I need is underwear and sleep shorts, but I don't even get the chance to bend over to rifle through the basket again before his door flies open, prompting us both to freeze.

Dread fills the entryway, one hand on the doorknob, and his other holding a medium-sized black bag.

I almost return my attention to the clothes, but something about the way he's staring at my shirt makes my heart drop, and my head instantly snaps down.

My. Fucking. God, do I hate my life.

I'm wearing a vintage Nirvana T-shirt. This isn't mine—it’s fucking Dread's.

Panic instantly zips through my veins, ramping up my heart rate and flipping my heart upside down. I stare down at the T-shirt with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights.

This is incredibly mortifying and will definitely go one of two ways.

Option one: he's going to think I've been wearing his clothes to bed like some creepy, lovesick weirdo.

Or option two: he's going to get incredibly turned on.

Either way, I might as well be wearing a sign around my neck begging Dread to fuck me, and I can’t exactly trust the asshole not to oblige, even if he thinks I'm a creepy, lovesick weirdo. While I can’t exactly say it would be a skin-crawling experience, I think I would rather punch myself in the face than let that man inside me again.

Liar.

Fuck, I am.

But it’s still in my best interest to keep him firmly outside my body, so wearing his T-shirt is the absolute worst thing I could’ve done.

Thankfully, it hangs several inches past my ass, but wearing nothing beneath still makes me feel incredibly exposed, like my skin has been peeled back, allowing the soft material to brush against every raw nerve. Everything about this situation fucking sucks, and what’s worse is that I only have myself to blame.

Hesitantly, I lift my stare to Dread's. His features seem to sharpen as his gaze slowly glides down my form, only to take his sweet time dragging it back up again. The second our eyes meet, several things happen at once. His jaw clenches until the muscle appears on the verge of splitting skin. He steps completely into the room, shutting the door behind him. The air thickens, filling with heat and tension—and possibly toxic fumes, too.

All I know is that I can’t fucking breathe, and he looks pissed. Any softness from the pool is nowhere to be found, and if his hair wasn't wet at his nape, I'd question if I imagined the whole thing.

So option one it is. He's back to hating me because of what I did—or rather, didn't do—after catching Lionel with Georgia Farrell, and he thinks I'm a fucking creep.

My heart drops, and anxiety swells in my stomach, but I steel my spine for whatever cruel words are going to come out of his mouth.

He's probably going to say I'm dirtying his shirt or tell me it's unflattering on my body.

“Get on the bed⁠—”

“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.”

The ensuing silence is loud as I blink at him, my mouth flopping. I was wholly prepared for a derogatory remark and nothing else.

Especially not what the fuck actually came out of his mouth.

He arches his scarred brow, the thin white line cutting through it making him appear more intimidating than he has any right to be. Meanwhile, my entire face burns with embarrassment.

Clearing my throat, I bounce my gaze around the room as I say, “Okay, wow, this is awkward. I was totally expecting you to say something else.”

He nods slowly, glancing down my body in a way that tightens my stomach. I realize now I mistook the heat in his eyes for anger rather than lust.

“Get on the bed, Reverie.”

I shift uncomfortably, my fingers playing with the ends of the fabric, and I force myself to meet his stare with a tight expression.

“Are we sure we shouldn’t fight about the shirt instead?”

His tongue rolls to the side of his cheek, clearly becoming impatient.

“Do I need to come get you?”

My stomach flips, adrenaline flooding my system as I struggle with both the urge to listen and to revolt.

“Dread,” I whisper helplessly.

I don’t know what to do. His expectant stare borders on threatening, but we’re supposed to hate each other, for fuck’s sake.

Who cares if he just taught me how to swim? This shouldn’t even be a thing.

“This isn’t— We can’t do this again,” I try to reason, my tone cautious. He looks like he might pounce, and for the first time in my life, I just might run screaming if he does.

My muscles are tense as he silently regards me, only deepening my nervousness. I’m on edge, and even the slightest twitch of his finger might spook me. It’s like slowly climbing to the top of the roller coaster, and with each passing second, the anticipation builds until you’re somewhere between fearing it and just wanting it over so you can breathe again.

God, I don’t remember feeling like this with him before. I always stood my ground, even when he terrified me. So why is it now that I want to run? Why, when his intentions aren’t to cause me pain?

Because it’ll hurt more when he’s finished with you and breaks your heart.

I instantly crumple that thought into a ball and chuck it out the window. I reject any possibility he could hurt me like that.

That’s the one part of me I will never let him have.

He still says nothing as he sets the black bag on his nightstand, keeping his piercing stare directed at me. Then, he pinches the zipper on his coat and slowly drags it down. I follow the movement as my throat swells, making it hard to breathe. He shrugs it off and tosses it over to his computer chair, leaving him in damp black clothing that molds to his body like papier-mâché. His joggers don’t appear soaking wet, so he must’ve taken off his briefs before putting them back on.

Again, I shift, my heart pumping a mile a minute.

“One.”

I frown, unsure of what he means until he says, “Two.”

I shake my head, my nerves morphing into panic. If we were anywhere else, I’d tell him to fuck off. But here, in his room, when I have nothing but his T-shirt on—I’m completely vulnerable with nowhere to run. I’m a goddamn mouse with its leg caught in a trap.

He picks up the black bag again and unzips it, his demeanor intense yet casual.

“Three.”

“Fucking hell. Fine,” I snap, practically stomping to the bed and sitting on the side of it with a frustrated huff, facing him directly.

I cross my arms, and while he may think it’s because I’m irate, it’s truly because I don’t want him to see my hard nipples poking beneath the fabric. I'm only thankful he doesn't have infrared vision to see the heat pooling low in my stomach.

One side of his mouth curls as he drops his attention to whatever is inside the bag.

I swear to fucking God, if he pulls out a snake or a spider, I will quite literally lose my shit, and I will do it all over his fucking bed, too.

“When’s the last time you played with your pussy?”

My mouth parts, and for what feels like the hundredth time, I stare at him blankly as I try to compute his question.

“W-what? That is not any of your business,” I stutter. Flames lick at the base of my throat before spreading up to my cheeks.

He reaches in the bag and pulls out a familiar object. I gasp, staring at what’s in his hand with both shock and mortification.

“What the fuck, Dread? Why do you have my vibrator?” I shout, getting to my feet. I’m about to charge at him and wrestle the damn thing from his grip when he reaches in the bag again and pulls out my dildo.

It’s like dousing me with gasoline and flicking a lit match.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, balling my hands into fists and glowering at him. “When did you even get those?”

“Before I went to the pool,” he answers, not the least bit bothered by my fury.

Of fucking course he did.

The asshole has broken into my dorm more times than I have fingers and toes to count, so it’s the least surprising part.

I’m so angry and humiliated, it anchors me where I stand, despite my desperation to grab the toys and rip them from his hands.

He holds up the dildo, presenting a seven-inch lifelike dick. I’m seriously contemplating running to his window and yeeting myself out of it when I note the anger melting the frost in his eyes.

“You will never use this shit again. The only cock that will fuck your pussy is mine.”

My mouth drops wide open, and all I can do is sputter at him, only to gasp when he throws it across the room, landing directly in the small trash bin next to his computer desk.

“Seriously?” I hiss, giving him a filthy look. “You’re jealous of a fake dick? You know I can just go buy a new one, right?”

He reaches in the bag again, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling in exasperation, muttering beneath my breath, “Jesus Christ, what are you, Mary fucking Poppins?”

I practically choke when he pulls out a new dildo—one that’s incredibly familiar, despite having never seen it as a toy before.

Because it’s an exact fucking replica of Dread’s dick.

“I— Wh— D-did you seriously get a mold of your dick?” I sputter out.

I’m frozen as his long legs eat up the five feet of distance between us, stopping just as his chest brushes against mine. He’s so tall, he’s forced to dip his head, black strands falling in his eyes as he stares down at me.

“Even when I’m not around, it will only be me who fucks you,” he repeats, his rough voice stooping low. “Is that understood, darling?”

I can only gape at him, but he must be confident I’ll listen, because he tips his chin up, nodding toward the bed behind me.

“You said you think of me when you fuck yourself. I want you to show me.”

“What?” I squeak, glancing over my shoulder toward the bed then back to him, as if to confirm it’s real, that he’s not hallucinating.

Maybe it’s just me who's hallucinating, because this can’t actually be happening.

“I want you to get on the bed,” he says slowly. “Spread your legs, show me your pretty pussy, and fuck yourself with my cock.”

“Wha— I am not doing that.”

A threatening look hardens his features. My stomach twists itself into a knot while my mind races, desperately trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of this.

He just… He cannot be fucking serious.

His mouth dips lower, and that simple movement is like pressing the button to turn on a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the room.

“I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

My mouth moves, though no words escape. He tips his chin up again, motioning for me to back up.

“Get back on the bed.”

I grit my teeth, frustrated tears burning the backs of my eyes.

I knew I was going to regret that confession, but for some stupid reason, I never considered he’d make me reenact it. I should’ve fucking known better. It’s Dread, so of course he’s going to make me humiliate myself, and I handed him the perfect way to do it.

Snarling, I turn and climb onto the bed, my movements angry and stilted. I can’t tell who I’m more pissed with—him or myself.

I sit at the head of the bed and lean back against the wall, my knees bent and feet flat on the mattress, though I ensure they're positioned in front of my center to conceal it from his prying eyes, my thighs firmly pressed together.

He curls his bottom lip between his teeth as he gets on the bed before me, setting the dildo and vibrator in front of my legs. Then, he reaches into the pocket of his joggers and pulls out his phone.

My throat tightens, but I’m not even surprised he wants to record it. Just another piece of collateral to weaponize and control me with.

My heart is pounding, and I’m so fucking nervous, I could vomit. For several moments, I can only stare down at the toys, urging myself to just grab them and get it over with.

Except, I can’t move. I’m paralyzed, and for whatever reason, this is so much harder than fucking him.

It’s only me making myself vulnerable now, only me exposing myself and performing something incredibly intimate for him.

The bed shifts, and I raise my eyes right as he leans forward past my bent knees, placing his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in. He tilts his head and peers down at me, his lips only an inch from mine.

“Spread them,” he whispers, the soft command sending a chill racing down my spine.

The effect is instantaneous. My blood warms, heat spreading throughout my extremities, and my clit pulses with need.

Swallowing, I hesitate for a beat before letting my knees fall to the sides. His T-shirt bundles at my waist, allowing him a clear view of my pussy.

However, he doesn’t look, holding his position. His lips twitch, approval radiating from his heated stare.

“Good,” he whispers. “Now, feel your cunt, baby. Is it wet for me?”

The anxiety twisting my stomach ebbs, and my confidence slowly creeps back in. It’s reminiscent of when I stood in the locker room and decided to take back my control. Even if it slipped through my fingers the moment his lips captured mine, my power didn’t.

I held on to it then, so I can do the same now.

Lips parting, I soften my gaze and stare up at him through my lashes. I hear the distinct sound of the bedsheets tightening in his fists, and it’s the last boost I needed to reach between my thighs and dip my middle finger inside.

I’m already soaked, and I don’t even need to answer his question verbally when a loud squelching emits from my center. Rather than trying to mask the sound, I drag my finger out and swirl it around, ensuring he can hear exactly how wet I am.

His lips part, and his next breath is choppy, shuddering out of him. Still, he resists looking.

“Good girl,” he rasps. “Now, grab the toy and put it inside you.”

The dildo is just outside of arm’s reach, forcing me to lean forward to grab it. My lips brush against his, an electric current zipping between them, but I’m settling back against the wall almost instantly, denying him the opportunity to kiss me.

The corner of his mouth curls as his eyes drop to my lips for a beat before dragging them back up again, causing my stomach to flip once more. He’s amused, but I know he’s also fucking starving.

Holding his gaze, I use both hands to drag the blunt tip of the dildo up and down my slit, wetting it and evoking more vulgar sounds. My chest heaves, my core pulsing from the mix of pleasure and lust. When I slowly push it inside me, I clamp down on my bottom lip, a low whine leaking past my teeth.

His stare drops again, this time to my chest. The veins in his neck and arms protrude, his knuckles bleached white from how tightly he fists the sheet. The faintest of trembles racks his body, and I know he’s fighting not to look. I’m not sure if he’s edging himself or if he’s waiting until I’m fully relaxed, but regardless, I’m grateful for his proximity. Like this, it feels like he’s just as involved as if he were fucking me himself. But the moment he retreats and starts recording me, it’ll leave me a little colder, a little lonelier.

He shifts his weight onto one hand while the other dips beneath the T-shirt. Flattening his palm, he glides it up my abdomen, pushing the fabric along with it. My abdomen visibly contracts, and my pussy clenches around the dildo while a deep shudder rolls through me, his skin on mine dragging out an electric current strong enough to set my insides aflame.

Brow furrowed, I drop my gaze to watch him bundle the shirt up past my breasts, my arms pressing them together and pushing my hardened nipples farther out.

The sight of his T-shirt framing them, coupled with my hands working the dildo inside me while Dread crowds over me, is erotic enough to send a wicked pulse of pleasure through my pussy.

I look up just as he does. Our eyes collide, and instantly, sparks fly, like two swords clashing amid a brutal war.

My mouth parts, allowing a moan to escape, whispering its sweet melody across his lips. He answers the siren’s call with a faint growl deep in his chest. His hand moves to my rib cage and cups the underside of my tit, pushing it up just as his head shifts lower.

Keeping his stare locked on mine, he pauses when his lips are less than an inch from my nipple. A wildfire rages within his irises, the tips of the flames lashing at his pupils. I don’t know what he’s searching for, but he must find it, because another beat, and he sticks out his tongue, licking the hardened peak. It shoots straight to my clit, sending my spine arching off the wall with a whimper.

With one final shove, over two-thirds of the dildo sinks inside me, filling me to the brim.

My eyes flutter closed, and my head thumps back against the wall as pleasure consumes me. Whatever anxiety lingered inside me completely dissipates. With my back bowed, I pump the toy in and out in long pulls and quick thrusts, shuddering cries spilling from my tongue.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his hot breath fanning across my nipple. “You’re getting so good at taking my cock.”

While I understand his salacious words, my brain can no longer comprehend how to speak. A mess of cluttered syllables tumbles out of my mouth instead.

He sits back on his heels and grabs his phone from the bed, his thumb moving over the screen.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as he points the phone directly between my spread legs and then hits record.

I bite my bottom lip. There’s still a faint whisper in the back of my mind, uncomfortable with him recording me, but the eroticism of what I’m doing has taken over, drowning out the voice of reason.

“Did you fuck your cunt just like this when you thought of me?” he asks, his large palm reaching to grip the underside of my thigh, as if he can’t help but touch me.

I shake my head, prompting him to glance up at me.

He cocks his head, seemingly confused, until he glances at the other toy. “You used the vibrator too? At the same time?”

A single, choppy nod is all I’m capable of.

His answering chuckle is wicked as he grabs the purple vibrator between us and switches it on.

“Such a fucking greedy girl,” he says, his tone almost admonishing.

I nod again, earning another low laugh that travels straight to my core. It shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does, but it has a visceral effect on me, anyway.

“Show me, baby,” he encourages.

Still pumping the dildo with one hand, I grab the buzzing vibrator from him with the other and press the tip onto my clit, sending my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

“Oh,” I moan, rolling my hips up from the sheer ecstasy overtaking me.

He answers with a low groan of his own, whispering another encouragement beneath his breath.

Aside from the phone, him kneeling between my legs, watching me like this, is one of my fantasies come to life. It’s almost overwhelming to have it become real, especially when nothing could have convinced me it ever would.

He looks enraptured by me. His cock is hard and tenting his joggers, the tip tucked in his waistline, but he doesn’t touch himself.

“Your pussy is fucking weeping,” he murmurs, angling the phone for a better view. “You’re making a mess all over my bed.”

He appears incredibly pleased by that.

“It’s you making the mess,” I breathe. “I only get this wet for you.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I instantly wish I could suck them back in. Instead, I watch him process yet another one of my dark truths I never wanted him to know.

He slowly lifts his gaze to mine, something insidious and thrilling playing across his eyes. It disturbs the butterflies nesting in my stomach, the swarm fluttering wildly, as if a predator is nearby.

And there is, if the way he’s staring at me is anything to go by.

“Did the guys you fucked think it was for them?” His tone is sinister, suggesting I need to be careful how I respond.

“They never asked,” I say, my voice wobbling.

My thighs shake as the pleasure builds. When he cocks his head, it only further makes him look like a predator.

“But there’s a reason I couldn't scream their names when I came,” I quickly say. His eyebrow twitches, seeming to be both curious and bothered.

“Why’s that, darling?”

That damn nickname. He’s only using it now to poke back at me.

For reasons I’m not privy to, he’s jealous I was with other men before him. But I can’t say I don’t understand that feeling. I’ve seen Dread with his tongue down many women's throats, but it never bothered me at the time—other than finding it disturbing. Now, the thought leaves me with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Because I would’ve screamed yours instead,” I confess quietly. “Th-that’s the real reason Matt broke up with me. Because I called him by your name.”

His jaw clenches, and that muscle threatens to burst again as he stares at me intently from behind the black strands always falling over his eyes. I can’t exactly read the emotion swirling in his gaze, but I’m also heavily distracted by the consistent buzzing against my clit.

“H-he couldn’t understand why I was screaming the name of a man who tormented me,” I continue, hiccupping as I work to suppress the building orgasm demanding to be set free. “And I couldn’t tell him thinking of you was the only way I could come. I-I couldn’t tell him the only name I’ve ever screamed was yours.”

His upper lip threatens to curl, and he appears on the verge of snapping. It’s an expression I’ve seen a million times, except it was always hatred pouring out of him. Now, it’s something else entirely, something that suggests he still intends to destroy me, but it’s a destruction I’d beg for.

The pleasure mounts until I can no longer ignore it. A whine trickles from my throat, and my eyes roll again.

“Kellan,” I moan, righting my vision just as he tucks his chin into his shoulder, concealing his face from me with a muttered, “Fuck.”

The hand on my thigh tightens to the point of pain, and a deep breath inflates his chest. It seems as if he’s trying to collect himself, but if I’m to shatter for him, then I expect to find his pieces scattered amongst mine.

“Kellan, I need your permission to come,” I breathe.

His head snaps up, and his stare crashes into mine, shock flashing across his eyes.

I lick my lips, preparing to get myself into even more trouble by confessing things I shouldn’t. It can’t get any worse than this, right?

I’m fucking myself on camera while telling him about my dirty little secrets—something he can and will forever wield against me. What more do I have to lose?

The powerful vibrations against my clit are getting to me, making it hard to think straight as I careen toward an orgasm. But I meant what I said.

In my fantasies, it was the only safe way to give him power. Now, it will be very real, but nothing about it is safe.

“I-I would get really lost in the fantasy, and I—” I whimper, my thighs tensing as I get closer. “I wouldn’t let myself come until you allowed me to.” Then, I rush out, “I know it was technically me, but I always imagined it as you.”

His gaze sharpens until even the smallest eye movement feels like he’s gliding a knife along my flesh.

“Please let me come, Kellan,” I whisper desperately.

“God dammit, Rev,” he hisses.

Like a light switch, his pupils dilate until only a sliver of blue remains. He appears to check out, driven only by pure, animalistic lust. He tosses his phone beside me and then nearly rips the vibrator from my hand, quickly turning it off before tossing that to the side as well.

I mewl out my disappointment, my hips instinctively rolling, seeking the pleasure he so callously tore away.

“Kel—” Before I can finish, he bows and sweeps his tongue over my clit.

I cry out, my eyes crossing as I dive my hand into his hair and pull tight. My hips undulate against his mouth as he relentlessly licks and sucks while I struggle to pump the dildo with him in the way.

He notices immediately, knocking my hand away and taking over. My head kicks back when he drives the toy deep inside me, twisting it back and forth as he pumps it.

“Oh my—fuck, Kellan!” I gasp, my other hand flying to the sheet to grip it, except it connects with his phone instead.

I don’t even think about what I’m doing. I pick it up, see the video is still recording, and angle it past my thigh from the side, ensuring it gets a clear shot of both his face and my pussy as he eats me and fucks me roughly with the dildo.

The camera offers a much better view to watch him, but it’s too much to take. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve never been more turned on in my life.

Wetness practically pours from my entrance, and his tongue is relentless as his eyes watch me.

“Kellan, fuck, I’m gonna come. Pleaseletmecome,” I say, the words practically spilling out of my mouth.

He pulls away just long enough to growl, “You better drown me, Rev. Right fucking now.”

And then, he furiously flicks his tongue across my clit in a come-hither motion, sending me skyrocketing over the edge.

I see stars, and then I explode with a sharp scream. My thighs snap around his head, and I think I drop the phone, because both hands fist his hair as I mercilessly grind against his face.

I come so hard, I feel every blood vessel in my head strain. The sounds from my vocal cords are loud enough to vibrate my throat, yet I only hear white noise.

Somewhere on a different plane, Dread tears himself from my grip before removing the dildo and tossing it somewhere. Then, he hastily stands from the bed to rip off his clothes and climbs back on.

“Come here,” he barks, grabbing my legs and roughly jerking me down the mattress until I’m lying flat on my back.

I’m still lost to the stars when he pries my legs open and folds my body in half, pinning my knees up to my ears. He lifts one knee to plant his foot flat on the bed, using it to propel himself up enough to mount over me, lining the blunt tip of his cock up with my entrance. Then, he drives inside me to the hilt.

The intrusion feels like a hand grabbing me by the throat and slamming me back down. A strangled, hoarse scream tears out of me, and my hands fly to his flexed biceps, digging my nails in deep.

The dildo may have been the same size, but it’s nowhere near as breathtaking as his real cock, nowhere near as unforgiving.

For several beats, I’m unable to make another noise—unable to take in a single breath. He gives me no time to adjust or process, pounding into me with ferocity. Our skin clapping and the wet noises from my pussy sound like they're projecting from speakers, only broken by his uncontrolled moans accompanying each thrust.

Then, the phantom hand releases my throat, setting the sobs free.

It’s impossible to come down from my orgasm, his relentless strokes preventing it from fading completely, instead sending me climbing again.

I’m no longer in control of myself, moving my hands to squeeze my breasts, my fingers pinching at my nipples. When he releases one of my thighs to grab his phone and lifts it directly above me, I hold no more reservations and stare directly into the lens.

I can only imagine what I look like.

My dirty blonde hair splayed across his black sheets with my wispy bangs falling away from my half-lidded eyes, the inner corners of my brows curved up and my jaw dropped in pleasure, his T-shirt bunched above my tits while I squeeze them, my knees still up to my ears, his hand pinning my leg down while he fucks me.

I want him to watch this video later. I want him to obsess over me the way I have him for the past several years. Even if it’s in secret, even if we go back to hating each other, at least I’ll know I fucking haunt him, too.

His head kicks back for a moment, and his hand falters, struggling to keep it steady as he falls victim to the pleasure. So, I reach up and take the device from him and point it between my legs, ensuring to capture his soaked cock spearing in and out of me, my arousal squirting between us with each stroke.

He growls in response, pleased by my willingness to film us. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t feel like a sex tape meant to torment me anymore, but one that will torment him.

“There you go, baby,” he purrs. “Make sure it shows how good you are at taking my cock.”

He moves his body farther up toward the wall, repositioning his hands above my head so he's practically planked over me. The new angle means I take him so much deeper, hitting a spot that has my moans stuttering, providing a better view for the camera.

“Ohh, f-fuck, Kellan, oh my God,” I blabber. My toes curl from the utter euphoria engulfing me. “You fuck me s-soo g-good.”

He shifts his weight, bending one arm to lean on his elbow while the other hand closes around my throat, squeezing tight as he gets in my face. His eyes are nearly black, but it sends a sharp thrill straight to my racing heart.

“That’s because you were made just for me,” he snarls. “You’re mine to fuck and no one else’s. This pussy belongs to me. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes,” I chant while nodding eagerly, his proclamation only turning me on more.

It’s becoming impossible for me to keep my vision straight, let alone hold the phone upright, so I stretch my arm out to the side and tap the button to flip the camera around. Then, I lean his phone sideways against the wall, freeing myself from holding it. Dread relaxes his grip just enough to allow me to turn my head and find the perfect angle, ensuring we're centered in the frame.

Though it no longer shows the graphic details, it captures the perfect side view.

Dread folding me in half, his large, powerful body packed with muscle and mounted over me. My legs spread wide to accommodate his hips as he pounds into me. His hand wrapped around my throat. My flushed face, glazed-over eyes. My chest arching into him as if I can’t get close enough.

God, I hate how fucking incredible we look together.

The sight makes my heart sprout wings before fluttering off to join the rest of the butterflies searching for a new place to migrate.

Unable to stand it anymore, I turn back toward Dread just as he leans down to ensnare my lips with his. Instantly, it feels like a surge of electricity gathers inside me, lighting up every one of my nerves like they’re string lights wrapped around my bones.

Both our mouths open on a moan, and our tongues instantly collide, swirling together like two lovers spending their last night together. My hands dive into his hair, gripping the strands tightly as we desperately devour one another.

Yet, it still doesn’t feel like enough. If we were feral beasts, we’d sooner shred each other apart trying to get closer. Spiderweb cracks spread across my body with each passing second, so it wouldn’t take much to tear me into pieces, anyway.

His hips shift ever so slightly, causing him to hit a spot that has stars exploding behind my eyelids. I rip my lips away, lifting my chin to cry out, “Ah! Yes, right there! Don’t stop, oh my God, baby, please don’t stop.”

The sound that comes out of his mouth is animalistic, while mine is high-pitched and ridden with desperation.

“Fuck!” he barks, his body swelling with tension.

My muscles stiffen, and my eyes roll to the back of my head as pure ecstasy seizes hold of me. I don’t know if the camera is even still upright from the bed shaking, but I’m too lost to care. He can use his fucking memory if he wants to see me explode for him.

And that’s exactly what I do.

My head kicks back, my spine bowing off the bed as I shatter. A hoarse scream tears from my constricted throat before I descend into absolute madness.

My legs snap around his hips just as he stills, a rough shout bursting out of him the same moment he erupts.

Except my inner walls clamp around him so tight, it prevents his cum from spilling out. Like a clogged pipe filling with water, it forces him to rip himself out of me to release it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, letting go of my throat to furiously pump his cock. Ribbons of cum paint my stomach white while I violently shudder beneath him.

The orgasm becomes too much, seizing my pussy almost to the point of pain. Instinctively, I let go of his hair to reach between us and grab myself, needing it to stop nearly as much as I need to breathe. Wetness gushes between my fingers while I sob, my face twisting as tears well and then spill from my eyes, too.

At some point, his forehead drops to mine and he pushes my hand out of the way, so it flies to the back of his neck to keep me grounded instead.

“Shhh, I got you, Rev,” he whispers, cupping me and applying firm pressure until the orgasm wanes, soothing the insistent pulsing in my groin.

Panting, lightheaded, and nearly blind, I tremble beneath him hard enough to make my teeth chatter. The aftershocks don’t relent for several long moments, leaving me to whimper as I twitch violently in his hand.

“K-Kell⁠—”

“I got you,” he reassures quietly, lifting his head to feather his lips across my jawline toward my ear. “You have such a sensitive little pussy, don’t you, baby?”

My stomach flips from his salacious words, and I nod, though it’s more like a stilted jerk.

Keeping his fingers flat and pressed together, he circles all four of them against me, subduing the sharp throbbing. I arch into his hand with a strangled whine, seeking more of the newfound pleasure his ministrations create.

He groans low in his throat. “That feel good?”

“Yes,” I gasp, shuddering when he nips right below my jaw.

The surrounding air becomes hot and heavy again. He feels incredible on top of me like this. He’s still braced on his bent arm, keeping his body lifted a few inches and his weight off me, but he’s close enough to easily arch into him and feel his skin against mine.

Every atom in my body feels magnetized toward him, a force impossible to resist.

His fingers continue to swirl over my pussy, wringing out breathless moans from my lips, while he delivers sharp nips down my neck. My hips undulate against him, needing more yet never wanting this to end.

“More,” I beg, desperate to have him inside me again.

Abruptly, he pulls his hand away, and I’m unable to stop myself from whining at the loss.

He tsks. “You’re being a greedy little slut,” he says darkly.

“Then I’ll go fuck the dildo again. At least that one has stamina,” I bite back.

I’m given no warning for the sharp slap he delivers directly between my thighs. I yelp, jerking against him. The burning sensation flirts with pleasure, and I’m torn between wanting him to do it again and wanting him to soothe me more.

“You better fucking apologize, or your pussy will sooner grow cobwebs before I touch it again,” he snarls.

The mere thought of that makes me want to cry, yet my throat closes around the apology. It goes against every fiber of my being to say sorry to him, but if he abandoned me right now, my desperation might have me on my knees damn near kissing his feet, and that’s just too fucking shameful to consider.

I tug on his hair, prompting him to lift his head until I can slide my lips against his. His stare is a raging hellfire, which assures me I haven’t pissed him off too much. It’s when he turns to ice that I need to worry.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, evoking a low growl from deep in his chest, a tremble working through his body. It seems the endearment is another weakness of his, just like when I call him by his real name.

I give him my best doe-eyed stare. “I used to play with myself until it hurt to come. I’ve always been a greedy slut for you.”

He shakes his head and huffs out a breathless laugh that bleeds into a low groan, knowing I'm deliberately riling him up yet unable to resist it.

Two of his fingers swipe over my stomach, collecting his cum on the tips before reaching between my legs and gliding them down my slit. I bite my bottom lip, but not before a mewl slips through. I could weep from the relief of having him touch me again.

He watches me carefully as he plunges those same two fingers deep inside me then curls them against my g-spot. My mouth drops open to set free a single cry against his parted lips. That’s the only grace I’m offered before he rapidly pumps his fingers directly on that spot, as if he’s repeatedly pressing a button, keeping them curled just right to target it perfectly.

What starts as a moan ascends to a high-pitched squeak, though they do nothing to mask the wet squelching noises from his fingers. It’s almost too intense, and the urge to pee quickly arises.

“Ohh, fffffuu—” The syllable stutters out of me before turning into another high-pitched sound, my body curling into him.

I make the mistake of locking eyes with him, because the moment I do, I can’t look away. It agitates the butterflies until they’re wreaking absolute havoc on my insides, but I’m helpless to stop them.

It makes me desperate to alleviate the tension, so I reach down and wrap my hand around his cock. His pupils dilate, and a low moan vibrates his throat. He’s still hard, but he’s sticky, so I grab his wrist and tug.

“Share with me,” I say.

He doesn’t need elaboration. He removes his fingers, and my hips involuntarily roll from the loss while my core practically screams for him to come back. I’m unable to bite back the whimper in time.

“Such a needy pussy,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around his cock and spreading the cocktail of our cum along his length.

Biting my lip, I glide my own palm down my center, wetting it before practically prying his fingers away from his dick.

One corner of his mouth lifts, hinting at the dimple above his cheek, but I don’t care if I’m amusing him—I just need him back inside me.

He must’ve forgotten how much he loves to torment me, because he drives his fingers inside me instantly. My eyelashes flutter, and I wrap my hand around him, pumping his length from base to tip, twisting my wrist as I do.

His brow knits, and his lips part soundlessly, but after the second time, a throaty moan mingles with mine.

From there, we both quickly descend into a flurry of moans, whimpers, and muttered curses. We work each other vigorously until it almost feels like a competition to see who can make the other come first. Protruding veins cord from his neck down his flexed bicep to his wrist as he finger fucks me, only making it harder to resist the orgasm rolling in.

My bladder feels like bursting, but I know exactly what that means now. I’m so close, and I can tell he is, too, yet both of us fight against it.

“Kellan, please,” I plead, but I don’t even know what exactly I’m asking for. To break first? Or to give me that push over the edge?

He growls. “I’ve only ever been with blonde women because of you,” he bites out.

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I’m almost finding it difficult to care.

“I can count on two hands how many there were, and it’s because they were the only ones I could look at and see a little of you.”

I shake my head, praying he doesn’t say what I think he’s going to.

“Kel—”

“But they weren’t you, Rev,” he says roughly. “I hated them because they weren’t you. And the only way I could get through it was to pretend they were.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. I’m careening over the edge and diving headfirst into the abyss below.

A scream tears from my throat, and my hand around Dread’s length stutters. He pumps his hips in my fist once, twice, before he lets out a hoarse shout of his own. But I’m too far gone to feel his cum pouring out onto me for the second time or my own release gushing out of me, squirting past Dread’s persistent fingers.

I convulse beneath him while my hands fly to his back, digging my nails into his skin, desperately attempting to hold on to him. If I don’t, I just might fall off the edge of the world, and I don’t know how to make my way back.

It feels like hours by the time I come back down. I’m breathless and lightheaded again, and only now do I realize Dread’s hot tongue is licking and sucking on my nipple while his fingers gently circle my clit.

Because of course he’s the culprit prolonging the orgasm until I damn near passed out.

I deflate beneath him, and he finally retreats, rolling onto his side with a heavy sigh. I’m covered in sweat and cum, and aftershocks are still making me twitch, but the only thing I can focus on is what the fuck just happened.

I don’t understand him—this—and how the hell we even got here.

I keep my head turned away from him while I try and fail to process the last… God, I don’t even know how long.

Quietly, he gets up from the bed, but I refuse to look at him, even when he returns a minute later wearing a pair of black boxers and cleans my stomach with a warm rag. When he finishes, he throws the rag into his hamper and then grabs my—his—T-shirt and pulls it down my body until I’m covered again.

Then, he reaches over me and grabs his phone. The knowledge he has an entire fucking sex tape of us is incredibly fucking unsettling now. This one is a real sex tape—nothing like the one of him fucking me against the other side of the door.

Long, silent seconds tick by, and I refuse to look at him until I hear my phone buzz from somewhere in the room, followed by him setting his own phone down on the nightstand, done with whatever he was doing on it.

I risk a glance in his direction. He’s standing beside the bed, staring down at me with a look I can’t quite decipher.

“You have a link to a secure drive. I uploaded the video to it.”

I stare at him blankly. I know he said words. I heard him speak, even saw his mouth move.

Yet, I’m unable to process a single syllable, because they all sounded fucking insane.

“What.”

He grins, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “The video,” he says slowly. “That we just created two minutes ago. I uploaded it to a secure drive and shared it with you so you have it, too.”

I blink once, then twice.

“Why?”

He cocks his head, his brows pinching, almost appearing unsure. “I guess so it could feel like ours, not just mine. So it doesn’t feel like blackmail, but just… something we did together.”

My mouth opens then promptly shuts again before I frown.

That’s oddly… sweet?

Why do I find that so sweet?

“Oh. Cool,” I say awkwardly, a smirk spreading across his face once again. I narrow my eyes, attempting to mask the embarrassment burning my cheeks with an annoyance I’m struggling to truly feel.

“Don’t think I was being cute wearing your T-shirt. It was an accident. I meant to grab one of mine.”

He hums. “Guess I’m gonna have to burn all your clothes.”

“You wouldn’t,” I growl as he leans down until his lips brush mine and he’s inhaled every drop of my oxygen into his greedy lungs, leaving me bereft.

“I would. You’ll be lucky if I let you wear anything else when we’re married.”

My mouth pops open again.

He might as well have punched me in the chest. I’m breathless, utterly at a loss. Mostly, though, I can’t tell if he’s being cruel or not.

“That’s not funny,” I whisper.

He presses a soft kiss to my lips, but I keep my eyes open, waiting for him to tell me he was joking.

He retreats just enough to catch my gaze, a rare softness in his eyes as his thumb drags down my bottom lip. But the part that scares me most is how incredibly serious he looks.

“I never laughed, darling.”

CHAPTER 29

DREAD

“Mr. Sharpe, can you comment on your relationship with Charlotte D’Amour? Why did she change her name to Reverie Adams? Does she still have a relationship with Lionel? How do you two make it work, since you’re the reason Lionel went to prison?”

The journalist shoving a microphone in my face has two seconds before he’s swallowing my fist.

I pause and look him dead in the eye, enjoying how he shrinks back. “Charlotte D’Amour doesn’t exist anymore. What the fuck kind of reporter are you?”

Leaving him stunned, I continue walking up the sidewalk to my dorm when another journalist—an older woman this time—shoves her microphone in my face next. 

“Mr. Sharpe, what about Gabi Loren’s accusations against Charlotte for the disappearance of Mindy Sackler? Are you not concerned your girlfriend is following in her father’s footsteps and murdering innocent women like your mother?”

My fucking God, I actually might kill this woman.

I pause for a second time and settle an icy glare on her, watching her visibly swallow. “Do you have a fucking meatball for a brain? Otherwise, you would’ve done your job and already discovered Gabi’s claims are unsubstantiated. There’s zero evidence Reverie had anything to do with Mindy’s disappearance.”

The woman juts out her chin, attempting to appear unaffected, though her stare is fiery. “The same could be said about your accusations against Lionel D’Amour, yet that didn’t stop you from sending him to prison for over a decade. Are you admitting you put away an innocent man, Mr. Sharpe? What would your mother think about that? Do you think she’d be disappointed in you?”

My vision flickers, the sudden onslaught of fury like a punch to the chest. Even a few other reporters gasp, staring at the woman with outrage and shock. She doesn’t appear unapologetic in the slightest. 

Considering I can’t commit homicide in broad daylight, I do the only thing I can do and let out a laugh, the insidious sound forcing her back with a startled look. She must see the murder in my eyes. Maybe she’ll finally realize that between me and Reverie, the one most likely to commit murder is me, and the dumb bitch is currently giving me very little reason to spare her life.

I resume walking, and, for what might be the first time in her life, she’s smart enough not to follow me. However, the rest of the vultures do, though they seem to have enough self-preservation not to ask about Lionel, my mother, or Mindy’s disappearance again.

“How serious is the relationship between you and Charlotte, Mr. Sharpe?” one journalist pipes up.

“She’s going to have my babies someday. What do you fucking think?” I bark over my shoulder just as I reach the door, prompting the crowd of ugly birds to gasp and then spout off a whole new list of questions about our relationship. 

She's going to be livid with that comment, but I’m finding it hard to give a fuck at the moment.

I don’t even know if she wants children, but if so, she’s sure as fuck not having anyone else’s baby, that's for goddamn sure. If not, that's great, too. I don't want Reverie for what her body can do for me. I want her for what I can do to her body.

I swing open the door, uncaring if I smack one of them in the face, and don't bother looking back as I snap, “And her fucking name is Reverie.”

I let it slam behind me before any of them can respond.

I’ve forgotten how much I hate them. They’re different from the sports journalists only interested in my career. These kinds are far more ruthless and have no issue prying into my trauma just to make a news headline.

I barge into my room, Reverie startling on my bed, where she lies on her stomach with her legs kicked up behind her. 

My fuck, she's wearing tiny little shorts that ride up just enough to show the round apples of her cheeks.

Gasping, she swings her wide eyes my way, her pencil frozen above her homework. My fist is already in my mouth, biting on my finger while I physically restrain myself from sinking my teeth into the soft flesh of her plump ass.

God, I've already done so many things to her, but there's so much more I want to do.

My blood is on fire by the time I drag my stare back up to hers.

She finally trimmed her bangs, the wispy strands stopping just past her eyebrows, allowing me to see her features a little clearer than before.

I take in her copper eyes, long brown lashes, the light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks, the dainty gold hoops in her button nose and septum, and those full, pink lips I’m so goddamn obsessed with kissing.

Fucking hell, she’s breathtaking.

How one of the most vile, ugliest creatures helped create the most beautiful will always be a fucking mystery.

Her shoulders sag when she sees me, and with a grumbled complaint about scaring her, she turns back to her homework.

She doesn’t look happy to see me, and that really fucking irks me.

I’m happy to see her.

It’s Monday afternoon, and in the couple of days I’ve been home, she’s been incredibly fucking distant. It's a complete one-eighty from Saturday night, when I helped her learn to swim and then made a real sex tape with her. 

The second we finished, she shut down. I thought maybe she was just processing, but all of yesterday and today, she’s been avoidant, all the while playing dumb and acting like she hasn't. No matter what I say or do, she’s cagey, abnormally quiet, and subdued, even when I’m clearly pissing her off. The only time I recognize her is when I’m inside her, but the second I pull out, she’s locked down again. Considering I just told her I’m falling for her, it’s really getting beneath my skin.

Not to mention she confessed yesterday she found a chunk of blonde hair and photos inside her backpack, which sent me into a rage. She also confessed Barry had already come to collect the hair, but she didn’t tell him about the pictures yet.

She showed me the one taken of her and Lionel but refused to show me the crime scene photo of Margaret. Truthfully, it wasn't something I was sure I could handle, knowing it’d be a similar sight to what my mother looked like in the junkyard.

She also told me about the significance of Margaret, how she connected the dots to the chunk of black hair and newspaper clipping that was in her dorm room after being trashed. It made me fucking sick, watching Lionel or the copycat fuck with her like this and being unable to do a goddamn thing to stop it.

“I told the media you’re going to have my babies,” I announce tonelessly.

Her gaze flicks up to me for a half second before returning to her paper, dismissing me without a single eye twitch or snarl.

“Shocker.”

That’s it. No outrage. No insults. Not even an eye roll.

My eyes narrow, and I grind my molars as my irritation heightens. In all our years together, she’s never not given me a reaction in some capacity. And fuck, I’ve reached my limit with her. The urge to do something—anything—to get a reaction out of her arises with the force of a freight train.

Silently, I toe off my shoes and shrug off my coat before tossing it over the back of my chair.

She ignores me, though I see tension gathering in her muscles. Those pretty little penny eyes may not be on me, but her mind sure as fuck is. There isn’t a single inch of her that isn’t as aware of me as I am of her. It’s why even when she’s acting like this, she melts the second I press my lips against hers.

There’s a window centered between my desk and the corner of the room, looking out at another dorm beside us, only a small alleyway between the two edifices. Hardly anyone walks down it, since a fence surrounds the backside of the dorms. The blinds are down so the media can't see us, though I don’t believe they’re even aware of which room is mine, so they’ve just been loitering outside the front entrance.

Silently, I walk past her to pull down a blind and peer out the window, confirming there aren’t any reporters in sight. It would be very easy for one of them to come around the corner while recording or taking pictures.

There’s a pile of textbooks stacked on my desk beside me, so I grab a few of them and place them on the floor right beneath the window. She’s short, and I need her to have height with the incredibly stupid plan I have brewing in my head.

It’s just as much of a risk for me as it is for her, but there’s no changing my mind now. I told the world she’s gonna have my kids, and she didn’t even have the decency to fucking blink.

Next, I pull the string to open the blinds, inviting in a burst of light that bathes the dim room in the afternoon sun. Reverie flinches, and finally—fucking finally—she gives me a taste of her anger.

“What the fuck, Dread? You know they’re out there. Why would you broadcast which room is yours?” she snaps, sitting up in the bed.

I point a finger at her. “Ours,” I correct through gritted teeth. “It’s our fucking room.”

She tosses her arms up in exasperation while rolling her eyes, as if to say, Here we go. “Not the goddamn point, Dread.”

“That’s exactly the fucking point,” I retort angrily. “No one is out there right now. Would you like to see for yourself?”

She wrinkles her nose, giving me a weird look. “No.”

Wrong answer.

“I insist you do. Here, baby, let me help.” I take the four steps to reach the bed, grab her bicep, and drag her to her feet.

“What are you do— Dread, stop it!”

I don’t listen. Instead, I pull her to the window and shove her against it.

“Stop it,” she snaps, attempting to back away from it a moment too late. 

She’s already wedged between my body and the cool surface of the glass, and with the wall on one side and my desk on the other, they completely obstruct an escape route.

“See? No one can see you,” I assure, my tone mocking and amused while I plant my hands on either side of the window, imprisoning her between my arms. My cock is already hard and throbbing, and her panic only serves to excite me further.

She’s stiff and makes another attempt to slide out from in front of me, but with a simple press of my hips into her backside, she’s firmly pinned.

“Dread, let me out,” she hisses through gritted teeth, her voice pitching with anxiety.

I tip my chin down until my lips brush against the shell of her ear, which she tries and fails to shrink from. “What are you afraid of them seeing?” I ask quietly. “The two of us together?”

“I don’t want them seeing me at all,” she snarls, her back pushing into me, as if that’s going to get her farther away from the window.

“Hm, see, I have a problem, though,” I say. “I told them you’re going to have my babies one day.”

“So?” she snaps, her angry breath fogging the glass. “You say a lot of shit.”

My tone is deep and sinister as I whisper, “I don’t think they believe me.”

Her pulse thumps heavily against her throat—hard enough for me to see it. It makes my mouth water, and after sliding her blonde strands to the side, I can’t deny myself the pleasure of biting into it.

A sharp gasp leaks past her lips, and she quivers beneath me, her hands flying to the window to ground herself. My eyes flutter, and I moan around her delicate skin as I suck, having missed her sweet tuberose scent and the feeling of her trapped beneath me.

She tastes so fucking good.

“Dread, stop it,” she breathes, though her ass presses into my dick harder, betraying her words.

Releasing her neck, I grab the edge of her T-shirt and harshly pull it up to her collarbones, taking her sports bra with it. Then, I shove her bare breasts against the cool glass, earning another sharp gasp that quickly bleeds into a squeal.

“Dread!”

My name shakes with panic, and she wiggles fiercely but gains nothing except making my dick harder.

I have no intention of letting a single soul see her like this, but I also have no intention of letting her know that.

“I think this will convince them, no?” I muse, setting my amusement free. “Letting them watch me fuck you and fill you with my cum.”

She bucks against me in response, biting out a few colorful insults.

Grinning, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and shove them down with her panties in tow, pleased by how easily she’s made it to get her naked.

“I swear to fucking God, Dread. I’m going to kill yo⁠—”

“Step out,” I order, pinning the garments with my foot so she can pull her legs free from them.

“No.”

I sigh. “Baby, if you think keeping them on will give you a chance to pull them up before a reporter sees you, you’re underestimating their reflexes with a camera button. Step out, or I open this window and call them over here.”

The little growl beneath her breath is the only indication she gives of relenting before she angrily pulls her feet out from the shorts and underwear.

“See, baby? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I purr, grinning when she shoots a glare over her shoulder from the condescension in my words. “Now stand on the books.”

She peers down at them, and in the glass reflection, her brows pinch with confusion. “Why?”

“Because I asked you to, Reverie,” I respond firmly, an edge creeping into my tone.

My feelings are still very much hurt.

“Dread, just fuck me on the bed,” she whines, her brows pinching with anxiety. 

“And then what? You go back to acting like we’re roommates again? Are you going to keep pretending like you don’t have feelings for me, too?”

“Is this supposed to convince me to have feelings for you?” she snaps, her voice pitching with panic. She keeps her eyes locked outside the window in case someone shows up.

“No,” I growl. “Because you already fucking do, Reverie. This is just what happens when you shut down and act like you don’t. Now, step up on the goddamn books.”

“Ugh!” She does so angrily, stomping her little feet and lining up her hips with mine perfectly.

Her attitude is so fucking cute sometimes.

I bite back a smile and grab the underside of her left thigh, propping her foot on the edge of my desk.

A breath shudders out of her, nervous energy radiating from her pores. Still, no one is outside, though she seems to have trouble finding relief in that.

“If I reach between your legs, what will I feel?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“A vagina,” she states, attempting dryness in her tone, but the breathless quality ruins the effect.

Keeping my eyes on the alleyway, I lean toward her ear again.

“And is she soaked for me?” I softly trail the tips of my fingers down the underside of her hiked thigh, eliciting a harsh shiver from her.

“You might as well be sticking your dick in sandpaper,” she bites out. Her voice is strained, as if she’s trying to suppress her true emotions.

I’ve had enough of her doing that.

A contemplative hum vibrates deep in my chest as my fingers near her pussy. The closer I get, the more her breath hitches, and the choppier it becomes.

“You better be careful about lying to me, darling. Any second, someone can snap a picture, and the entire world will see the truth,” I warn darkly. 

The barest of brushes against her slit proves me right. She’s fucking sopping wet, and her slick arousal has my knees nearly crashing to the floor.

I close my eyes for a moment while I take a rake to my mind and desperately scrape up my control. But just like brittle, dead leaves, so much of it slips through the cracks, and a tortured groan releases from my throat.

She tries so hard to deny me, to reject that she feels anything other than contempt for me. But the truth pours from her weeping cunt, and she has no more control over the way it slips through my drenched fingers than the fucking dead leaves in my head.

She and I, we’re exactly the same.

Two people falling in love yet wanting to hate one another so badly, all we can do is relate.

My middle finger drifts over her clit and circles over it softly, just barely touching, but enough to further disrupt the flow of breath sawing in and out of her lungs.

“I’ve grown tired of listening to your lies,” I say, my voice soft yet wicked. “You can spread them over my cock instead.”

“Is that how it works?” she pants, the words steeped in anger. “Does that mean you’re fucking me with yours?”

My upper lip twitches as I shove my sweats and boxers down just enough to free myself. I’m so fucking swollen, it hurts, but I resist and slide the tip along her wet heat, relishing how, even when her mouth denies me, her body can’t.

“I’m not the fucking liar of the two of us,” I growl.

Her spine arches, seeking me out even when she tries to distance herself from me.

“You’ve spent more than half of your life hating me and then suddenly expect me to believe you’ve stopped after a few fucks?” she bites out, her voice trembling. “You can make your comments about marrying me and getting me pregnant, but I know you, Dread. I know how much you want to break me, and what’s worse than breaking my heart?”

Something dark and ugly boils in the pit of my stomach. Maybe because I can only blame myself for making her feel that way, but also because it feels like she’s trampling all over me again. I hand her my broken pieces, and she throws them back in my face. 

Bitterness coats my tongue as I line myself up and plunge inside her.

A loud, almost startled outcry bursts from her throat, and she quickly covers her mouth. Her rounded stare locks on to the alleyway below, and I know she’s teetering between the irrational panic because they’ve somehow heard her and the feel of my cock stretching her.

Meanwhile, I’m consumed by utter euphoria. It takes monumental effort to keep my eyes from crossing. I’d love nothing more than to close them and lose myself in her completely, but I refuse to risk anyone seeing her for even a second.

Gritting my teeth, I focus on the ground two stories below and clutch her hips in a bruising grip. I’m only halfway inside her, but her pussy is too little to take all of me at once.

“Did you forget where I come from?” I ask quietly.

Slowly, I drag out of her to the tip then slam inside her again, pushing deeper into her tight heat. Our synonymous moans fog the glass briefly, and the pleasure tightening my balls is sharp.

“Everything I am, and everything I’ve ever had, is broken,” I rasp, my voice hoarse. “I only wanted to break you because I never planned to keep you. But that’s changed now, darling. I don’t want to be invited into your heart just to live inside another broken home.”

A distressed whimper bleeds from her throat, and she shakes her head, unable to give a voice to whatever she’s feeling. 

I work myself inside her in short, hard pumps while her staccato gasps and moans pitch higher the deeper I get. Then, I feel her inner walls give, allowing me to seat myself completely inside her.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, suppressing the urge to come as furiously as a bursting pipe.

I’ve never met someone who makes it so goddamn impossible to stay both hard and soft. I can come just thinking about her, but within minutes, I’m ready to go again, only for the cycle to repeat.

She quivers around me, and her hips roll back against me. I withdraw slowly and slam back inside her in one, quick thrust.

“Oh, my God,” she rushes out, almost sounding panicked.

I don’t let her recover and repeat the motion over and over, earning curses and yelps every time. Gradually, her eyes flutter and her head tips back, losing herself to the acute sensation of each thrust.

With that simple action, she’s put all her trust in me not to let someone see her. No matter how much she fights me—how desperately she holds on to the vision of me as a monster—her body has already accepted me as hers, and there are no words for how fucking feral that makes me. 

I continue to use her hip as an anchor with one hand, and with my left, I glide my palm up the column of her slim throat, urging her to rest her head back on my right shoulder, silently letting her know she can trust me.

I want nothing more than to use my mouth to explore down her neck, kissing and sucking every centimeter I can reach, but I won’t risk getting distracted when it could lead to such severe consequences.

“That’s it, baby,” I say soothingly into her ear, pounding into her quicker and earning more delicious cries. They battle with the sound of our skin slapping and the sloppy squelching from her cunt. She’s drenched enough to make it too easy to slip out should I retreat too far. 

“You take my cock so fucking good,” I praise, my voice trembling with every thrust. 

I pull her back from the window just enough to cup her breast, squeezing it firmly before playing with her hard nipple. She trembles in response.

“If they came around the corner right now, they’d see what a little slut you are for me. They’d also see who owns this pretty little pussy, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes,” she whines.

My upper lip curls into a scowl, both pleased with her answer and struggling to keep myself focused, especially when one hand sightlessly grabs for me, her nails finding the side of my ass and digging in.

The pain hardly registers. I’m too consumed with her wet heat fisting me with an iron-tight grip. I can’t get enough of it, and it only intensifies my need to possess her. 

I can never live without this—without her.

“What else would they see, hmm? You leaking all over my dick like a filthy whore who can’t control herself?”

“They’d see who owns you.”

I groan, my control slipping from those simple words alone.

“Mmm, I don’t know, darling,” I drawl condescendingly. “I’ve claimed you to the world, but you haven’t claimed me yet.”

“Why would I need to when you follow me around like a dog?” she bites back, only to cry out when I slam into her again while simultaneously pinching her nipple harshly.

Despite her tough words, her knee wavers, threatening to give beneath her as I pound into her cunt. She can barely fucking stand it.

I chuckle darkly, tendrils of anger unfurling in my chest.

Because she’s right. I do follow her around like a goddamn dog. Even now, when I want to punish her for shutting herself off from me, I’m still chasing after her and begging for more. Yet, she continues to deny me.

It drives me beyond insane.

“You want me so fucking bad, and you can’t s-stand that I’m not desperate for your attention like you are for mine,” she continues breathlessly. 

The heat inside me flares, and I want to hurt her as much as I want to make her feel good. It’s a war between the devil and angel propped on my shoulders.

“How unfortunate for you to be right,” I snarl in her ear. “It must be awful knowing when I want a tight cunt wrapped around me, it’s always going to be yours. No matter how much you hate me, you will never escape me. And I hope that keeps you up at night.”

“I haven’t slept since the moment I saw you,” she whispers. Beneath the layers of pleasure, there’s a cold truth to that, but one I ignore for now.

“And I won’t fucking let you,” I snap, delivering a particularly hard thrust and earning a loud gasp. “I’m the nightmare you can’t stop dreaming about. You only hate that you can’t keep me out of your fantasies.”

I fuck her faster, keeping my pace steady but rough as she braces a hand against the window, her lips parted as she chokes on her screams.

All the while, I abuse her nipple, only for her eyes to roll and a smile to stretch across her face as she loudly moans when I move to the other breast and give it the same treatment.

“Ah! Yes, yes, Kellan,” she whimpers, shuddering and producing a maniacal sound that’s both a laugh and a moan. Her nails dig deeper into the side of my ass, though I barely register the sharp pricks.

I brush my lips over her ear while keeping my gaze pinned to the alleyway as I say, “If you want me to stop chasing you so badly, then maybe you should let go of the fucking leash.”

“I can—” She hiccups before she can finish her admission, and it sounds like she purposely stopped herself from voicing her truth—‘I can't.’

The smallest grin tilts my lips, and I drop my mouth to bite her shoulder with a low groan.

I’m not fucking patient. I will pillage her insides like a warlord over an impoverished village, and I will take everything for myself. Her mind, her heart, the very breath in her body—she’s all mine.

But for now, I’m appeased with her nearly admitting she can’t let me go, either.

“It’s okay, baby. I can feel how badly you want me,” I tease quietly.

I release her breast and slowly drag my hand down her stomach to circle my finger over her clit.

“Ohhh, Kellan,” she cries breathlessly, her shaky, staccato moans sounding like sharp gasps.

“Fucking Christ,” I hiss, my vision threatening to give out. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, my balls drawing up tight as I become dangerously close to losing control. I don’t look away for long, returning my stare to the window. I continue to cast quick glances at her, unable to keep my eyes off her for long.

She’s pouring gasoline over her body, creating a trail leading straight to the inferno raging inside me. One more inch, and she’ll connect the two, and I won’t be able to stop myself from completely consuming her.

She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and her spine arches on another lewd moan. Then, her mouth drops open, a crease forming between her brows, and her thighs tremble as I bring her closer to the edge.

It’s nearly impossible to rip my stare away from her to check the window, but the moment I confirm it’s clear, it snaps right back to her, not wanting to miss a single millisecond of watching her come undone for me.

“Kellan, you’re going to make me come,” she pants, her breath hitching. Her half-lidded, glimmering eyes find mine, and a slow smile spreads across her face before a soft giggle breaks free. “And I’m so happy it’s because of you.”

The moment the last word leaves her lips, my threadbare control snaps, unable to hold the weight of her words. With a carnal growl, my hand flies right back to her throat to squeeze tightly, pounding her harder until she’s pressed so tightly against the window, her hips harshly slam into it with every brutal pump.

Vaguely, I feel a squeal vibrate her vocal cords against my palm, but it means nothing to me in this moment. There’s only the ecstasy commanding my body and the desperate need to get as far inside her as humanly possible.

Within mere seconds, her inner walls contract around me, and her knee gives, though she goes nowhere from being trapped against the window. High, staccato cries release from her lips as she bucks against me, her orgasm sweeping through her with a force powerful enough to choke my cock and make it difficult to push into her.

I witness it all, but it doesn’t quite register beneath my delirium. I don’t even care that she’s coming—all I can feel is the primal need to fuck her hard enough to destroy her. I want her shattered into tiny pieces, unable to take a step without all those pieces crumbling to my feet.

Otherwise, my mind is a blank slate, only that singular instinct driving me.

Both of her hands shoot up to where I clutch her throat, clawing at my skin as she struggles to inhale. It takes several seconds of effort before she can wedge her fingers beneath mine to forcefully peel them back. It’s enough to bring my focus back to her reddened face and quickly loosen my grip. She instantly inhales deeply, her watery stare pinned on my reflection. I glimpse it, noting the way my pupils have dilated and turned my eyes black, but that, too, means nothing to me.

Her mouth moves, as if trying to form words but unable to do so. I haven’t slowed my pace, and it takes no time before her eyes cross out of focus and she explodes once again.

“Kellan!” she cries before going completely silent. Gritting her teeth, she squeezes her eyes shut as her entire face flushes cherry red, her expression pained.

It almost hurts, how tightly she squeezes me, but I’m out of control. There’s not a fucking atom in my body that cares about what’s outside the window, but I know I need to. She’s not the only one at risk if we’re caught.

“Fuck!” I shout, partly in frustration for losing control. I release her hip to send my fist flying into the glass, needing the pain to ground me again. 

I take one last look outside, confirming no one is there, then rip her away from the window. She gasps as I pick her up, take the few steps to the bed, and send her flying back onto it with a screech. She instantly fists the sheets as I drag her ass to the edge and drive back inside her.

Her back arches, a cry tearing from her abused throat. Grabbing the undersides of both thighs, I pin her knees next to her ears and let loose, pounding into her with no restraint.

She lasts thirty seconds before a scream reaches my ears, and her hands fly to cover her face as she erupts around me. Wetness splatters against my stomach and up toward my chest, and her trembling legs strain, wanting to snap closed from the pleasure but denied the ability. 

I don’t stop, not nearly finished fucking her.

It doesn’t matter how hard she screams, how hard her body quivers, or how she begins to slap and push at me, blubbering about not being able to take any more.

I might’ve cared before, but I don’t care now.

Gritting my teeth, I release one thigh to grip her throat again, hardly registering her twisted face as I stare down at her. I’m overcome with pure, animalistic instinct—there is little left of me that remains human, and the more she struggles beneath me, the more it satisfies the monster inside me.

Both hands wrap around my forearm, trading between tugging at it and sinking her nails into my flesh until crimson forms beneath them. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, tracking down her temples as her pussy tightens around me for a fourth time.

Her nails score across my flesh, but again, there’s no pain, only utter euphoria as she shatters once again.

I release her throat, and I see the devastation written across her face before she can open her lips to let out a wail. I collapse over her, barely catching myself with one arm while my other hand covers her mouth just in time to muffle the ear-piercing scream erupting from her throat.

And then, I let go with a hoarse groan, contorting over her as it rips through me. The power behind it is enough to feel like my bones are splintering and crumbling. 

My intent was to destroy her, but I’ve destroyed myself in the process.

Strained moans pour out of me as steadily as the rivulets of cum filling her pussy. It explodes from me almost painfully, though I can’t tell if it’s because of how hard I come or how tightly she grips me.

I clench my teeth until my molars threaten to crack and tip my head back. I can feel the veins straining down my throat, arms, and legs, on the verge of splitting my skin apart. I can do nothing but try to hold on, almost desperate for it to end yet already mourning the moment it does.

Finally, I feel it give, and my muscles deflate. The one arm keeping me from crushing her shakes violently from my weight, scarcely able to support me. My other hand drops from her mouth, releasing her sharp, quivering breaths. 

For several long minutes, aftershocks linger, and the two of us occasionally jolt against one another. All the while, clarity slowly sinks in, and I notice all the little details I didn’t before—the sweat coating our skin from the sauna-like heat in the room, the sobs racking her chest, and how fucking hard our hearts beat against our chests.

The way we tremble is reminiscent of the night Rogue and Severen chained her to the flagpole. How cold she was—I’d never seen a body vibrate that way before. And now, as we lie here, we’re nearly putting fucking hypothermia to shame.

“There’s something wrong with you,” she ekes out through her shuddering before trying to stifle another sob.

“You are what’s wrong with me,” I mumble breathlessly.

I drop my head to the mattress beside her, my sweaty forehead sticking to the sheet. Now that I’m cognizant again, my forearm burns like fucking hell. The little witch damn near tried to shred my skin to pieces.

Fuck, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to hide them if they’re still visible at my swim meet this weekend. The worst of it should fade, but she dug deep as hell in a few places, and I hope to God the media believes I just got in a playful fight with a fucking cat.

I should definitely admonish her for it, but that sounds exhausting, so for now, I settle on a grumbled, “That was your fault.”

My lungs are so tight, my back cramps between my shoulder blades, something I typically only feel after Coach works me to near death and I’m on the verge of drowning.

“What?” she squeaks out, aghast. 

“You know what you did,” I tell her, groaning as I pull out of her and roll off to the side with a heavy sigh. She scoots back on the bed and then lies down flat again with an exhausted huff of her own.

“What just happened was entirely because of you,” she snaps. Her voice is hoarse and cracking at the seams, and I won’t deny how satisfying it is.

Her tear-filled, incredulous stare is burning a hole in my temple, but I’m too fucking exhausted to turn my head to meet it, let alone even move my eyeballs. 

“You were being rude,” I say simply, closing my eyes. The world is spinning a little.

She scoffs. “Real rich coming from an asshole like you,” she mutters. 

“No, I’ll just be coming in an asshole, and it’ll be yours.”

I don’t see or hear it, but I just know her mouth dropped.

“Stop talking while I spend the next five minutes gathering the energy to punch you in the face. I need to concentrate.”

Despite myself, her threat brings a smile to my face, though I can only manage to lift one side of my mouth. I still hate it, but she’s really fucking cute sometimes.

“You hurt my feelings.”

She sputters as her stare burns hotter, annoyance rolling off her in waves, but I’m still too tired to meet it. “You thought I was being rude, and that hurt your feelings, so you… decided fucking me against a window with the paparazzi around the corner was the solution?”

I shrug a shoulder weakly. “Yeah.”

Her following silence is full of bewilderment, and my half smile returns.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? ‘Yeah’?” 

With a groan, I finally crack my eyes open and roll my head over to look at her. Her skin is still slightly pink, her bangs damp against her forehead, and she looks like a fucking goddess.

A pissed-off goddess, but a goddess nonetheless.

“Baby, I truly do not know what else you want from me at this moment. You were rude, so I gave you an attitude adjustment. Now, here we are, thoroughly fucked and exhausted, yet you still have an attitude.”

She gapes at me for a beat. “You have about three minutes left before I punch you.”

I turn my eyes back to the ceiling before closing them again. “I look forward to it.”

This time, she growls, and fuck, if that isn’t really fucking cute, too.

“You say that now, unt⁠—”

“Rev, don’t make me take my cum leaking out of your pussy and shove it down your throat to shut you up.”

Now that I’ve said it, my mind latches on to that thought, and, painfully, it makes my dick twitch. I just might have to take a minute to scrounge up my energy first, though⁠—

“You wouldn’t dare⁠—”

Never mind.

I’m sitting up and leaning over her before she can finish her sentence, prompting her to squeal and attempt to roll away from me.

It’s too easy to slide my hand under her head and fist her hair, holding her down by her tangled strands while plunging my middle and ring fingers inside her cunt. Her back arches, and she gasps, the sound choked and sharp. 

Panic flashes over her eyes, but I hold no sympathy for her. “Dread, stop it right fucking no⁠—”

Then, I shove them down her throat, strangling the last word and shutting her up, just like I promised. Her eyes blow wide, and she gags, so I retreat them just enough not to trigger her reflex again.

“You can either suck off the cum, or you can try to bite me. But just know, I bite back, baby, and it’ll be your clit between my teeth when I do.”

She stares up at me in shock, her jaw loose as she processes my warning. When she doesn’t move, I arch a brow.

“Suck.”

Her mouth flops for a second before she narrows her eyes into thin slits, but surprisingly, she hollows her cheeks and does as I command. 

I bite back a groan. “Good girl,” I murmur, my dick already starting to harden again.

There’s a gleam of calculation in her stare before her expression transforms. Her eyes become half lidded and sensual as she rolls her tongue over my fingers, pointedly swallowing with a soft moan.

I know she’s fucking with me, but that only proves she understands exactly how I might react and is willing to risk it.

I’m two seconds from ripping my fingers out of her mouth and mounting her again when something heavy crashes against the window. The two of us nearly jump out of our skin.

She yelps, and instinctively, I gather her closer into my chest and roll over her further, away from whatever the fuck that was, keeping my chin cocked over my shoulder and my gaze locked on the window.

My heart is pounding, and the sudden rush of adrenaline is almost dizzying.

“What was that?” she breathes, her hands gripping my biceps while her chest pumps wildly.

“Get dressed, baby,” I urge, helping her to her feet before we hurriedly slip on our clothes.

The second I’m dressed, I step to the window and peer out, seeing no one around. But I can see something in the frosted grass right below the window. I can’t tell what it is, just that it’s small and dark. I’m instantly filled with wariness.

“Is someone or something out there?” she asks from behind me, sounding out of breath.

“Something is, but I can’t see what it is. We’ll have to go get it.”

I crack open the window and listen carefully to see if there are people around.

Thankfully, there’s a side exit to the building that leads directly into the alley. We’ll still need to be quick and grab whatever it is before anyone sees or hears us, but it shouldn’t be hard. It won’t be the end of the world if we’re spotted, but I’d rather not deck a reporter in the face for asking Rev a stupid-ass question.

“Do you think someone saw us?” she asks, an edge of panic in her voice. It pulls my attention back to her, and she fumbles to put on her boot.

“No, I looked before I pulled you away, and no one was out there.”

“But mayb⁠—”

“I looked away for maybe ten seconds at a time at most. No one saw us, I’m sure of it.”

She worries her bottom lip, appearing unconvinced as she quickly ties the laces then moves to the other one.

“If anything, it’s more likely they heard you and your big mouth,” I say, amusement coloring my tone.

Her head snaps up, briefly pausing with her foot halfway in the boot. Then, she resumes, but not before aiming a glare my way, her cheeks reddening.

Mission accomplished.

I’d rather she be angry with me than spiral over the possibility of being seen.

“I was not that loud,” she argues defensively. Her voice cracks, only proving her wrong.

I pause and arch a brow, and that prompts her to pause again, too. She gazes at me with wide eyes, teetering between embarrassment and denial.

I give her a deadened stare. “My eardrums are still ringing.”

Her mouth drops. “Ugh!” she scoffs, making the most girly sound I’ve ever heard. “They are not!”

Grinning, I grab her hand to lead her out of the room, and she trails after me, that tantalizing bottom lip jutted out into a small pout as she glowers at me.

I won’t act like making her scream that loud doesn’t have pride and satisfaction filling my chest, but I also know, deep down, whoever threw the object didn’t do so because of her screams.

I have a bad feeling burning in the pit of my stomach like acid. There’s only one culprit on my mind, and there’s no doubt it’s the same person on Rev’s mind, too.

We make our way down to the first floor, then head down the hallway toward the side of the building. When we reach the exit, I stop.

“Wait here. This door automatically locks, so I’ll tap three times so you know it’s me. I’ll be right back.”

She looks ready to argue, and I settle a stern look on her face.

“If he’s out there, the last person I’m going to let him see is you.”

Sighing, she relents and nods, taking a small step back, uneasy and back to worrying her bottom lip.

I step out into an empty alleyway, though it provides only a small amount of relief. I hardly feel the icy air nipping at my exposed skin as I quickly beeline straight for the black object right below my window.

I pick it up without even looking, only registering that it’s hard and compact as I jog back to the door.

I knock three times, and the moment she pushes it open to let me through, she’s glancing down over my form, as if to check for injuries, concern twisting her features.

“Was he out there?”

“If he was, I’d be covered in blood,” I answer seriously. “No one was out there. Just this.”

It’s a black box no bigger than the size of my palm. Her trembling hands reach for it, and after hesitating for a second, she pops it open with ease. Inside is a small, rectangular notecard with five words scribed across it in blocky handwriting.

But my attention is firmly elsewhere, my blood running cold. There’s another object beneath the note, several splotches of crimson soaking through the thin, white paper.

Foreboding fills the air as Rev and I glance at each other with a knowing look, both of us having the same thought. If that’s blood, then whatever is beneath the paper will likely give me fucking nightmares.

With trembling fingers, she slides away the paper, only for the stained parchment to float to the floor and her hand to slap over her mouth. She instantly snaps the box shut, but we both very clearly saw what was inside.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I spit, fury punching me right in the chest as I grab it from her hold.

She instantly turns away while I open the lid once more, needing to ensure I wasn’t imagining shit the first time.

My nostrils flare and my hands quake as I stare down at the contents, nearly grinding my molars to dust. I wasn’t imagining anything.

Inside the box are two bloody eyeballs staring right back at me, the lifeless irises still a vivid moss green.

My stare drifts an inch to the left, where the note lies on the ground by my feet, face up. Now, the words are clear.

CHAPTER 30

REVERIE

This is bad.

This is really fucking bad.

I don’t remember handing the crimson-stained note and box over to Dread, but when I turn away to pace the hallway, my hands are empty as I delve them into my hair and squeeze tight, white noise muting sound as panic consumes my soul and my stomach twists with nausea.

“I need you to gaslight the fuck out of me right now,” I say, my voice trembling. “Please tell me those don’t look like Mindy Sackler’s eyeballs.”

He's quiet, and vomit rises in my throat with every passing second in silence.

Tears line my waterline, and my chin trembles. 

Shit, this is bad.

I've been keeping up on any updates posted about her disappearance, but no one has heard from or seen her since the night she went on that date with a person using a rendition of my birth name. It's fucked up, and it's yet another thing that has the press in a fucking frenzy.

I drop my hands and pause before Dread, who's staring at the open box holding the bloody fucking eyeballs, the muscle in his jaw pulsating and his expression ice cold.

“Dread,” I urge desperately, his name cracking in my throat. It's too tight not to crush any sound moving through it.

He's slow to lift his frosted eyes to mine, his voice toneless as he says, “I can't.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Okay, wait,” I rush out, my voice squeaking with desperation and hope as I attempt to reason with him. “Eyes don’t keep the pigmentation once the tissue dies. Th-they should be milky and colorless, right?”

Dread tightens his lips. “Baby, you’re in a forensic science class,” he reminds me softly.

My face crumples, and I nod, the knowledge I shoved to the back of my brain rising to the surface. If formalin is immediately injected into the eyeballs, it will prevent the tissue from decomposing and retain the pigmentation in the irises. If anyone would know to do that—especially to send a message—it’d be the fucking Locksmith.

“But we still don't know if they’re hers, right?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

He inhales then nods once. “Right. It could be anyone's. Lots of people have green eyes.”

My expression is pained as I give him a pointed look that says, No, they fucking don’t. He grimaces, knowing as well as I do that green eyes aren’t uncommon, per se, but they still make up a very small percentage of the population, especially when they’re as vivid as Mindy’s.

“D-do you think she’s dead?” I ask hoarsely.

His lips flatten into a firm line, refusing to answer.

I blink, and a tear drips to the tiled floor. It feels as if I’m being crushed beneath the weight of the possibility that my father just murdered someone from school. She’s gone because of me—because I refused to go back home.

My fingers cover my mouth as I process the fuckery Lionel threw at my goddamn window.

He potentially killed another woman, put the incriminating evidence right in my hands, and left me with it.

He’s punishing me.

“I need to call Barry,” I croak, my thoughts racing and convoluted.

This is a conversation we should probably have back in the room so no one overhears us, but it’s the last thing on my mind.

“He can't be this stupid, Rev,” Dread reasons, though I can't tell who he's trying to convince—me or himself. “All the other murders took place in California. Even the copycat’s. The Locksmith killing someone from the same school as Lionel's daughter so soon after being released from prison is insane. That would make him look very suspicious.”

“Unless he creates a fake dating profile and makes it look like I did it,” I counter quietly, my nausea worsening. Dread’s face falls, seeming to have forgotten that tidbit. “The media have been hounding me ever since Gabi accused me of killing her. A lot of fucking people already think I did it, Dread. So even if Barry tries to pin it on the Locksmith, I highly doubt Lionel will leave any proof he was even in the state, which will lead the media right back to me. We have literally nothing to go on except a pair of eyeballs and a stupid fucking note with unrecognizable handwriting.”

This time, I drop into a crouch, bowing my head and covering my face with my hands as my panic heightens. Not only am I being stalked by a fucking serial killer, I’m being set up for a murder he committed, too.

I know Barry won’t let that happen, but Lionel doesn’t want me to go to prison, anyway—that’s not his goal. He wants me to come home, and until I do, he’s going to ensure I, and everyone else around me, suffer to the fullest, all the while he appears perfectly fucking innocent.

I hear Dread sigh before his footsteps approach, followed by his heavy presence. I still don't know how to feel about how comforting it is sometimes, especially because for years, it’s been anything but. That shouldn’t have changed, but the dull ache between my legs is proof a lot has happened that shouldn’t have.

Dread grabs both of my wrists and pulls them away from my face before diving a hand into my hair, tugging firmly enough to lift my chin so my eyes collide with his considerably softer gaze.

There’s still an underlying iciness to him, but the longer he stares at me, the more it seems to melt.

I glance away, uncomfortable with how that has my heart fluttering in my chest and my stomach filling with warmth. Then, I drop to my butt, keeping my knees bent, feeling so goddamn defeated.

“I need to go⁠—”

“Don’t fucking say it,” Dread snarls, his voice quiet but insidious. “I will sooner chain you to my fucking bed than let you go back to California.”

My chin trembles, more tears welling in my eyes, but from frustration this time.

“You not letting me is why someone just died!” I shout, but I instantly regret it, and slap my hands back over my face and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say her death is your fault.”

Again, he pulls my wrists away, dipping his chin to catch hold of my watery stare.

“You can blame me, darling. I don’t mind. Because in some ways, it is my fault. He’s pissed you’re not listening and going back to California, so he’s clearly escalating. You’ve tried multiple times to leave, but I won’t let you. So I’ll accept her blood on my hands if it means yours stays firmly inside you. I’ll sacrifice every goddamn person on this planet so you stay safe, Reverie.”

My eyes are wide by the time he’s finished, and, even through blurred vision, the intensity in his stare is breathtaking. My heart beats rapidly, and I can’t tell if I’m horrified by that sentiment or find it endearing. Maybe I’m both. But mostly horrified, I think.

“O-oh, that… that’s really intense,” I croak, having no clue what the fuck else to say to something insane like that.

His small huff of laughter is brief before he stares at me with a softness and sincerity that has goosebumps spreading across my entire body.

“I know Lionel has proven to be smart, but he's still a human, baby,” he says softly. “Humans make mistakes, and he's bound to make one eventually. He's not a god, and he's not invincible. Don't make the mistake of seeing him that way. It's exactly what he wants.”

I nod, the phantom fist around my throat easing a fraction from his soothing tone.

“Call Barry and let him know what’s going on. Let's just see what he says, okay? He'll know what to do.”

“Okay,” I whisper, prompting him to release me. 

I slip a trembling hand in my back pocket and pull out my phone. It takes a few attempts to get the screen unlocked with how hard I shake, but I pull up Barry’s number and hit call.

He picks up after the fourth ring. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

His voice is gentle, but it sounds incredibly tired and heavy.

God, I miss him, and I miss his bear hugs that always made me feel so safe.

“No,” I rasp, my bottom lip instantly trembling.

“What's going on?” he asks quickly, immediately alarmed.

“I-I got a delivery thrown at Dread’s window. This time, it’s a black box with…” My stomach lurches, forcing me to stop and swallow down the vomit threatening to spew from my throat. After a moment, I try again. “With eyeballs in it, and a n-note that says: ‘I don’t see you, Angel.’” 

My eyes burn as another tear trails down my cheek.

“Are you fuc—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, and I can picture him running a hand through his thick, black-and-gray hair.

I sniffle, only for a hiccup to escape. “They looked like the same color eyes as Mindy’s, Barry,” I say, my voice cracking.

His voice is far away, having clearly dropped his phone from his ear as he bellows, “FUCK!”

Then, something large crashes in the background. I close my eyes, hating how deeply this is affecting Barry, too. It’s why Brenda gets on him so much about his blood pressure, because some days, she and I fear the stress from working the Locksmith and copycat cases just might kill him.

A few more moments pass before I hear an angry exhale through his nose, indicating the phone’s back to his ear.

“Barry, your blood pressure,” I remind softly.

“Yeah, I know, honey, I know,” he mutters. I stay quiet as he takes a few deep breaths, though I get the feeling he’s wearing a hole into the floor from pacing. “I-it’s just… I can confirm it's not Lionel who threw it. Hillcrest did a drop-by just an hour ago and confirmed him home.”

I’m not even surprised by the news. It's exactly what I expected at this point, though it doesn't frustrate me any less.

“It has to be Roxi,” I mumble.

There's no question Lionel has a partner; there’s only the question of whether it's the copycat helping him, or if not, then who?

But it has to be… right? 

If the copycat was born solely to further validate Lionel’s innocence in the first place, why wouldn't they also be used to stalk and harass me while he keeps his hands clean and continues to maintain his innocent façade? 

Barry is silent for a moment. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “Who else would help him? She's probably the copycat.”

Again, Barry’s response is delayed, which has my heart dropping before he even gets the words out.

“Sweetheart… It can't be the copycat.”

My eyes snap to Dread's, my lips parting in shock, prompting him to silently mouth, “What?”

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to ensure no one is lingering in the hallway then pull the phone away from my ear and hit the speaker button.

“What do you mean it can't be the copycat?” I ask slowly. 

Dread’s expression falls, stone hardening his features as he stares at the phone. I'm unsure what to make of it, but Barry's voice is pulling my attention away. 

“A girl was reported missing last night. Elise Bender. Her remains were discovered this morning,” he says, though caution lines his tone.

My brows knit, and my mouth flops with bewilderment, speechless.

“W-what?”

Barry releases a heavy exhale, as if he doesn't want to say whatever's next. “The copycat left her remains in a trash bag outside of the police department's door about two hours ago.”

Dread’s stare flies up to meet mine, just as stunned as I am.

“Wait.” I shake my head, trying to make sense of what he's saying. “How do you know for sure it's the copycat who left them? And aren't there cameras?”

“Yes, but they were wearing a hood and what looked like a ski mask, as well as all-black, nondescript clothing. He walked on and off the property, so no vehicle, and there are no other cameras that caught him or his car.” He lets out another heavy, tired sigh as he continues, “As for the remains, I’ve already inspected them.” 

Them, because the remains are never whole. 

“They're exactly like the copycat's. Same consistency with the cuts. Exactly like all the other victims when Lionel was in prison.”

I blink several times, staring down at the note, wondering if it's just a figment of my imagination. But I know it's not, because Dread stares down at it, too.

“B-but what if he killed the person beforehand, flew here, and had Lionel drop them off to make it seem like the copycat was still in California but actually wasn’t?”

He doesn’t answer for a few beats, the silence weighted. “You definitely have the mind of an investigator and know what questions to ask,” he says with a hint of pride, though it’s followed by a sad chuckle.

My frown deepens, confused. “Officer Hillcrest provided us with his body cam footage,” Barry begins on a heavy, frustrated exhale. “Footage with a clear date and time stamp of Hillcrest visiting Lionel’s home at the same exact time the remains were left outside the police station. They timed it all perfectly. The evidence is indisputable. It’s physically impossible for either Lionel or the copycat to be in Colorado already. Lionel can’t fly without prior approval and wouldn’t be stupid enough to try without it, so even if the copycat got a direct flight and no delays, it’s… it’s just not possible, honey.”

I sputter for a moment while I try to organize my thoughts. 

“I don't…” I trail off, my heart picking up speed as a sickening feeling weighs in my gut. “I don't understand. If it's not Lionel or the copycat, who the fuck threw this at Dread's window? It has eyeballs in it, Barry. Potentially Mindy’s eyeballs! Whoever took her is either trying to set me up or is taunting me.” 

I bite my lip just as it begins to tremble.

God, all of this is just so… fucked up. And I'm so fucking tired. Of all of it. 

Why can't everyone just leave me the fuck alone? 

“I’m going to call the sergeant at the Hollow Canyon police department and arrange for them to pick up the evidence from you,” he says. “For all we know, they’re not even real, and someone is messing with you.”

My mouth opens then closes, having not considered that. I glanced inside the box long enough to see what was in it—the blood, the color of the irises—before snapping it shut. They looked real, but Dread has proven once before that just because body parts look that way doesn’t mean they are…

My heart drops like a stone in a well.

“It could still be Roxi,” I assert, suddenly feeling like there’s a crater in my stomach.

“We will be questioning her,” Barry assures. “If those eyeballs are real, and she doesn’t have an alibi for her whereabouts, that will make her a viable suspect.”

I let out a breath, finding some sort of comfort in at least that much, and mumble, “Okay.”

However, Barry groans, as if he’s about to say or ask something he doesn’t want to. “Rev, are you sure it's not⁠—”

A muffled voice from Barry’s end cuts off his question, and after a few beats of heavy silence, he lets out a weighted exhale. 

“What?” I ask, alarm strengthening my voice.

“I asked Hillcrest to reconfirm if Lionel is home just in case, and he is. So we know it's not Lionel or the copycat definitively.”

I frown. There’s something prodding at the back of my mind, insisting I question that.

“I want to talk to him myself.”

The demand is out of my mouth before it has the chance to become a thought.

From my peripheral, Dread’s stare snaps up to me, but I keep my eyes pointedly diverted. Barry’s silent for an extra beat, his surprise palpable through the phone. 

“W-who, sweetheart?”

“The parole officer. Officer Hillcrest.”

Again, another moment of stunned silence passes. “You want to speak to his parole officer?” 

His question is hesitant, almost like he can’t believe I’d ask something like that.

My hands tremble, but my resolve is steady. “Yes.”

Barry stutters for a second, then says, “Okay. I will ask him to call you.”

“Thank you.”

Then, I do something I never do. I hang up.

My heart pounds, adrenaline circulating through my system, but my brain is struggling to understand my body’s reactions. I don’t know why I suddenly felt so uncomfortable staying on the phone with Barry, only that I did.

“Why do you want to talk to him?” Dread’s voice jars me out of my thoughts. I look up at him, my mouth hanging open as I try to process what he even asked.

I jut out my bottom lip while I think of how to respond. But that’s the problem—I can’t think. At least not properly. So, I settle with the only answer I can give him right now.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, but I might as well be dragging sandpaper across a dry sponge. “Something about this entire situation feels so fucking off,” I say, the volume of my voice rising. “None of this makes sense, and I— Someone could be lying, okay? I-I don’t know who, but I just feel like someone is lying.”

My heart pounds as the words stutter from my mouth, like my body wants to physically stop them. There are very limited options on who could be lying to me, and that’s why it feels so wrong to say.

Dread studies me closely, giving nothing away and only making me more uncomfortable with my thoughts.

“Do you think Barry is?” he asks after a few tense moments.

I shake my head, except not as an answer, but to reject his question entirely.

“I don’t know,” I say again, my voice quiet and subdued once more.

He looks like he’s trying to get a read on me while I avoid his stare at all costs, even going as far as to stare at the floor. I know what he wants—for me to assure him I don’t think he’s lying.

But I can’t.

So, for several minutes, we wait in thick, unnerving silence.

By the time my phone buzzes, an unknown number displayed across my screen, I’m ready to crawl outside of my own skin.

I quickly answer the call, grateful for the reprieve from the tension. “Hello?”

This time, I don't put it on speaker, yet another inexplicable feeling poking at me to keep this conversation to myself, something Dread seems to notice when he cocks his brow at me after I nervously glance his way.

“Ms. Adams.” The voice is deeper and mature, yet smooth and friendly. “My name is Officer Nathan Hillcrest. I’m your father’s parole officer.”

Sweat blooms across my entire body, and it feels as if my blood sugar has suddenly dropped into the pits of hell. My hand flies to my North Star necklace, zipping the pendant back and forth on the chain, seeking comfort in it despite this odd, foreign feeling clinging to my nerves.

“Hi.”

That’s all I can manage.

“Special Agent Jones reached out and asked me to call you. I’m not fully briefed on the matter, other than Lionel being suspected of crossing state lines without approval.”

“Yes.” The word comes out as a hoarse croak, so I clear my throat and restart. “Sorry, yes. I, uh, have received some threatening… gifts… where I’m addressed as Angel, and no one knew about that nickname except him and my mom. He’s the only one who ever called me that. But, uhm, anyway, I just received another one today. It’s uh… It’s a black box with a note and two eyeballs inside of it. I-I don’t know whose it is, but only Lionel could’ve sent me this note, or someone working with Lionel, at least.”

By the time I'm finished, my tone has become demanding, like he holds all the answers.

“Okay, okay,” Nate says, his voice gentle. “Let’s see if we can figure this out together, then, yeah?”

I nervously lick my lips again and nod. “Okay.”

“So, let’s start with Lionel’s location. When I do random drop-bys, California requires I wear a body cam to ensure my safety and your father’s. They’re all recorded with time stamps and dates, which means if you need to see for yourself Lionel's home, I can provide you with that evidence, and I’m happy to do so.” His voice is even and assuring as he speaks. “Is that something you’d want?”

It’s pretty much the same explanation Barry provided, but for some reason, it doesn’t make me feel better.

“I— Maybe?”

Truthfully, the thought of seeing Lionel, even through video, makes my skin crawl and my stomach twist with nausea.

“You’re under no obligation, so don’t feel you need to. This is something my superiors can confirm for you as well, if that’s a route you’d prefer to take.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

“So, about this nickname. You said he calls you Angel, and no one else knew about it?”

I nod, and when an unnatural beat of silence passes, I realize he can’t see me. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Yes.”

“So I think it’s fair to say this nickname was between you and your parents as a child, but can you think of any instances it might’ve come up in conversation with someone after he went to prison?”

I frown, racking my brain for an instance.

“Do you think with a close friend or family member?” he continues after a few beats. “Your best friend, maybe? I’m not entirely sure of who all is currently in your life, but an aunt, uncle, cousin? Or possibly a family friend?”

I’m not sure what triggers it, but several memories come to mind all at once, and I’m so disoriented by it, it takes a second to sift through them.

“Uh, m-maybe Barry,” I mumble.

I think I was seventeen when I confessed to him about Georgia Farrell. I was fucking terrified because I thought he’d get upset with me for withholding valuable information. He didn’t, of course, but in that moment, I was so overwhelmed by finally purging a secret I’d held on to for so long, I vaguely remember reiterating something he’d said to me that night when he threatened my mom.

“I call you Angel because Mommy almost made you one, but this time, Daddy would have to be the one to do it. And there’d be no one left to save you.”

Maybe, all this time, Barry did know my nickname. But I’d told Barry no one else knew that nickname after I received the first note, and he didn’t correct me. Why wouldn’t he correct me if he knew?

“Anyone else?”

Yes.

“Uh, g-give me a second to think.”

Another memory surfaces, this time with Sable. I’m not entirely sure, but I remember a conversation we had when we were preparing for a funeral. A family had chosen several smaller angel statues to place around the room, and the entire time, I was deeply uncomfortable setting them up.

It was nearing the end of my shift, and Sable had stopped by to chat. She noticed immediately something was off.

But I can’t remember for the life of me if I told her the real reason or if I brushed it under the rug. I always thought I just came up with some half-assed excuse, but now, I’m second-guessing myself. Maybe I did tell her the truth about that nickname. I know she’s aware I don’t like angels. Anytime I see them or hear them mentioned when she’s around, she always silently watches me. I’d figured it was just to ensure I’m okay and don’t need to be bailed out if I get too panicky, but maybe it's because she knows Lionel used to call me that.

There’s also Roxi. Lionel could’ve easily shared that detail with her and had her write the note for him. Same with the copycat, if they’re truly working together.

Then, one final memory floats to the forefront, and it’s as if a vacuum opens in the pit of my stomach, pulling the blood down out of my face before sweeping up my heart and taking the muscle with it.

Dread.

In sophomore year, when Matt and I were dating, we went to a Valentine’s Day party together. The frat went with the Cupid theme and covered the entire house in fucking angels. They had stupid drinking games based around it, and I remember everyone getting hit with plastic arrows that had little suction cups at the end. The entire time, I felt like I had come out of my skinsuit, walking around with my nerves completely exposed.

Matt could sense something was off and kept asking what was wrong, and I tried to play it off as nothing. He wasn’t buying it, but I wouldn’t give him any other answer.

He was getting visibly annoyed with me, and we were starting to bicker. Then, Dread seemingly materialized out of nowhere and smashed an arrow right into my forehead, the little cup at the end suctioning to my skin.

Directly to Matt, he said, because his arrow struck me, I was ‘his angel’ for the night. Matt and I both had adverse reactions. My boyfriend—because he was jealous and possessive. Me—because Dread unknowingly called me by the one nickname I couldn’t bear.

Matt was too busy getting in Dread’s face and threatening him to notice Dread peering over his shoulder at me behind him, where I was attempting not to have a meltdown. I just knew in my bones Dread could see I wasn’t freaking out because of the arrow, but something else. I also got the sense he knew I was spiraling long before he approached, and it was why he stuck the arrow on me to begin with.

Regardless, Dread took a shot in the dark and called me Angel again amid Matt’s tirade. When I gave him the reaction he was looking for and validated his suspicion, he made it a point to call me the endearment all goddamn night, and every fucking time, I couldn’t contain how deeply bothered I felt.

It wouldn’t be the first time Dread picked up on a trigger of mine purely through observation and then proceeded to weaponize it against me.

I’m not sure if it’s because he was drunk and forgot about it afterward, or because he simply preferred to get under my skin by calling me darling instead, but he never called me the endearment again. 

However, much to my dismay, Dread is very fucking astute. During the interview with Connor, Lionel exclusively called my mom darling—never me. And what tattoo did Dread see as an eight-year-old boy and could describe in perfect fucking detail? The very tattoo that convinced the jury and led to Lionel being found guilty.

You. Fucking. Idiot, Reverie.

My heart drops as realization dawns. 

Angel wings.

Lionel’s tattoo of the angel wings, clearly fucking drawn by a child.

Dread could’ve easily made an educated guess that I drew those wings for Lionel because it was his nickname for me, and my physical reaction to it confirmed his theory. He likely assumed I couldn’t bear to hear him say it because I coveted the nickname, rather than detest it because I hate my father. Then, he could've decided to reserve using the nickname—make me think he was none the wiser by never speaking of the endearment again after that party, all the while patiently waiting for a moment like this, when he could use it to fuck with my head in a way I never saw coming.

In a way that would finally give him what he’s always fucking wanted—to break me.

“Hold on a second,” I whisper to Officer Hillcrest, who has been patiently waiting.

Robotically, I look up to find Dread watching me closely—as he always fucking does. Then, I take the note from his hand, Roxi’s words floating through my mind as I read it again. 

“That’s not Lionel’s handwriting, anyway. I have letters to prove it.”

I bite my bottom lip just as it begins to tremble, a sharp ache spearing directly into my chest.

Roxi insisted this wasn't Lionel’s handwriting, and though I have no reason to believe her, my gut tells me she wasn't lying. Even though I can't remember it, nothing about the script is familiar or triggers any part of my brain, and I've read enough angry letters from Lionel to feel like it should.

Maybe Lionel purposely made it different so we couldn't trace it back to him and gave the note to Roxi for her to throw at the window. But there's a distinct feeling Roxi’s more useful to Lionel being ignorant to who he truly is. She's someone who feels like she knows him inside and out, and that makes her more believable when she advocates for his innocence.

So maybe the answer is simple. Someone else wrote the note, and the eyeballs are as fake as the body parts left in my room last month.

And the only other person who's capable of hurting me like that is sitting right in front of me.

My stare slowly lifts to Dread’s, who continues to watch me intently. There’s no sign of malice, or even panic I’d figured him out. Only concern creases the skin between his brows, and when he clocks my expression, it only deepens.

Rogue and Severen have always helped Dread. The last delivery ended up in my backpack while Dread was in North Carolina, but I spent the entire week with both of them. The photo of Lionel and me is on his Facebook profile, and Margaret’s crime scene photos were publicized a while ago—both easy for one of them to get a hold of and print. Rogue or Severen could’ve slipped the note and pictures in when I wasn’t looking, just like one of them could’ve destroyed my dorm and stabbed that note into my desk. Or broke into my room before I got home from work and left Mindy’s barrette and the first note on my bed for me to find right before Dread kidnapped me. 

One of them could've ordered fake eyeballs from the internet, poured artificial blood on them, tossed in another note, and thrown the box at his window.

It’s a kick to the fucking chest as all the pieces perfectly click into place.

Lionel called me only one time, but once I rejected him, he never tried again, not even a text. All this time, I thought he was angry and terrorizing me to fuck with my head, but maybe…

Maybe he hasn’t been terrorizing me at all. It would explain why Lionel and the copycat are continuing with their murders, unaware an evil fucking human being is pretending to be him just to hurt me, and why it always seemed they were in two different states at the same time.

Is Mindy Sackler truly missing, or is she in on this, too, and this is all just some extremely elaborate, fucked-up prank? If Dread could convince a dozen girls to dress up as murder victims, surely he could convince a girl to pretend she’s missing for a few weeks. It would be so easy for her to give him her pink hair clip, set up an obvious fake dating profile, then have her friend publicly accuse me of killing her. Let the media roll with the accusation for a little while, create fake accounts of Mindy’s family and friends looking for her, only for her to show up one day.

Sure, it could really hurt Dread’s reputation, or even his swim career if anyone found out he put Mindy up to it, but he’s said on multiple occasions he’d lose everything if it meant finally breaking me. He’d throw it all away for his revenge.

I close my eyes, agony tearing through my insides like a child frantically searching for their favorite toy.

I knew sleeping with Dread was a huge mistake, but for the first time, I didn’t immediately consider he could be behind this. He's gotten into my head so thoroughly I completely forget who the fuck he is.

“I-I think I might know who it was,” I whisper into the phone, keeping my gaze locked with Dread’s. “I think they’re just playing another cruel prank on me.”

I’m not sure what he sees written across my face, but a second later, a flicker of hurt flashes across his eyes before he smothers it. Then, his expression instantly smooths into a blank mask, going stone cold.

“Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that,” Officer Hillcrest says, sounding disgusted. “Wait, I’m sorry—did you say another cruel prank? Do you need me to help⁠—”

“That’s okay,” I rush out quickly, tears burning a vengeful path through my sinuses. “I’m used to it. It’s fine. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but thank you for all your help.”

“N-no, it’s not an issue at all, Ms. Adams. I’m, uh, I’m happy to assist in any way I can,” he says, stuttering over the words, like he’s unsure of what to say or do for a moment. My cheeks heat, embarrassed I demanded my father’s parole officer call me, only for him to bear witness to me figuring out I’m just being fucking bullied again. “Listen, I’ve sat across a desk from a lot of monsters in this world, and if this job has taught me anything, it’s how to handle them. You can call me anytime you need, okay?”

I blink, and a tear loosens. “Okay.”

But the word is hardly above a whisper, and I hang up without ensuring he heard me clearly.

When my hand falls limply into my lap, Dread’s frown deepens, glancing at the phone’s screen to see the call has ended before lifting his gaze back to mine.

I’m so fucking stupid.

So, so fucking stupid.

Steel walls instantly slam down inside my chest. Not a single emotion can penetrate them, leaving me feeling barren and numb. For several long moments, all I can do is stare sightlessly at the floor, wondering how the fuck I let Dreadful fucking Sharpe manipulate me to this extent.

Truthfully, I have no one to blame but myself.

Slowly, I stand while he watches me closely. He’s quiet, his sharp stare lingering for an extra beat, and then he scoffs out a humorless laugh as he, too, rises to his feet.

“You think I was behind this.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

“Mind games have always been your favorite,” I say tonelessly. “You and your friends have experience creating fake dead bodies, do you not? Or did you already forget about the dummy chopped up into bloody pieces on my dorm room floor?”

He turns his gaze off to the distance and huffs out another small chuckle, nodding to himself, as if he’s coming to terms with something.

I hold out my hand. “Let me have the box, please.”

He tightens his lips into a firm line and places it in my splayed palm.

Beyond the impenetrable walls, I know hurt, disappointment, and humiliation swirl at the speed of a hurricane. But in this moment, I feel none of it.

“I knew you were cruel, Dread, but after everything, I—” I cut myself off. There’s no use trying to make him feel guilty. He never does, and he never will.

And frankly, I’m fucking exhausted.

His eyes slide to mine, giving nothing away.

“You’re just as sick as him.”

Then, I turn and walk away, keeping my pace measured. He’s probably pissed I’m not running away crying or screaming, asking how he could do this to me. He’d probably get off on it if I was.

Instead, I do what I’ve always done and refuse to break.

But it’s different this time—he’s actually succeeded. I’m merely concealing his victory, hoping I can keep it hidden away until graduation. Then, when it’s safe and I’ve finally escaped him, I will remove the steel walls protecting me and release the cataclysm I’ve kept contained within. It’ll annihilate everything in its path and leave me utterly shattered, just like he’s always wanted.

Except, when the storm clears and I’m forced to sort through the wreckage to slowly piece myself back together, there’ll be nothing beneath my splintered rib cage except a black stain where my heart used to live. There will be no remnants of it, though, because it’s in his hands now.

I don’t know why I gave it to a broken man who wanted nothing more than to break me, too.

“Octavia said four words to me yesterday.”

The sudden voice nearly sends me flying out of my seat in the cafeteria.

Severen sits in the seat across from me, an apple juice box and a romance novel in hand—looks like a paranormal romance this time.

Rogue dropped me off at the cafeteria before he had to get to practice five minutes ago. Severen was running a few minutes behind for his babysitting shift, but since it's a crowded area, they weren't worried anything would happen to me in the meantime. I knew he was going to show up, but the asshole didn't have to sneak up on me like that.

“I’m happy for you,” I mutter before taking a bite of my Cobb salad while trying to calm my racing heart.

His amber eyes sparkle with excitement, a stark contrast to his deep auburn hair. “She said, ‘Leave me alone, Severen.’”

I pause, another bite halfway to my mouth. “And why do you look so ecstatic about that?”

He jerks his head back, his expression twisting with confusion and judgment, like I’m an idiot for not knowing the answer. “Because she talked to me. Like, directly to my face. Made eye contact. Said my name. Things she barely does now.” 

“Right…” I say slowly. “But she said to leave her alone.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll take what I can get when I can get it, Rev.”

It’s almost adorable how pathetically excited he is over that. And with how hard he’s been trying to win her back, that little kernel of guilt was on the verge of popping, but not anymore. Not until I have proof he or Rogue didn’t help Dread plant those notes.

Rogue promised he wouldn't help Dread bully me anymore, but sometimes, people fucking lie. Admittedly, it’d surprise me if Severen would help and risk losing Octavia for good. She wasn’t kidding when she said she didn’t condone bullying.

After I ran off on Dread with the black box, I went straight back to his room and texted the group chat, demanding Severen and Rogue tell me if they helped him with the notes. 

Both vehemently denied it, as well as denying Dread’s involvement, and as convincing as they were, I still don’t know if I entirely believe them.

Even so, we’ve reverted to somewhat of the same routine from when Dread was in North Carolina, except I continue to stay in his room while he sleeps outside the door all night. It’s drawn attention from the other guys in the building, but I guess Dread just told them he's keeping guard due to ongoing harassment. I'm not entirely sure if they believed him, or if they guessed the truth—I'm pissed and put him outside like a dog.

I was more than willing to go back to my own dorm, but Dread refused. It was more understandable for the girls in my building when Rogue and Severen were out there because Dread was out of town. Now, they're a little more likely to gossip to the paparazzi about how I won't let him in my room than the guys would.

During the day, Dread escorts me between classes or drives me to work when he can, but when he’s busy with swim practice, Rogue or Severen step in. 

We spend every minute together in silence. He’s tried and failed to talk to me, and the one time he grabbed my arm, he immediately let me go once he clocked my expression. I’m not sure what he saw that was so different from any other time he’s terrorized me, but I’ll take my wins where I can get them.

“Speaking of progress, have you spoken to Dread yet?” I settle a dry glare on Severen while I crunch on a crouton. He tightens his lips and nods once. “Right. So, I’m going to be bold and say it, but I fear you just might be one-upping him in the torment department.”

I narrow my eyes, swallowing the crouton.

He grimaces. “Jesus, you’re intense.”

“Good. I haven’t decided if I even believe you two dickheads yet,” I mutter as I angrily stab another crouton and pop it in my mouth. 

“The last time he asked either of us to help him was the kidnapping prank. Since then, he told us we’re done. In fact, he explicitly ordered us to be nice to you.” Then, he says with a casual shrug, “Not that he had to. Rogue made his promise, and my chances with Octavia are already in hell. I don't need them to get any lower.”

I scoff. “I’d sooner believe he told you to lick his asshole than to be nice to me.”

Severen rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone from his coat pocket. After tapping the screen a few times, he swipes his thumb repeatedly, scrolling through his messages. 

Then, he turns the phone my way, showing me a text thread between him, Rogue, and Dread.

Dread: No one touches Reverie. No one hurts her feelings. No one makes her cry. No one even makes her sad.

Rogue: What if one of her hairs floats on me?? Does that count? Girls and their hair get fucking everywhere, bro

Severen: Depends. Did you tell the hair to back off?

Rogue: you’ll never see me swipe a hair off me so fast. I’ll put it in a fucking chokehold if I have to 

Dread: I expect you to place it gently back on her head.

Severen: With the utmost care. Got it saluting face

Rogue: you won’t know if it’s a hair or a tiara. It will look all the same

My throat tightens, though I try to ignore it as I turn my eyes to the time stamps on the messages.

February 10th, around nine p.m. The same day I came home to a trashed room after finding out Dread posted a picture of us on social media, and after he fucked me against the door before meeting with Roxi. I’d been in a terrible mood that night with the sex tape circulating rampantly, and I disappeared the next morning to the hotel.

Something about him saying that after those girls released that sex tape feels… unsettling. It reads like he was being protective because I was hurt, and that’s really fucking strange, considering we had only fucked for the first time three days prior.

Within three days, he went from being my bully to being protective?

It makes zero sense, and I refuse to find any part of that, or the conversation with Rogue and Severen, endearing. Even if my heart feels like it’s sprouted wings and has flown off into the sky toward the singing angels.

In fact, I despise the entire exchange. I might even consider it the worst thing I’ve ever had the misfortune of reading.

Frowning, I turn back to my food, though it appears nothing short of lackluster.

Part of me is almost disappointed. He or Rogue would’ve been the simple explanation, and I wouldn’t have to stress so hard that Lionel is behind Mindy’s disappearance and murdering girls on my campus now.

Something we should know soon regardless. Barry sent an officer to Dread’s room to take the eyeballs and note the same night it hit the window. For reasons I cannot even begin to grasp, I didn’t tell Barry about suspecting it was Dread. I don’t know if it’s because a stupid part of me is still trying to protect him or what, but I hate it. He doesn’t deserve it.

Regardless, Barry said it might take a little while, but it’s only been four days, and it feels like my anxiety has eaten through my stomach lining already.

That fucks me up even more, because when did the possibility of Dread betraying me become as wretched as my serial killer father stalking me? As much as I want to believe the deliveries haven’t been from him, I also want it to be more than anything.

“You’re a lot like Octavia,” Severen says with a groan. “So fucking stubborn and impossible to convince once you’ve set your mind on something.”

“Doesn’t sound like me at all,” I say dryly, tossing the lettuce with my fork.

Whatever little appetite I had is gone.

“Just another stubborn woman refusing to talk to the love of her life, I’m afraid,” he sighs woefully. “You can’t give Dread the silent treatment forever.”

I hold up a finger. “First of all, Dread is not the love of my life, and I should stab you with my plastic fork for even saying that. You would be wise to remember it’s not biodegradable.” He smirks, not appearing the slightest bit threatened. He also doesn’t look very convinced of my declaration, but I refuse to acknowledge that. “Second… Yes, I can.”

I turn back to my Cobb salad, though it feels like it’s souring my stomach now.

“He didn’t do it.”

I arch a brow. “You’re seriously pleading his case for him? He didn’t even do that for himself last time we spoke.”

Severen settles a wry look on me. “Because he's well aware it's his fault you feel that way, and he knows you wouldn't have believed him, anyway. You don’t even believe the texts you just saw.”

Exhaling heavily, I drop my fork and push my salad away, giving up on eating.

“And you're not going to believe this, either, but I think you kinda broke his heart when you accused him.”

My eyes round, and my mouth pops open with incredulity.

“Why are you acting like I'm the bad guy here?” I snap defensively. He raises his hands up in surrender, tightening his lips into a firm line. “From experience, this is exactly the kind of shit Dread likes to pull. And you can’t deny you and Rogue have already proven yourselves capable of breaking into my dorm and trashing it or slipping a note in my backpack when I’m not looking.”

“And since when have any of us ever denied it?” Severen volleys back, his brows rising in challenge. “Out of all the pranks we’ve pulled on you, we’ve owned up to every single one. Why would we stop now?”

My stomach twists over the possibility that’s been plaguing my brain since he admitted his feelings for me. “Because he wants me to fall in love with him so he can break my heart and stomp it into dust.”

Severen blinks at me. “Do you see why he’s not even trying to reason with you right now?”

I scoff, my anger spiking. “Can you blame me? Why am I the villain for having very reasonable doubt? I wouldn’t feel this way if it wasn’t for him. He wants to throw a pity party because I don’t believe him. Well, guess what? He made me this way, and now, he has to live with it.”

I go to reach for my backpack at my feet to leave, but Severen’s hand covers mine, stopping me. I stare at it, shocked and a little wary. My gaze bounces between his hand and face, revering him as a snake promising not to bite me.

“You’re right. I won’t sit here and argue with you about how we’ve all given you a really good reason not to trust us.” He pulls away, satisfied I’m not leaving yet. Sincerity radiates from his amber eyes, and it’s such a weird sight, it’s almost disconcerting. “But this wasn’t him, Rev. And while I wouldn’t normally get any more involved in your relationship than I already have, we’re dealing with a serial killer here. I don’t want to see either of you get hurt because you were looking at the wrong person.”

I let out a short laugh. “Since when do you care about me getting hurt?”

His expression slackens, and he looks upward, as if he’ll find his patience somewhere in the cracks in the ceiling, before dropping it back down to me. “Look, you may be one hundred and ten percent at fault for the biggest heartbreak of my life—” Eye roll. “—but I’d like to think we’re friends now, and I don’t want to see you dead. I also don’t want to see my best friend lose his fucking mind when he finds you dead. I seriously think it’s Roxi.”

The more I've sat with Roxi being in on this, whether she's the copycat or just a lovestruck idiot helping her boyfriend terrorize his daughter, it just doesn't feel right.

“I don't think it's her,” I say, resting my chin on a propped hand with a heavy sigh. “It seems like she truly believes he’s innocent, and having her carry out all these acts would shatter that illusion. I think she’s more valuable to him as a believer of his innocence. She’s also too much of a liability. If Lionel is going to trust someone to carry out crimes on his behalf, it wouldn't be with some college girl he’s known for only two years. He's too paranoid for that.”

He shrugs and then rips off the straw glued to the back of the juice box, spears it out of the plastic, and pops it in the box’s top. “Some people are really good at convincing people to trust them,” he says simply before taking a large pull of apple juice.

“Like Dread.”

“Like Roxi,” he corrects, giving me a stern look.

I’m not convinced.

“You don’t have to worry about me looking in the wrong direction,” I say, forgoing a response to his theory. I don’t have the energy to fight with him about his friend’s mind games, but there is one thing we can agree on. “I’m more than aware of how dangerous Lionel is. Whether it was Dread, Roxi, or someone else doesn’t matter. Your friend is just as dangerous as Lionel, and I intend to stay away from them both.”

Severen shakes his head, as if he’s disappointed in me, and picks up his book, keeping his gaze locked on the pages. “Hate to break it to you, Rev, but neither of them will allow that. If I were you, I’d get used to sleeping with the enemy when he’s going to be the one to keep you out of a grave.”

I scoff out a derisive chuckle. “Really? Then it’s ironic that, out of the two of them, Dread’s the one who actually put me in a grave while Lionel kept me out of one.”

Severen’s stare is grim when it connects with mine. “Dread let you crawl out of it. Your father won’t.”

“Dread will be lying next to me if he isn’t careful,” I retort.

“You think your father can overpower me?” a deep, familiar voice barks. It’s loud, angry, and right fucking behind me.

I just barely strangle the loud screech in my throat, but not before my heart flies up out of it and knocks at my teeth. 

Severen’s eyes are round discs as he stares above me. “For such a big dude, I did not see you coming. Where did you even come from? Her asshole?”

I sputter while Dread moves past me to stand at the end of the table between us. He plants his hands flat on the surface and stares down at him, his black hair hanging over a frosted stare.

“Why are you eating lunch with my girl?”

Severen gives him a bewildered look. “Bro, you literally asked me to.”

“No,” Dread denies. “I said to watch over her, not eat lunch with her. Those are two different things, and the second suggests friendship.”

Severen turns his attention to me, looking way too smug for someone who has a fire-breathing dragon looming over him. “You do realize I have to deal with this shit all the time where it concerns you, right? He’s a rabid dog. Any second now, he’s going to cock his leg.”

Dread doesn’t even bother to argue. Instead, he pushes off the table, turns, and leans back on it with his arms crossed over his chest, angling toward me. Just like that, he shuts Severen out, which prompts him to point his hands at himself in a ‘what am I, chopped liver?’ type of way.

I wish I was chopped liver. Maybe then, he’d leave me alone.

Reluctantly, I turn my gaze to Dread, already exhausted.

With his eyes on me, my heart free-falls into the pit of my stomach. He hasn’t been here for more than a minute, and already, the air feels like static.

“What.” My flat, annoyed tone makes it sound like a statement, rather than a question.

He cocks a brow, while Severen grabs his apple juice from his tray and starts slurping on it, clearly invested in whatever Dread has to say.

“Take a ride with me. I want to show you something.”

“What, the inside of your trunk again?” I respond dryly. “I know exactly what that looks like already.”

Severen snorts.

“It doesn’t have to be. You could always come willingly,” Dread suggests, his tone as casual as his stance.

“Oh, is this another ultimatum where we pretend like I have a choice?”

I hadn’t exactly intended to be so hostile, but rather to simply ignore and freeze him out, but I’m unable to help myself. I wield it like protective armor. It’s the only other way to keep me safe from him. Civility leads to compliance, which results in really stupid decisions, like letting him see me at my most vulnerable and teaching me how to swim. That shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it obviously affected me enough that I needed little convincing to let him record me fucking myself with a dildo molded after his dick.

God, I really do make bad decisions, and I fully blame my parents for this catastrophic flaw.

“You always have a choice, darling.”

“Then no.”

If my attitude bothers him, he doesn’t let it show.

I turn my attention to my soggy, gross salad, glaring at it while I silently beg him to go away. I’m convinced it’s a visual representation of my willpower whenever Dread comes around—mushy and… wet?

Jesus Christ, I need a fucking lobotomy.

In that moment, Severen hits the bottom of his apple juice, creating an obnoxious suction noise. I glower at him, Dread stares at me, and Severen’s eyes pinball between the two of us like we’re the most entertaining tennis match in the world.

“Are you having fun?” I ask Severen with an annoyed sigh, prompting him to finally stop sucking on the straw and look at me.

He shrugs a shoulder. “Honestly, I feel like being around you two is a safety hazard.” He licks his pointer finger and holds it in the air before shaking his hand like it zapped him, a grin playing at his lips. “Oh, yeah, that’s electric as fuck. Just like in all my romance books.”

“I’m telling Octavia about when you put a bee’s nest in my room knowing I’m allergic to them,” I deadpan.

His grin drops. “That was three years ago.”

“That was attempted murder,” I remind him dryly.

“I had an EpiPen just in case,” he mutters, focusing on his novel again with a slight pout. 

However, Dread doesn’t spare him a single second of his attention. He hasn’t looked away from me once, and his stare is burning, my skin hot again.

“I’ll make you a deal. If you come with me, I promise not to lay a single finger on you unless you ask me to,” Dread proposes.

“I won’t,” I snip before I can stop myself.

He grins, the act slow and devilish. “Okay.”

He doesn’t sound convinced, and that annoys me.

“You’re not trustworthy,” I continue. “So, the answer is still no.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Rev,” he says quietly. “I may have fucked with your head, but I meant everything I said.”

I find that hard to believe.

“What’s the plan this time?” I ask, pushing away those thoughts and forcing steel back into my tone. “Gonna put me in another grave? Maybe this time, it’ll have a fake dead body in it with another fake handwritten note from my father.”

The muscle in Dread’s jaw pulses, which only prods at my sensitive nerves.

I cock my head and stare up at him innocently. “What, don’t like being reminded of just how much of an asshole you are?”

“I’ll own up to every single thing I’ve done to you, Rev, but that box and note was not one of them.”

I would be a complete idiot to trust him again. Out of all people, why did it have to be him to make me feel this way? Why couldn’t it be anyone else?

“Do you think I want to feel this way?” he asks, his voice rough and hushed.

The question rattles me. It’s a response to exactly what I was thinking, and it’s unnerving how easily he can read me.

“Do you have any idea how badly I want it to be anyone else but you?” he continues. “Except the thought of it being anyone else fucking repulses me. And I hate that, too.”

I clench my jaw, feeling myself giving in and hating myself for it. My willpower is definitely fucking mushy, and I really hate that for me.

As if sensing my wavering willpower, he urges softly, “Just come with me for a few hours. That’s all I’m asking.”

I’ll never understand the power he has over me and why it’s so fucking impossible to reclaim it.

Despite being angry and hurt, I fold beneath his fingers like paper, only for him to rip out my origami heart and crumple it in his fist. He can smooth me out again, but I’ll never be the same. 

I may bear the marks of my fragility, but my edges are sharp and hungry for blood. Even delicacy can wield the greatest afflictions.

“If you hurt me,” I begin, finally meeting his eyes. My voice is quiet, but my stare bears the gravity of my next words. “I will never forgive you. I will feel nothing for you, not even hate. I will take back whatever part of me you own, and I fucking promise you, Dreadful Sharpe, you will feel that loss.”

For once, there’s no smirk. No cocky brush-off, no snapped response. His expression is serious as he nods.

Sighing, I stand, and when I look to Severen, he’s peering up at me from his book.

He wiggles it at me, and says, “She had to do a lot of forgiving, too, but now, she’s married to the vampire king.”

I arch a brow. “Did he turn her into a vampire?”

Severen’s brow furrows, confused. “Yes.”

I nod. “Sounds about right. He drained the life out of her, and now she’s dead inside—all because of him.”

Dread and Severen stare silently as I turn and walk away.

CHAPTER 31

DREAD

Reverie chews on the skin around her thumbnail as we make the forty-five-minute drive to the mountain. The air between us is tense and quiet, and I argue with myself over whether I should break it.

A month ago, I probably would’ve enjoyed watching her squirm and fret. Now, I just want to hold her hand.

I’m so goddamn fucked.

However, she doesn’t ask questions, so I keep silent.

By the time I pull into a dirt driveway with overgrown leaves and bushes invading the path, she finally drops her hand to her lap, a bead of blood bubbling around her nail.

The tension thickens, and my car wobbles as I drive down the uneven terrain, bringing us farther away from civilization and deeper into the mountain.

I can feel her anxiety heighten, and once again, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab her hand and reassure her. 

Except she wouldn’t believe me, and it enrages me that whatever little trust I built with her is gone. Her father may have ruined my progress, but there’s no one truly to blame but myself.

A small wooden cottage breaks free from the wild foliage surrounding us, the mountain at its back, its blue shadow just barely peeking through the thick fog.

I park right outside of it and turn off the engine. She silently stares at the cottage for several beats before turning her attention to me, a silent question in the air.

I don’t turn to meet her probing stare, already hearing the remnants of forgotten memories, and I feel nothing outside of the entourage of emotions flooding through my system.

It happens every time I come here. Even after thirteen years, the pain, the sadness, the grief—it’s still as powerful as the day I watched my mother walk out that front door.

“I buried my mom here.”

From my peripheral, Reverie’s mouth opens then closes again, seeming both surprised and confused.

“What? How?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it could be because my heart is pounding hard enough to rattle my rib cage.

This is the most sacred place on Earth to me, and showing Reverie Adams where half my soul lies might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. 

“For obvious reasons, my grandmother chose to cremate her, though we would’ve even if Lionel hadn’t done what he did to her body. After my dad passed, she had those tough conversations with me about our bodies and how they decompose.” I shrug a shoulder. “Don’t know if she should’ve, really, but I always appreciated it. My mom was always really big on honesty, so when I asked questions about where my dad’s body went, she answered. Anyway, she told me some people have specific requests for how they’d like to be put to rest, so I asked about hers. So, obviously, when she died, I honored her request.”

The second I knew I’d be following her to Hollow Canyon, the first thing I did was look for a place for my mom. It took me weeks of scouring the internet before I stumbled upon this abandoned cottage up for sale. Instantly, it felt like home. I stared at the pictures for hours, and, even through a screen, I couldn’t shake the undeniable feeling that bringing her here was exactly where she was meant to be. 

I wasted no time buying it and hiring a contractor to fix up the cottage and restore it to its previous glory.

It’s not often I get the chance to stay out here, but when I do, I never want to leave.

“What was her request?” Rev asks quietly.

“Let me show you,” I say before opening my door and stepping out, prompting her to follow suit.

I say nothing as I head to the right and away from the front door. Reverie follows behind me silently as I lead her around the corner of the cottage and toward the back, opening directly into a small, open garden.

Everything is barren and dead-looking now, but during the summer, the foliage is bright, full of life and color.

I stop before an area against the back of the house, right by the glass sliding door that leads inside, and peer down at the limp, dried plant spread amongst the soil, the crispy petals brown and tan.

“She’s not so pretty in the winter,” I say casually. “But in the spring, she’s fucking beautiful, and the petals are a vivid strawberry red. I’ve always found it a little funny that my mom wanted to be a plant called bleeding hearts. I think she had a pretty dark sense of humor.”

“I—” Reverie pauses for several beats. “I’m confused… She's a plant?”

A grin tilts up one side of my mouth, understanding her confusion all too well. I stuff my hands into my pockets, letting the plant fade and inviting in the memories of my mother’s smiling face.

“Yeah. I didn’t really understand it at first, either. She loved to garden, and I would help her weed and plant flowers and vegetables every summer.” My smile widens until both sides curl, memories of a younger version of myself—a much happier version—engulfing me. “Except my way of helping was kind of just tossing dirt around. But, yeah, there’s a company that offers biodegradable urns.” I glance at her as she stares down at the dried petals, tilting her head curiously. “Fun fact: human ashes are actually pretty harmful for plant life, but these urns are designed specifically for it, so you store the remains in the urn until you’re ready to plant it, and then you add these nutrients and shit on top to protect the roots.”

“Huh,” she chirps, sounding fascinated. “That’s actually pretty incredible.”

I chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t think she was even aware ashes were bad for plants, and I think this urn was invented maybe a decade ago, but if it wasn’t, I probably would’ve gone insane trying to keep all this shit alive.”

She lets out a soft laugh, and my heart skips at the sound. “Why did she want to be a bleeding heart plant?”

“They were her favorite because the petals look like actual hearts when they’re in bloom. I think she found it poetic, too, with how it feels like our hearts bleed when we’re grieving.” I offer a tiny, nonchalant shrug. “Like I said, a little dark, but that’s who she was.”

I feel Reverie’s stare burning into the side of my face, but all I can see is my mom—her dark hair piled into a messy bun with small strands wildly sticking out, streaks of dirt smudged over her cheek, and these threadbare overalls she refused to get rid of, even though they were full of holes and stains.

I blink, and the world comes back into view.

“My grandmother knew my mom’s wishes, so she put her in a pretty urn and decided to let me plant her when I was old enough. She knew it would mean the world to me to choose where, but I think she also knew I wasn’t going to stay in California forever, so she didn’t want to risk killing the plant if I had to uproot it later. Once I knew I was leaving out of state for college, I did a lot of googling and found the biodegradable urn, transferred my mom’s ashes over to it, and carried her with me until I could plant her in her forever home.”

Rev’s stare doesn’t waver as she quietly asks, “And you chose here? Why?”

I slide my gaze to her, colliding with warm copper. Her expression is soft, clear of any previous anger and anxiety.

“Because you’re here.”

She blinks, taken aback, then frowns with confusion.

“You could’ve chosen anywhere in the world, and we’d be standing right here, just with a different background,” I tell her, holding her bewildered stare. “I didn’t always understand why, but I knew I would follow you anywhere. Even if it was to hate you, I still wanted nothing more than to be with you.”

Her throat bobs as she works to swallow, and she quickly turns her gaze back to the ground. Her brows knit, seeming to struggle to comprehend my words.

I face forward again, giving her the space to process something I hadn’t fully realized until it was pouring off my tongue.

“You followed me here.” 

It’s not a question, but a conclusion she must’ve always known deep down yet never admitted to herself.

I nod slowly.

“I watched you when we were teenagers,” I confess. From my peripheral, I see her head snap back toward me with shock, but I feel no guilt. Stalking her is the least of my crimes. “If I wasn’t obsessively stalking you on social media, I’d sneak away, catch a bus, and find you wherever you were. Most times, you were home, but I knew who your friends were, which ones you were closest to.” I glance at her, a shameless grin curling my lips. “I knew where they lived, too, for the times you slept over with them. I wanted to watch you live a happy life so I’d have more of a reason to hate you.”

A beat passes before she quietly asks, “And did you get what you wanted?”

I contemplate that for a moment before admitting, “No, but I only see that now. Your friends were superficial and didn’t understand grief and trauma the same way you understood it. They would look at you like they didn’t know what to do with you when they thought you weren’t watching. I think you caught some of those stares, though. Is that why you don’t talk to them anymore?”

She cocks her head. “What makes you think I don’t?”

I arch a brow, my lips twitching. She’s incapable of understanding just how well I know her, how long and intently I’ve studied her.

“Because I know what loneliness looks like.”

She glances away, tightening her lips into a firm line, involuntarily confirming what I already knew to be true.

“I also know when you love, you love hard,” I continue, removing my stare from her again. “Sable’s an example of that. And I don’t think you ever truly felt that way about those girls. They were convenient distractions away from the misery that was your life. But I would bet the moment you moved to Colorado and they went off to their separate schools, you all would send those obligatory ‘I miss you’ texts in your group chat that slowly became less and less frequent until one day, you never spoke again. I would even bet you still have that group chat on your phone all these years later because it serves as a reminder of how unlovable you feel you are.”

“Jesus,” she grumbles beneath her breath. “Did you spend all your free time psychoanalyzing me?”

A cool gust of wind rips through our hair, sending a chill down my spine. But I’m not ready to go inside yet.

I huff out a soft laugh. “It took me a long time to understand you, Rev, which is why I hated you for so long. I couldn’t make sense of your pain, so I didn’t. Truthfully, it’s because I didn’t want to. That would’ve meant empathizing with you, and I refused to even consider something like that. So, I convinced myself you were happy, because you could never be more miserable than me. And that was enough for me to resent you.”

Her focus returns to me, though I keep my eyes downcast. Now that much, I am ashamed of. Though it’s more than that, too. I suppose I’m also a little afraid to look up and see something written over her face I wish I could unsee. 

She’s quiet for several moments, thinking whatever the hell she’s thinking. Maybe I could guess, but this time, I don’t want to. It wouldn’t change anything for either of us, anyway. There’s a chance I’ve only scared her more, but if she hasn’t learned by now that I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth, then I’m happy to teach her, one step at a time.

“Do you want to know the truth?” she asks.

No.

I nod.

But please don’t hurt me.

“I was numb,” she says tonelessly. “My mom would go through pretty severe waves of depressive episodes. I’d come home to my mom rocking herself in my dad’s recliner every day. Most days, she was catatonic, and she’d refuse to eat. There were times she soiled herself, and I’d have to drag her out of the chair to clean it up. Thankfully, it was a leather chair, but yeah, it was rough. Other days, she’d let me spoon-feed her and walk her to the bathroom. Sometimes, she’d be staring at pictures of him and wailing at the top of her lungs, like she did when she lost my brother. Other times, she was so fucking angry at me.”

I frown. “Because of your brother?”

“Yes, but also because I drew the angel wings tattooed behind Lionel’s ear, and if it weren’t for that, you would’ve never seen it and convinced the jury to send him to prison. It was my fault the only person she had left was me, and I was the last person she wanted.”

I clench my jaw, desperately wanting to resurrect that woman just to strangle her all over again. There’s a lot Rev and I can relate to, but that… that’s one thing I can’t. My mom loved me and was so fucking good to me—both of my parents were, even if I don’t remember much of my dad. Reverie may have gotten more time with her mom, but that only added to her suffering. I would take eight years with an incredible mother over eighteen with a resentful one.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I assert. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispers, convincing neither of us.

“She had postpartum psychosis, yeah?” I ask gently. She nods sharply. “Did she continue to have symptoms afterward, or did the psychosis settle after she received treatment?”

Rev heaves out a heavy breath. “According to her doctor, her psychosis didn’t return after that initial episode with me. She had PTSD and depression, of course, but nothing beyond that. She just… resented me—always had. When she wasn’t in a depressive episode, she never acted that way with anyone else.” She huffs out a bitter laugh. “She treated the grocery store clerk more like a child than she did me. Smiles and soft-spoken to everyone else, but the second she looked at me, it was like watching the light dim from her eyes until she looked away again.”

I shake my head, my resentment for Regina amplifying until all I taste is ash on my tongue. It’s one thing not to be of sound mind from the hormones and grief and attempt to drown Rev. That was something far outside of her control. But it’s another to come out of that and, even with depression and PTSD, treat her child so hatefully. Regina was suffering, but it wasn’t an excuse for her to make Reverie suffer, too.

“I wish you had a mom like mine,” I say quietly. “That’s what you deserved, not the one you got. Or your father.”

She shrugs noncommittally, still not believing me. Someday, I’ll convince her.

I won’t stop until I do.

“That tattoo,” I say, having to force the words out past my gritted teeth. “I figured you drew it, and you said that’s what Lionel called you as a kid.”

She nods. “He said my mom tried to kill me because I was meant to be an angel. I didn’t understand what that truly meant back then, but it made me feel special. I drew him the angel wings and halo on his neck only a couple weeks before I saw Georgia. The night I walked in on him with her, he said Georgia was an angel, and if I told anyone, he’d make my mom into one next and then do what Regina couldn’t and turn me into a real one, too. He got the tattoo of my drawing the following day. I still don’t know if it was meant to be a reminder to keep me in line or if he did it as some weird gesture to show he loved me enough to get my drawing tattooed. Either way, I stopped liking that nickname, but he never stopped calling me it.”

He’s fucking sick.

I couldn’t imagine something so traumatic happening to my child, only to give her a nickname inspired by it. She was six years old, drawing angel wings because her mother tried to kill her, thinking it was special. She had no idea how fucking morbid it really was.

And for her to see something as horrific as what he did to Georgia, to tell her a cut-up, mutilated body was an angel just like her. Then to get her angel wings tattooed on him, as if to remind her every day what an angel truly was to him, how he threatened to make her mother one, too…

Fury flows through my system like lava. I’ve never wanted to drive to California more than this very moment.

“Did you ever tell your mom what you saw? And what he threatened?”

Rev’s lips tighten into a thin line, and she shakes her head. “No. Even if she would’ve listened, she wouldn’t have believed me, and I had no proof, anyway. After his sentencing, I worked up the courage to go into his shed, and it was… just a normal man cave. No trace of blood, no box of hair, nothing to validate what I saw. It fucked with my head so bad, and for years, I questioned if I imagined it all.”

She meets my stare, somber and defeated.

“I know you don’t think I lost a parent—not like you did—but I lost my dad the second I stepped inside that shed. And I loved him so much.” Her voice cracks at the end. She quickly diverts her focus back to the ground, but not before I see the tears well in her eyes. It takes several swallows before she speaks again. “I know you can’t imagine it, but for a little while… he was an amazing dad. A soul can die, even if a heart still beats.”

I shake my head, reaching out to brush my thumb over her soft cheek, reddened from the cool air. “I know you did, baby. I don’t doubt that anymore.”

Her face twists as she fights back tears, and she turns her face toward the bleeding heart plant, away from my touch. Even as she bares herself to me, I still feel the walls erected all around her, so I let my hand fall away. It’s taking everything in me not to force it, but fucking hell, do I want to.

“And your mom?” I pry, my voice tight. “You told me about her when she was alive. But what about losing her?”

She heaves out a heavy exhale, and for several moments, she seems to think over what to say. “Lionel was her entire life, and the day he was sentenced, her grief became a prison far worse than the one my father was condemned to.”

I glance at her, noting the distant look in her glazed eyes.

“There were many times I caught her staring at me with this just…” She struggles for words for a beat. “Just pure hatred. I remember those moments so vividly because of how much they scared me. I know she tried not to hate me, and I know she felt guilty for drowning me, but I also know there were many days she still wished she had succeeded.”

The mere thought of Regina succeeding nearly sends me into a blackout rage. My fists curl tightly, violence stirring in my chest. It’s only Reverie’s soft voice that just barely drags me back from the edge. 

Reverie sniffles then shrugs her shoulders. “It had nothing to do with depression or psychosis and everything to do with who Regina was as a person. You know better than most how firmly she held on to grudges. Once someone gave her a reason to hate them, there was no going back, no forgiveness. Whatever love she had for me was intrinsic, and it was just enough to make her wait until I was eighteen so I didn’t get put into the system, and by then, she was so exhausted and miserable from just being alive, she didn’t care to wait for Lionel to be up for parole anymore. I think she did us both a favor when she stepped off that stool.” She shrugs, peering down at her fidgeting hands as she whispers, “At least I wouldn’t have to see her disappointment anymore every time I walked in the room.”

My upper lip curls, thoroughly disgusted. With Regina. With Lionel. 

With myself.

Has she ever truly known what it is to be loved? To be properly cared for? Her father was a monster, her mother incredibly broken, and they both made her suffer nearly her entire life.

I am a monster, and I made sure she suffered, too.

I clench my jaw, hating myself just as much as I hate her parents. 

Our trauma isn’t the fucking Olympics, but in many ways, Reverie has suffered far more and for far longer than I did, and I played a huge hand in that. 

But now… now, I want her to feel good. Happy. To experience a day without suffering. To know what it’s like to be loved and wanted. I want to be the one to make those come to fruition.

I want her to come home to me and see there isn’t a single fucking soul I’m happier to see more than her.

I will always have my mother’s love, and, as desperately as I want her to come back so I can feel it again, she never will. But I’ve never had Reverie’s, and I think I need it more than I need to breathe.

“It’s why I chose the name Reverie when I changed it,” she tells me, bringing my focus back to her. “For years, I watched my mom sit in his recliner, lost in another world where they were together and happy again. I wanted that so badly for myself—for someone to love me like that—but I knew the only way I’d ever be a reverie was if it was my name.”

I open my mouth, prepared to tell her how very fucking wrong she is, but she doesn’t let me get a word out.

“Tell me about your mom,” Reverie urges quickly, as if she sensed me about to correct her. There’s a tinge of that heart-stopping fear lurking in her gaze, but she also peers up at me with genuine curiosity. “What was Katherine like?”

I nearly growl with the frustration, hating that she’s still running from me. I’m so fucking impatient where she’s concerned, but I also know if I’m going to do this right with her, I can’t push her too much too fast. So, I let it go.

I release a heavy exhale. A million different adjectives come to mind, but I settle on the two that encompassed her most.

“Gentle but fierce. Sometimes, it looked like she floated when she walked, yet she was this impenetrable force. Her touch felt like a breeze, but her conviction was like a hurricane.” I shake my head, a kaleidoscope of memories spinning through my mind, each one constricting my heart more than the last. “She hardly said no, but when she did… there was no convincing her otherwise.”

One memory drifts to the surface, its sharp edges scraping against the inside of my brain. It’s the one that forces itself to the forefront no matter what I do.

“I tried to convince her not to go on that date with Lionel. I was pissed she was moving on from my dad. But she wanted to go, so she did, and that’s all there was to it. The last time I saw her, I was so fucking angry.” The admission tastes like acid, eating away at my throat as it pours from my tongue.

It’s not only guilt I carry for the way I treated her, but shame. And so much goddamn regret, it could keep me fed for a dozen lifetimes.

“I was at that age when I was too old for my mother’s affection, so we found a compromise. One of us would blow a kiss, and the other would pretend to catch it and kiss our fist.”

I try to swallow, but my body is overflowing with shame, and there’s nowhere for the saliva to go.

“She blew me a kiss on her way out the door, and I refused to catch it. I instantly regretted it, but I was too stubborn to call out for her to come back. If I had, Lionel would’ve known I was there and saw him, and there’s a good chance she would’ve come home that night.”

The grief unleashes in my body all at once. Swelling my tongue until it chokes me, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Caving in my chest and crushing my heart until it bursts into pieces so tiny, it ceases to exist. Weakening my bones until they struggle to support me. It’s an all-consuming type of agony. It invades every one of my senses and embeds itself inside me so deeply, it becomes a part of my DNA. It will remain as permanent as the color of my eyes or the shape of my smile.

I grind my molars as tears rush to the surface. I clench my fists tightly, tremors rattling my bones from the effort to keep them at bay.

I jolt when I feel Reverie’s small hand wrap around mine. It’s instinct to relax, allowing her soft fingers to thread with mine.

My brows draw forward as I look down at our linked hands through blurred vision, wondering how the fuck I got here—how we got here. 

Even more, I wonder when the fuck she made me fall in love with her.

A single tear slips down my cheek, but it’s impossible to wipe it away. Between the grief and the revelation I’m completely, fucking outrageously, in love with the daughter of my mother’s murderer, I’m frozen.

One D’Amour shattered my goddamn heart, and another stole the pieces for herself, assembling them into some fucked-up rendition of what a heart is supposed to be. I don’t know if it even works anymore, but quite frankly, I don’t fucking care. It’s hers to deal with now.

“I know there isn’t a single thing I could say to make you feel better,” she begins softly. “But if you want the truth, part of me is glad Lionel got out.”

I blink, almost sure I didn’t hear her right. Slowly, I turn to meet her steady gaze.

“There’s an opportunity to kill him now. And…” She shrugs, almost sheepishly. “It’s one I’d happily take. Or even let you take, just as long as he dies.” She pauses for a beat before tacking on, “Maybe make him suffer first, though.”

I don’t know if it’s possible to fall in love twice, but it doesn’t feel like enough. The agony doesn’t dissipate—I’ve learned that it never will—but it does ease, making it a little easier to breathe.

“You’re wrong,” I rasp, my voice raw and deep as I face forward again. “That did make me feel a little better.”

It’s been years since I’ve cried—even longer since anyone has witnessed it. The last time was the day I planted my mom about a week after arriving here, my knees buried in the soil while Rogue and Severen crouched on either side of me, each with a hand on my shoulder as I quietly wept.

Back then, I vowed to make Reverie’s life miserable. And now, I vow to fucking kill anyone who dares make her feel even a modicum of pain.

“Can I know about your dad and your grandmother? You’ve never spoken about them much.”

I blow out a breath while I scrounge up more painful memories. “My grandmother was pretty sickly most of my life. She battled ovarian cancer off and on since I can remember, so she spent most of my childhood at home with a nurse. She passed two years ago, and truthfully, I felt relieved. She suffered so much, and I know she was tired.” Another heavy exhale. “As for my dad, I don’t remember much. I couldn’t tell you what his voice sounded like or the color of his eyes. I do remember that he used to play catch with me all the time, though, and that my parents were both deeply in love. He died when I was five in a car accident. There was a bad snowstorm, and he was driving to work, even though my mom pleaded for him to call off. Hit ice, slid off a cliff, and crashed into some trees. Even if he survived the impact, branches impaled him through the chest and throat.”

Reverie winces, likely picturing the brutality of it. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

I nod. “I’m only sorry I let my mother’s death consume me so much that I forgot to mourn him, too. His death hit me really hard, and I thought my mom was betraying him by going on that date.”

“Do you still think that?” she asks quietly.

“No,” I say. “I understand now that his death broke her, too. Going on a date with Lionel was just an attempt to move on. But even if he wasn’t a serial killer, I don’t think it would’ve worked.” My gaze brushes over her beautiful features as I say, “She was searching for the type of love she had with my dad, but you only find that once.”

Reverie meets my eyes, and I know she feels it, too. That heart-stopping, breathtaking, electric-tasting type of love neither of us will ever find in anyone else.

She clears her throat, her cheeks flushing red as she glances away. 

“I don’t know why you’re staring at me like that. We’re still fighting,” she says, though her breathing has escalated, and she can’t stop flicking her eyes in my direction.

One corner of my lip twitches involuntarily.

“Even if we weren’t, I’m sure one of us would find a reason to change that within an hour.”

She’s quiet as she finally allows her stare to slice me open, carefully peel back my skin, then peer beneath the surface, searching for answers to questions she won’t ask aloud. If she needs to claw me open to see the truth, I’m happy to sharpen her nails.

“The black box,” she begins, eyeing me warily. “How do I trust it wasn’t you? How do I trust you at all? You’ve done everything in your power to ensure I know how much you hate me and want me to suffer. Suddenly being nice to me, slowly gaining my trust so I let my guard down, only to humiliate me all over again—it would hurt me more than anything you’ve done so far, and I think you know that. Betrayal cuts deep, and you can’t betray me unless I trust you.” She points to the bleeding heart plant, and it’s just so fucking ironic that its namesake encompasses exactly how I feel right now. “For all I know, that could just be another normal plant. None of this could be real.”

I refocus on the dried flowers spread across the soil, searching for the right words. Except the more I try, the more insufficient they feel.

I replay everything I’ve put her through—every cruel insult and merciless vow—and reach only one conclusion.

I wanted to be her demise, but instead, I’ve become my own. 

Because now, I’m in love with her, and there isn’t a goddamn thing I’ve done to earn hers in return.

“What if I’m not?” I ask finally. “What if I’m telling you the truth about the box, and this is real? What if bringing you here and showing you how to destroy me is the only way I know to give you your power back?” I look at her, ensuring she can see the gravity in my stare. “Do you want to rip those flowers out of the ground to test it? Do you want to see me break first? Because if that’s what you need, then you better fucking put me back together again when you’re done, darling, because only you know the layout of my soul.”

Lips parting, she studies every inch of my face. After a moment, her scrunches her brow. I’m not sure what she found, but it doesn’t seem to be what she expected.

She turns her focus to the bleeding heart plant, her eyes tracing over the wilted petals before traveling up to the picture of my mom’s smiling face.

My heart pounds, and my muscles stiffen with tension, expecting her to bend down and start ripping the plant from the earth at any moment, clawing out the stems until the roots snap free and it’s as lifeless as the woman inside it.

But silence ticks by, and then she quietly says, “I don’t need to test you, Dread. I just need to wait. But that doesn’t mean I have to let you in while I do.”

I tighten my lips into a firm line. I’m not surprised she spared me. Even when I’ve given her every reason to be, she’s never been needlessly cruel.

“If you prove me right, not only will I uphold my promise, but I will completely disappear from your life, and you will never see me again.” She tips her head to the side. “Maybe you’d want that, but it’s the one thing I’d be happy to give you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek before I can allow a smile to form. I have zero intention of giving her a reason to leave me, but it’s cute she thinks she’d even make it a fucking foot.

If she runs, it’s only because she wants me to catch her.

“Fair enough,” I respond casually, electing to keep my mouth shut for now, lest it start another fight and I’m forced to chase her down.

“And what about everything I told you?” she asks, her tone more hesitant. “With Georgia.”

I blow out a breath, searching for the words to explain how I feel. Yet another thing I never imagined myself doing.

“Some moments, I’m enraged, but not because you stayed silent. It’s because he made you,” I answer quietly. “Then, I’m enraged because, regardless of your silence, what Lionel put you through is…” I struggle to find the words to convey how fucking murderous it makes me feel. Just imagining a six-year-old Reverie scared out of her mind as she stares at one of the most horrific sights any human being could see, let alone a goddamn child…

“Fuck, Reverie, you have no idea how badly I want to fucking kill him for doing that to you.”

Red washes over my vision, and my fingers instinctively tighten around hers, her delicate bones caught in the crossfire of my wrath. When she gasps from pain, I quickly drop her hand and put a few feet of distance between us.

Teeth clenched, my fists flex with the need to wrap my hands around Lionel’s throat and squeeze with all my strength. I hunger to see his panicked eyes bulge from his head. I thirst to see the life fade from them.

Even then, it’s not enough to satiate my bloodlust. I want him to fucking suffer, too. The agony I could inflict on him is boundless—the possibilities endless. I’ve imagined hundreds of different scenarios of all the ways I could make the fucker scream.

“It’s okay,” she placates, which only brightens the red in my vision.

“It’s not okay,” I bark, spinning toward her.

My feet charge up to her before I can stop myself. I envelop her sweet face in my palms, forcing her to look up at me. I’m too lost in my rage to notice how tormented she appears, but I can feel it. I can feel her pain as strongly as I can feel my own.

“Nothing about what he put you through—what either of your parents put you through—is fucking okay, Reverie, and that’s why I’m finding it impossible to hate you. Because even though it kills me inside knowing things could’ve been different, your silence saved your mother’s life. My silence killed mine.”

She shakes her head, vehemently arguing, “You were a kid, Dread. You couldn’t have known it’d be the last time you saw her.”

“And you were a kid, too, Rev,” I retort.

“But I wasn’t brave,” she whispers, the words cracking at the seams as tears fill her eyes. “I could’ve saved a mother who loved her child more than anything. Instead, I saved a mother who wished she succeeded in killing her child.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, though a tear slips through and trails down her reddened cheek. I brush it away instantly with my thumb, my chest aching again, though for an entirely different reason now.

I used to enjoy seeing her in pain. It’s ingrained so deeply inside her, it became the marrow in her bones. It’s a fucking cancer slowly killing her, poisoning her bloodstream and depriving her organs of oxygen until they suffocate. 

Now, all I want to do is fucking take it from her, give her my marrow and replace her agony until my bones ring hollow.

I rest my forehead against hers while sharp, staccato gasps warm my lips.

“You saved me,” I whisper, my throat tightening around the confession. “You gave me a reason to keep breathing when all I wanted to do was follow her into the darkness. My torment is suffocating, but you are my oxygen. It is you who keeps me alive, darling.”

She tenses, shaking her head, sensing what’s coming, but she can’t stop it any more than I can.

I drag my thumb down her plump bottom lip, trading between watching her mouth and the melted coins in her eyes. There’s panic swirling within them, but there’s also a desperate need as potent as my own desire.

“I love you, Reverie. Resisting you is like swimming against a riptide. The harder I fight, the deeper I sink.”

Her face crumbles. “Dread,” she whimpers.

“I told you I’ve never been afraid to drown, but I lied,” I say. “Nothing has ever scared me more than you. But you were right when you said it’s peaceful once you let go. It only hurts when you breathe again.”

Her bottom lip trembles beneath my thumb.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” I whisper. “If the only way to love you is to drown, then I won’t hold my breath, Reverie. I’ll inhale you and keep you safe inside me.”

My stare drops to her lips as I run the pad of my thumb over it again, my own parting as my mouth waters.

Then, I lift it back up to hers, and whisper, “Darling, you are my reverie, and I will follow you anywhere, even if it’s only into a daydream.”

A whimpered exhale shudders out of her, and I waste no time crushing my lips against hers, swallowing it down. I can’t take her not saying it back, so I don’t give her the option to say anything at all. 

My tongue dives past her lips, greedily demanding more of her. It’s an unquenchable thirst, an insatiable hunger.

With a moan, she rises onto her toes and tangles her fingers in my hair, only to yank me down into her with a strength I don’t dare resist.

A satisfied growl rumbles deep in my chest. With the touch of her tongue, a monster emerges, and it will do anything to devour her.

Her nails dig into my scalp while she lifts higher onto the points of her toes, nearly climbing my body. My hands drop to her ass and squeeze, using my firm grip to tug her roughly against me. A silent agreement passes between us—it’s not enough. In a matter of seconds, our hands become feverish and restless, grasping at each other’s bodies, tugging and clawing, attempting to get closer even when it’s physically impossible. Our tongues clash mercilessly, as if the electricity sparking between them is the sole conductor powering our bodies. The second the last spark dissipates, so will our existence.

The desire overwhelms logic and reason. I’m blind with need, and I would sooner rip her apart than tear myself away from her.

There’s nothing to stop me. Nothing that can⁠—

“Dread,” she gasps, forcing her head up and heaving in a deep breath. Instinctively, I circle my arms around her and trap her against me before she can step away. With a growl, I nip harshly right beneath her jaw, earning a breathless chuckle.

“This is extremely inappropriate in front of your mom,” she says, pushing against my chest with both hands and arching away—except there’s no strength behind it, no real effort to escape.

“Baby, she’s a fucking plant,” I say against her neck, inhaling her sweet tuberose scent before capturing the sensitive flesh below her ear between my teeth.

With another sharp gasp, a violent shiver racks her body, and her fingers curl into my hoodie.

“Dread,” she groans, wiggling in my hold. “It’d be no different than fucking me on her grave. That’s just… really wrong.”

“Then it’s a good thing we have a cottage right behind us,” I murmur in her ear, only to deliver a sharp nip to the soft lobe.

She trembles just as I capture her lips between mine again, drinking down her whimpers greedily. I taste a soft moan, and it snips the last string holding on to my control. 

A deep rumble vibrates my chest as I bend to grip the backs of her thighs and lift her into my arms. She’s wrapping her legs around me while I spin us and slam her against the wooden cottage wall. 

She gasps; I enter. 

Our tongues meet the moment I grind into her, my hard cock straining painfully, desperate to sink inside her. The pressure sends a zap of pleasure down my dick, and I groan into her eager little mouth.

Fuck, I’ve missed her so much.

I’ve missed drowning in her. I don’t care if it’s only been four days, four hours, four fucking seconds. It hurts to come up for air.

I roll my hips once more, earning a pleased little squeal from her throat. Right when I go to repeat the movement, a loud buzz interrupts me, and she jolts in my arms, ripping her mouth away. I chase with a whine, but she chuckles and evades me.

No, no, no, no.

I’ve never been the praying type, but in this moment, I’d kneel for the first god to make whoever is on the other line disappear.

“Shit, I missed it,” she whispers to herself. But then, her phone buzzes, signaling a text.

When I let out another groan, it’s full of frustration. Panting, she plucks her phone out of her coat pocket while I drop my forehead to her shoulder, inhaling the chilled air into my lungs.

My dick is painfully hard, and just as I reach the decision to fuck her anyway, she gasps, her body stiffening into solid granite.

My head snaps up. “What?”

“It’s Barry,” she breathes. “They have a DNA match for the blonde hair I received last week.”

CHAPTER 32

REVERIE

The second I park my ass in Dread’s passenger seat, I’m hitting the call button on Barry’s contact. 

My heart is pounding, my clit is still throbbing from when he had me pinned against the cottage, and the butterflies have wormed their way into my brain, demanding I go back to obsessing over Dread professing his love. 

My internal ecosystem is going through a catastrophic extinction event, and instead of trying to salvage my burning organs, I’m paralyzed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Barry greets, his voice instantly soothing a little of the chaos inside me.

“Hey,” I say, my cheeks instantly flushing from how breathless I sound. 

It hasn’t even been five minutes since Dread had his tongue down my throat, and I’m still trying to collect all the oxygen he ripped out of me so ruthlessly.

Barry heaves out a heavy exhale, and I’m having trouble computing what kind of sigh it is.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential.”

My mouth flops, and I glance at Dread, who’s staring at me intently. My heart instantly flutters, and my brain trips over how insanely attractive he is. There’s definitely a brain cell or two still latched on to his absolutely insane declaration of love not ten minutes ago, but I force myself to stay focused. 

“U-uh, okay. Well…” I cringe and sheepishly admit, “Dread’s here. Can he know?”

Barry is silent for a few beats. “Is he bothering you?”

His voice is considerably lower, a serious edge to his tone. I have no idea why—maybe because I’m frazzled as fuck and don’t know which way is up right now—but it makes me smile. I bite it back while Dread opens his mouth to respond to Barry.

My hand claps over it, my amusement replaced with horror. I literally cannot even begin to fathom what he was going to say, and it sounds like an absolute nightmare to find out.

“He’s always bothering me,” I say assertively, narrowing my eyes at him in warning. His gaze twinkles with mirth now, but I don’t find any of this funny anymore. “But no, the whole rottweiler attitude was all an act, and he’s more like a husky. Looks intimidating, very sassy, doesn’t shut up, but is an otherwise derpy dog that follows you around everywhere.”

Dread’s eyebrows fly up on his forehead, wickedness mingling with his amusement. Even with his face partially obscured by my hand, his expression is undeniable, and I can hear his unspoken words loud and clear: ‘Oh, you think so? Very interesting.’

My heart flutters, and the butterflies in my stomach take that as their cue and follow suit. It doesn’t help that his hand is still firmly wrapped around mine.

However, Barry hums, sounding both unconvinced and unimpressed, which is honestly super smart of him. He’s not my biological father, but I still really wish I got that gene.

“Well, you know what to do should he become too much of a problem,” he says, his tone firm. As far as Barry’s concerned, Dread has been a huge dick and convinced the majority of the school to hate me along with him, but he knows nothing of his cruel pranks. Not because I wanted to protect Dread, but because I couldn’t stand the thought of needing saving again. Regardless, Barry has always been the type to trust I’ll come to him if I need to, but otherwise, he lets me experience life for what it is. “Anyway, if he wasn’t wrapped up in this as much as you are, I would lecture you for asking me that. But…” He sighs again. “Yes, he can know.”

I quickly pull my hand away from Dread’s face and put the phone on speaker, holding it between us just as Barry begins speaking again.

“We got a match to the hair wrapped around that note,” he continues. 

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Isn’t it Jennifer’s? The victim they found scattered across the back seats of people’s cars?”

“No, sweetie.” I frown. “The hair belongs to Georgia Farrell.”

This time, my free hand slaps over my own mouth, and before I can truly process a single word, tears rush to the surface of my eyes. I couldn't stop them from spilling even if I knew how. 

For several heart-stopping moments, I’m in utter shock, and then a rush of emotion rolls through me, and I’m gasping.

All those memories come storming back in from when I ran into that shed and saw something that forever changed my brain chemistry. The horror. The confusion. The disgust. The absolute terror.

The cottage outside the windshield fades away, and I see nothing but my father’s evil black eyes and Georgia’s slackened face as he removes her head from the rest of her body.

“Rev? You there? Honey⁠—”

The words are there, floating somewhere beyond me, but it sounds muffled and distant, like I’m trapped beneath water again.

“She just needs a moment, Barry. I got her.” 

My mind instantly reaches for the second voice, even when my body can only heave out sharp breaths. The deep timbre is like salve over a burn, and the screaming quietens just a little.

Then, I feel his fingers thread through mine. He must’ve taken my phone, but I’m too lost to understand anything outside of the warm hand engulfing mine. I squeeze tight and inhale deeply before I shove the images branding the inside of my brain into a drawer and slam it shut, allowing my vision to return.

I drop my other palm from my mouth, and rush out shakily, “Sorry. I, uh, I-I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to ease you into that one. If I’m being honest, I’m still trying to process it myself,” he admits.

Truthfully, the least surprising bit is the hair not belonging to Jennifer, despite him sending it with the note about teaching me to lock my car doors on the very day news broke about Jennifer’s remains being found.

It goes beyond Lionel playing mind games simply because he enjoys it. It’s to remind Barry and me of how even when we think we know exactly what he’s doing, we never really do. A clear message of how easy it is for him to lead us like a dog caught on a scent into a cage, only to rip the rug out from our feet and send us plummeting into a hidden trapdoor beneath.

It’s why he makes a huge production with the victim’s remains, to show Barry and Jeff they’re only finding bodies because Lionel wants them to, not because they’re onto him. It’s also why Barry and Jeff believe he’s responsible for a lot more murders than Lionel’s revealed. Not only does he choose when and where they find the victims, but who. He wants us to feel like we’re rats faithfully following the trail of cheese he carefully lays out for us, too hungry and desperate for clues to step out and find the path leading straight to the refrigerator.

I wipe away the tears leaking down my cheeks with the back of my hand while Dread still holds tight to the other, silently funneling his strength into me.

For now, I avoid his stare, lest I do something stupid, like fall completely in love with him.

“So, what does this mean?” I ask hoarsely. 

I carefully extract my hand from Dread’s, though there’s an odd pang when I do, like my body is protesting it. But it would make me a crazy person to miss holding his hand, so I ignore it and swipe the back of my hand beneath my nose as I sniffle. I take the phone back from him, as if bringing it closer will somehow make Barry feel closer, too. “Like, what now?”

“It means an accomplice of the Locksmith was outside your window.”

It’s a strange mix of dizzying relief and utter fear that Dread wasn’t pulling another cruel prank on me. Part of me almost wished it was, because even with a broken heart, at least I’m alive. But being stalked and harassed by a serial killer and his partner? I can’t confidently say I’ll survive it, and it leaves a cold feeling in my chest.

“We’ve already acquired footage from around campus to see if we can catch the person on any cameras, but no luck so far, which doesn’t surprise me much,” Barry continues, drawing me back to the conversation. “With the paparazzi crawling around everywhere, they had to take extra care.”

That’s disappointing to hear, but it doesn’t surprise me. Nothing is ever easy where Lionel’s concerned.

“Do you understand what we have now?” Barry asks, sounding almost… excited.

Knitting my brows, I sniffle again, my mind far too filled with noise to comprehend what he means.

“Uh…”

“This is confirmation Lionel has his lockbox, Reverie. You’ve been questioning yourself for years if you imagined that thing, and he confirmed that not only is it real, but he possesses something that could prove without a doubt he’s the Locksmith. It could convict him for all his crimes.”

My eyes widen, and my veins fill with an emotion so unfamiliar, it’s almost unnerving. 

Relief.

I was so goddamn overwhelmed by hearing Lionel sent me Georgia’s hair, it didn’t even occur to me that he still has her hair—which means that box was never a figment of my imagination like I feared.

For several moments, all I can do is blink in stunned silence.

“Holy shit,” I whisper once I find my voice, my stare reflexively snapping over to Dread.

He has his elbow propped on the door while he runs his long fingers over his lips contemplatively, sightlessly staring straight ahead out of the windshield. Tension radiates from him in waves, but I can’t decipher what exactly he’s feeling.

“Can you get a search warrant?” I ask Barry, turning my stare ahead and giving Dread the space to process.

This time, it’s very clear what type of sigh Barry gives me. It’s full of frustration.

“Not without probable cause,” he answers, his voice more despondent. 

My relief is short-lived, replaced with foreboding. Lionel’s been calling me home this entire time, and I’ve continued to defy him, but maybe it’s no longer in my best interest. Now that we have confirmation Lionel is still holding on to his lockbox, maybe I should go home so I can find it.

“Rev…” Barry’s voice draws me back to reality. “It’s obvious someone is helping him, and there’s a chance it could be a student.”

I frown. “Well, yeah, Ro⁠—”

“But it’s not Roxi,” he says quickly, causing me to stutter.

“Wh— H-how do you know?”

Another heavy exhale, but this one sounds as if he doesn’t want to tell me something. My heart rate kicks up. 

“Barry?” I push.

“She has an airtight alibi.” The crease between my brows deepens, along with my confusion. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her since you first told me about her, and…” He hesitates. “She was in California, sweetheart. The press has photos of her walking into Lionel’s house only an hour before you called.”

My mouth drops, and while my brain short-circuits, I sputter yet again.

“Wh-what? Then… Who the fuck is helping him?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course, yet it still enrages me that we don’t know.

“None of this makes any fucking sense, Barry. It’s not Lionel, because Officer Hillcrest confirmed him to be home. It’s not Roxi because she’s with Lionel. And it’s not the copycat because he’s in California going on a murder spree?”

My hand flies to my forehead as I shake my head, my frustration mounting until it feels as if I’m on the verge of spontaneously combusting. This is all just so fucking confusing.

“She’s the obvious suspect, but it’s entirely possible she was meant to be a red herring. A way to manipulate you, nothing more. Lionel is smart and could’ve befriended another student to do his dirty work.”

I understand why Barry has to consider all angles and possibilities, but something about Lionel bringing multiple people into his fold just screams the complete opposite of something he’d do. Granted, maybe he’s found a way to manipulate or blackmail them into doing his bidding without revealing who he actually is, but it still seems too risky to me. Working with the copycat, I can understand—the necessity of maintaining his innocent image and needing another to continue the Locksmith murder spree while he’s in prison. But young students who are likely not major criminals and would crack under pressure if caught?

It’s just… implausible.

Then again, who else could it be if not someone else?

An uncomfortable feeling prods at the back of my mind, and it has my heart dropping into a well of anxiety in my gut. The first time I got this feeling when I called Barry to tell him about the box being thrown at the window, I refused to put words to it. Now that it’s returned, I still don’t want to.

All my information has come from one source, yet none of it is adding up…

Don’t go there, Rev.

“Listen, I know how frustrating this is, but I’m going to figure this out, okay? We know Lionel has that damn lockbox somewhere, and that gives me all the hope I need to nail the fucker. But in the meantime, we have every reason to put security on you.” 

Still trying to battle off the sickening feeling in my stomach, it takes a moment to register what he’s saying.

“Wait, no, Barry,” I say, shaking my head. “I-I know it’s stupid, but no security. Please.”

“Rev—”

“Don’t put more blood on my hands.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, shrill with panic. His silence is heavy, and distress eats at my nerves. “If… if something happens to them because they’re watching over me, I couldn’t handle that. Especially if there are two o-or three of them, or however many there are. I just… I just don’t want anyone else standing in their path, okay? And—and I know that sounds insane, but I have Dread and his two friends watching over me. That’s already more people than I want putting themselves at risk, but at least they’re all doing it in hopes they do end up in one of their paths.”

Barry groans.

“Please, Barry? I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.”

“How can you expect me to be okay with a bunch of college kids being the ones to keep you safe?” he argues. “I don’t need to tell you how dangerous Lionel is, so why do I need to explain that three inexperienced guys watching over you is completely idiotic as opposed to a trained professional who can properly protect you?” Immediately, the air in the car plummets. From the corner of my eye, I see the slow turn of Dread’s head toward my direction, and my adrenaline surges.

Barry continues, “And, no, not like that fucking cheese-puff-for-brains Officer Nichols, but someone truly capable.”

When Barry and I finally spoke after the night Dread kidnapped me, I may have accidentally let it slip that Officer Nichols was an idiot who would sooner catch his own tail than an ingenious serial killer.

I’m pretty sure that cop is on desk duty now.

“I understand what you’re saying, I do,” I say. “But I can promise you, Dread is far more motivated to keep me safe than whoever you hire, and no one in this world would be happier to confront Lionel than him. And Rogue and Severen would rather die than let anything happen to me purely because of Dread.”

I can feel his desperation to keep fighting with me, but ultimately, he sighs, and begrudgingly mutters, “Fine.”

I release a relieved exhale. Or, at least, I think it’s relief. I’m having trouble discerning what exactly I feel. Terrified? Anxious? Foreboding? Hopeful? 

Getting confirmation the lockbox is very real and still out there somewhere is massive. For the first time since Lionel went to prison, it feels like there’s actually a shred of hope Barry can properly get justice for all of Lionel’s victims. However, knowing there were two serial killers out there was bad enough. Knowing they’re possibly working with others, too, is… a lot. It’s really just a fucking lot.

“This is a lot.”

Without looking away from the windshield, Dread instantly grabs my wrist. My heart drops, thinking he’s going to take the phone from me to talk to Barry, and I quickly trade it into my right hand. But he proves me wrong when he threads his fingers through mine again and rests our joined hands against my thigh. The sight does something really weird to my insides, and I’m grateful when Barry’s voice draws me back to the conversation and away from the havoc Dread so casually inflicts on my brain.

“I know. I’m sorry, Rev,” Barry says gently. “Aside from your safety being a huge concern, Lionel confirming he still has evidence somewhere is a good thing. I just need to figure out who’s all helping Lionel, and things will unravel from there. Accomplices always talk.”

“I hope so,” I murmur, my thoughts drifting to the limitless possibilities of who could be helping Lionel.

The copycat is either someone Lionel knew before he went to prison or someone he met very soon after, but my gut tells me Lionel would’ve known them before prison for him to trust them so implicitly. Both my parents were only children, and their parents are all dead, so I have no other family to speak of. I’m sure Lionel had work friends, but no one significant enough to bring them around his wife and kid. I don’t have any memories of either of my parents having close friends like that. Lionel obviously had a life outside of home that I wasn’t aware of, but my mom… her entire world revolved around him. When he wasn’t home, she was waiting for him to come home.

“Until then, keep this under wraps. We don’t want the public to know the Locksmith has potential accomplices lingering in Colorado. We don’t want to cause any hysteria.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I need to get back, but I love you, honey,” he says softly. Before I can respond, his voice hardens as he threatens, “Kellan, I expect you to protect her. If you don’t, I promise I will find a reason to put you behind bars.”

My cheeks burn, and I’m not sure how I feel about a father figure threatening Dread like he’s my boyfriend.

Never mind that the world thinks he is. It’s still odd.

“If anything happened to her, I’d let you do a lot worse to me,” Dread responds, his tone mild while he continues to stare straight ahead.

Aside from the blip of him being offended by Barry’s comment about not being able to protect me, I still haven’t gotten a read on what he’s thinking or feeling.

“Okay, back to work. I love you, too, Barry,” I say quickly.

I hang up before he can respond to either of us. I don’t know why, but Barry and Dread speaking to one another about keeping me safe feels too weird right now, especially when I haven’t processed that Dread even likes me yet, let alone loves me.

“If the only way to love you is to drown, then I won’t hold my breath, Reverie. I’ll inhale you and keep you safe inside me.”

The reminder of those words has my stomach flipping wildly. It’s not a bad feeling, but it’s extremely overwhelming and intense and oh God—I’m already descending into a panic attack.

Clearing my throat, I pull out my hand from his for a second time and promptly ignore his burning stare as it sears through the side of my head. I’m trying to calm my heart rate down, but that’s really fucking hard to do when the dickhead is just staring at me. 

His empty hand slumps on my thigh, so I give it an awkward little pat. “Thanks for your service.”

And then, I turn toward the window, because I’m really fucking embarrassed now, and I hate myself and my life. 

He chuckles but removes it from my lap so he can start the car. The tension is thick as he pulls out of the overgrown driveway.

We have forty-five minutes of this, and I don’t think I’m going to survive. 

I mean, the man told me he loved me, for fuck’s sake. In front of his mother. And I came really close to saying it back, because I’m weak, and he’s stupidly fucking gorgeous and so good in bed, I’m genuinely worried for my heart and blood pressure health. But also because I do share those feelings, except I can’t say I’ve forgiven all he’s done to me, so I refuse to let myself fully acknowledge them. I’m aware of them floating in the recesses of my heart, but that’s as much attention as they get.

He hasn’t apologized for what he’s put me through, and, frankly, it hasn’t been that long since he pulled his bullshit on me, so until amnesia becomes a symptom of loving someone, I can’t just… forget it all. I can’t act like it never happened and move on to professing our love while having really hot sex. 

You are having really hot sex with him, you dumb whore.

But that doesn’t mean I need to partake in the former as well.

My thumb flies to my mouth, and I bite down on it. I really should stop having sex with him, though. It’s not healthy for my mental well-being, and if it wasn’t already putting me at risk for internal bleeding, it definitely is for a stroke or heart attack, so my survival instincts are ordering me to put the dick down and walk away slowly.

“So where’s my apology?”

His deep voice scares the shit out of me, sending my said at-risk heart flying into my throat. I startle, hand clapping over my chest as I stare at him with wide eyes. But then, his words sink in, and I’m immediately irritated. 

In a matter of seconds, my blood pressure rises, only affirming that if his dick doesn’t kill me first, his stupid mouth will. 

My brows knit, and I give him a dirty look. “Pardon?”

Amusement colors his pale eyes as he glances at me, one side of his mouth curling until a dimple threatens to poke through at the top of his cheek. 

“You accused me of being behind the black box. I wasn’t. So say sorry.” His smile widens, prompting him to bite his bottom lip.

My lips part, and for several moments, I can only stare blankly.

He’s joking.

He has to be.

Yet, he continues to wait, though his mirth grows with each passing second.

“Global warming could unleash upon hell and lead to the Ice Age taking over before eventually blooming into a jungle where dino-demons roam, and I still wouldn’t apologize to you,” I say slowly. “Not after everything you’ve done to me. Which you never apologized for. So where’s mine?”

Grinning, he peers over at me over his right arm, his wrist hanging casually over the steering wheel as he drives, black strands falling over glimmering eyes, the sunlight catching the silver hoop in his ear. He props his left elbow against his door, though his fingers have dropped to his chin. 

Truly, it’s devastating how beautiful he is. 

“I have a lot of different ways of apologizing in mind, darling,” he drawls wickedly, seduction dripping from his words. “I intend to give you far more than your sweet little body can take.”

I narrow my eyes despite how I instantly feel that promise between my legs. Heat forms in the pit of my stomach, warming my insides until I burn with desire. There’s no point in going to hell when it feels like, with just two simple sentences, he brought hell to me.

“How about you use your words instead?” I say, attempting to ignore how easily my body responds to him. “Ya know, like a big boy.”

His answering chuckle is dark and sends a shiver rolling down my spine.

The second his fiery stare clashes with mine, I swear, I see a spark ignite in the air from the corner of my eye. It feels like I’m inhaling water and exhaling electricity—a dangerous combination bound to kill us both.

“Don’t I always use my words, baby? Because if you want to talk about which of us has trouble using their words, I think earlier is a great place to start.”

My cheeks burn, and my stomach flutters wildly. He’s referring to telling me he loves me and me not saying it back. He didn’t give me much of a chance at first, but maybe because I still haven’t, it’s getting to him now.

Meaning: it’s a trap.

“You’re deflecting,” I say dryly.

“I’m utilizing my time management skills,” he argues. “Apologizing for all my wrongdoings is going to take a lot longer than you speaking three words.”

I scoff. “Then you better get started.”

He arches his brow, continuously glancing between me and the road. “Okay. Spread those pretty thighs for me, and I’ll start with funding your entire scholarship so you could attend your dream school.”

My mouth drops, and I’m stunned silent while I try to wrap my brain around the words. Then, adrenaline surges in my veins as I process what the fuck he just said. 

The asshole better be lying.

As if reading my mind, he smirks. “Your grades were good, baby, but HCU was only going to cover some of your tuition.”

“You… Why the fuck would you do that?” I snap, my entire face catching fire.

I can’t discern if it’s because I’m mortified or pissed, but it’s fucking something, and it’s making me want to punch him in the goddamn nose. This whole time, I believed I earned that scholarship, only for it to be yet another manipulative tactic by Dread.

I should’ve fucking known. Even Barry was surprised when we found out I got a full ride. I expected to receive grants and scholarships to cover a portion of it, but certainly not all of it. My grades were really good, but I wasn’t even valedictorian, and HCU is a damn good school.

He shrugs a shoulder, his form completely relaxed. “When it came to you, I did a lot of things I didn’t understand. I told myself it was so you wouldn’t overwork yourself trying to pay for it, and I’d have more time to torture you.”

I sputter, swinging my eyes straight ahead as I try to process, my mouth hanging open.

“You got that one for free, but you’ll need to spread your legs for another.”

“Dread,” I growl with annoyance, swinging a glare back toward him. “This isn’t funny. I thought I earned that!”

“You did,” he says simply. “It was just through my wrath.”

“You…” I struggle for the words to convey just how badly he pisses me off. “You are so fucking infuriating, you know that? Like, I swear to God, Dread, you’re lucky I’m not crazy enough to grab the damn wheel and crash this car and take us both out.” 

He chuckles devilishly, those dimples denting the tops of his cheeks, and when his eyes slide to mine, they’re glittering with mirth. 

Because of course he finds this funny.

“Baby, you’d have to try a lot harder than that to crash us. I fear it’d be far too easy to keep your hands off the wheel. Both of them fit in one of mine just fine.”

I narrow my eyes, my frustration climbing into dangerous territory, the kind where I make really bad decisions just to prove him wrong.

He’s just so fucking arrogant, and I’m nearly vibrating with the need to make him eat his words.

I’m definitely humiliated I didn’t earn the scholarship myself, but I can’t deny the little seed of warmth sprouting deep in my stomach. If I’m being perfectly honest, I wouldn’t have been able to afford this school otherwise, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, nor does it piss me off any less that my bully is the reason I got to attend my dream school.

I arch my brow. “You think I need my hands to make you crash?”

There it is again, that cocky little smirk.

“You gonna show me your pretty tits? I won’t say no if you think it’ll work.”

Glowering at him, I unbuckle my seat belt, and his stare stutters when he glances at the road. The passenger seat belt alarm beeps, and a slight crease forms between his brows. 

He’s confused.

He won’t be for long.

I shrug off my coat, leaving me in a tight, black My Chemical Romance T-shirt, and then I toe off my Docs, unclasp my jeans, and slide them down my legs, kicking off my socks with them and leaving me in a black lace thong. The end of my shirt stops just below my belly button while my panties cut low, revealing a substantial amount of skin.

The amusement dissipates, and heady tension fills the car as he watches me with a carefully controlled expression. His glances at me grow longer, and each time he flicks his eyes toward the road, he has to drag them away.

His burning gaze darts down my form, his face carefully smoothed into a blank slate as I maneuver onto my knees and twist to face him fully.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice deepened and rough, though lacking emotion. 

But I know better. 

He’s working hard to appear impassive, but his cock is already stiff in his jeans, the outline prominent. That’s the problem with having a big dick—it’s really hard to hide it when he’s turned on.

I lean over the middle console, resting my weight on both palms, clenching his thick thigh while I tease the outer ridge of his ear with my lips. His muscles tense to solid stone, and I hear rather than see the leather steering wheel squeak beneath his tightening grip.

“You can’t fool me, Kellan,” I whisper seductively. “We both know you can’t handle driving and playing with my pussy the way I’d need you to.”

I take great joy in seeing his jaw clench, the muscle straining against his skin. I lower my lips to press a soft kiss right over it, evoking a low growl deep in his chest.

“I think you underestimate how good I am at driving with one hand, darling,” he responds, his voice tight.

I hum contemplatively and glance down at his hard length straining beneath his dark blue jeans. I drag his hoodie up his stomach, exposing the thin, dark happy trail leading down from his belly button while ensuring to brush my fingers over his bare skin, making his abdomen ripple beneath my touch. His stare quickly flicks down when I unclasp the button and drag down the zipper, both the material and his lips parting for me.

“I think you’ll need both hands,” I retort quietly, reaching into the opening in his boxers and wrapping my fingers around his swollen cock. 

A sharp hiss releases between his teeth as I pull him out, veins protruding beneath his soft skin while a drop of pre-cum slides down the reddened tip. 

I’ve never found male anatomy to be attractive, but Dread’s… God, he’s fucking incredible, and it never fails to both make my mouth water and send a hint of trepidation swirling in my stomach.

“Rev,” he growls, twitching when I pump him gently, with not nearly enough pressure to satisfy him.

“I’m going to bend down and suck your cock, Kellan, and I’m going to play with my pussy while I do. I expect you to keep both hands on the wheel. Got it?”

He inhales through his nose while biting his bottom lip, glaring at the road while he struggles to maintain his concentration.

“I got it, baby,” he rasps after a beat.

I grin, my voice both seductive and devilish as I whisper in his ear, “Good dog.”

He tightens his lips into a firm line, a humming sound vibrating his throat that suggests he’s going to get me back for that later as his left hand joins the other on the wheel, gripping the leather until it creaks.

I’ve already descended, ducking under his arms, enveloping the tip of his cock in my mouth and circling my tongue around it.

“Fuck,” he hisses between his teeth. He readjusts his grip, already struggling to listen to my directions.

He thinks it’s difficult now—not to grab my hair and guide my head up and down like he wants—but soon, he just might need to glue them to the wheel.

He lets out a moan as I slowly work his length deeper, wetting him thoroughly until slobber seeps out the sides of my mouth and trails down to his balls.

When he’s nice and slippery, I swallow him, stuffing as much of his length down my throat as I can.

He moans loudly, the sound raspy and so fucking erotic, I retreat for a quick breath before repeating the action just so I can hear it again.

He doesn’t disappoint, though this time, he whispers, “Fuck.”

My lashes flutter and my clit throbs painfully, as if it’s screaming at me to touch it. I can’t get enough of him, and soon, I’m choking him down over and over.

“Fuck, yeah, Rev,” he growls, rolling his hips up. “You can fit more, keep going—there you go, baby. Ah, fuck yes, that’s it. Fuck, that’s such a good girl.” Steady moans entwine with his breathy encouragements, each sound shooting straight to my core.

He brakes, the car coming to a stuttered halt, though neither of us care when he’s desperately pumping his hips to get himself deeper.

His position doesn’t allow me to take every inch of him, but part of me is grateful for that. He’s too much, and an ache is already forming in my jaw from his girth. Still, I try, sinking lower and lower until I gag, prompting him to growl deep in his chest.

He hits the gas again and turns a corner, though the car wavers.

I slip my hand down to my panties and shift the drenched material to the side, slowly sliding my fingers up and down my slit, moaning around him as I do.

Dread tenses beneath me, his thighs tightening and the breath in his body suspending. If he didn’t see me reach between my legs, the vulgar wet noises emitting from my pussy would certainly give me away. Truthfully, even with my mouth full, it’s hard not to laugh.

Until he whimpers, the sound so goddamn sexy, my inner walls contract, needing to be filled.

“Fuck, Rev, let me take care of that for you,” he groans.

I ignore him for now, hollowing my cheeks and sucking him harder while circling my middle finger over my clit.

My eyes flutter, and my thighs tense with pleasure, a whimper of my own greeting the tip of his cock as it slides down my throat again.

“Fuck, yes, tha— Baby!” His voice goes from breathless to a rough growl in a matter of milliseconds. “Lower your hips from the window right fucking now, or I will crash this goddamn car directly into the asshole lucky enough to see your pussy.”

I retreat instantly and tilt my head to the side, unable to contain my laughter this time. Dread’s windows are tinted to the legal maximum amount in Colorado, but if a car stops right beside us at a stoplight, they’ll have little trouble seeing everything. I lower my hips out of view—mainly because I don’t want anyone seeing me like that, either, but also because I have no intention of stopping, car crash or not.

His answering hum is contemplative and sinister. “You think it’s funny? You better keep that energy when you’re riding the dildo while I fuck your ass,” he threatens, an edge of darkness to his tone while I wrap my mouth around him again. “Let’s see if you’ll still be laughing when my cock is stuffing both of your little holes.”

My stomach flips with a healthy amount of trepidation, but my clit pulsates from the thought, prompting me to rub it harder. It only makes me more aware of how painfully empty I am.

I moan around him as I quickly swallow his length, only to hollow my cheeks and firmly hold my tongue against him as I slowly drag my head up.

The leather steering wheel squeals in his grip again, and he lets out a shuddering breath as he hits the brakes to make another turn, though it’s not nearly as smooth as it usually is.

“Rev, let me touch you,” he growls, his tone guttural with desire. 

I want him to so badly, but I shake my head, denying us both just a little longer. The moment I let him off his leash, I’m going to struggle to focus even more than I already am.

My brow furrows as I circle my clit more firmly while bobbing my head up and down, twisting it back and forth as I do. My throat vibrates from the bliss radiating between my legs as I rub myself faster. With little effort, I bring myself to the edge, my arousal soaking my fingers and trailing down the back of my hand. Sucking his dick shouldn’t turn me on this much—it’s never been the case with any other man—yet I’m dripping wet and trembling from the need to come.

Normally, I’d edge myself and wait for him, but I know allowing myself to come will drive him more insane, so I let go, careening right over the edge. 

My eyes roll, and I let out a sharp squeal around his length, euphoria exploding from my pussy. My hips involuntarily hump the air as it rolls through me while he lets out a string of curses and practically whips the car as he turns, the tires squealing. It sounds like we’re driving on a gravel road, the crunch loud beneath the tires as the car lightly jostles us, but I’m too busy drooling and gasping around his dick to care.

I’m just coming down from the orgasm when he stops the car and reaches around my body to slam the gear shift into park.

“You’re done,” he snarls, grabbing a fistful of my hair and wrenching me back. 

I let out a distressed whine, but he’s already kicking open his door and sliding out. Dazed and confused, I manage one, tear-filled blink before he’s ripping open the passenger side door and grabbing my hips. He roughly jerks me toward him, wrenching a surprised yelp from my throat as he drags me back until my knees hit the edge of the seat, my bare ass nearly hanging out of the side of the car.

“Dread, wait!” I gasp, frantically glancing around to see where the fuck we even are. 

It’s a small parking lot surrounded entirely by deep woods with a few other cars littered around. I’m confused until I catch sight of a sign that reads Hollow Hiking Trails. 

Jesus fucking Christ, he took us to a public park.

Luckily, he at least tucked us into the back corner. The entrance to the trail is directly facing the driver’s side door, giving me a perfect view of it through his window, while the entrance to the lot faces the front of the car, allowing me another clear view through the windshield. No one is at our back, but it’s still way too out in the open.

“Someone could see us!” I say breathlessly, attempting to crawl forward so I can sit my ass down.

He holds tight to my hips, preventing me from moving an inch. 

“Then you better stay quiet,” he bites out, not sounding the least bit concerned.

He glides the blunt tip of his dick along my seam, a silent warning. Meanwhile, I open my mouth to argue again, but he’s already pushing inside me, impatience embedded in every pump of his hips. A sharp inhale tramples over whatever words were on my tongue, and my jaw practically unhinges from the burn as he stretches me.

“Oooh, f-fuck,” I stutter through a moan.

I hold on to the middle console with one hand while the other tightly clutches the seat, the leather creaking beneath my nails digging into it.

“Kellan,” I warn tightly, my voice wobbling. I frantically swing my gaze between the two windows to confirm no one is there. “We can’t do this here.”

He ignores me. A low, guttural groan emits from the base of his throat while he fits into me in rough little thrusts. Just as I release another moan, he withdraws to the tip, only to slam the rest of the way inside me. I jerk forward, forced to grab the shoulder of his seat to catch myself while the tail end of my moan turns into a high-pitched squeal.

Holy fuck, I do not possess even half as much vagina required to comfortably fit his length inside me. Yet, he demands it of me anyway, slowly drawing out before slamming into me again, wrenching another cry from my throat.

All my brain power concentrates on pulling in air. I’m so goddamn full, and he’s taking up vital space for my lungs to properly inflate.

“That wasn’t very quiet, darling,” he purrs mockingly. 

“Fuck you,” I gasp out, aiming a glare over my shoulder. Not that he can see my face very well anyway, with his head towering far over the top of the car.

His response is to suck on his thumb before pressing it against my asshole and pushing it inside me. My mouth drops wider, but he gives me no time to process the feeling before his cock retreats and slams into me again with a sexy groan.

However, the only sound I’m capable of is a gurgled mewl as pleasure zips up my spine. Instinctively, I arch my back, and it’s the final nail in the coffin. He offers no warning, no ‘hold on tight,’ before he truly begins to fuck me.

I choke on a scream as he pounds into me, his staccato moans barely rising above our skin loudly clapping. All sound suspends in my throat as euphoria washes over the entirety of my body. It feels fucking incredible, especially when he applies pressure against the thin barrier between his thumb and cock.

“Kellan! Oh my God,” I whimper, digging my nails harder into the seats, desperately trying to keep my voice low. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, fuck!”

“What’s wrong, baby?” he grinds out. “You think you can look so pretty sucking on my cock while refusing to let me touch you, then come all over your fingers and think I won’t remind you who owns this pussy?”

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a, “Nnng.”

“Let me hear your words, Rev,” he snarls. “’Cause I don’t care who sees me fucking this greedy little cunt. It’s mine to eat and fuck whenever I want. This is my pussy, you hear me?”

My brain latches on to him saying he doesn’t care who sees, and I make the mistake of gasping out, “No!” only to realize he asked a question after it’s out of my mouth. He’s fucking me too hard for me to catch up and correct myself in time.

“No? Do I need to drag your ass out of this car and let anyone who passes by watch? I’ll pin you on the goddamn hood and fuck your ass, Reverie, and I’ll let them watch every goddamn second of it. Don’t fucking test me.”

The threat sends a healthy dose of panic through me, yet a sick thrill flutters in my stomach when the image he paints shoves its way to the forefront of my brain. In the safety of my mind, imagining him throwing me onto his hood, pinning my knees to my ears, and taking my ass while strangers watch… My inner walls contract, and my stomach flips again from how much it excites me. 

“It’s yours, it’s yours,” I say quickly, the words breathless and jumbled. “It’s your pussy, Kellan. Yours to eat and fuck whenever you please.”

He moans loudly in response, and though there’s a small voice somewhere in the back of my brain, panicking about someone hearing, not a single cell in my body is inclined to stop.

Little cries leak from my throat as he fucks me ruthlessly, and all I can do is hold on and try not to scream. It’s too much and just right all at once. The spot he’s hitting has entire galaxies floating in my vision, yet I can’t fucking breathe from how deep inside me he is. 

“Where the fuck you goin’, baby?” he growls, lifting my hips and roughly dragging my knees back to the edge of the seat. 

I hadn’t even realized I was slowly inching forward, like my body was subconsciously searching for a reprieve.

His voice drops into a dark, condescending rasp. “Tryin’ to run from me?”

“Uh-uh,” I gasp, shaking my head.

My tongue feels far too heavy to form a single coherent word. Instead, small, sharp cries break free, shapeless sounds that waver in frequency and pitch yet communicate how I’m feeling all the same.

However, he drags me back again with a snarl, his words graveled as he questions me. “Then why the fuck do you keep running, huh? You tellin’ me this sweet little cunt can’t handle my fat cock? That it, baby?” 

Even if I could answer, he doesn’t give me the chance. His palm cracks over the apple of my ass cheek, and starbursts explode over my vision. The sound I make is somewhere between a breathless, maniacal laugh and an eager moan, and the pleasure is so goddamn intense, a shiver racks my entire body. 

He does it again, and my stomach tightens as I skyrocket to the edge of the Earth. I’m overlooking the precipice and seeing nothing but an endless abyss below. Once I fall, I’ll never find my way back again.

I’m rendered silent once more. I bow my head as my brows climb my forehead, my jaw unhinges, and my eyes roll. I know I’m making an ugly face, but I’m far more concerned about if we’ll find the bottom half of it once this is over. Drool spills from my mouth, but I hardly notice, even as it pools on the console. 

And then, he pulls his thumb out from the tight ring of muscle, only to replace it with his middle finger, sinking it deep inside me and pressing against his cock. 

I have no choice but to lose my fucking mind and dive right over the edge. 

I have enough self-preservation to rest my forearm over the console, bending to bite it as I explode. 

A phantom hand reaches inside my body, tears out my soul from its vessel, and rips it in two before releasing them. My vision expands until I’m looking down on the two of us, my consciousness floating in the breeze while my soul time travels, leaps across quantum planes, and dances between realities. Two parts of myself separated yet experiencing everything as one. 

I’m everywhere and nowhere, slowly and all at once. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Rev!” The words spill from Dread’s mouth, slamming into me one last time before erupting, his hand on my hip squeezing tight enough to bruise while he pumps me full of cum.

I’m aware of it, and I feel it. I even hear his hoarse moans as he struggles to keep his knees from collapsing. Yet, it’s all a distant echo amongst the utter euphoria filling every crack and crevice my soul once inhabited. 

Then, as sudden as the snap of a god’s fingers, I’m pulled back into my body with a staggering force, like the release of a rubber band stretched to twice its size.

It’s devastating as all the sensations flood my system—the ecstasy, my entire body violently trembling, the dull pain from biting into my arm, Dread’s bruising hold on my hip, and the burning across my backside. At some point, he must’ve removed his finger, and part of me is glad to not have the added feeling.

Because this is all… too much.

A sob bursts from my throat, and my face instantly twists as tears rush to my eyes. I’m so fucking overwhelmed by it all, yet I’d sacrifice my soul to feel this for the rest of my life.

It’s instinctive to swallow down the tears, even as a storm ravages my insides until it’s nothing more than a barren wasteland.

Gradually, the orgasm fades, though aftershocks torment me, making it nearly impossible not to twitch and jerk while groans pour out of me.

Dread grunts breathlessly as he pulls out, unleashing a waterfall of cum down the backs of my quivering thighs.

“Stay just like that, baby,” he orders breathlessly. I don’t even need to turn and look to know he’s sliding out his phone to snap a picture.

The fucker is absolutely obsessed with taking pictures. Except now, he uploads everything to our secret drive so I can see, too. He even added the ones he took before he created it, including the picture from the blow job I gave him before my father called, along with the one he took the night he left me out in a goddamn blizzard to—almost—die. Admittedly, I’ve only been brave enough to look at them one time while he wasn’t around, and my stomach bottomed out before I promptly closed it again, conflicted and thoroughly turned on.

My chest heaves and my legs quake violently. It feels like I have noodles for lungs, preventing me from inhaling properly. It’s making me dizzy as hell, so I weakly slump forward and sloppily drop my hips to the seat again, though I attempt to keep the worst of the wetness off from it.

Sweaty, shaking, and a little stunned, I cast a tired stare at Dread, who’s already fastened himself back up and appears to be slumped against the car to catch his breath. He’s trembling, too, but he doesn’t appear even a fraction as winded as I am, and, well… that’s just fucking great.

So happy for him.

After several long moments, he pushes away from the vehicle, grabs the back of his hoodie, and pulls it over his head, taking his T-shirt with it and baring his torso.

It’s March now, and while it’s not freezing cold like it was a couple of weeks ago, it’s still chilly. However, he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by it.

My lips part, and I’m unable to stop myself from raking my stare over his physique. Broad shoulders, thick pecs, a lean waist, perfectly sculpted abs, not to mention the intricate artwork thoughtfully placed all over his body. It’s obvious he took great care selecting the tattoos and placements, creating a masterpiece on top of another stupid fucking masterpiece.

God, I really wish the man was ugly. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if only one aspect of him was breathtaking to look at. Add in a perfect face, gorgeous eyes, his stupid pierced nose and ears, and those godforsaken eye wrinkles and dimples when he smiles, and I’m on the verge of needing a fucking ambulance.

It’s almost startling when he drops to a crouch and uses his heather gray T-shirt to clean my thighs and between my legs. Black strands fall over his forehead, concealing the emotions on his face. Meanwhile, I resume cursing him for having the absolute nerve to also possess thick, silky hair.

He should at least have a flat ass.

No one should look that perfect.

But no. He has a perfectly round, muscled bubble butt, and it’s honestly bullshit.

When Dread finishes wiping me down, he throws the balled-up shirt in the back seat, quickly pulls his hoodie back on, then settles a carefully blank stare on me, elbows propped on his knees.

Silence ticks by for several moments, and it becomes way too much to bear.

“You cheated,” I state tonelessly, though my voice is hoarse.

He smirks, amusement warming his features, and my heart stutters.

“You said to keep my hands on the wheel while you sucked my cock. I listened.”

Oh my God, why does he always have to argue?

“You took them off,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Only when I made you stop. I decided I wanted your pussy to suck it instead.” 

My hands fly out as I exclaim, “That’s cheating!”

He laughs, and my expression slackens as my chest fills with awe, like I’m actively watching Jesus descend to Earth to bless all the lowly humans with his presence. The deep wrinkles curving down from his dancing eyes, the distinct dimples on his upper cheeks, his straight white teeth, and the sound emitting from his throat…

Oh my fuck, I’m so in love with him.

I knew Dread was capable of almost anything, but not this. Never did I think he could make me fall for him this fucking hard.

I don’t know what he sees on my face—probably a shit ton of panic—but his laughter fades, though the warmth in his gaze remains. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says quietly, his stare tracing over my every feature affectionately.

“How am I looking at you?” I ask, sounding as distracted as I am. Except as soon as the question is out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. I don’t actually want to know the answer.

His eyes flick down to my lips before sliding back up again, adoration and something far more wicked gleaming in his predatory gaze. “Like you’re in love with me.”

My stomach flips.

I knew I didn’t want to know.

Heart pounding, I chew on how to respond for a beat, not nearly ready to admit to it outright but also incapable of denying it completely. He would know it’s not the truth, anyway. As he’s already made clear, I’m a terrible liar.

“I don’t know how else to look at you,” I whisper.

A wide smile cracks his face in half, once again blinding me with a tragically beautiful sight.

“And I’ll make sure you never learn, darling.”

CHAPTER 33

REVERIE

Dreadful Sharpe told me he’s in love with me. 

And now, he’s pissed. Again.

He made a point to state he’s not mad at me, just the situation. Yet, he’s seething like I’m the culprit, and I’m sitting here wondering what the hell he expects me to do about it.

It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve only been awake for approximately two hours. I spent one of those hours on all fours getting absolutely railed, and I refuse to be ashamed of how many times I tried to run. Alas, I kept getting dragged back to hell by the demon intent on turning me into a spit roast with his dick.

Turns out, he was taking out all his anger on my vagina, and I’m pretty sure I’m missing a goddamn vertebra or three.

Now, he fumes at me from across the room, standing with his arms crossed and jaw set. His carry-on suitcase is next to him, and I’m pretty sure if he had an ounce less of maturity, he’d kick it just to make a point.

Meanwhile, I sit on the edge of his bed so I’m facing him, mildly annoyed. The only reason I’m not more frustrated is the damn backward hat on his head. I’m convinced he knows how much of my weakness it is.

He and Rogue have to fly out to Florida today for the D1 National Championship for their college swim team, meaning he’ll be gone for the next three days, and he’s having a total meltdown over it. Technically, he’s been having a meltdown since he came home from practice yesterday, having been reminded of it. We got back from the cottage two days ago, and I guess, with everything going on and him perpetually sticking his dick inside me, he’d gotten the dates mixed up in his head and thought he wasn’t flying out for another week.

“Come with me.”

I roll my eyes. It’s probably the twenty-seventh time he’s said that since yesterday. I’m fully prepared to summon Satan himself to come get a handle on his minion and tell Dread to leave me the hell alone.

I’m so. Fucking. Sore.

“We’ve had this conversation so many times in so many different ways, I could write a play about it,” I complain. “I told you, I can’t. Midterms are this week. And no, you can’t go hunt down my professors and demand they let me test early just because you want me to come. They probably wouldn’t even allow it if you tried.”

He narrows his eyes. “It’s not just because I want you to, Reverie. You have a serial killer or five stalking you, depending on how many fucking people Lionel has convinced to help him. I’m two seconds from demanding Barry put you in fucking witness protection.”

I tip my head back and groan loudly.

“Only if they hide me from you, too.”

The second I drop my chin, my stomach drops, too, and I immediately realize my grave error. He stares at me with his brows raised while the muscle in his jaw pulsates.

“Say that one more time,” he challenges, his voice deepening. Every hair on my body stands on end.

Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.

I force out an awkward laugh. “Just kiddin’.”

He doesn’t laugh. My lips press into a thin line, and I turn my attention to the side to admire the window. The sunlight shining through the blinds looks super pretty. It’s even creating sparkles and shit on the surface of his desk nearby.

Absolutely stunning.

“Rev.”

“Hmm?” I return my focus to him with a tight-lipped smile, trying my best to appear innocent. 

My palms are sweating.

He uncrosses an arm to point to the floor between us.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there doesn’t appear to be a single obstacle in the five feet between us that would prevent me from bending you over my knee and spanking your ass raw.”

I grimace then clear my throat before nervously responding, “It would, uh, appear you are not wrong.”

The tense silence continues for several more beats, and just when I’m prepared to throw something at him and bolt, he shakes his head and scoffs. “You’re really fucking lucky I respect you now.”

I slump and expel a sigh of relief. “Great, because I’m pretty sure my vagina has its own heartbeat.”

His lips twitch. “You walked out of the bathroom hobbling, and that’s the only reason you can still sit.”

Arching a brow, I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “I can barely do that now.”

I narrow my eyes. The dickhead looks far too pleased by that response, and I decide I hate him again. 

His lips twitch as he approaches, closing the distance between us before crouching and pressing his chest into my knees. His massive hands grab my calves, and I barely suppress a shudder from the feel of his skin against mine. 

I’m only wearing a pair of underwear and one of his T-shirts, which I’m swimming in, reaching mid-thigh. He almost tore it right back off again when he first saw it on me, but he refrained as soon as he clocked my agonized expression with every step I took.

He peers up at me, and my heart skips a beat as I take in the dark blue rings around the outer edge of his irises. A divot forms between his brows, and the corners of his mouth curve down. His concern is palpable, and I can’t help but melt.

I lift my fingers to his face and run my thumb over his upper cheek, right where his dimple hides. He leans into my touch, and his lashes flutter, as if the simplest brush of my thumb is orgasmic.

I’m not used to… this.

I’ve gotten somewhat used to the sex part. It’s easier to accept when I can justify it as basic carnal instinct between two individuals with really fucked-up chemistry. 

But the softness? The feelings? Love?

That’s where I struggle. It feels so alien to touch him like this, to see him gaze at me with care and warmth.

It used to feel so cold when he’d turn his eyes my way. Now, I finally understand why he’s like the sun, because now, I’m only cold when he looks away.

A part of me still resents that, though, which is why I can’t find the voice to say how I feel. He’s said nothing about it since after the cottage, but I have a feeling it’s only bothering him because he knows I love him yet refuse to say it.

But how can I tell him I love him when a little part of me still hates him? Or maybe I just hate what he’s done to me—and that I don’t hate him despite it.

“Severen is going to be here the whole time,” I say quietly. “Our schedules work out pretty well, since most of his midterms are online.”

“It’s not enough,” he argues. “I trust Severen with my life, and I trust him with yours, but he’s only one man, and we don’t know how many people Lionel has helping him. We still don’t know who threw the box at the window, and it’s really fucking hard to keep you safe when we don’t know who we should keep you safe from. Maybe you should ask Barry to get another agent to watch over you or something. Someone who’s trained and can see⁠—”

“I’ll ask him,” I say quickly. “I get it. Lionel is clearly escalating, and I’ve been thinking about it. He’s said before that he has friends outside of prison, and even though I don’t remember him ever bringing any of them around when I was a kid, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But I’m also wondering if it’s someone he connected with in prison. Maybe someone who got out and benefited from Lionel’s nonprofit or something? I could see why they might feel like they owe it to Lionel. Or who knows, Lionel could’ve found an abundance of ways to gain favors from prisoners over the past decade. If the man is anything, he’s resourceful. So you’re right—we have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

He nods slowly, but his concern has only deepened. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned a possible ex-con stalking me, but it’s exactly why it’s stupid to continue to reject extra help from Barry.

Until the black box, I convinced myself Lionel wouldn’t possibly risk having so many people help him, but clearly, I was being naïve. Despite it still feeling wrong, I can’t claim to know Lionel best. He’s spent over a decade in prison. Who knows the ways he’s changed over the years? It’s obvious I no longer recognize the monster I once knew.

Without thinking, I lean forward and press my mouth against Dread’s, driven purely by the inherent need to ease his worry.

Except, it’s a huge mistake, because as soon as the first spark ignites, it’s impossible to let it die. I grasp either side of his face, moving my lips with his in a slow, sensual dance that leaves us both breathless. 

I’ve trained for this moment, and he was built for it. Neither of us needs to come up for air, content to drown so slowly in one another, we’ll never feel the agony in dying, only the peace in ascending.

His muscles swell with tension, and I can feel him restraining himself. His hands tighten around my calves, as if to both keep him grounded and refrain from moving them elsewhere, to more dangerous places. For once, he allows me to lead, despite his constant need to dominate me. It’s rare for him, and it makes it all the more gratifying when his lips part for me and I lick his tongue.

His immediate whimper tastes divine, making it impossible to resist going back for more. His grip becomes bruising, but I hardly feel it in the wake of inhaling his staggered breath. 

It’s criminal how my body lights up for him, how it gives no fucks how battered I feel after the past thirty-six hours of him fucking me in every position he could think of. Orgasms were becoming painful, and I was getting incredibly lightheaded from trying to temper my screaming so as not to wake the entire building, which included a lot of holding my breath. He even depleted his phone’s battery at one point from the array of pictures and videos he took, and I’m positive some of them would even make the fucking devil blush.

Yet, here I am, still getting wet for him. It’s never enough, and that’s my biggest fear concerning this man. I cannot fathom a life of being folded into a pretzel and not needing realignment surgery. And then what? Needing it again in another decade?

He nips at my bottom lip with a light, sensual moan, as if reading my mind and confirming that’s exactly what will happen, and he will show no mercy nor make any apologies. 

I’m doomed.

Especially because my natural response is to widen my legs to fit his body in between, prompting him to drop his knees to the floor and rise on them so he’s only a few inches below eye level. Then, he runs his palms up to the crease of my knees and drags me closer to the edge of the bed with one, harsh tug.

I’m an idiot for hooking my legs around his hips and even more stupid for pressing my chest against him as I circle my arms around his neck, holding him to me tightly.

As a result, the kiss becomes more urgent, hotter, our tongues tirelessly clashing and our bodies leaving no room for air.

A groan vibrates my tongue as his hands frantically roam across my thighs to my ass, up my back, and down again. They’re relentless in their pursuit to curb a craving that cannot ever be satisfied. There will never be a moment when our touch brings completion—only more need. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he growls into my mouth before diving his tongue beyond my teeth again, tasting an undeniable mirrored answer. 

The absence of sound and physical manifestation does not mean it doesn’t exist, just as we cannot hear or see the smell of roses. But it’s there, as prominently as the oxygen in our lungs and the blood in our veins.

I can’t say the words—not yet—but I can show him by letting him drink my needy whimper before salaciously licking the roof of his mouth in a come-hither motion. I can ensure he feels my body press further into him and my hold tighten, bringing him closer and kissing him deeper. Nothing about my reaction is running away from him, even if my voice is.

One of his hands delves into my hair, which is—was—piled into a bun on the top of my head but is now beginning to fall around my shoulders from his tugging. The other grasps my throat, keeping me firmly held in place so he can ravage my mouth with a ferocity that lights my entire body on fire.

Our tongues clash with greedy whimpers, and I’m fully prepared to say fuck it and tackle him when a loud knock vibrates the door. 

My heart flies up in my throat, and I rear back with a startled scream. My hand slaps over my mouth, eyes wide and heart pounding hard enough to bruise. Dread flinches, but rather than going backward, he surges toward me, getting to his feet and crowding over me, as if to protect me from a bullet.

Half of me absolutely hates him having that reaction—because we’re not simply two incredibly horny but normal college students interrupted from having sex. Rather, we’re two deeply traumatized people who constantly feel like we’re under attack. But that’s why the other half of me instantly wants to say those three words right here and now.

This man has tortured me for so many years, yet his gut instinct is to dive over me and put his life at risk without a second thought. Despite all he’s done, that reaction was Dread’s feelings stripped to their roots, and it was purely an act of love.

How could I not love him for that? 

His door cracks open, and Rogue’s grinning face appears, like a demon emerging from the depths of a pitch-black closet.

I exhale heavily and quickly straighten my T-shirt so it’s covering me properly, trying to decide if I’m more relieved or frustrated. Dread, however, is clearly the latter. He straightens with an annoyed growl, and I’m positive he’s giving his best friend a death glare right now.

“You guys were just making out, weren’t you?” Rogue asks, pushing the rest of the way into the room. 

Severen’s right behind him, and the second he clocks my and Dread’s expressions, he snorts. “You’re being generous, dude. It looks like Rev just got lip injections.”

All three of them turn to look at me, and I bristle beneath their scrutiny.

“How do you know I didn’t?” I snap, tempted to cover my mouth again. It’d only make me look guilty, though, and I refuse to give any of them the satisfaction.

I cross my arms defiantly, but also because I feel a little exposed wearing no pants or bra. I spare a glance at Dread, but it’s another mistake, because he’s biting his bottom lip and staring at me with utter pride over my swollen lips, like he’s eager to do it again.

“Are they also responsible for the state of your hair?” Severen asks dryly. 

Shit.

I’d forgotten Dread was pulling it, and I don’t need a mirror to know I look fucking insane right now.

My cheeks burn, but I lift my chin, refusing to give them a reaction. “I woke up like this.”

A wolfish grin splits Rogue’s face in half, and he pointedly glances at the mattress while nodding toward it.

He might as well have told me the demon from The Grudge is sitting right behind me. My heart drops, and I slowly twist at the waist until my rounded stare lands on the massive damp spot on the sheet. Most of it hasn’t dried fully, so the pattern makes it very clear it wasn’t just a spill of water, but more like something… splashed it. If I’m being honest with myself, it looks like a fucking dolphin used its flipper to smack the water repeatedly, and this is the result.

Mortification floods my veins, and my entire face feels like it’s on fire. It takes monumental effort not to stand and throw myself out of the window. 

Yet, I redirect every ounce of stubbornness from my soul into my bones to keep my spine straight and chin hiked. 

I face forward again, deliberately ignoring Dread’s stare, and sniff indignantly.

“Dread pees the bed at night. Super embarrassing for him.” 

Rogue barks out a laugh, and Severen snorts. I risk a glance at Dread to find him shaking his head at me, though one side of his mouth is curled into a grin.

We all fucking know the truth, but if I have to choose between admitting to it or throwing Dread under the bus, I’ll put the bus in reverse and roll over him a second time, just for good measure.

“Well, on that note, you two need to get to the airport,” Severen says, grabbing the back of Rogue’s shirt and pulling him back out of the room.

I tighten my arms around myself, refusing to be sorry, even as Dread steps back in front of me and sweeps his palm along my jaw and into my hair before forcing my chin up.

Amusement swirls in his gaze, but he says nothing. Instead, he bends and presses a soft yet equally erotic kiss against my lips. He’s slow to pull away, but it’s still over all too soon. 

He pauses a hairsbreadth away, darkly whispering, “I love you, Reverie Adams. Be a good girl for me while I’m gone, yeah?” 

His stare is reverent as he swipes the pad of his thumb down my bottom lip, his gaze lingering there.

If I had the ability to breathe, I still couldn’t. He’s sucked all the oxygen out of the room, leaving me to choke on the carbon monoxide.

He bites his bottom lip and hums, a deep rumble low in his throat, as if he’s pleased with what he’s seeing. Then, he lifts his eyes back up to mine. He keeps them locked, and my heart thuds heavily. I’m speechless and overflowing with butterflies as he retreats, grabs the handle of his suitcase, and drags it with him as he walks out of the room, softly shutting the door behind him, all before I relearn how to inhale.

Fucking… hell.

I really hate that I don’t hate him.

The last thing I’m expecting is Octavia sitting down across from me, a strange look in her blue eyes. I jump from the suddenness of her presence, my rounded eyes snapping up to her, heart racing and mouth parted in shock.

I’ve been sitting in the cafeteria, picking at my eggplant Parmesan pasta and scrolling mindlessly through my phone. Severen is finishing up his midterm, so I was instructed to wait here until he’s done.

“Uh… hi,” I say slowly, blinking at her.

I haven’t really seen her since I broke them up. We don’t have the same classes, and considering I have no friends on campus, we definitely don’t share those. So the few times I’ve seen her in passing, they always preoccupied her attention.

Truthfully, I’m unsure how I’m supposed to feel about Octavia. It’s great that she clearly doesn’t support bullying, but I know almost nothing about her except that she won’t take Severen back. 

Which I do feel a little bad about, now that Severen and I are kind of friends.

“Hi,” she says with a sigh, her eyes repeatedly bouncing over my shoulder. 

I resist the urge to turn and check over it, but I’m guessing she’s just watching out for Severen, since the doors are behind me. 

She clears her throat and shifts awkwardly. “Sorry for the, uh—” She waves her hand around airily. “—rude intrusion. I saw you and noticed it was a rare moment you didn’t have a man breathing down your neck, especially the redheaded one, so I thought I’d seize the moment.” 

I offer a tight-lipped smile. There’s definitely an undercover agent sitting nearby, watching my every micromovement. If I fart, he’d know, which is quite daunting. But I can’t tell her any of that, so I don’t correct her. 

He arrived earlier this morning. As soon as Dread and Rogue left yesterday, I called Barry to ask if he could spare a highly trained killer or two.

So, he sent Creed, who’s currently dressed in blue jeans and a Nike sweatshirt, posing as a grad student.

Well, kind of.

It’s not the hidden gun he has strapped to him somewhere that alerts people, but his rather intense, intimidating energy. He’s honestly pretty hot, too, so I think most people can sense he’s dangerous, even if they don’t necessarily understand why.

I also get the feeling he’s not an FBI agent, so I’m not sure what corner of the world Barry found him in, but I would bet my left nipple he doesn’t always operate legally.

But at least he’s hot, I guess. 

Even if my vagina has been compromised and doesn’t feel even a tiny flutter for anyone outside of Dread. Which is honestly bullshit, but whatever. I’m already in love with the psychopath. It wasn’t necessary for him to train my genitals, too, but here we are—thoroughly whipped.

“It’s okay,” I say, shrugging my shoulders casually.

“I wanted to ask how you’re doing.” My brows rise in surprise. “I’m sorry we haven’t gotten a chance to speak much. After breaking up with Severen, it’s been a bit of an emotional roller coaster, and I just got in a really weird headspace for a bit there.”

My mouth flops for a second, and then my brow furrows. “Why are you sorry? You don’t owe me anything.”

She frowns. “Well, it’s not about owing you anything. It’s about being a decent person. You were distressed over Dread and Severen, and I got so caught up in my own bullshit, I didn’t even check on you to see if you’ve been okay.”

I blink, and her frown deepens.

“Jesus, they did a number on you. You don’t have anyone else in this school who treats you like a person, do you?”

“No…” My voice wobbles with uncertainty before trailing off because, frankly, I’ve gotten so used to the isolation, I hardly think about it.

“Are you okay being friends? I’ve noticed you and Severen seem to be on better terms now, which is honestly great if that’s the case. But I don’t want to make anything weird.”

For several beats, all I’m capable of is staring at her in stunned silence.

“I, uh, I mean, y-yeah?” I stammer. “Sorry, I’m being weird. I guess I just didn’t expect you to, like, care?” It sounds more like a question, but I’m entirely out of my element here.

Even in high school, I never had a complete stranger show so much genuine concern or care for my well-being outside of Barry. For a long time, my mom and I were merely blips in people’s worlds. They cared for the period of time my family was in the news, but as soon as the next world event took over, they eventually moved on with their lives and never made another effort to check in or see if we were okay.

And I suppose that’s truly what it is—effort. My friendship with Sable was always easy and natural, partly because we work together and see each other several times a week, but also because she doesn’t attend HCU. Our relationship developed outside of Dread and Lionel, so my past had no bearing on it. She didn’t know who Dread or Lionel were, really, except for hearing their names here and there in the news. Like her parents, she never paid much attention to any of it, so she never bothered learning anything about them and, subsequently, me. 

To her, I was just any other person in the world.

But at HCU, that’s never been the case. Even if Octavia knew little about mine and Dread’s hatred for one another, she was still very much aware of who my father is.

So, someone else putting in the effort to be my friend—not because of who my father is or because I’m associated with Dread but because of who I am—is just… unusual. Or, rather, unheard of.

Octavia’s expression softens, though she doesn’t stare at me with pity. It’s the same look she had when she first sat down. I hadn’t recognized it because I’m not accustomed to it from anyone outside of Dread, and even that’s still taking getting used to. 

Affection.

That’s… new?

“Oh…” I shake my head, bewildered. “You, like, actually care.”

She smiles and nods, and I just stare at her blankly, unsure of how to process this information.

“How are you doing, Rev?” she asks gently.

I have no fucking idea why I suddenly feel like crying; it’s weird, jarring, and makes me slightly panicky.

I clear my throat, shifting in my seat awkwardly as I glance around, desperately trying to swallow down the knot forming in my throat. My sinuses are burning, and my chin threatens to tremble.

I quickly look down and force back the tears beginning to well in my eyes. It takes several moments before I trust my voice enough to speak.

“Not the best, but not the worst, I guess,” I answer honestly, my voice raspier than normal.

I continue to keep my gaze firmly pinned anywhere else but on her, my cheeks burning from mortification.

“I heard about Gabi accusing you of having something to do with Mindy’s disappearance.”

I tighten my lips and nod. “I get it, though. Dread did a good job of getting people to see me that way before we…” I trail off, not sure how I’m supposed to even finish that sentence.

I glance away, shaking my head. Yet another reason why I struggle with my relationship with Dread. He’s done so much damage, and here I am, dating the man. 

“You’ve forgiven him?” she asks softly, not a trace of judgment in her tone.

“No,” I whisper, my brow furrowing as I drop my eyes to the table. “But I’m trying to, I think? He doesn’t… he doesn’t treat me that way anymore. Which I’m obviously glad for. He’s still a dick, of course, but…” I shrug, glancing up at her quickly. “Not in a way that hurts my feelings. He’s just very dominating and intense, but he says he’s in love with me.” I shake my head again, frustrated with my inability to convey myself properly. “I don’t know. Some things are just hard to forgive.”

Octavia’s quiet for a few beats, long enough to draw my gaze. She’s staring off to the side, but whatever she’s watching is unfolding in her head. Sadness weighs down the corners of her mouth and creases the skin between her brows.

“I understand that,” she says quietly.

Guilt tugs at my chest. “I’m sorry for breaking you and Severen up,” I say, pulling her focus back to me. “If it means anything, he’s extremely in love with you and, at this point, he’s planning on aging and dying alone without you. I don’t know if there’s more to it than the bullying aspect, but if any of those three deserve a second chance, it’s definitely him.”

A small smile graces her lips as her stare dips to her fidgeting fingers, but it’s sad, almost melancholic.

“I doubt Severen has said anything about this, but I have a twin brother, Orion. We grew up with very different lives, though. I had a lot of friends when we were younger, and while I wasn’t a part of the popular mean girl crowd, I was well-liked and never had issues. But Orion was heavily bullied.” Her smile quickly turns upside down, and she seems to get lost inside her head. She blinks several times, visibly yanking herself out of it a few beats later, meeting my eyes. Her voice is considerably raspier when she says, “He died by suicide when we were fifteen because of it.”

My heart drops, and my face tightens with empathy. “You don’t have to explain any further,” I tell her earnestly. “Severen partook in the very thing that took your brother’s life. You have every reason to never want to associate with him again.”

Her stare drifts off to the side as she nods, though it’s a little dazed, a more subconscious reaction.

“I’m deeply in love with him,” she admits softly. Then, her blue eyes snap back up to mine, an underlying sense of determination swirling within them. “But being with him would be a betrayal to Orion. How could I be with someone who’s just like the people who drove my brother to kill himself? How can I be with someone who’s even capable of that? He explained why he did it, and I understand his motivations. I understand they weren’t inherently evil. I even understand people who do bad things are capable of changing. I get all of it.”

Her brows pinch, and the determination bleeds into malice. “But then, I think about Orion’s bullies and how some person out there is probably thinking the same thing about them, and that makes me really fucking angry. It makes me so angry there’s even a minute possibility someone could empathize with them in any way, could see what they did to Orion as a mistake, something stupid they did as a kid, that they’re different now. They’ve changed. So then, I stop caring about what led them to become the way they were and who they are now, because they got to become something at all. Meanwhile, my dead brother’s rotted flesh is being eaten by fucking bugs right now.”

I wince and nod. I know she isn’t directing her ire toward me, and… I fucking get it. It’s a position I’ve somewhat found myself in with Dread—falling in love with him, which leads to empathizing with my own bully while also trying to remind myself he’s changing, and forgive him—and it’s fucking hard.

Honestly, there are a lot of days when I don’t know if I can.

“I get it,” I repeat quietly.

Her infuriated glare lingers for another moment, and then she slumps, exhaling heavily.

“How are you doing it?” she asks, her stare inquisitive and disbelieving, like she can’t begin to even fathom how it’s possible.

I work to swallow, and it’s my turn to drop my stare to my fidgeting fingers, a frown marring my face. “Some days, I’m not,” I say slowly. “Some days, I still hate him for everything he’s done to me. I want to lash out at him, hurt him, make him feel what I’ve felt by his own hands for so many years. But then, there are days when I see him, see he already is hurting. And I realize causing him pain doesn’t make me feel better or help me, because somehow, I’ve fallen in love with the asshole, and punishing him feels like punishing myself.”

I tighten my lips, taking a moment to choose my next words carefully before lifting my stare back up to hers. She’s leaning over the table, watching me like I’m a disease beneath a microscope, and every little detail matters, lest she lose everything. Especially herself.

“Our situations are a little different, because your brother isn’t here to give you his perspective, and Severen wasn’t his bully. I can only give you my perspective about my bully.”

Her frown deepens, but she nods.

“I could live the rest of my life hating Dread for what he’s done to me, or I can spend the rest of my life loving him for what he does for me from here on out. Live in the past or succumb to the future. But you can’t do both.”

She blinks, her mouth parting as she processes. But before she can formulate her response, her eyes dart above my head, and her spine instantly snaps straight. 

Severen’s here.

She purses her lips and hands me her phone. “Put your number in. We’re friends now.”

My lips twitch, but I do as she says.

However, Severen must’ve spotted Octavia and sprinted here, because I swear, I get one number typed in before he’s appearing in the corner of my eye, stopping at the end of the table where we sit. It’s uncanny how much it reflects that moment when Dread asked me to come with him on a drive while Severen watched from across me. Except now, it’s Octavia in the hot seat while Severen does all the intense staring.

Truly, I feel for her.

It’s only when I feel Octavia’s stare burning a hole into the side of my head that I realize I’ve paused, too busy watching Severen watch her, his left hip leaning against the table so his body is entirely angled toward her, his arms crossed. His expression is impassive, but an array of emotions flit across his amber eyes.

The tension is steamy enough to bring my blood to a simmer, and if this is what it’s like when Dread and I are together, no fucking wonder Severen popped a straw in his apple juice box and sat back for the show.

It’s quite fascinating.

However, if I listen hard enough, I can hear Octavia screaming at me from inside her head, so I quickly finish inputting my number then bare my teeth in a guilty, apologetic smile for delaying her. She snatches the phone from me with a narrowed-eye glare, though it lacks heat.

Severen slowly drags his gaze to meet mine and arches a brow, silently demanding an explanation. I don’t owe him one, but their sexual chemistry is potent enough to make my nipples hard, which I could then use to slice through the tension.

I have a feeling Dread wouldn’t appreciate me slicing tension created by his best friend with my nipples, so I opt for answering Severen instead.

“We’re friends now,” I tell him casually.

Octavia stands, incapable of stopping herself from flicking a glance his way, though it’s not without consequences. He’s already turned his attention back to her, and the second their eyes clash, she gets caught in his trap, unable to look away.

His tongue glides across his lower lip before his teeth clamp down on it, all the while his heated stare coasts up and down her body. 

She clenches her jaw, attempting to appear unaffected. Which is kind of embarrassing for her, because she’s very obviously affected.

Severen doesn’t speak, and if anything, it seems like that only flusters her more.

“Bye,” she clips abruptly, her wide gaze barely moving a centimeter in my direction, and then whips around and storms off.

I snort, but Severen’s gaze follows Octavia and waits until she’s out of the cafeteria before turning his attention back to me. 

Grabbing my tray, I get up from my seat while raising my brows, and saying dryly, “You basically forced me to partake in voyeurism.”

He rolls his eyes. “You and Dread are the same way. It’s called love, Reverie. That’s what happens when it’s real.”

How dare he.

I give him a dirty look. “Stop cussing at me.”

Then, I turn and walk away. He groans behind me, derisively muttering, “Women.”

I ignore him and head over to the trash can to throw away my pasta before tossing the tray into the dish bin, all the while resenting Severen for being right.

I hate all men. 

If they’re not a predator, they’re a disappointment. 

I wish sexuality was a choice, because I’d happily date Sable or Octavia instead.

Once we’re outside, I follow Severen to his car. Somewhere behind us, Creed trails after us. He’ll follow us to my dorm, and Severen will stay in the hallway while Creed posts up somewhere outside.

When we get to the black Jaguar, I slide into the passenger seat with an annoyed huff, slam the door closed, and cross my arms, only to feel Severen’s stare boring into the side of my head.

I turn to find a weird smile on his face as he slowly lifts a book to show me the cover.

“Wanna hear about how the main girl, Saylor, just got railed by her ex-boyfriend’s best friend, and he shifted into a lycan mid-stroke but didn’t stop?”

I stare at him for two beats then deflate, my tone subdued as I say, “Yeah, I do wanna hear about that, actually.”

Within the three-minute drive to Dread’s dorm, I’m heavily invested in Saylor and her lycan mate, Rune. The walk up to the room is one minute, but ten seconds into it, I’m debating sitting outside the door with him so I can hear the rest.

“So you think the lycan king is actually betraying the kingdom and working with the fae?” I ask, peering over my shoulder at him as I go to open the door.

He heaves out a disappointed sigh, as if he personally knows the lycan king. “It’s really feeling like it. He’s giving me bad vibes, but I can’t put my finger on exactly why yet. Rune is gonna be so fucking heartbroken if he is betraying them all.”

Rune is the lycan prince who’s already head over heels in love with Saylor. They’re definitely not supposed to be together, and Saylor’s ex is going to be pissed when he finds out his best friend is fucking her.

I cannot wait until he does.

I frown as I push open the door, contemplating if there’s something more to the lycan king than what’s already been revealed. That is, until I go to walk into Dread’s room, freezing in my tracks as a sharp gasp rips from my throat. Before I can blink, warm liquid sprays across my face. 

I flinch and step back into Severen’s chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

And then, I’m being sprayed yet again.

“What the fuck?” The screech out of my mouth is unlike any sound I’ve made before, but the sight before me is unlike anything I’ve fucking seen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Severen spits as he quickly shoulders past me to run inside and turn off the ceiling fan.

Because tied to one blade is a rope with Mindy Sackler’s severed head dangling from the end, slowly spinning, her blood spraying across the room. 

My hand drifts over my mouth, paralyzed with utter horror. Severen tugs on the chain, and as the ceiling fan slowly comes to a stop, my eyes drift over the room, unable to believe everything I’m seeing. 

It takes several seconds to figure out what the hell is in Dread’s chair until I finally realize it’s Mindy’s torso, completely skinless, the arms and head removed. Below the desk, her feet are on the floor, each one cut at the ankle. They aren’t skinned, though, and neither are the severed hands propped up on Dread’s keyboard, like she’s sitting at the desk typing.

Vomit rises in my throat, and a mix of adrenaline and shock wreaks havoc on my insides as I take in other various body parts staged to look like they’re a part of the furniture.

The lampshade on Dread’s nightstand balances on her upright forearm. Her entire leg, from the top of her thigh to her ankle, is now the post of the floor lamp in the corner.

And—Jesus fuck—her skin is spread across the mattress like a blanket.

I turn away just as I gag, scarcely keeping the vomit from expelling across the floor. Moments later, Severen’s grabbing my biceps and ushering me out of the room.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” I chant beneath my breath, the words cracking with tears and panic.

“Hey, hey, come here,” Severen says quickly, spinning me around toward him.

I slap both hands over my face, only now realizing it’s streaked with her blood, as he pulls me into a one-armed hug, holding my quaking body tight against him. 

With his other hand, he fumbles for his phone while I try to fucking breathe through the turmoil raging inside my body. But I can’t, because Mindy Sackler is in fucking pieces all over Dread’s room, and it’s my goddamn fault.

A moment later, I hear the distinct sound of a 911 operator on the line.

“Uh, yeah, I-I ne-need to report a murder,” Severen says, his voice cracking and trembling. “I think… I think the Locksmith is here.”

The rest of the conversation fades beyond the white noise filling my ears, growing louder in pitch as the adrenaline in my system climbs.

I’m not sure how much time passes before I hear the distinct sound of police sirens, but I keep my forehead firmly pressed against Severen’s chest, tremors racking my entire body while I coach myself to keep breathing.

It feels like another year passes before there’s commotion down the hall. Instinctively, I tune back into reality, the white noise quietening as the surrounding world filters back in. The sirens are significantly louder than before, and I step back from Severen and drop my hands just as several police officers appear at the end of the hallway.

Severen turns, apparently still on the phone with the operator, and tells her law enforcement is here, then hangs up.

Adrenaline and panic still ravage my insides, but my brain has split in half. My body experiences its reactions, but I can’t feel any of it. It’s like I’m floating above it, watching everything happen to it from a distance, where I’m safe and sound.

Severen turns to greet them while I take several steps away from the door. One officer with blond hair and a short, stocky stature stops to speak with Severen while the other three rush into Dread’s room.

They stumble when they take in the scene, horrified curses flying from their mouths.

“Jesus,” one curses angrily, turning away from the room. He’s bald and also of a stockier build, a severe look on his face.

He stops short when he sees me, and I watch in slow motion as each reaction flits across his gaze.

Surprise. Confusion. Recognition.

Accusation.

My heart drops while his eyes narrow.

Instinctively, I take a step back from the force of his animosity, and he immediately points a finger.

“Don’t you dare move,” he barks, charging toward me.

My eyes widen, and it takes everything in me not to run, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. My mouth flops as I shake my head, my brain slow to find the words to explain myself.

However, I come up short as he steps into my space and roughly jerks my bicep, swinging me in front of him so my back faces him, causing me to trip over my feet. It finally jostles my brain enough to get the words out of my throat.

“Wait, I didn’t⁠—”

“Shut up,” he hisses. I try to turn, to get my wrists away from him, but he holds tighter, his aggression heightening as he forces me forward again.

“But I⁠—”

“Reverie Adams, you’re under arrest. Consider using this time to think of your own moniker, since you can’t use your father’s.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To read My Darling Reverie, the second and final installment in the Hollow Graves Duet, click here.

MORE BOOKS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If this is your first rodeo in my acknowledgements, welcome. But if not, then you know who my gratitude goes to first above all else.

You.

All my incredible readers, whether you’re old or new—I’m eternally grateful for all of you. If it wasn’t for you, my stories would probably be manuscripts saved somewhere on my computer, collecting dust. But I keep torturing all of us by releasing them, and you all are who make it worth it every damn time.

Secondly, my husband, Victor. Your support has kept me going even when I was on the edge of giving up. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, and I couldn’t have chosen a better life partner and partner in crime. I love you more than you’ll ever love me (it’s in writing now, so that means it’s true mwhahah).

Of course, Victor isn’t the only one who’s held me up when I stumble. My best friends in the whole wide world.

Samikins, thank you for spending your weeks watching my baby so I could write. But also, thank you for existing. You brighten my life, and I’m so grateful for you.

Kristie, Chelsea, Sticky, Santana, Brynne, Tosh, and May—I love you all beyond words. You all are my emotional support human beings and some of the best things to ever happen to me. None of you are ever allowed to leave me.

Ever.

Obviously, Tosh and May, as my alpha readers, I’m incredibly grateful for you two for not only helping these books become the books they are, but helping make me into a better artist. I couldn’t do it without you two, and I refuse to.

Speaking of people who turn trash into prettier trash—my beta readers. Autumn, Ana, Taylor, Nicki, and Janine. Each of you bring something to the table and add so much value to these books. I love all of you, and I’m so, so grateful to you guys for all that you do for me. I couldn’t do it without any of you, either, and I refuse to.

Lo, thank you so much for reading this over and helping contain any (unintentional) harmful impact. But also, thank you for being a great friend, and I love you and appreciate all that you do for not only me, but this community.

Genesis, I appreciate you so much for helping me refine my Spanish, for being there when I send you unhinged texts in the middle of the night asking for help translating, and for educating me more on our Puerto Rican culture. It means the absolute world to me.

Alexa…

Just for you.

No, but I love you, and thank you for polishing these books up nice and pretty and always being there for my bazillion questions. Especially when half of them don’t even pertain to your actual job, but you entertain me, anyway.

Rumi, you’re always the MVP for dealing with my last-minute shit and helping polish this big boi up. I’m so grateful for you always and forever.

Cass, thank you again for these beautiful covers. You’re not only an amazing artist but also an amazing friend, and I love you so much.

Last but certainly not least, thank you Charly for turning these books into such beautiful physical books. (And all of my last-minute graphics and general bullshit I throw your way lmao). I’m beyond grateful for you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

H. D. Carlton is a New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author. Her books have been translated into 25 languages with over 12 million copies sold worldwide. She lives in Oregon with her husband, two dogs, cat, and Bigfoot. When she’s not bathing in the tears of her readers, she’s watching paranormal shows and wishing she was a mermaid. Her favorite characters are of the morally gray variety and believes that everyone should check their sanity at the door before diving into her stories.

Learn more about H. D. Carlton on hdcarlton.com. Join her newsletter to receive updates, teasers, giveaways, and special deals here.

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