A.K. Koonce & Jade Hernández

Beautiful Obsession

Copyright 2023 A.K. Koonce & Jade Hernández

Edited by Copeland Editing

Cover by Emily Wittig

All Rights Reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without express written permission from the author. Any unauthorized use of this material is prohibited.

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

CONTENTS

Trigger & Content Warnings:

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Afterword

Other Books by Jade

Also by A.K. Koonce

About Jade Hernández

About A.K. Koonce

TRIGGER & CONTENT WARNINGS:

This book contains scenes, scenarios, and situations that may be considered triggering for some readers. Within this book, you will find dark, morally gray, and questionable heroes, stalking, murder, attempted SA of the main character, descriptive violence, attempted murder, absent fathers, PTSD, mental health discussions, mental health institutions, racism against Mexican characters (no slurs are used), the mention of deportation, politics and racist politicians, fatphobia, the mention of cancer in a parent as well as their death, morgues, and dead bodies. If any of this is triggering to you, please proceed with caution or do not pick up this book at all.

Some of the other content, tropes, and consensual sexual themes you might find within are: sports romance, stalker romance, handcuff play, primal play, choking, and consensual SA fantasies.

FOREWORD

Author’s Note

This book is dark. Of course, darkness, like reading, is very subjective. That being said, the consensual sexual acts within this story are purely fictional and are not and should not be meant to mimic real life. The fantasies inside this book are not meant to be acted out without the proper care, safe words, and communication with trusted partners. We, the authors, have written the content inside for fictional, mindless enjoyment only, and this book is not to be used as a guide for real people to play out their fantasies. Please do your research before diving into any type of kink. That being said, this is not meant to depict or represent real-life kink accurately.

This book also touches on mental health topics and the mention of mental health institutions and the trauma that can come from these situations. While we authors have written on these topics and stigmas with the utmost care, we would also like to remind readers that our stories, pasts, and private lives are our own. They are private, and we ask that you respect our boundaries.

Rowan Stone is a total puck up. A hockey reject is what they call him. He’s a man so violent, he was thrown off the team during the first minutes of the first game of the season.

Because of me. At least, that’s what everyone at Greystone University is saying anyway.

But I refuse to believe that. We’ve never even met . . . Except for a few bizarre, coincidental run-ins. And he did save me from that mugging, but that was a total—slightly strange, slightly terrifying—accident.

Unless he’s following me.

Which is starting to seem more and more plausible. Because I just had one more of those coincidental run-ins with the mystery man . . . in the closet of my apartment . . . with blood on his hands.

Please note, Rowan Stone is a morally grey anti-hero, but he doesn’t have any red flags. They’re yellow flags because we warned you. You just didn’t stop.

ONE

WARMTH CRAWLS down my arm and hand, the blood a stark contrast against the bite of cold air as it drips slowly from my fingertips and along the knife’s edge.

I’m lost in the haze of this moment: The moment where life and death meet in the middle, one hanging precariously on a thin thread until it finally just . . .

Snaps.

The second it does, the tension loosens from my shoulders after a lifetime of hating him.

I stare down at the body. Deep lines lash across skin like red ribbons, wrapping the mutilated corpse like a twisted gift.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this, anyway . . .

Flashes of red and blue flicker across the dense shadows of the dark room.

A normal person would feel remorse for what they’ve done.

I just feel . . . free.

One Month Earlier

Atlas

The blare of the horn is so loud, it crawls under my skin, and I flinch even as I hold my hand up to the intense white lights of the car. Tires screech. I brace for impact. This is how it ends. With me still in yesterday’s pajamas at eight p.m. on a Friday night. My headstone will read: she was just running late. Again.

The car stops on a dime . . . Just inches away from my dirty white sneakers.

“This is a crosswalk!” I yell at the shadowy driver who’s now waving his middle finger at me as I keep running. Asshole!

The cars behind him are just as happy to see me out of their way as they speed down the campus road. Three girls sporting loose-fitted green-and-white jerseys pass me by when I rush up the stairs. One of them slips me a look, her blue eyes narrowing on my bike shorts and faded blue crop top before she whispers to the girl in the middle. They giggle hysterically, and I only briefly consider shoving her down the last flight of stairs with a helping hand, but I literally don't have a single free minute to even fantasize over her karmic death right now.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time to waste on the drunken and annoyingly happy people knocking into me as they rush in the opposite direction. They’re on their way to the first game of the season. And I’m on my way to face imminent death. Or at least a terrible flunking if I don’t turn in this damn criminology paper tonight before nine.

What the hell was I thinking, becoming a freshman and criminology major at twenty-two? God, every eighteen-year-old here has their shit together while I’m somehow managing to fuck up just jogging across a simple crosswalk.

When the doors fling open to the school hall, I realize I’m much later than I’d thought. Not a single person is inside. The fluorescent lights are still bright and buzzing, but the halls are entirely vacant. The small sound of my shoes squeaking over the tiles is too loud within the silence. It’s especially loud when I shove open the classroom door, and the handle bangs against the wall.

Because this space is also empty. Dozens of chairs are perfectly pushed in. The floors shine with a fresh cleaning. But Professor Morrison still sits at his large and worn desk at the front of the class. Thank fucking god! I’m not late.

“You’re late, Ms. Ortega.” His voice crawls across the empty desks, his tone droning but commanding in a way only he seems to possess.

“Not quite. I made it before nine.”

“Class is at six.” He looks up at me from over his sleek black glasses before he adds, “Sharp.”

Fuck! Fuck work, and fuck this class, and fuck me.

“I know. I couldn’t finish up my work in time to make it to class, but online, you said the assignment was due by nine.”

“Yes. It is. For our online students. The ones who didn’t make a commitment to join my class in person.”

The door closes behind me with a quiet click, and I hate how nervous the simple sound makes me as I stand before the disappointed professor. I smooth the papers that have become crumpled in my hand. The anxious energy in my chest crawls into my stomach, but I try to calm it with a deep breath.

“Could I please turn in the assignment?” I hold my head high. My voice always teeters on a whisper, but I know my shit. “It’s a great paper. I spent all week finishing it.”

Thin lines frame his hard eyes just before he pulls off his glasses and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Atlas. This is the second time in just two months that you’ve neglected your priorities.”

My priorities. The sting of those words burns through my veins because every moment of my adult life has been a struggle in priorities that this man couldn’t even begin to understand.

I swallow down the rage and force out quiet words. “I understand.”

“You’re a great student, Atlas.” He pauses in consideration that feels like a heavy weight pressing in the room. “I’ve already given today’s assignments to my TA, Nathan, for grading. He’s not too far away though. And I think you have enough time.” He pauses and checks his black smartwatch before offering me a kind smile.

Fuck Nathan. He’s a racist pig. I’d rather eat all ten pages of this assignment than have a conversation with that asshole.

Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. I’ll literally do anything not to fail this class.

Even if it means swallowing my pride and facing that prick. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve forced a smile after stinging comments that are forever burned into my mind. I’m too much for some people. With skin that’s too dark, thighs that are too big, hair that’s too curly. I am decidedly too much.

Greatness is like that, my mother once told me when I was a little girl.

And I believed her at the time . . .

“If you hurry, you can still turn the paper in to him.”

“Hurry where?” My brain whirs as a mental map forms in my mind, and I calculate the distance I’ll have to run even before my professor tells me where. My thighs are going to hate me for each step later, but it’ll be worth it if I pass this class.

“The hockey stadium–”

I’m already turning, a hasty goodbye leaving my lips, and I’m running down the hall before the professor can even finish his sentence.

TWO

Atlas

The parking lot is packed, and the front entrance to the arena is even worse. A blaring announcer only adds to the restless excitement of the people waiting in line. The chaotic swarm of noise and people send my skin crawling. I try to breathe through the sensation that I’m drowning in a crowd. My lungs burn from the run, though, and I can’t even get a word out as I step up to the booth. There’s a pretty blonde with her hair in perfect waves behind the counter. She looks at me with an impatient arch to her brow, her attention darting from me to the line of people behind me.

“Ticket?” she asks.

“I–” I try to think of the fastest way to get inside and back out without buying a ticket. Because I have two dollars in my account until Friday and absolutely no charitable attributes that this woman will give a single shit about. “Professor Morrison sent me to turn in an assignment for him to one of the players, Nathan Bolen.”

That’s not entirely untrue. And it’s a great excuse. We can’t let Professor Morrison down, can we? I mean, I already have twice, but we don’t want it to happen again, right?

“Ticket?” she repeats, her blonde head bobbing to one side.

“I just have to run right in. It’ll take five minutes tops.”

“Ma’am, you can’t go in without a ticket.” she starts to explain, and I feel my stomach twisting. I shouldn’t have stayed late to help Anna at the morgue. She could have dressed Mrs. Johnstone without me, but she almost broke the corpse’s arm off trying to get her into that dress that god knows the woman hadn’t worn in two decades.

I love my job, but my professor’s right: I have priorities. Too many of them. And starting college in my twenties and moving to this chaotic city is more than I can handle after everything that has happened with my mother. Maybe failing my favorite class is a sign.

I don’t belong here.

“Don’t students get free passes or something?” I try again, a note of pathetic desperation in my voice. I know it’s a long shot. I know she’s not going to let me in for free. I may as well write the giant F on my paper right now.

She sighs. “You don’t, but you can get the student discount. Can I see your school ID?”

I probably can’t even afford the measly student discount price, but I say nothing as I dig into my pocket and pull out my school ID, pushing the plastic card her way.

I watch in a few seconds of silence as the girl types something into her computer, staring back and forth between my ID and the screen. After a moment, a ticket prints, and she slides my identification back across the counter to me.

“Alright, it looks like you have free passes for the entire season actually.”

My fingers take the ticket hesitantly while my brain tries to register what she said. When I finally catch up, my eyes nearly bug out of my head. “What do you mean, free passes? How much is that going to cost me?”

This feels suspicious as hell.

“Um . . . nothing? They’re a free perk for the players’ friends and family.”

Oh, this is a mistake. Is she going to get fired for this? Right now, there’s a player out there who’s expecting his sweet mom or hot girlfriend to be cheering him on from the sidelines. And instead, he’s going to get my glaring ass.

It doesn’t make sense, and I want to stand there and question, to demand answers, possibly have her double-check. But I don’t have the time to do all that, so I snatch the ticket and rush into the stadium.

Overeager fans dominate the space, and I have to push my way through, shrinking into myself with every body that jars mine. Flashing memories of hands holding me down threaten to overtake me with anxiety, but I focus on my surroundings. I’m almost there. I’m almost done.

My eyes dart up to the signs while I’m slipping down hallways and stairwells I’m not even sure I’m allowed in.

I’m not a hockey fan, I’ve no idea about the layout of the arena, but there are clearly marked doors that I’m not allowed in.

I don’t care though.

At this point, I know I’m not going to get anywhere in the stands surrounded by screaming fans. Nathan is probably down where all the other hockey players are, getting ready to go on the ice. And I need to get to him.

Security is surprisingly lax at first, until the twists and turns make way to reveal a thick crowd.

At the last second, I spot a hockey player with a sweet smile poised for a girl who’s gripping his jersey like she’ll never let him go. His skates are slung over his shoulder, and he’s clearly about to go on the ice. He brushes her greedy hands off of him before he disappears through a doorway. I pause, my attention flickering to the sign up above that reads Authorized Personnel Only and the security guard that’s pacing in the opposite direction.

And then I dart in just behind the enormous player. His shoulder pads and gear outline his shadowy figure into a giant of a man. He looks back at me in the darkness of the long, strange hallway.

“Oh, you’re gonna be in so much trouble, Little Puck Bunny,” he whispers tauntingly, that smile still as playful as earlier.

Thank god he’s a flirt instead of a fighter.

“Give 'em hell, Bunny,” he bumps his arm into mine before the bright lights wash over us, and he shoves his feet into the skates with a quick lacing. And then he’s gone.

And I’m alone at the entrance to the ice.

There’s a moment where I’m in awe of how incredible it feels to have spotlights shining down on me. I feel small and insignificant in the best way possible. My screwed-up life: my mother being institutionalized, my overdraft fees every month, my stupid paper, it all suddenly feels obsolete standing here with the lights cast down on me and hundreds of people all above me.

I shuffle away from the coaches and players to the right and stumble over into an area that seems like it’s for fans, but I think this may be the friends-and-family seating because I’m front row, and that special divider that keeps fans safe and all their teeth intact has an open door that I sneak through.

And then I see him. Finally.

“Nathan!” I lean out the door that divides us, waving an arm through the air to get his attention. Amongst the sea of faces and adoring hockey fans, I may as well be invisible to the guys on the rink. The women behind me, glaring death rays through my skull, well, that’s another story. The dirty looks from puck bunnies around me don’t deter me. My elbows shove against bodies, and I send out mental apologies as I cringe against the feel of their skin against mine until I push myself out slightly more through the door. “Nathan!”

This close and personal, I finally get his attention. He almost looks different in full hockey gear, but I’d recognize those chips for eyes and that shit-smelling sneer anywhere. Even beneath that sweaty face and hockey helmet.

He’s usually so put together in class. Wearing nothing less than slacks and a collar shirt, sitting next to the professor and looking at the rest of us like we’re mere mortals and he’s a god. Even in all his hockey regalia, that air of pompous importance exudes from every pore.

Those judging eyes flick over me, cutting beneath brown lashes. His gliding seems too slow, and for a fraction of a second, the rest of the hockey team does as well. There’s a brief pause like people are anticipating some sort of show.

Nathan’s nose twitches in my direction. “Maria, right?”

The dripping sarcasm makes me grind my back teeth together. So fucking funny. Call the Mexican girl Maria. His piss-poor accent is supposed to be funny? It’s disgusting. A very obvious microaggression at its finest. That’s something people don’t seem to realize. You don’t have to use slurs to be a racist. Would they put me in that hockey fun box if I clocked him in the jaw right now? Bet they reserve it for the team. They’d just throw me out without any exciting punishments.

“It’s Atlas, actually.”

“Hmm. Riiiight. Sorry about that. How’d you even get down here?”

He doesn’t sound sorry. But that’s the least of my worries.

“Look, I won’t take up much of your time since I know you’re about to begin. I just want to turn this paper in to you.” I lift my assignment in the air, waving the cover of it in his direction so my name and the subject matter are right in front of his eyes. “Professor Morrison said I could give this to you for grading.”

Slowly, he pulls off his glove and takes hold of the bottom of my paper, pulling it gently out of my grasp. His fingers look tiny among the heavy gear that weighs his body. He’s really much too small for hockey. These guys will eat him alive. I hope.

As soon as the papers leave my possession, I want to breathe a sigh of relief at how painless this is going so far.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Nathan just seems like a pompous asshole. Maybe he’s a good guy.

But I’ve counted my chickens way too fucking early.

Nathan sneers at the front page distastefully. “‘The Murdering Clown of Mexico City’?” he reads off, an impertinent scoff in his voice. “Is this a joke?”

My brows furrow. “The topic I chose to write about follows Professor Morrison’s guidelines perfectly. It’s on par with Criminology 101.”

“The assignment was to assess a serial killer and write a professional report through the lens of a criminologist, highlighting statistics and likelihood of a positive reform back into society.”

“Yeeess,” I drawl out, very nearly avoiding an eye roll. “That’s exactly what I did. I studied the case of Hector Valenzuela, the man in Mexico City who dressed up like a clown and went on a killing spree.”

When classmates were choosing the basic bitches of serial killers like Bundy and Charles Manson, two cases that were beaten to death at this point, I wanted to write about something, someone, different. If serial killers were Pokémon cards, Hector Valenzuela would be a rare collector’s item indeed. The fucking foil edition of collector’s cards.

Sure, there were plenty of murderous clowns throughout history. Way too many. The interesting thing about Valenzuela’s case was the fact that he’d been a failed serial killer. He’d made very few successful killings before he was caught by the population, and the citizens had taken matters into their own hands, beating him to death with his own murder weapon of choice: A bat his father had given him when he was just a child. For the sake of the assignment, I’d had to recreate an alternate narrative. One in which he’d survived and been caught by the police. One where I assessed his life, what little was known of it, and then made my analysis.

It’s a fantastic fucking look into his mind and motives.

But Nathan looks at me like I’m excrement beneath his shoes before a slow smile curls his mouth. It’s the kind that makes a shiver of dread slide down my spine. He shrugs. “Sorry.” He doesn’t even sound apologetic. “I can’t accept this paper.”

Smirks and cocky glances are passed around between his teammates who are in deep leg stretches near us, obviously watchful of us. They begin moving again, shoving each other while passing the puck between themselves while making their way toward the middle of the arena where their game will surely begin soon.

It feels like my window of opportunity is closing. “I came all this way.”

I can only watch in horror as he releases his hold of the report I worked very fucking hard on, and it falls to the ice.

“Hey!” I make a reach for it, but it sticks to the ice too fast.

The clean-up crew across the rink eye the papers, and I know in a matter of minutes, all my hard work will be scraped off the ice and discarded like it never even existed.

“You know, if you’d let go of the tacos and actually run here, your fat ass might have turned in the report on time. So no, I won’t be accepting it. Good luck failing, amigo.”

Humiliation rises from my neck, over my cheeks, to the tips of my fucking ears. For a second, I can do nothing but stare, the shock of those words resonating in my brain. Everything outside fades for a single moment. The laughter that follows those shitty words, uncomfortable murmurings, and among it all . . . not a single person says a word for me, despite how many are now whispering behind my back.

And somehow, I can’t even do it for myself either.

Among all the emotions, anger shakes inside my chest, but my eyes burn with dampness I can’t control. I want to jump on his back and beat him with his own hockey stick.

My eyes stay trained on the papers being whirled around and rushed over beneath the blades of hockey skates. I fixate on every tear that’s ripped into the papers I spent hours working on every single night.

It would be less painful if the professor had failed me on the spot.

Seeing my hard work crumble chases away the humiliation and replaces it with a rage. It diffuses through my entire system, and I flick my eyes up quickly to give one final glare to Nathan, but he’s not there anymore. Instead, my eyes catch on someone else’s.

Someone with a scarred face beneath a heavy helmet. His features are shadowed but etched into grooves of a fury that seems to mirror what’s tight in my chest. I blink once, and the expression is gone.

And so is he.

THREE

Rowan

Obsession is defined as something–or someone–preoccupying the mind, continuously, intrusively, and to a troubling extent. The thing about my obsession is the fact that it isn’t troubling at all.

In fact, it’s freeing.

To care so much and so deeply about another thing, another person, is surely nothing else but a sign of devotion. Who doesn’t want that? I want that.

I would kill for that. But I’ll never have that.

Taking a deep breath in through my nose, I bask in the moment I’m all too familiar with. A moment I used to live for when I was a kid.

Hockey was once my obsession. The way the ice feels beneath my skates as I glide with powerful thrusts of my legs. The pain, the burn, of being slammed into glass walls. Broken bones, bloody noses, black eyes. I crave the release of that violence, of scoring, even the shame of the fucking penalty box.

It’s a catharsis. It’s my legacy.

Or at least, it used to be.

Hands reach for me from all sides, tugging desperately at my jersey, if only so I’ll turn and look at them. Like my fucked-up gaze is some good luck ritual to them.

Luck has nothing to do with anything. It’s pure, raw, unbridled talent that’ll earn us a win today. Not the puck bunnies desperate for our attention, not the voices screaming from the stands. It’s the team itself.

We’re a perfect, synchronized unit. And as we skate out onto the ice, we’re ready to obliterate our competition.

We’re supposed to have each other’s backs above anything else.

I try to ignore the distractions surrounding us. The way the entire team pauses as someone who’s not supposed to be near the ice pushes through the front of the stands. I exhale slowly, keeping my head down, keeping my mind on the prize, even as my entire body begins buzzing with something that feels a lot like anticipation. I miss that feeling. I haven’t played since . . .

I shake the dark thought away. I have to stay focused.

Voices around me rise. Excitement. Anger. Rage.

My gaze turns on my teammate in time to see him drop a stack of papers onto the rink. I see the hurt in her big brown eyes, and something about the expression pressurizes in my chest at the sight of it.

It’s like a ticking bomb every time our eyes meet.

But she doesn’t see me. She never truly does.

My gaze darts away just as quickly as it landed on her, and I skate over to my seat, regulating my breathing and trying to push myself back into the winning zone. I can’t think about her right now.

Not now . . .

Every player has their rituals at the start of our games. It’s imperative they’re never, ever, fucked up.

As if I wasn’t already fucked up before watching Nathan speak to her. Now my concentration is entirely fucking destroyed.

I take a breath just as a large palm slaps down against my shoulder. My entire body is tense against his casual touch. Nathan all but screams in my ear. “Let’s go for the win.”

The win.

That pressurized feeling in my chest ascends to my throat, and I turn a slashing smile to my teammate.

“Yeah,” I say with that teetering smile. “Let’s go for the fucking win.”

FOUR

Atlas

Death isn’t as morbid as some people like to believe it is. I’ve always thought of it as a peaceful experience. To see bodies without the soul inside is like looking at someone in a deep sleep.

Death changes the body. It removes that soul glow, creating a waxy facade. And it’s my job to change that. It’s amazing how makeup can breathe the soul back into a shell that has none.

How I can make something that’s considered ugly–morbid–beautiful once again.

There’s a sort of catharsis to my work, and I find myself lost in the post-mortem routine. Brushes swap to and from my fingers at a careful pace. Foundations, blushes, lipsticks . . . it all begins to come together in every stroke and flick of my wrists, and what was once pale and gray becomes something more doll-like and pretty.

Prettiness, I’ve noticed, is something people value. Even in the dead.

From the makeup that touches their faces, down to every scrap of clothing they own. I make it happen for them. Even when I can’t find the energy to do it for myself.

Self-care is important. Even in the afterlife.

If only I’d follow my own advice and wash my face every once in a while, do some yoga, journal my feelings . . . put on something other than leggings and a T-shirt.

Even my work uniform consists of that, except with the added details of a smock, face mask, and clear shield protector sporting the morgue’s logo.

Even my little makeup brushes have the morgue’s logo stamped on them.

There’s just an artistry to the details of death that’s unmatched.

“Thanks for helping me.”

I jolt out of my own thoughts, the voice startling me from the trance I seem to put myself under every time there are tools in my hands.

It’s one of the reasons I love this job. It’s mindless. It steals away my thoughts and worries.

I give a soft smile to Anna , though there’s really no happiness behind the gesture. I won’t be a dick to her and blame her for my late assignment or Nathan’s shitty behavior. Even if she’s a tad too naive for this serious of a job.

We were all new once, I suppose. Not everyone has four toxic years of mall makeup training like I did. The smell of hot pretzels and the screaming Karens have scarred me for life. So yeah, we can’t all be so lucky to have trained on annoyingly alive subjects like I have. Personally, I think the dead are easier clients.

Honestly when I first started, I didn’t even feel qualified for the job. Unlike my mall experience, a degree is needed to be a mortuary cosmetologist. Thankfully, my boss is lenient. Too lenient if he’s letting Anna break off corpse parts without reprimand. He always did have a soft spot for weird, struggling people, and being hired by him was a blessing and a curse; terms I’d use to describe Anna actually.

She’s lucky she’s the mortician’s daughter.

“You have such a way with them,” Anna admires, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been sulking since I got back.

“With . . . the dead bodies?” My brow quirks up, and I pause what I’m doing to look at her.

She looks as out of place as she did earlier when she almost yanked an arm off like an old Barbie toy. You’d think she’d be desensitized to this already. Because her dad is a man who likes to overshare his experiences with death, I wonder if he told those stories like lullabies to her in the crib.

It would explain the awkwardness she covers herself in. She makes herself small like me sometimes. She spends a lot of time in her head and not much in the real world. We’re both quiet, but her watchful attention eats up every detail of a person. I can see it in her big eyes like she’s filing away important little notes on every person she meets. And when you become her chosen, trusted person, you get the full experience of her spark.

“I–I mean, yeah, but you’re also so good with the makeup thing considering–” She waves a latex-gloved hand in my general direction.

“Considering . . . ?”

She stammers a bit, and I wonder if it’s bad that I get a sick satisfaction out of it.

I mean, if people are going to be rude or tell bad jokes, ask them to elaborate. To explain it. Especially if they’re your friends.

It won’t seem so funny then. Because I already know what she’s trying to say: I’m good at makeup considering I don’t put in the effort to wear any myself.

Yeah, I get that a lot.

Before she gets a chance to explain that to me, the door to the morgue clangs open and in walks her father, Jim.

He’s a man with long, skinny legs and a round upper body and looks only slightly similar to that cartoon character with those yellow twinkie creatures that wear glasses.

What are those things called?

“Evening, ladies!” he bellows, looking down at us from over his pointed nose. The fluorescent white lights overhead shine down on his bald head. “Just wanted to let you know we’ve got a new one coming tomorrow.” His excitement would be concerning to the average person.

I can hear Anna gulp audibly.

“Hit-and-run. Easy autopsy, but probably closed casket funeral unless you can reconstruct a whole face.”

Minions! That’s what those things are called.

The lightbulb in my brain goes off at the same time as Jim looks at me expectantly.

I, in fact, cannot reconstruct a face. But I’ll still clean the deceased up as best as I can for the funeral.

Out loud I say, “I’ll do my best.”

He nods and then stalks forward, taking a look at my current handiwork. His smile of praise warms me from the inside. “Immaculate! As usual. Almost lifelike even.”

And, hell, my boss’s weird compliments certainly don’t ease the tension from the shitty day I’ve had, but it sure does fucking help.

I could leave all this mess behind and go back home to Ohio. I don’t actually need a fancy degree, do I?

It’s a question I contemplate over a hot plate of birria tacos. Smirking unapologetically, I dunk one into the spicy bowl of consomé. The juice drips down my fingers, and it practically melts against my tongue. There’s satisfaction to be had in knowing Nathan’s never had food this good in his entire life.

“If you’d let go of the tacos–”

Ha! Yeah, right, Nathan.

I’ve always been on the bigger side with a curvy body and the rolls to match. As much as I always loved school, they don’t teach you to love yourself. It took years to really see how sexy I truly am. My body has a beauty that may not seem typical, but I’m gorgeous from the thick curls of my dark hair, to the fire in my eyes, to the perfect bounce of my ass when I dance. It’s never something I’ve been ashamed of, especially considering there was a time when I wasn’t as physically healthy as I am now.

So, yeah, he can fuck right off.

Nothing short of death will pry these from my fingertips. Nathan’s probably a miserable son of a bitch because he survives on a diet of bland hot dog water and crackers.

Asshole.

Who needs to pass Criminology 101 anyway?

Me.

I fucking do.

Despair grips me in a tight fist all over again. I can’t go back home. I can’t give up so soon.

Working at the morgue distracts me for a few hours after that shitty encounter until it is time to come home–aka the basement of the morgue–and replay the entire debacle in my head again and again. All I can manage is creating a scenario in which I took that hockey stick and shoved it straight down Nathan’s throat. In my head, I come out victorious, with an A+, and with Nathan apologizing to me on his knees right before I tell him to get pucked and kick him in the throat.

A girl can dream, right?

Finishing up my food, I end up on my couch, flipping the TV on as if that can distract me from the anxiety that’s reeling through my brain.

At work, I can focus my full attention on the task at hand. At making death beautiful. Something that requires my full, undivided focus.

Now that I’m home, no assignments, no food, and nothing but the lonely silence, I contemplate my entire existence.

Fuck.

I shut off the TV and reach for my phone. Maybe some mindless scrolling will ease my anxiety.

I open my social media account. I don’t have a plethora of friends to talk to, so I find social media tedious on occasion unless I want to keep up with campus gossip. I do sometimes. In moments like these, anyway.

And it does help.

There seem to be several hot topics circulating at school right now. One of them being hockey.

Fuck me in the eye.

I quickly scroll past the overabundance of hockey drama because all it does is remind me of Nathan and his dumb ass and my likely failed course.

Fuuuuuck.

I breathe deeply in through the nose, counting backwards in my head, scrolling as I do. As I reach the final number, I let out the breath and glare at my screen.

If it isn’t college sports, it’s politics flooding my feed. I pause with a breath stuck in my lungs on a video of an overweight politician with slick, brown hair, a stern face, and an angry gleam in his eye as he goes on about some immigration reform and his upcoming annual gala like the two go hand in hand or something.

I click the phone off and try to block out all the negativity and shitty people in the world.

Half the time when I’m fixing faces at work, I find myself wondering just who I’m breathing life into. What kind of a person they were?

Were they the thousands of Nathans and screaming politicians? Or were they actually good people?

Do those even exist in this fucked-up world anymore?

If they do, they’re about as rare as a body still filled with life lying on the slab in a morgue.

FIVE

Atlas

The sun bleeds across the pale blue sky, threatening to overtake the upcoming night. My hand hovers against the cold campus handle, and I can’t explain the sick turn of my stomach. I’ve had all week to dread this day. I peer back over my shoulder. Dozens of people litter the green grass, walking to and from class. Everything is completely normal.

But it doesn’t feel normal.

Nothing does. Honestly, my life before coming here was the furthest thing from normal. But right now . . . I feel . . . I don’t know. Like I’m being watched. Judged . . .

I shake my head at myself. It’s nerves. Because today could be my very last class at Greystone University. Why did I even come? I can see online if he failed me because of last week’s assignment. It’s not like he’s going to give me a second, second chance.

I blew it. Nathan was a grade A asshole about it, but I screwed up all on my own by not turning the assignment in on time in the first place.

I try to calm the anxiety in my chest and walk inside. I even raise my head high. I’ve been through some tough shit in my life before, and I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

I avoid staring at the front of the classroom as I move up and take a seat somewhere in the middle. Burying myself amongst a sea of several faces always feels like the smartest move. To draw as little attention to myself as possible.

Unfortunately, that means several people have to shove past me to get to their own seats at my sides.

“Bro, did you see the game last week? Fucking insane, man!” Some guy bumps into my desk as he shoves his friend next to him. “Rowan Stone was a beast. A fucking beast!”

The other guy is quieter. He has a mustache that’s perfectly manicured and soft, kind features. Straight-cut nose, thick lashes, and dark eyes. He pauses with a smile when he sees me.

“Sorry,” he mouths.

I smile. Or at least, I give what little energy I have left to form what I hope is familiar as a smile. Christ, I hope I don’t look like the killer clown I wrote about in my failed fucking report.

Wouldn’t that be some shit?

“Alright, everyone!” Hands clapping draws our attention to the front of the room where our professor stands behind his desk. “Mr. Bolen will not be passing out papers this morning due to his injuries from last week’s hockey game, so please make your way to the front, and he will find your assignments for you.”

Injuries, you say? My ears perk up as everyone around me shuffles to a stand, blocking my vision of Nathan entirely. Karma is one bad bitch, isn’t she, Nathan? My, my, how things have turned.

I smirk to myself, but it honestly does very little to make me feel better. My classmates herd toward the front of the room to Nathan’s little desk where he hands them each their papers. My smug mood is dampened slightly as I stay seated. There’s no need to humiliate me further regarding this assignment. I already know I’ve failed. No need to announce it publicly to everyone.

I was into it too. I had some great info in there. A professional-level analysis.

And now none of it matters.

Sure, I’m sulking just a bit, but I deserve to mope. God. Can’t wait until I see his fucking face. Maybe that’ll make me feel a smidge better.

I crane my neck up as the line begins thinning. When there’s finally an opening of bodies, my eyes widen at the sight of him.

Injuries is an understatement. Perfectly put-together Nathan looks like he got ran over by a fucking Zamboni machine and spit out its asshole. His fucking eye is bruised shut. Someone broke his nose. I mean, he needed it–deserved it–because it was a monster of a schnauzer, but damn. They broke him good.

And if I ever meet the guy who did it, I'll propose immediately. Because this is some divine fucking justice.

“Atlas.” Professor Morrison clips my name out from up front, drawing my attention to him. “Come get your paper. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this one.” His smile is sincere, but I don’t move a single inch out of my chair.

“What?” Surely I fucking heard wrong. Is there another Atlas in the class I didn’t know about? There has to be . . . right?

“The Killer Clown, Hector Valenzuela. Really interesting case. I hadn’t even heard of that one before. Nice work bringing light onto an obscure subject matter.”

His praise has everyone looking at me and my dumbfounded expression. I’m like one of those opossums whose only defense mechanism is to shut down and play dead. If I go still, maybe he’ll confuse me with a body in a morgue. Maybe I’ll become invisible.

“I’m sorry, what?”

This has to be a mistake. How . . . ?

“Come. Get. Your. Paper!” Nathan growls out through teeth clenched so hard, it must be painful for the stitches on his weak-ass jawline. The turd.

I hop to my feet, and I’m standing at the front of the class in seconds. And there it is.

Taped together and splattered with what I can only assume is blood is my cover page. Worn and beaten pages are behind it, and yet despite its state, I can make out the A+ right there.

“Nathan apologized for how careless he was with your assignment, Ms. Ortega.” The professor shoots Nathan a glare like he’s absolutely disappointed in his TA. Then he turns back to me with an expression he’s never given me before. Fuck. It almost looks like pride. “But he was right about me needing to read this myself.” The professor’s beaming smile doesn’t calm my thrashing heartbeat. “We thoroughly enjoyed it, didn’t we, Nathan?”

Nathan coughs, his hand covering his ribs as he tries to just take a solid breath. “Yeah. Good shit,” he half mumbles, half dies coughing. He doesn’t even sound sincere. It sounds like he had to force the words out along with every breath.

Through the confusion, I smile. I have no fucking idea why Nathan had a change of heart when he’s obviously still a dick, but I’m so happy right now, I don’t even give a fuck. The red A+ on the paper is all I can look at.

I take it in my hands and head back to my desk. Class resumes as normal with Professor Morrison assigning the reading material before we have to leave. Meanwhile, I’m still clutching the paper in a dream-like state until a soft hand touches my wrist.

“Hey, I googled your serial killer,” The guy with the mustache tells me.

I blink, slowly coming back down to reality. “He’s hardly mine. He belongs to the world, you know.”

He chuckles quietly and I’m still high off of this bizarre change of events. Should I send Nathan flowers? Like a, hey sorry your face is permanently disfigured for life but thanks for being a decent fucking human being and giving me the grade we both knew I deserved all along? Maybe I should send him a plate of actual good food. Some chicken soup and Vaporub for his troubles.

“You’re that girl, right? Atlas?” he asks, and then my smile drifts away.

“Yeah? Unless there’s another Atlas in this class that I haven’t met?” My name isn’t very common on either side of my heritage. In all my life, I don’t even think I’ve met another Atlas before. I push my messy hair back from my face and try not to think about the last time a guy lingered around me like this.

High school. It was in high school. Before they took my mom away. Before I actually knew how to act around people. Before the only compliment I ever got was, “You have such a pretty face.”

I swallow hard and try to find the normalcy of just talking to a cute guy. His eyes are a light brown that match his perfectly combed hair and perfectly styled mustache, and god, why does his minor attention make me want to be back in my little apartment already? Let me crawl back into the morgue like the introverted zombie that I am.

Attention makes me uncomfortable. Like ants are crawling beneath my skin. I try to avoid scratching at my arms with the effort it takes to pay attention to him and not sink into myself. The tone of my high school therapist circles my thoughts with words like anxiety and PTSD and night terrors.

I shove away those thoughts and force my breathing to calm. I pretend I’m okay.

I am. I’m okay, I tell myself over and over again.

“You’re the girl everyone’s talking about this week. The one the hockey player sent Nathan to the hospital over, right?”

It feels like a record screeches with how quiet the room gets. It takes me a moment to catch up on the fact that the professor has already left us to our own devices. As well as the fact that several people are standing to leave, but stopping as those words are said. People are lingering, their gazes heavy on me where I’m stunned to my spot.

“What are you talking about?” My brows furrow with a hitch of my breath that I can’t maintain.

He waves a hand in my direction, and somehow that gesture reminds me of Anna. “Rowan Stone? He beat his own teammate’s ass on the ice because of you.”

I blink again, as if anything he’s saying is supposed to mean anything to me. “I don’t know who Rowan Stone is,” I say pointedly. “And I seriously doubt that. If Nathan got his ass handed to him, it’s probably because his pretentious, racist ass deserved it.” I say that last bit loud enough so said pretentious, racist ass can hear me from across the room.

It’s then that the room feels frozen in place. A pressure builds in my chest and steals away every tiny clip of breath I manage. Professor Morrison and even Nathan himself are staring at me and this random guy, and oh my fucking god, why is everyone looking at us?

I grab my book bag and swing it over my shoulder, and I’m out the door in seconds. I need to get home. I need to just relax. I need to breathe! I stumble down the hall, and the moment the doors are thrown open and the cool night air is against my lips, I drink it down. I inhale slowly like my high school therapist taught me. Nothing else exists. Just the air in my lungs. Inhale. Exhale.

I’m okay. No one can hurt me. I’m okay.

My lashes lift, and I look up at the streetlight at the edge of the sidewalk ahead. It burns in the night. A quiet settles in. I’m alone finally.

“I’m sorry,” someone whispers at my side. I try not to startle at the suddenness of his voice and appearance. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it.” The mustache guy from class scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

Was I so focused on trying to be a normal human being that I didn’t notice him here at all? I grit my teeth. I need to be way more vigilant than that. I need to not fall apart. I need to get my shit together and stop acting weird.

“It’s fine.” I shove a smile in place and force it to stay there as he gauges my every reaction.

“Right. Uh. Are you . . . Are you with Rowan? Because I really like my nose, and I’d rather he not smash it into my skull just for talking to you.” His laughter is this edging, trickling sound like he isn’t really joking and is rather concerned for his facial features.

“I don’t know who that is. I think people are talking because I was at the game that night, and I was talking to Nathan before everything started, but whatever happened, it has nothing to do with me.”

His dark eyes study me for a long moment, his tongue slipping out as he licks his lips slowly before finally speaking.

“Right,” he whispers. His attention flicks over my shoulder then. Twice.

I spin and follow the worried trail of his gaze. A guy stands below the streetlight. He leans there casually, possibly waiting for a ride or his friends. The shadows obscure his features, but if I was alone right then and noticed him, I would think he was a bat-wielding serial killer. What kind of weirdo stands beneath streetlights in the middle of the night?

Killer weirdos. That’s for sure.

“Anyway . . .” I turn back and try to ignore how strange mustache man is acting now. “I have to get home.”

“There’s a party tomorrow night,” he adds in a rush before I turn away. “My roommate’s celebrating this week’s win.”

I nod. Cool. Cool. You know what would be cooler? If you told this story at your party. They’d love it. Get to the point, Mustachio.

“You should come.” His watchful eyes search my features, but I don’t immediately give him anything.

And then it occurs to me. He’s asking me out. Kind of. Is this how people ask each other out nowadays? What happened to courting? To gifts? To dates? To getting to know one another?

Going to a frat party is not my idea of a date, that’s for damn sure. Sounds more like torture. I’d rather sleep in a casket next to a cold body than go through that pain.

“Oh.” I take a step back, wrapping my arms around my stomach. “I don’t do parties.” And I won’t apologize for it either. God, the amount of people that will be there, pressed against each other and talking over each other. The ants start crawling under my skin again. “No, thanks.”

Going out, meeting people, it doesn’t end well. Not everyone is what they seem. And most are more dangerous than we’ll ever know. People get hurt and taken from us so easily. And this guy seems nice enough. Why pull him into something he won’t be able to dig himself out of?

“Oh, okay.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at me, the moment growing awkward and uncomfortable between us. “Can I walk you home then? It’s late.” He’s lingering and trying so damn hard, it almost hurts to shut him down again. But I absolutely refuse to let a stranger walk me home. It seems too intimate a thing, and mustache here and I aren’t even on a first name basis.

“I’m okay. It’s just a few minutes’ walk from here. I live in the morgue downtown.”

Great, Atlas, you won’t let him walk you home, but you’ll tell him where you live?

I want to bite my tongue off.

His mouth opens but nothing immediately comes out.

“Did you say you live in a morgue, Wednesday Addams?”

I smile softly. This time, it’s genuine at the light teasing in his surprised tone.

“I meant I live in the basement of the morgue.”

Wow, that sounds even worse, doesn’t it? I wonder if he’ll question my sanity. If I were him, I would. Why can’t I just be quiet?

“Like where they keep the dead bodies?”

“God no. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it?” I laugh casually. He laughs tensely.

A palpable pause settles between us, and I just know Mustache Man is really regretting talking to the weird girl with the happy-go-lucky serial killer interest and who lives at the morgue. I bite my lips so I don’t blurt out the real reason I live there. Because I’m a broke student and my boss took pity on me so he rents it for dirt cheap until I can get on my feet.

Bless him and his soft heart.

Yeah. This is why I’m not good at parties. Or talking to people in general.

“Well, goodnight,” I say to break the silence and put us out of our misery already. If I never have to socialize ever again, it’ll be too soon. How do people do this every day?

“Hey, wait.” His hand slips around mine, and I hate how quickly I try to pull away from him. I hate how instantly the touch startles me. The imprint of his hand burns my own, and I want to yank it away, rub my skin raw against my skirt. It’s an impulse I try to shove down. This touch is normal. Normal people touch. I shouldn’t jump every fucking time someone’s skin brushes against mine. “If you’re not attached to any enormous, unhinged hockey players, can I get your number?”

The amusement on my lips is faint. I can’t even respond at first. A wave of emotions washes into me at once as I remember my boyfriend in high school. The feeling of normalcy and sweetness swirls in with the thought of it all. Until I broke up with him in the middle of the night. And he screamed at me that I’ll always be just as fucked up as my mother.

“Um. I–I don’t know. I don’t even know your name.”

“Simon.” He waits patiently.

I start walking the stairs slowly as I consider giving in to him and the urge to just be normal. It’s a wild thought, a wild dream, that I entertain for a moment.

I could do it. I could leave the comfort and safety of my apartment sometimes. I could date someone like Simon. Fall in love. Trust someone with that love. Live happily ever after . . .

On the days I’m not trying to visit my mom in a scream-filled, overly medicated hellhole, only to be turned away each fucking time.

It’s his patient demeanor and warm eyes that actually do me in, refusing to let my brief daydream completely shatter. I like to consider myself a good judge of character. I know when someone is shitty, and Simon here isn’t so bad. A little eager, persistent, but not in a bad way. Not the kind that will throw a temper tantrum if I reject him. At least, that’s the vibe I’m getting. Let’s be honest; nobody likes to see a grown-ass fucking man throw a hissy fit because he couldn’t get a girl’s number.

It gives . . . overgrown mama’s boy.

Not a good look.

“Yeah,” I finally murmur. As I walk the steps, I give him my number, and his smile grows larger and larger with each digit I whisper. He doesn’t get his phone or write it down at all though.

“You gonna just memorize it?” I ask, my back still turned to him as I watch him from over my shoulder.

“By heart,” he swears.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Yes, we will,” he says adamantly.

I’m practically skipping down the sidewalk like an idiot, all because a cute guy asked for my number. I’ve got to start going out more. I moved here for a change for the better. It really is better now.

I’m not the girl that people whisper about, the one with the mother who is unwell. Or the parentless girl who had to drop out of school and get a GED because my life is more screwed up than I allow anyone to ever know.

Daddy issues is an understatement for me.

But not anymore.

Life’s different now.

Better.

I let myself drift into my thoughts as I walk home, to how good life can be if I only gave it a chance. If I try to shake the trauma that clings to me like sticky shadows. The past is in the past. Why would I let it dictate my entire future? Surely it can’t be the foundation of my entire life, can it?

The hope-filled thoughts run through my mind, one after another . . .

And then all I feel is pain. Someone slams into me, throwing me into the hard wall of a dark alleyway. I scream, but a hand is shoved over my lips, rushing blood across my teeth while slamming my head into a brick wall. My book bag falls to the ground with a splatter of water hitting my legs. A desperate scream sounds behind my tightly pressed lips.

“Shut the fuck up.” His eyes shine through the opening of his black ski mask. “You pissed off the wrong people, sweetheart.” A gun jars into my jaw, pressing so hard into the skin, I swear I’ll choke on the metal long before he ever pulls the trigger.

Fear pulses through me, trembling every nerve in my body as my heart demands that I do something. But he holds my wrists between the press of our bodies while his other hand maneuvers the gun.

I can’t fight back. I can’t scratch his DNA beneath my nails to save for when they find me later. So I do everything I can. I memorize the shape of his eyes. The height of his body several inches above mine. White male. Brown eyes. Five-seven at the most. Little-man syndrome is alive and well.

“He said I could do whatever I wanted with the body. I think he meant your dead body, but I like the fight of the live ones too much.” His amused words skim against my ear as he grinds his hips into mine.

“Fuck you,” I grind out beneath his palm as my knee comes up hard with shaking, a fight-or-flight reaction racing through my veins.

His legs shift to block my knee with ease. His chuckle is this disgusting thing that washes over me on his hot breath.

“Yes, you will,” he promises.

And then the metal of the gun is pressing against my thighs. He shoves harshly at the hem of my dress, and all I can think about is how my leggings and jeans were all dirty in the laundry this morning. It was so cold today. I wanted to wear jeans. I should have worn jeans.

His fingers grip my panties, and I hear the fabric jerk and tear, forcing a gasp from my lungs and pain to shoot through my skull. Warmth heats my eyes and lashes as all my quick rational thinking starts to bleed into uncontrollable fear. I blink it away and focus on something else. The lights lining the main road are blurry, but I focus there. My vision blots, and I sickly hope I pass out before he begins. I can’t hang on to one more trauma in my life. It’ll break me. Even if this man doesn’t kill me, the memory of this night will.

I can’t look at him. I think of the cars that pass by. They all drive too fast. Everything is happening too fast.

None of it will matter soon.

“You’re gonna have to make more noise for me, sweetheart.” The gun shoves between my legs, and I clench them harder together. “Come on, sweet–”

And then his words cut away. His body stills against mine. I pull my attention back to the man and past his wide, expressionless eyes is another form. A larger form. A monstrous form of a man. He’s so big, he blocks out the light from the street beyond. His hand lifts swiftly from my attacker’s side, and the glint of his knife is barely seen before he shoves it in again. And again. And again.

I blink hard against the lightheadedness that’s threatening to overtake me.

An empty breath slips from the disgusting man’s lips and fans against my neck as he goes limp against my chest. The guy, my savior, he holds my attacker between us as he studies me in the silence. We’re so close, his hand lands above me against the brick wall. His bright blue gaze is interrupted by a cruel scar that slashes down his left eye. He, too, wears a mask. A white goalie mask, the kind they used in slasher movies in the eighties. It’s splattered with blood, and I can’t for the life of me decide if it’s real or not.

None of this feels real.

He pulls his knife back, and the weight of the body slumps down before dropping at my feet. He takes a single step closer, and I want to fall into him and hide away from my entire life in the safety of his arms. It’s the wildest sensation I’ve ever felt with a total stranger. Especially one that might just be Jason Voorhees reincarnated.

He saved me.

His hand remains pinned above my head as his other palm presses to my hip with a careful sense of intimacy. Why is he touching me, and why does that touch not send a cold panic crawling down my spine like it usually does? It’s then I realize I’m slipping down the rough wall. My knees give out, and he holds me against his chest.

“You’re okay,” he whispers on a warm, gravelly voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I blink slowly. I believe him. Blackness seeps in at the edges of my vision as the adrenaline and fear and anxiety finally crash down over my system, but unlike when I repeat that sentiment over and over again to myself like a broken mantra . . . I believe him.

Everything’s going to be okay.

SIX

Rowan

My knuckles split further, caking my skin in blood as I close my fingers around the body and heft it up with barely a grunt. With my eyes trained on every window on the buildings above me, I make sure no one is watching as I haul him towards the rusted dumpster and toss his worthless body inside.

“See what you made me do?” I growl, the rage in my mind surmounting, exploding into fragments of pain and anxiety.

Just another fucking thing for me to clean up. Another fucking thing to take care of. I thought I could multitask and try hockey again? What a fucking joke. My life is too far gone from the dreams I had when I was kid.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

I hate talking to the dead man, and yet I can’t stop the words from coming out, crawling through the dank alleyway.

I swipe up the gun that lies alone and forgotten in the rocks and slide it into the back of my jeans. I’ll look into its registration tonight. No one steps on my shoes. And no one–fucking no one–touches my girl.

Once that asshole’s temporarily taken care of, I walk over to where Atlas lies. She’s so still. More relaxed then I’ve ever seen her. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, I would assume she was dead.

If she’d been dead, it would have been bad for everyone around.

I would have revived that man just to kill him all over again.

“You’re a fucking mess,” I whisper down at her. Rage and affection war inside my chest though. I can’t contain the contradictory emotions that are almost violently gripping my insides.

This wasn’t fucking supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to fucking do this. To let myself be consumed by rage, by Atlas.

This is his fault.

It didn’t used to be like this. Five years ago, Atlas was just a job. A broken high school dropout that I had to annoyingly keep an eye on. And slowly, little by little, she’s become the only constant in my life. She’s my only fucking friend, and she doesn’t even know it.

So yeah. I’ve gotten a little too attached to my work.

Okay, I’m a fucking addict when it comes to her. So much so that I’d risk it all. My position on that fucking team, at that fucking school, all to protect her from shit like this.

I came here for her, and I’ll leave all of this shit for her. She’s the endgame. She’s the only person who makes sense in my life.

I made a rule years ago when I noticed how much she was consuming my thoughts in the beginning. There was only ever one rule: Never. Ever. Touch. Her.

My gaze shifts over her curves. She looks so pretty where she lies, but I know the position, and that filthy fucking ground can’t be comfortable. I swallow hard, tuck my old mask into the inside pocket of my jacket. And then I break my rule. I’m careful as I pick her up, cradling her within a protective circle of my arms and pulling her against my chest.

Touching her is instantly a bad fucking idea. I know it is. At this point, everything about her is branded into my every fucking fiber. Now, the feel of her skin will be too.

She’s soft against my chest. Her lips exhale annoyingly delicious breaths against my neck. I inhale her scent. Something mouthwatering that I can’t quite place. It’s intoxicating. It’s fucking dangerous.

My anger climbs high once again, and my body jerks as I haul her away and toward her place.

Has she no fucking idea what dangers lurk in the fucking corners? There are killers out here.

I mean, none of them hold a candle to me, but that’s not the point.

Why would she walk alone at night?

And that asshole. The one from her class. The one with the creepy mustache. What the fuck was he thinking, letting her walk home alone?

I’ll take care of him next and his lack of decent fucking gentlemanly behavior.

I gaze down at her, my features softening.

She has no idea what evil is out in the world.

But that’s why I’m here.

Even if I’m not supposed to be.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m not supposed to be here. I shouldn’t even have her in my fucking arms. I never wanted her to see me. I never wanted to come into contact with her, especially not like this. This wasn’t in the cards, and now it’s all gone to shit. I got too close. Too reckless.

And when my boss finds out, we’ll both be fucked. But I'll deal with him later too.

The thoughts spin in my head as I carry her through the back alleys. Her apartment isn’t far, and it’s easy to avoid traffic and watchful eyes. I’m used to it.

Once we’re at the morgue, I shift her in my arms so I’m able to reach into her book bag for the key to the side door.

My fingers burn when they graze against the luscious curve of her ass, and I pull them away quickly to fit the key into the door. I’ve studied the morgue. She lives beneath it; this side door is where she can enter the basement apartment without going through the area where the bodies are kept. I’m careful to close and lock the door behind me before I step down the long stairs and into her small home.

I blink as I take it in.

A fucking mess.

I’m used to that by now. Being in her space doesn’t make anger graze through my chest like clutter normally does to me.

This space feels sacred and lonely, and something about it calls to the solitude within my own soul. I’ve always watched her from the outside. A little window above her bed has an overgrown bush that I spend most nights tangled in.

But tonight, I’m here. With her. It’s strange being on the inside of her life. I never thought I would be.

I carefully take her to her bedroom and set her against the mattress. I stare down at her with a crease between my brows. Her dress is bloody, and her underwear is torn and tangled around one thigh.

The idea of that asshole touching her shakes through my entire body on barely contained rage. I look away from her destroyed clothes, and it’s an invasion to touch her further, but I have to wipe away the memory of this night from her mind.

My single broken rule screams at me from the back of my mind: Do not touch her!

And now I have to undress her.

Fuck!

I turn away from her and take a slow, steady breath. I can do this. It’s not a big deal. It’s not going to mess with my feelings and my overly possessive thoughts when it comes to this girl.

I push open the thin bifold door to her closet. It’s pathetic. It’s a space so small, a gym duffle bag wouldn’t fit on the floor. It’s practically bare, too, and my palms itch as I resist the urge to order her a whole new wardrobe. Would she appreciate that gesture too? New clothes. The kind she likes. The kind that hug every dip and curve and roll of her body. Fuck, she can fill out a sundress.

I look back at her motionless body on the bed and quickly avert my roaming eyes.

My fingers clasp around a pajama set that I haul over to the bed. Will she wake if I touch her? Will she wake with my fingers roving across her perfect skin?

The urge to feel her against me spikes in my chest. Her naked body against mine flashes through my mind, my cock burying inside her while her lashes flutter open with sudden ecstasy. She’d breathe that sexy sound of surprise on full lips, and it’d be a demand for me to pull myself from her wet cunt. She’d moan around the slickness of my shaft when I shoved into her mouth and down her throat.

How the fuck am I supposed to do this?

I swallow past the dryness of my tongue and reach for her boots, slowly unlacing them with my eyes focused on the pulse at her neck, waiting to see some change. Nothing happens through the whole methodical process of removing her articles of clothing one by one. Boots, socks. I pull the panties down her thighs and try not to think about my blood pulsing straight to my cock as I do so. I try to be clinical about it. I try not to stare too long at the smooth expanse of her skin. At the thin dress barely covering the space between her thighs.

The urge to bury my face there grips me, but I get ahold of myself as I strip away the ruined dress. Focus. This isn’t sexual. She’s just a girl. My girl.

No.

Fuck.

I toss the dress and her clothes to the side, shoving my hand down my face as a reward for getting past the hard part of the situation. When I open my eyes, the torn fabric of her panties is glaring back at me like a siren going off in the middle of this room.

Evidence.

If she wakes and finds those . . . God, that motherfucker just caused so much stress to her. What if this sets her back emotionally like the years after the incident with her mother? I lunge for them and grab the underwear and shove them into my pocket to keep for her. She doesn’t need the memory of what happened tonight hanging over her head as soon as she wakes up. She needs time to adjust. I can give her that time. I can give her anything she needs.

She barely stirs as I redress her in soft pajamas, holding my fingers back from pressing too hard against her curves. The shorts make her thighs look sexy and soft, cinching her figure just right while the top hugs her breasts perfectly and reveals a few inches of her stomach just beneath the curve of her . . .

Focus.

When I’m done, I look at her pulse, jumping steadily at her neck. My fingers wrap around it, but I put no pressure there.

It’d be so easy to end everything now. To rip the soul from her body and maybe with that, this obsession cleaving through my mind as well.

But . . .

I can’t.

The easy solutions are never the right ones.

And I don’t fucking want to. Even if it is my job.

My boss, Ed, and all of his demands can go fuck himself. Again.

The fact of the matter is, I want to be consumed with her. And I want her to consume me in return. I know what it’s like to be alone and lost. I won’t let that happen to her. She’ll never have to be alone.

Pulling away takes every ounce of self-control I possess. But I do it. I do it and have every intention of leaving. Of letting her wake up on her own, but I take a single step, feet skidding against something. And then I see the floor.

“Holy shit, beautiful,” I whisper to her.

A stream of clothes litters the carpet. It’s such a mess, I have no idea how I didn’t put us both into some freak accident just by walking in this room.

The back of my neck prickles. Downright fucking itches. My fingers twitch.

It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Ignore it, I growl internally. Don’t think about it!

My nostrils flare the longer and harder I stare at the mess on the floor. My gaze volleys back and forth between Atlas and the tangle of clothes on the carpet. What if she wakes up, gets out of bed, and trips over this? She could fall. Hit her head. Break her neck.

The image of her lying on the ground, skull cracked open, with no one to come help her sends a lance of pain down my spine. My fingers drum against the side of my leg.

No. I can’t let that fucking happen. She can’t die because of something so careless.

I won’t allow it.

If anyone is going to kill this maddening woman, it’s me and me alone.

Giving in to the impulse, I bend and gather the clothes into my arms and head straight to her laundry room. It’s a small nook in the corner hidden behind a door. I work quickly, shoving her dirty laundry into the machine, adding soap, and turning it on.

She’ll just have to dry them when she wakes up. I know it’s doubtful. She’ll wait, I’m sure. They’ll be left here for days before she remembers she needs clean clothes.

Satisfied, I turn to leave once again, but–

A small white cat sweeps in around my legs, a shrieking meow falling from its lips.

“Shhh,” I command.

It doesn’t give a fuck about my commands and makes the terrible noise again. My attention lands on its food bowl. Empty. Of course, it is.

I sift through the cabinets along her kitchenette until I find a bag that barely has any kibble left at the bottom. I empty the bag into the cat’s bowl, and it immediately starts purring as it eats.

Around the red collar on its neck is a golden tag that offers me his name.

“Dahmer,” I whisper to it as I stroke the cat’s soft ears and make a mental note to check in on what exactly Atlas has been feeding this cat with the fucked-up name.

I set the empty bag back in the cabinet and spot the catnip next to it. I shake a bit out on the rug by the sink, and the little white creature pounces on the spot immediately, its purrs shifting into overdrive as it rolls around on its back.

I smirk quietly, happy with my job well done. Everything’s in order here. She’s safe.

But what about the bathroom? Why didn’t I check in there for the mountain of clothes that is surely waiting? What if she wakes up and goes to wash the grime off her body from the altercation in the alley and falls and bangs her head on the bathroom sink?

I close my eyes slowly. I crack my neck, breathe in through my nose. My hand shoves into my pocket, and I check on the lacy fabric to confirm it’s still there. Safe. Sound. Everything’s fine.

I’ll just peek. Just a single fucking peek to make sure everything in there is up to par and safe.

My fingers tighten into fists as I march into the bathroom and see the mess in there as well. No, no, no. Why is she like this? Why doesn’t she take care of herself?

I work at a rapid-fire pace, tidying everything, using the cleaning supplies to wipe along her counters, sink, and to clean the toilet from top to bottom. Jesus, who needs this many bobby pins? I ignore the scattered pile on the counter and quickly finish up the tasks. A cursory clean of the bath and shower, and I’m ready to leave until–

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A tiny little 2 in 1 generic bottle glares at me from the corner of her bathtub. Is that the shampoo she uses?

And where the fuck is her conditioner?

She has gorgeous curly hair. Surely, she knows that she can’t use that shit shampoo on her hair. It’ll damage the curls. She needs conditioner, she needs a shower cap, a silk fucking bonnet . . .

For fuck’s sake.

I gather her bath supplies and promptly dump them into the trash.

Absolutely fucking not.

This simply won’t fucking do.

“You’re a fucking mess,” I whisper again, almost as if she can hear me.

That familiar pang of anxiety tunnels through my system, nestling tightly in my chest along with that familiar affection that’s reserved just for Atlas Ortega.

“Fuck.” I run a hand over my face. “Fuck.”

She needs me more than she fucking knows. I’m struck by the sight of her though. Once again, I can’t look away from the peace on her face. In the five years that I’ve followed her, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so peaceful . . .

She breathes deeply, a soft sigh that I feel deep within myself even. If we were together. Truly together like this . . . would we be . . . less broken?

Then her lashes flutter. And then I’m racing across the room like the creep that I am. I trip over the ungrateful cat and stumble into the wall so hard, I’m sure I’ve cracked the plaster. I barely grip the closet door handle before I hear the springs of the mattress shifting.

And then I’m watching through the thin slats of the world’s tiniest fucking closet.

SEVEN

Atlas

It’s a sharp, intensifying pain that wakes me. It’s a throbbing so acute that it almost sounds like a door slamming when I first wake.

Dahmer purrs happily against my chest, and he settles in right on top of me. I push him gently aside as I breathe through the pulsing in my head. A copper taste taints my tongue when I swallow. What happened to me?

I remember talking to that guy after class. Simon? And then I walked home.

Fear strikes through my heart as a voice slices through my memories.

Shut the fuck up!

I was attacked . . .

A shiver crawls through me and I sit up in the small bed. I’m wearing old pajamas that I haven’t worn since before my mother was taken to the institution. They’re two sizes too small and constrict against my skin. What the fuck happened to me?

I search the room. How did I get here? I scan the darkness; the moonlight shining in from the dormer window above my bed brings only a bit of light to the shadows.

But nothing seems out of place . . .

Did I do laundry this morning? I was running late, but I don’t remember picking up . . .

Pieces of my life are missing and hazy, and all I can do is grip my hands around my arms and hug myself for a long moment as if the action will stop me from falling apart.

I stand, and I don’t know why I expect the attacker to be sitting in my tiny living room when I turn the corner. But no one’s here. Everything is quiet. I stand alone and immobile for a long moment as I try to remember everything that happened.

I was attacked . . .

I was. I hadn’t hallucinated or dreamt it.

It happened.

I’m not crazy.

You’re gonna be a crazy bitch for the rest of your life just like your mother!

The words stab through my memories, causing an ache to build in my chest, but I shove them away. They don’t belong in the space where I’ve built a home for myself. They don’t belong here at all.

I bite my lip hard, and though I don’t remember all the details, I know it was real. My fear was real. It happened.

I just don’t have a clue what happened after.

“And as governor, I promise to keep America American!” The chubby politician smiles brightly across the news channel, but for once, I don’t hear the infuriating man or his grating voice.

I’m entirely focused on something else. My book bag sits in front of me on the morgue counter with my notebook and library book hanging out the top. But there, at the bottom, is a stain. A water stain. I dropped the bag when that man pushed me into the alley. I can almost feel the splatter of the mud puddle against my legs again.

When I turn my neck just slightly, a pain throbs against the underside of my jaw.

The details are still fuzzy but I think I was mugged last night . . .

I think.

Maybe in a haze, I walked home and changed and passed out . . . Wait! No. Someone saved me.

Gorgeous blue eyes flash through my thoughts. He had a scar there . . .

I try to push through the hazy memories, grasping at images and pulling them to the forefront of my brain. Simon . . . the mugger. My mind coalesces their images together until I shudder, wondering if Simon is the one who attacked me. But . . . no . . . Simon’s tall. And his tone is higher pitched than my attacker’s. It couldn’t have been him.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” Anna beams as she takes the barstool next to me and digs into her Chinese food for lunch.

Is it disturbing that I’m doing homework and she’s having lunch, and a dead body is patiently waiting on the table behind me for us to finish our break?

No. Just a normal Saturday morning.

It’s also only unsanitary if we go near the body and poke it with our forks and pens, but we’re smarter than that. Ish. Whatever, we’re used to it, and it reeks of bleach in here instead of decay. Not that it would smell at all due to the embalming process. Bodies are shoved with so many components and products to keep them looking pretty for their funerals, they become little more than plastic.

“N–” I pause before immediately telling her no. My automatic response tastes sour this time around on my tongue. It was a knee-jerk answer, but now I find myself thinking. I moved here ready to start a new life. I want to go to a party. I’ve never been, and now I’ve gotten two invitations in twenty-four hours. “Maybe?” I answer with a pinch of my brow, and it only makes her smirk at me.

“Maybe? How very rebellious of you, Atlas. You always say no when I ask you.” She teases me, and it only reminds me how quiet she was when I first started. She opens up when she’s comfortable. Especially when she’s excited about something.

And this, it’s fucking exciting apparently.

“But I didn’t say yes either.”

“But you didn’t say no . . .” Her smile is enormous and pure and infectious. She hasn’t been hurt by the world yet. I hope she never is.

“Maybe,” I whisper again with a small smile. And this time, I mean it a little bit more.

I could have died last night. And part of that is terrifying and makes me want to hide away in my room even more, but part of that makes me want to go running through the streets just to remind myself what it feels like to be alive. I can’t sink back into myself again. I can’t fall back into the habit of hiding from the world.

Someday, we’ll all just be bodies on a table, and none of this will matter anymore. I don’t want to be one of those people who reaches the end of the line and realizes I never did anything except wallow in my own self-pity.

I’m here today. I’m alive.

I need to start acting like it.

My phone buzzes against the metal table, and I quickly shut it up with the little button on the side before swiping open the message.

Hey

That’s it.

A random number with a one-word introduction.

Creepy.

Hey.

I answer and watch the three dots appear across my screen. Only for them to disappear and then reappear again moments later . . .

Nothing.

“Is that the hockey guy?” Anna side-eyes me with too much hopeful meaning in her tone.

“There is no hockey guy.” I glare at her side-eye, and I hate that everyone is talking about this unhinged hockey player who tore Nathan’s face off in my honor. What kind of fucked-up rumor is that?

Okay, it’s a fantastic rumor, and if the future Mr. Atlas Ortega isn’t that obsessed with me, then I don’t want it.

Nathan had it coming, and if someone did it because of how he treated me, then I’ll call it romantic instead of unsettling.

This is Simon. From Criminology. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay last night. I hated letting you walk home alone in the dark.

Yeahhhh. Me, too, buddy.

His image blurs again with that of my attacker’s, and I shake it off. It wasn’t the same person. Simon didn’t attack me. But my mind is betraying me, which hurts even more than the memories. With raw pain, I swallow slowly, and flashes of a gun flicker through my mind. A slow breath meets my lungs, and I try not to think about it. I’m alive; that’s all that matters. I tell myself that over and over again as my fingers compose a new message.

It’s fine. It was a good night for a walk.

Jesus, what is wrong with me? Lying is one thing, but I don’t have to oversell the mugging like it was a walk in the park.

I don’t want to beg, but my roommate is having that party tonight at our place . . .

Dot. Dot. Dot. My attention narrows to those three little marks at the end.

Come out with me for a bit. We don’t even have to stay at the party if you don’t want to.

My eyebrows are so high, I notice Anna watching my every facial expression with feral excitement. I hold the phone for a long moment, and too many things slam through my head. What if I’m mugged two nights in a row?

Not likely.

I mean, aren’t there statistics that say you’re more likely to die by coconut to the head than getting mugged twice in a row? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere. Unless I’ve been fed false coconut information . . .

What was it that piece of shit said again? “You pissed off the wrong people.”?

I won’t get attacked if I don’t leave the house. If I’m quiet and don’t cause trouble, nothing bad will ever happen to me. Again.

I’m sure the little old ladies who stayed inside knitting all day thought that too. But they always end up here. Dead and stiff.

Except shit like last night only proves that it’s a huge risk. I can’t live my life hiding away in the basement of a morgue because I’m terrified my father will do the same thing to me that he did to my mother.

Why does the decision feel like a double-edged sword?

“Want to go to a party with me tonight?” I ask out loud, forcing Anna to make the decision for me.

An animalistic sound squeaks out of her small body instantly, and for a second, I fear she’s going to keel over in pain. But then she jumps up and down, emanating noises, and I swear I’ve never seen her this excited. Like, she’s always happy, but this is next-level, we’re going to Disneyland happiness right now.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I whisper as she continues to make squeals and strange happy dances around me and the dead body. Poor hit-and-run guy. If his ghost is over our shoulder sneering at our lack of decorum, I wouldn’t be surprised. He’ll have to put in a complaint with management. Maybe haunt us for a few days in revenge. Whichever works faster in the ghost world, I guess.

Okay.

Great. It’s a date!

I overthink that little exclamation point he added at the end for far too long. Is it overeager? Am I overeager? What does it mean? Is he right?

Is it . . . a date?

EIGHT

Rowan

A date.

Atlas has a date. With some asshole who’s way too into his facial hair. Freddy Mercury lookin’ ass bitch.

What the actual fuck?

I watch her through the dormer window as the girl–Anna–is dancing like a lunatic behind her and then she’s grabbing Atlas’s hand, then they’re both dancing and shaking their asses, giving the poor dead fool on the table more action than he’s probably ever seen his entire fucking life.

“Fuck,” I hiss to myself. I crack my neck sideways and curl my fingers into the fabric in my pocket. I hid her panties in my bathroom drawer after changing this morning, but as soon as they were gone, a cycle of anxiety tore through me. They were back in my pocket within minutes. The rigid feel of the lace brushing back and forth beneath my fingertips calms me.

Slightly.

He’s dating her, but I’m the one crawling out of her closet at six in the morning after she falls asleep. We are not the same, my dude.

A weighted sigh shoves from my lungs.

She’s going on dates while I’m stuck in a goddamn bush just watching her have a life. A life she deserves, honestly. The only fucking problem is she’s going to live that shit without me.

Sure, I swore up and down that I wouldn’t touch her. That was my one fucking rule. And after breaking it yesterday, I’ve become addicted to the feel of her soft skin. I want more. And if anyone else gets to touch that skin, I’ll rip them apart from the inside out.

With a sigh, I close out of the app I installed on my phone to receive her messages. I can’t watch them flirt in real time. It’ll ruin me. It’ll ruin him. I’m already in deep fucking shit with the man I killed last night and with rearranging Nathan’s pathetic face . . . I can’t add another dead body to my roster so soon.

I need to exercise some self-fucking control. The thing is, when it comes to her, I lose all reason and don’t want to find it.

My hands shake and my mind reels. Maybe I could go to this guy’s house. Drop in and . . .

And what? Kill some college kid for asking her out?

Yes.

No!

Fuck.

Ten seconds ago, I was on the moon because she lied to the guy about last night, and now I have to sulk and watch her celebrate him asking her out. Our relationship is so fucked up.

Because you don’t have a relationship, an annoying little voice at the back of my mind reminds me. She doesn’t even know I fucking exist.

My phone lights up, and I look down at the new text on my burner app.

Where are you?

The unsaved number is one I recognize instantly. Ed hates to be kept waiting. He’s my boss but not. I’m like an independent contractor. I work for a lot of men. Most of them terrifying and powerful.

But I don’t belong to them. As I remind Ed day in and day out.

So, Ed will have to wait.

My phone flashes again, and I almost think it’ll be Atlas’s little boyfriend messaging her once more, but it’s a number I don’t actually know. And when your job is to be an unknown man, it happens a lot.

Hey, this is Dace. There’s a party tonight with the team. Come out with us.

Dace’s annoyingly laid-back attitude bursts through my text like I didn’t fuck up our teammate just last week. Why would he invite me? They’re all pretty pissed I got myself kicked off the team, fucking up their games for weeks after. Could be a setup for payback. I have to calm down and remind myself that these guys are college kids and not the Russian Mafia. He probably just wants me to buy him beer or pot, and I’m plotting to kill him if things go south.

But more importantly, I’ve just been invited to Atlas’s date.

And I wouldn’t miss that for the fucking world. With a smirk, I slide out from my hideaway bush, and before jogging back to my car to meet men who very much might ambush me some day, I send Dace a one-word reply and even add a little happy face emoji at the end that I think really conveys my feelings.

Sure 🙂

I park only six blocks away from Atlas. It calms me a bit to know I’m not that far from her, but it also stresses me the fuck out to know these assholes aren’t that far from her either.

Initially, I was hired to make sure Atlas Ortega didn’t cause waves. My job has quietly changed in the last few years. I went from her stalker to her bodyguard, and I swear to god, if any of these fuckers ever touch her, I’ll burn this whole city to ash.

I walk the last few blocks to the warehouse at the edge of town. Thick trees shadow the back side of it while busy streets line the front. The old structure appears abandoned, but only in an exterior sense. I pull open the black iron door on the side of the brick building and step inside. The entry loft alone cost more than most people’s houses. A bar area is just to the right with a full rack of expensive knives that he keeps on display simply for cutting the lemons in his cocktails. The brick is exposed across that wall, but the industrial lighting above was imported from Europe. Ed likes to tell everyone about his finances. As if the fact that he wipes his ass with golden-lined toilet paper is supposed to impress anybody in his fucking social circles. My mother was born with wealth. Ed bought his way into it. You can tell the difference. My mother used to tell me that money talks. But wealth whispers.

Ed doesn’t know how to fucking whisper.

“Rowan, my boy, so glad you could make it.” Ed smiles a perfect politician’s smile as he walks around the table to shake my hand and clap my back in one swift move. His dark brown hair shines in the light, and I try not to stare at how unnatural the color looks against the thinness of his hairline.

I nod but remain silent, choosing to fold my hands in front of myself and square my posture. I don’t talk a lot. It’s not beneficial for me to speak. Only to listen.

And if you listen long enough, people will tell you all the little things they never say. Like right at this moment, every single man in the room, standing just at Ed’s back, is telling me they suck his asshole for a living.

And they’re afraid of me. I like that. It reminds me of the first time I realized Ed was afraid of me.

“How’s the girl?”

“She was attacked.” I pause and watch his body language intently.

I notice every twitch of his ears, his nose. His facial features never change from that shitty look of fake concern. But he shifts backwards. He puts space between him and me. He’s a fool for that. He thinks if I wanted to kill him, I wouldn’t jump across the space that separates us just to wring his fat neck.

“Yes.” He clears his throat, then repeats, “Yes. Well, you are taking a rather long time to get her out of my city.” The implication is heavy in his words, but my vacant stare is heavier.

“I have everything under control.” I grab the weapon from the back of my jeans with calculated malice, and every man in the room takes a step back. A tremble of fear vibrates through them, and I can almost taste it like acid in the air. Knowing they fear me eases something inside my erratic soul. It shows that despite all their money and influence, I’m the one with the real power here.

Money can be made. Power is a special creation. It takes years of cruel affection and long-forgotten scars to create power and control. Even Ed has a hand in the monster he made me to be.

I throw the gun on the table between us. It clanks down hard, rattling through the open space harshly. Blood coats the metal, and now the dry red flecks taint the glossy white countertop that he had custom built just for this room.

Why anyone would ever use white decor, I’ve no idea. Too easy, too dirty. Too hard to clean. The dusting of blood makes my fingers twitch and my brain itch.

I ignore it. I try to ignore it.

“Do not ever send someone in on my job again.”

Fear is tantalizing, immediate, and satisfying. His fingers tremble, and his gaze widens on the gun. I wonder if he recognizes it for what it is and who it belongs to. That scum in the alleyway was careless with his property. It’s so easy to search through the system and find who the gun is registered to.

Nobody knows how to commit a proper crime these days.

“Wh–what did you do, Rowan?” Ed asks carefully. “Joseph was a friend!”

“If the friend you hired was important to you, you can pick him up at the landfill on the south side of town. Though I’d hurry if I were you. He’ll be buried beneath your beautiful city’s weekly trash soon.” I brush off my hands on the sides of my jeans and head toward the door. “Start running background checks on the sloppy criminals you choose to hire, Ed. You’re not in Ohio anymore. Hire the wrong person and your entire empire could come crumbling down. Fuck around with the wrong people too much . . .” I throw him a smile. “You could just end up dead.”

I shoot him one final glance before swinging open the enormous door.

“Remember where your loyalties lie, boy!” he screams after me, his bellowing voice carrying all through his pretty warehouse as my boots crunch over the rock and broken glass outside.

The single problem with that statement is I’ve never been loyal to that self-centered, political piece of shit.

Not even when he married my mother.

NINE

Atlas

There’s a gift inside my apartment when I get home. It’s carefully wrapped by someone with an expert hand, every crease and fold done with the utmost care. There’s not a wrinkle or rip in sight. I wonder how many hours it took of meticulous finger work to make everything look so . . . perfect.

And I wonder if whoever did it would work my body just as nicely.

With a soft smile, I shake that thought off as I pick up the gift and carry it to my bed. My fingers quickly undo the wrapping, trying to be careful, but ultimately, my impatience has me tearing through it quickly.

This isn’t the first time I’ve received a gift. Nor the second, nor the third.

I lost count after, like, the twentieth?

The first time a package showed up outside my door, I’d been frightened. I almost hadn’t opened it, afraid that whatever was inside it would be a bomb or something poisonous. It had sat on my dresser, glaring at me with what felt like an accusation.

I couldn’t bring myself to turn it in to the police for several reasons. What if my paranoia was all in my head? What if they called me crazy like they did my mother? What if they hauled me away once again, only this time, I didn’t survive?

So there it sat.

Until one day, I threw a fuck-it up to the air, prayed over my mom’s old rosary, and then got the courage to open it.

I’d yelped as the lid had fallen open, revealing the contents inside.

Food certificates to all my favorite restaurants and a pair of fuzzy winter gloves.

The gift had been random, and I’d been skeptical at first. Until I used the certificates. They’d helped tide me over, considering I had little money to my name. I still have the gloves. They’re my favorite.

Like clockwork, more things kept arriving. Sometimes monthly, sometimes every four months or so. There was no time frame, and no matter how hard I tried to spy, I could never figure out who was sending me stuff.

Not him, that’s for certain. He’d written me off long ago.

No, this was the work of someone else. Someone special. For a long time, I liked to think they were from my mother. It wasn’t true, of course. We were broke long before they took her from me. She’d never be able to afford the gifts I got. That and the institution doesn’t even allow her to take my phone calls; they’re definitely not going to allow her a pair of scissors to cut paper to wrap a gift in.

But it didn’t stop me from imagining they were from her. It helped ease the pain the first few years after.

Soon, the boxes at my door migrated inside the house, waiting for me in plain sight on dressers and tables. It’d freaked me the fuck out at first, and I’d torn through my apartment, trying to find someone that I instinctually knew wasn’t there at all. I would have felt it if they were.

Eventually, I accepted them without question, even if the curiosity persisted in the back of my mind. They were subtle items at first: my eighteenth birthday cake, a necklace with a little silver bird spreading its wings from an open cage, shoes, you name it, I’ve been gifted it.

Now, I take the pretty wrapped basket and set it on my bed. This month’s gift is larger than usual. I immediately start pulling the contents from the basket. It’s a self-care package and probably a reminder to me to take better care of myself, something I’m absolutely shit at.

Face masks, sheet masks, jade rollers, and essential oils all line the inside. There’s a silk bonnet and pillowcase, a fuzzy hair band, and several dark scrunchies. My face heats as I pick through the things, a strange warmth flowing through me as I see all the items I’ve been gifted.

I’ve never gotten a gift like this before, and that’s probably sad to say.

God, what kind of lame-ass person gets emotional over essential oils?

Me. Fucking me.

At the bottom are scented candles, a shower steamer, expensive body wash, shampoo, and several bottles of conditioner . . . The gifts continue deep down in the basket that seems endless. The more I uncover, the wilder they get. My fingers touch the edges of several matching bra and panty sets. I’m almost afraid to touch them, but I eventually pick them up, noting how they’re my exact size and in my favorite colors.

I set them aside and dig through it again, pulling out clinking metal. When I hold it up at eye level, my mouth drops open.

Handcuffs.

I’ve been gifted with sexy handcuffs.

“What the fuck?”

What else is in here?

One by one, every gift becomes known, and this isn’t the first time the gifts have reminded me that they’re from an admirer of sorts.

Cherry-flavored lube. A single black feather. A fully charged vibrator ready to go. And . . .

A huge, thick dildo.

“Holy fuck.”

I remember a girl in class once whispering to a friend that her boyfriend felt replaced by a mini pocket vibrator that she’d bought for her birthday. This thing . . . my fingers don’t even wrap around it fully. It could replace two boyfriends. Maybe more. It’s bright pink and curved to mimic a real human dick, with a thick base that I know would touch my clit just right.

A shiver trembles through me as my thighs shift with the thought of it.

“This is wild,” I whisper. Whoever got these for me must be rich because I know for a fact none of this shit comes cheap. In fact, none of the gifts I’ve received from this mystery person have been cheap.

They bought me my phone for fuck’s sake.

I know I shouldn’t accept half of the shit in here, but every single time a box shows up when I’m feeling low is another day I stay alive. Life is hard, and I barely scrape by as is. The scholarship I received only covered tuition. I wouldn’t have been able to afford my textbooks if this person hadn’t bought them for me.

Should I be afraid that whoever is doing this will eventually come to collect? Maybe. But in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of everything.

Because I fucking deserve it.

And the gifts came just in time too.

I have a date tonight, and I want to show up looking my absolute best.

“Thanks, whoever you are,” I say as I clip the handcuffs to my bedpost and fluff up my pillow to hide them for later. I keep the chocolates on my dresser and hide away the other sexy toys in my small bedside table.

Tonight will be a fun night even if the party is a bust.

And I hope my mystery admirer knows how grateful I truly am for that.

TEN

Atlas

It takes about six point two seconds when I step into the party until I’m reminded exactly why I don’t do parties. Six point two fucking seconds and I want to nope right out of there, go back home, and curl up with the stale bag of Takis I know is hiding in my kitchen cabinet.

I’d take a burnt tongue and red fingers over . . . whatever the fuck this is. Is that guy having a seizure or dancing?

Music literally spills out of the frat house along with bodies. For a second, it reminds me of every scene in a zombie apocalypse ever. The kind where the walking dead trip over each other to run towards loud noises.

Loud noises. Aaahhh.

I hate it here.

I live for the quiet. I live and breathe it. Though the bad part about it is, it gives me too much time to think, and it seems I’m doing way too much of that lately.

Normal, I tell myself. You’re just a normal college girl, out to have fun with her friend.

Anna takes the party in from beside me, her own eyes as wide and as curious as I feel inside. We stick out like sore thumbs. Physically, we’re opposites, Anna and me. I’m on the shorter, thicker side, and the clothes I wear usually reflect my mood for the day. Sometimes I like to hide behind loose-fitting clothes. Nights like tonight, it’d be a crime not to show off my body. Sweaty and chafing thighs be damned. My long, dark curls have been fluffed with my new products, falling over my softer features.

Meanwhile, Anna is a red-headed bombshell, and she doesn’t even realize it. Tall, a bit gangly, and with a thousand little freckles highlighting her sharp features, Anna leans towards wearing more conservative clothes. Wide-leg jeans that hide her figure, but somehow make her look retro at the same time. She’s a goddamn supermodel.

Her eyes are a bright green as they find mine, and she’s practically vibrating where she stands, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Come on!” she urges, grasping my wrist in her hand.

For once, someone’s touch doesn’t make me flinch. Her palm is warm, and she tugs me into the fray of bodies. I lean into her familiarness.

I hate being surrounded like this, but I take a breath to try and calm my racing heart.

I’m not sure if it’s better or worse inside. While there is space to walk, it still feels crowded in a way I’m not used to. We find a nook over by the couch and head toward it.

“Has he texted you yet?” Anna asks.

She doesn’t say who, and I already know who she means.

Slowly, I take out my phone and swipe across it. Sure enough, Mustachio has sent me a message.

Are you here yet?

Yes.

My reply is quick.

His is quicker.

Where are you?

By some orange couch that smells like a raccoon died inside it.

On my way.

I want to cry with laughter, a sensation that feels foreign to me, because he knew exactly what couch I was fucking talking about. Is this some sort of national frat house monument? Raccoon rot couch? Weird.

“He’s on his way.”

No sooner than the words are out of my mouth, he is striding through the dark room. His smile is wide, and he’s staring at me like he can’t believe I’m real. Either that or I have something on my face. Or maybe the raccoon couch is permeating onto me.

“You came,” he says with a tad too much excitement.

“Yeah.” Fuck me and my shit choices in life, I did.

There’s an awkward beat of silence in which I have no fucking idea what to say. Anxiety starts to get the best of me. Why did I think I could do this? I can’t do this. I have no idea what it takes to be at a party. I’m in my twenties, and I don’t know how to party. No idea what it is to be normal. My life would have been normal. I would have grown up like anybody else. I would know how to relax at a fucking party, and instead I’m–

Anna clears her throat and nudges me with a sharp elbow to the ribs. At least, I think that’s what she was aiming for. With our height difference, she ends up nudging me in the eye.

I blink at her swinging elbow, tearing myself out of my own panic.

“Right.” I nod at Anna. “This is Anna my . . . friend . . .” The word surprisingly doesn’t taste so bad on my tongue. And while we might not be close, sharing secrets and whispering outside of working hours, I do like Anna.

Huh. I made a fucking friend in college. Maybe I am doing okay in life.

“Anna, this is . . .” Fuck, what was his name? “This is . . .” I cringe at myself. “I wanna say Alvin?”

Mustache throws his head back and laughs. “It’s Simon, actually.”

Stupid.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “I knew it was one of the Chipmunks.”

Simon laughs again. It’s a pleasant laugh, though, and he doesn’t look at all offended that I forgot what his name was for a second there.

“Nice to meet you, Anna.” He barely spares her a glance. “Wanna come with me?”

I blink and try not to let alarm bells go off in my head, but they’re blaring up a storm. Never go to a second location.

“Where?” My brows pull together, and I’m sure I look like I’m about to tell him to fuck off.

“Just thought we could go outside by the pool or something. It’s really chill in the backyard. I think you’ll like it.”

Jesus, Atlas, will you fucking relax? He’s not going to axe murder you at a party full of people.

Wait, will he?

I look him over. No, he doesn’t seem the type. His arms look too skinny to carry me.

The day I find someone who doesn’t let out a fucking grunt when they try to pick me up will be the day I fall to my knees with stars in my eyes.

Fuck, is the bar really on the floor for men?

“The pool, right, okay that sounds good. I don’t want to swim though.”

“You don’t have to.”

Then slowly, almost carefully, he reaches for me. I don’t flinch. I relax and I let it happen. And when his fingers close over mine, I don’t want to claw his hand off. It doesn’t feel restricting; it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hurt me.

In fact, it feels nice, and I find myself squeezing his hand back, which draws a wider smile from him as he tugs me away. I look back at Anna to mouth an apology, but her smile on her face is so big it looks like she might physically combust with excitement as she waves me away.

We step out through the sliding back door, and the music is drowned away here where pretty string lights hang across the patio. A few dozen people are scattered in corners and throughout the pool, but he was right; it’s calmer here. The tension in my shoulders eases away.

I guess I can be normal after all. But as the music filters into the night and the screams of laughter carry through the open door, a shiver shakes through me. My hands brush up and down my bare arms, and I hate myself for not grabbing my black jacket before we left. But this is different. The air isn’t cold and chilling.

Something else is.

I’m . . . comfortable. And yet there’s a huge part of me that feels like I’m being . . . watched. Observed. I don’t know how to explain it except that there’s a terrible itching at the back of my neck that I can’t seem to sate, no matter how much my nails dig into the fragile skin there.

I try not to look so obvious as I do it. I try not to look like a freak with too many nerves to be contained beneath my skin. Yet Simon is all smiles and gentlemanly behavior. I try to ignore how suspicious it makes me, and with a bit of focus, I can. He’s nice. I know he is genuinely so. But there’s always a kernel of doubt when I meet new people.

I don’t have the best experience with anyone to think they have pure intentions.

But Simon is nice. He hasn’t touched me anywhere I don’t want. He’s kept his hands mostly to himself. And when he smiles, it lights up his eyes.

If I let myself, I’m sure falling for him would be easy.

Unfortunately, my life has never been easy.

There’s another charge in the air, so heavy, so hard, that I finally whip my gaze around the party, squinting through the sea of bodies. But nothing appears out of the ordinary. Am I imagining something that isn’t there?

Nausea curls low in my stomach at the thought. No. No, I’m not imagining anything. I can’t be. Can I?

I swallow past my sudden nerves, fingers reaching impulsively for Simon’s wrist just to ground myself to him.

The action pulls his attention my way, and his brows furrow with concern as we stand quietly by the pool. “Are you alright?”

“I just have to go to the bathroom.” I blurt the words out on a strangled pitch and quickly try to recover. “And maybe get some water?”

Not a single drop of alcohol has passed through my lips. I don’t like drinking. I don’t like the way it makes me feel. And I definitely don’t like how it makes me feel in public.

“Of course.” He stands first, taking my hand and tugging me to him.

Weaving through the party makes me a sweaty mess, so that by the time we make it to the bathroom, I’m grateful. Once inside of the half bathroom, I splash water on my face, staring at my reflection in the oval mirror.

“You’re normal,” I tell my reflection, and for a second, I picture my own self in the mirror laughing back at me and saying, “No, you fucking aren’t.”

I silence that voice in my head and take several deep, steadying breaths.

It’s not until I feel a semblance of calm that I go back out into the hall. Simon is there, holding a bottle of water. His concern is genuine.

“You okay? Do you want to leave?”

I inspect the water bottle, pretending to contemplate the brand. When I’m confident it hasn’t been tampered with, I open it and take a swig.

If he notices how paranoid I act, he doesn’t say anything. All of this has me on edge. I’m grateful he doesn’t point out the biggest source of my insecurities. It’s sweet that he pretends they don’t exist.

“I’m okay.” The lie doesn’t even taste bitter. If I keep saying, someday it’ll be true, right?

“You sure? I can walk you home if you’d like.”

I appreciate that more than he knows. But I need to get over this feeling that’s sliding down my spine. Maybe I’m not being watched at all. Can I even rely on my own senses and instincts at this point? I need to get over it and enjoy the party I forced myself to go to.

“I’m good,” I say with a touch more firmness than before.

I’m fucking great.

He still looks unsure, but just nods. When he doesn’t reach for my hand this time, I wonder if what I feel in my chest is disappointment. He was holding my hand before. Am I really so odd that I’ve already alienated the only guy that’s shown interest in me in a long time?

I mean sure, maybe I’m a girl who spends more time with dead people than I do living people, and maybe Anna and I are the weirdos who watch too many murder documentaries and practice wiggling out of and breaking zip ties in our downtime, but I’m not unlikable . . . right?

I breathe in through my nose. Maybe I need to be the one to take initiative here. I mean, it’s not like Simon is a total troll. I like him. I do. He’s perfectly nice. Perfectly normal. Maybe I need to be the one to reach out this time. Maybe I’ve been off-putting. Maybe he thinks I’m not into him.

Am I into him?

God, I’m such a mess. But I won’t know unless I try, right?

He walks ahead of me, and my gaze zeroes in on his hands at his sides.

Just woman up and take it, I tell myself. Just fucking do it.

I reach my hand out, grasping at his fingertips. I clasp our fingers together tightly, and Simon throws a glance over his shoulder, smiling and responding with pure kindness. He slows his steps then with a casual smile that touches his eyes. He pauses entirely, and then his other hand is warm against my cheek as he leans into me with that soft smile. His head tilts toward mine, and I instinctively lift my chin to meet him halfway.

My heart stumbles. He’s going to kiss me.

But it’s in that moment, in that shift of his body, someone shoves into Simon’s back. He stumbles forward, and I catch sight of deep blue eyes. His big body brushes along my arm as he passes, his gaze locked hard on mine. A deep pink line slashes down his stare. It’s only a single second of time, but my body is so intently aware of every inch of his skin against mine. A buzz of electricity alights within me.

And just like that, the sensation is back. The itchiness on the back of my neck, the nerves flowing through my system, putting a pressure against my chest and my throat. A tingle of awareness zaps through me. It feels like I’ve been struck by lightning.

Our gazes hold. His dark, daring. Familiar.

A flash of piercing blue eyes glaring at me from beneath a slasher mask. Blood. Pain. Arms cradling me gently. It’s like in another universe, we’ve spent a secret lifetime together. I know him and yet . . . I don’t.

I pull back from Simon, and his confusion creases a hard line between his brows. I reel back in recognition as the memories assault me.

I knew I hadn’t imagined it! I knew someone had been there that night.

And as I stare at this perfect stranger slipping through the crowd, I know I need more answers.

ELEVEN

Rowan

I memorize every spot he touches. I memorize every caress, every smile, and in my head, I’ve already peeled the skin from his hands and chopped off every fucking finger for daring to touch her skin.

His only saving grace is that he hasn’t made a move. He hasn’t kissed her. Hasn’t groped her.

Maybe Freddy Mercury here is a good guy. Maybe . . .

Nope. I still fucking hate him. I wasn’t so sure before, but seeing him with her just made up my whole damn mind: I can definitely kill a college kid. I’ll bury him on the football field and let the fans visit his burial site every Friday night. It’d be a good resting place for Freddie.

Every time I see him reach in her direction, every time she fucking smiles at something he says, pain prickles beneath my skin.

I know I look like a brooding, creepy asshole hiding in the shadows of the fucking party, but I can’t help it. Where she goes, I walk. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite the fact that I know going to her will kill me. I don’t give a single fuck.

I want her.

I need her with an ache.

And she’s here with someone else, oblivious to the fact that I even exist.

Until she comes out of the bathroom and our eyes lock together just before her fingers lock against him. Before she angles her head almost as if she means to let him kiss her.

The thin black dress flirts against her smooth thigh, cinching perfectly at her waist and drawing too much attention to the dips, curves, and rolls of her body. He touches her cheek. Everything in me snaps. I frown as I take her in, as I move on instinct, shoving him before his fucking lips can touch hers. I wonder what she sees when she stares at me. Does she recognize me? Do my scars frighten her?

If they don’t, they should.

She has no idea how dangerous I truly am. She has no fucking idea that as easily as I fucking saved her, I could also fucking kill her.

I want to.

Especially when she flicks her gaze away without a single fucking ounce of interest and presses closer to him like he’s her saving grace.

I try to contain my rage, but it’s uncontainable. It’s unavoidable.

She acts like I don’t exist.

She saw me and looked right through me.

She’s my world. My beautiful fucking obsession. And yet to her?

I am nothing.

TWELVE

Atlas

He trails after us the rest of the party. He only talks for a brief moment to the flirty hockey player I met at the arena. Anna is in that circle of friends now, her shy eyes watchful but her laughter carrying in this way that makes me wish she would come out of her shell more. The guy laughs hard and tries even harder to engage my mystery stalker in a game of beer pong, but he ends their discussion the moment I leave the room.

I can’t pretend he’s not there, and yet, I have to. I know it’s him. He’s the one from the alley. The one who saved me. The one who changed my clothes. And he’d let me believe I’d imagined it all. Let me question my mental stability for a moment too long even. But I know it was him. I fucking know it.

The rest of the party, I can barely concentrate on anything Simon says.

All I can feel is that dark gaze on my backside, and when I turn to search, I can see him in the shadows, hiding, pretending like he’s not staring at me.

If he’s going to pretend, then I fucking will too.

So I act like he doesn’t exist. I think I do an okay job at pretending. After all, I’ve been pretending to be okay even after the incident. This is no harder than that.

This all feels like a game though. A dangerous fucking game of cat and mouse. Who is he, and why the fuck is he pushing his way into my life?

The bigger question is why do I fucking like it so much?

The anxiety fades, and suddenly, a safety settles over me. Like a net. One that I grasp for. Wherever I move, he’s there. I know his eyes are flicking over everything. From the water I choke down to every touch Simon gives me.

He’s a great, hulking predator. Watching. Waiting.

And a part of me feels like he’s protecting.

Am I fucked in the head for thinking that, feeling that? I don’t know how I know, but I know he’s not going to hurt me. He protected me in the alley for a reason. So why is he hiding?

A good Samaritan doesn’t take unconscious girls home and strip them naked . . . do they?

I remember catching a brief flash of him at the hockey game. Of that scarred face.

Is he who I think he is?

The infamous Rowan Stone? At first, it all sounded unhinged and unrealistic.

Sounds fucking romantic now.

It takes everything in me not to march over to him and demand answers. Instead, I pull away from Simon and make my excuses.

“I’m going to head home,” I yell to Anna over the booming of music.

Simon pauses mid-drink but Anna only smiles.

“I’m having fun. Dace is going to drive me home.”

I arch a brow at her as I eye the arrogant, flirty hockey player.

“No. Gross it’s not like that.” Anna’s smile only grows when the guy hands her the small white ball. She becomes so serious when she eyes the cups at the other end of the table. Everyone waits. She shoots. It arcs. It bounces across one cup. And lands solid in the next.

The room erupts in cheers for my friend who is clearly a secret bad ass.

She shrugs it off, a sort of, it-was-nothing adorable little shrug. And then I’m hugging her and she’s hugging me and she’s whispering something about taking all of Simon’s dick like I deserve but I shove her off with a smirk before she can finish her overly-excited goodbye to me.

“Can I walk you home?” Simon asks, trailing me as I walk to the door.

“No. I’m fine. I’m okay.”

He offers once more as I make my way down the front steps, but I don’t want him to.

I want to keep playing this game with my mystery stalker.

I realize right then that Simon’s nice, but the fact of the matter is that I’m not normal. And he deserves someone who can give him a nice, normal little life.

Not someone like me, whose entire body feels alight with the attention of a creep hiding in the shadows. Someone like me who is suddenly feeling like my body is tipsy on secret attention.

It doesn’t make any sense, and yet I feel it just the same.

The thrill of a chase I didn’t even know was happening.

I shift my thighs together, and walking home is agony with every step I know he’s watching. Something hot and wanting pulses in me. There’s a nervousness at the base of my spine. I can feel his steps with every turn down every alley.

I can feel him behind me, but each time I glance over my shoulder, I’m alone.

Until I see the morgue up ahead.

I turn the corner and halt in my tracks, my shoes skidding across light gravel as a figure steps out of the shadows, up ahead. My heart slams against my ribs, demanding me to move. He’s nearer to my apartment than I am. His body is dark, hidden away on the outskirts of a flickering streetlight. The faint buzz of electricity matches the nervous energy in my veins. He looms there with something held in his hand, and that deadly little mystery fact alone sends a shiver across my arms.

I’m reminded of the slasher movies my mother and I used to watch when I was a teen. It’s like living in a scary movie.

How did he get ahead of me?

How is he blocking my path?

And fuck, why is this so hot?

I tread the outskirts of the road, watching him watching me. It’s like he’s hunting me. I pass him by, and his dark figure doesn’t move an inch. He lets me go, but I feel him there. It feels like his every breath is on the back of my neck, caressing, demanding. It’s dangerous. It’s a thrill.

And I’m high on the sensation.

I all but run the last few yards to my place, my fingers fumbling against my keys, my breaths coming out labored. It’s a strange mixture of fear and excitement. With anxious nerves, the keys slip from my cold fingers and clatter to the ground, forcing me to rush even faster. I have to get inside. The slamming of my heartbeat heats my ears. Any second, he could come out from the shadows and grab me. He could push his way through my door.

Would I let him?

Is it weird if I say yes?

I’d fight him. Of course, I’d fight him. But I can’t help but think of how alive I’d feel beneath his hands.

Everything pieces together in this instant. I suddenly know: He sent me the gifts. He sends me birthday cards every year. He saved me. His essence is scattered everywhere across my life, and I’m just now seeing it.

I push inside the apartment and slam the door behind me. The metal lock slides in place, and then I’m peering out the small window.

But no one’s there. The street is empty, and the golden streetlight above shines steadily across the silent night.

When I’m inside, I wonder if he’s watching me through another window. I take it all in slowly, going into the bathroom, buying time to think this through.

Will he come into my apartment?

Will he hide in the shadows inside?

Is he already inside?

I don’t know what’s come over me. My body is too hot, too wired. Because of him.

He broke Nathan. He took care of that man in the alley. He’s been following me.

That should be frightening. It is.

But it’s also hot in a consuming way.

What does that say about me? That I like to be protected? Does it make me weak? I don’t care. I’ve been strong my whole life. I’ve been dealing with so much shit that the prospect of being out of control. Of being stalked and followed and protected by this man is not a bad one.

For the first time in years, I feel safe. Because of him.

When I walk back out of the bathroom and over to my bed, I know from the sensation slithering down my spine. I know he’s here.

And I’m about to drive him as mad as he’s driving me.

THIRTEEN

Atlas

“Come out!” I yell into the darkness of my own room.

Dahmer lifts his tired head, his hooded, judgmental green eyes looking up at me like I’m a madwoman.

I grip the closet handle and throw open the sliding door. The wire hangers scrape, and the thin dresses flit in the aggression of my discovery. Which is nothing. There’s absolutely nothing but a few forgotten dust bunnies residing within the little closet.

But there’s more too. My fingers trace a hole that’s indented into the wall at the back of the closet. It looks like a car tried to make a fast escape out of my room and failed. It’s large with cracking white paint that’s flaked onto the carpet. This hasn’t always been here. It’s massive. I’d have seen it when I moved in and every time I do fucking laundry.

As I stare at the evidence, I realize I’ve been too busy and too self-absorbed to really consider what he’s been doing. How long has he been a part of my life and I’ve been too in my head to question it?

My palms rest against my hips as I go through the sequence of events. I saw him at the party. I heard his footsteps following me home. I saw him outside. I—I know someone’s been doing my laundry! I don’t just throw washed clothes into the dryer the same day! I just don’t.

So either Rowan Stone is a stalker—a cowardly stalker at that—or I’m losing my mind.

And I’d prefer the first one, honestly. I can handle unhinged men. I can’t handle the idea that I might just be as unstable as my shitty father claimed.

The room feels too small as I circle the space and consider where the jerk might be hiding. Unless he slid his big ass behind my tiny dresser, there aren’t any options left. My attention settles on the twin bed, and I think about the last time he let his guard slip, and he dressed me in my pajamas. Ever so casually, I take a seat there. My dress skims my thighs just slightly, and my mind is already made up.

I fall back against the hard mattress, my back making a solid thud as I settle in. I get real nice and comfortable as I bend my knees and shove myself up by just my toes to the top of the bed. And then my hand wanders. And so do my thoughts. And soon, I’m pushing aside my panties and sliding my fingers down my wetness in the slowest motion. I don’t mean to, but I think of him. I think of how good it felt to be trapped beneath his big body in that alleyway. He was terrifying but consuming. Comforting. Dominating.

I want to drive him as mad as he’s driven me.

Impatiently, I grip the hem of my panties and shimmy out of them for more. The bottom of my dress is tangled around my hips as I slide my fingers down my clit and even further down. I consciously let my left leg fall to reveal the length of my body to the little window just above me.

I know he’s there.

I know it.

I—I–

The window flings open so hard, my ragged breath turns violent, and a scream nearly slips from my lips, but I bite it back. Because big thighs and broad shoulders are pushing through the space. With a hard bounce, he lands on top of me. Then he’s just above me. Reckless eyes look down on me through the holes of a familiar hockey mask. His body covers mine so completely that a rush of fear pulses through my chest. His hips are against mine, and his shadowy features look down on me with dark intent.

It feels daunting, but I lift my hand until my fingers grip the bottom of the white mask that’s glossy and clean. Unlike the last time. He doesn’t move an inch, but his eyes search mine. He lets me. He lets me slide the mask off of him, and I toss it to the floor with a quiet thud.

And then the most brutally handsome man is revealed. The scar across his eye hits his upper cheek and runs so far back across his hairline, it disappears in the darkness. If I think hard enough, I can tell he has been in the background of my life for far longer than I know. He’s familiar to me.

He isn’t nearly as terrifying as he thinks he is.

All the anxiety and excitement has led to this. He’s here. Finally. And it all feels unreal.

Thoughtlessly, I lift my head. He remains impossibly still. It’s like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if he moves even an inch. Even as I press my lips slowly to his.

A growl hums over my mouth, and his force comes down on me hard and quick. He takes control immediately and parts my lips with a hungrier pace. A big hand shoves harshly through my hair, and he deepens the kiss like he’s waited far too long to taste me.

He unleashes something onto me, something that’s almost tangible, and I feel it through the hard, rough press of his lips against mine. His tongue is a force, and every movement feels angry and tormenting.

This shouldn’t happen. It doesn’t make sense. I know that. And yet every touch makes my pussy pulse for more.

But part of me is furious at this stranger for being just that. A stranger. How long has he taken care of me when all I needed was someone to lean on? My mom, my life, everything was ripped away, and no one was there.

He wasn’t there.

My hands lash out against him, scraping against his scarred cheek. I shove against his broad chest with all my might, and with a grunt, he pulls away, staring down at me in the darkness. Cold, calculating eyes drink me in.

He’s a terrifying figure. What nightmares are made of. He’s a bitch-ass boy who should have done more than send me get-well packages every fucking time I cried alone in my room.

It feels reckless to appreciate and hate someone all at the same time.

My every breath is a harsh expel. I don’t give a moment to think. I react. I lash out with a pent-up sob, acting on some primal instinct that makes me even wetter.

I fight him. Striking out with all my strength. His big body shifts against me, his hips brushing mine with every little move, but he doesn’t release me.

In the darkness, his eyes flash but dawn with understanding. We don’t need to speak. He lets me get a few blows in. I buck my hips, almost like I mean to throw him off, but he only presses down harder against me until I feel something hard and thick grind against my center. His hand encircles my throat, pinning me to the bed. He squeezes, hard enough that I see stars and gasp for breath, but keeping me on that delicious edge of want with the roughness of his calloused hands.

I feel with him. I feel all the things I’ve hidden myself away from for the last five years.

And he gives it to me.

I gasp, clawing at his hands. I relish in leaving my mark against him. It almost feels like a brand, and that thought alone has me thrusting my hips against his before I stop myself.

Rowan releases my neck, and I swallow down air before he cups the underside of my jaw roughly, tightening his hold until it hurts.

I wonder if he’ll speak. I want him to. I want to feel his voice rumble against my skin.

My heart is pounding up to my throat until I can’t take it anymore.

But he doesn’t speak, and I realize I’m going to have to provoke him.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I smirk and it’s malicious. More than I’ve ever been in my life.

He growls, low and threatening.

“You get your rocks off by following girls in the dark?” I taunt. “Do you like hiding in my closet and being my dirty little secret while I openly date other men?”

His hold on my throat tightens, dangerously painful, and I relish it.

Fuck, I must be out of my mind. His other hand slides between us, and my thighs spread wider for him as his warm fingers skim down my hip. It’s a strange contrast to be touched so forcefully around my throat but delicately against my pussy. One finger dips into my wetness, and my breath catches even harder. Those watchful eyes light up, eating up every emotion I give to him as he strokes me slow and hard with two fingers now.

He bends over me. He slides into his fingers me, curving his palm just right as he rocks into me again and again. So fucking close. A smirk kisses his lips. He leans into me then, his five o’clock shadow brushing across my flesh. I hold back my cries as the warmth of his breath teases my cheekbone and slides lower to the shell of my ear.

“Did hitting me make you feel better, Little Bird?”

His voice is as gravelly as I knew it would be. It rumbles against my chest, the vibration making my nipples tighten beneath my dress. Being close to him after knowing how far away he’s kept himself is a dangerously delicious feeling.

Faster he pumps his fingers into my wetness before whispering, dark and taunting, along my neck.

“You’re wild if you think that’ll deter me from taking what I want.” He pauses with a violent shine in the depths of his bright eyes. “And if you ever touch another man again, Atlas . . .” His tone isn’t taunting anymore. It’s terrifying. “I’ll fucking cut his cock off and leave it gift wrapped at your door like one of our special little presents.”

The way he claims me in that threat . . . I should be calling the police right now. I should be filling out an order for protection.

Instead, I’m nearly cumming on his hand.

I fight with renewed vigor, thrashing against his hold, but the harder I fight, the harder his hand squeezes, choking the energy out of me, pushing me towards an edge I never knew I wanted until it was given to me in this exact moment.

Balancing me on the precipice where life meets death makes my skin light on fire. The haze against my vision feels almost blissful. His lips are a menacing promise against my neck as they kiss, nip, bite. He drags his teeth across my flesh hard enough to bruise, almost as if he’s marking me the same way I marked him.

A gasp tears from my throat as I grind down against his palm. This is the edge of everything. My life feels like it’s teetering along the edge, and soon I’ll break into a thousand tiny blissful pieces.

So soon.

But then he takes all that bliss away from me. With intent, his whole body pulls back so he can look down and observe me as well as his handiwork. My neck pulses with pain, and my pussy pulses with desperate need. A noise slips from my lips, and I hate how pathetic it sounds.

His smirk is slow and taunting as he studies me in the darkness. He’s so fucking pleased with himself, it sends fury all through my core in place of the pleasure that was just there. There’s an air of triumph around him, and before I can blink, he’s holding my wrists in a punishing grip, forcing them over my head.

I wriggle beneath him, but every movement sends strikes of lightning through my core. He’s too strong. Too big. Too dominating.

Rowan has me pinned beneath him. My legs fall open around his waist, giving him better access to the most intimate parts of me. My chest heaves, and every exhale draws his heated attention to my breasts pressing tightly beneath my dress and against him.

My entire body tingles, desperate for something–

“Now, understand whenever you flirt with that asshole, he’ll be reminded of who you fucking belong to.” His free hand slides beneath the hem of my dress in a more forceful claim against my wetness. “And in case it wasn’t fucking clear? You belong to me, Little Bird.”

A gasp rips from my throat as my head falls back.

His fingers push inside me, and I scream, my pleasure quaking through my whole body. He enters so easily, teasing my wetness with hard strokes from rough, calloused fingers, curving and pistoning them in and out like he’s punishing me.

“Nod your pretty head for me, beautiful,” he commands on a voice like gravel.

And I obey.

I can’t speak as he teases me. My wrists jerk against his, but he’s huge, strong, and eventually, I feel too weak to fight back. Even if I want to. He’s drawing sounds from me I never knew I could make. Demanding my submission with a few flicks of his thumb against the most sensitive part of me as he thrusts in as deep as he can go.

It’s been so long. Too fucking long. I can feel myself falling and fast.

And then I fall forward from the edge. I break. He breaks me. The impact of my own orgasm has me crying out, pushing and jerking against him like I’m his personal captive and I hope he never fucking lets me go. It all feels dark and destructive in the best possible way.

My jagged breaths kiss along the stubble of his jaw. He releases my hands ever so slowly, his palm gliding down my shoulder and breast. The lightest kiss brushes along my throat, and a stinging pain burns across my flesh while shivers race through my body from that gentle touch.

He’s distracted with me. His fingers keep trailing over every inch of my skin as if he’s convincing himself I’m real. Even the way he looks at me is different. There’s no aggression in his gaze. No dark shadows behind the pretty blue of his eyes.

He’s entirely in the palm of my hand right now.

And then I reach up high above my head and bring the handcuff down hard around his wrist. I shove out from beneath him and scurry into the center of the room just out of his reach. He looks at the metal that’s locking him firmly to my bed frame. Confusion pinches his brow before the evident anger twists his features.

My stalker just fell right into my plan.

And he didn’t even know it.

FOURTEEN

Rowan

What. The. Fuck.

My jaw ticks hard, and I’m furious at her, but I’m even more furious at myself for falling into this fucked-up situation. But beneath all that rage, there’s the smallest hint of pride as well. At her. For besting me.

“Atlas. I need you to release me before something bad happens.” I say it as slowly and as kindly as I possibly can, but inside, my heart beats against my chest like an angry beast. My brow prickles with sweat, and darkness threatens to flash behind my eyelids. I keep it at bay, remain as calm as I possibly can, but all that anxiety fades away when I look up at her and find the most taunting, sexy smile on her full lips.

I want to fuck that mouth. Punish her and watch her choke on my cum.

I table that fantasy for later, though, and let my anger show on my face.

“Like what? You make me cum all over your hand again? Yeah, that’ll show me.”

With my free hand, I push my palm down my face and try to keep my shit together while she shows me what a complete fucking brat she can be. I don’t let her see how my fingers are anxious to crack, how badly I want to move my neck side to side. I force myself not to reach for the lace in my pocket to calm me. I keep my impulses tightly contained away.

“I want to know why you’ve been following me.” She speaks more clearly and confidently right now than I’ve ever seen her. Her arms fold across her chest, and I can’t believe ten seconds ago I was so absorbed in the sounds of her orgasm that I didn’t even see any of this shit coming.

She used me. She used my own weakness and wants for her against me. To fucking trap me like a goddamn dog leashed to a fence. My heart pounds with new fury and humiliation.

She didn’t want me at all. She wanted answers.

No.

That’s not true. It fucking can’t be.

The way she looked at me, gasping so beautifully for me. She can’t fake that. I know her. She can fake a lot of things for a lot of people, but she can’t fake the way her eyes shined like she was seeing God when I had her in my arms.

I look at her more closely now. Under that confidence is where I find a hint of something else. Vulnerability. Shyness. Fear. It all coalesces into a power that she wields like a fucking weapon. She’s just like me. And it’s only that knowledge that prompts me to tell the truth.

“I’ve been following you to protect you,” I say honestly, my wrist turning slowly but carefully in the handcuffs I fucking bought for her.

How the fuck did I let this happen? I’ve killed hitmen and mobsters in my lifetime, but somehow this five-foot-nothing goddess has me handcuffed to her little twin bed like I’m a goddamn plaything for her.

I don’t think I’m bothered by the thought of being her toy. She should just ask to use me as her fuck toy first. Like a fucking lady.

“Why do you think I need protecting?” She asks it carefully, and even though Ed doesn’t own my loyalty, I can’t tell her all the details.

She’ll never trust me if I tell her everything. Not yet anyway.

When I don’t respond, the rage seems to tear out of her. Her delicate patience snaps into sharp anger. She’s an avenging goddess as she steps forward, though not close enough for me to reach for her. She is a storm as she screams. As she breaks apart in front of me.

“Tell me why you’re stalking me, Rowan Stone!” Her voice cracks with the evidence of her pain. It splinters like a million fucking pieces, and fuck, the sound breaks me apart too.

“Because I promised myself that after what happened to you and your mother, I wouldn’t allow anyone to ever fucking hurt you again!”

Surprise flashes across her innocent face. Her lips part with so many unspoken questions and thoughts that I can see racing behind her big brown eyes.

Then without another word, she turns away from me. She spins on her heels, and she’s about to walk away from me for fucking ever.

And the thought of owning her earlier and then never again touching her skin crumbles something inside my chest. I can’t go back to that. I can’t go back to an empty fucking life without knowing what it’s like to hear Atlas’s cries as she comes apart in my hands. I can no longer watch from the sidelines as she destroys her own life, goes on dates with other fucking guys. Not when I’ve known what she tastes like. Not when I’ve finally found my own piece of heaven. I can’t do it.

I fucking refuse.

I jerk against the restraint, and the force of my determination snaps the thin metal around my wrist. It clatters to the bed frame, and in an instant, I’m lunging at her. My body slams into hers fast and hard, and she reacts even faster.

Her palms push against my stomach at first. Her fists beat into my abdomen for a single moment before halting. Then sliding slowly and decidedly around my torso. And then she’s hugging me. And her tears are hot and silent against my chest. And I don’t know how fucking long I’ll stand here like this, holding the most maddening, addictive woman I’ve ever met.

I’ll stand here as long as she’ll let me.

I’ll hold her together while our whole world falls apart.

I refused to leave her, and now she’s offered me a shower and to stay the night, and I have no idea where to go from here. It was easy hovering over her like a shadow in the background. Living in her actual life–it feels foreign but familiar. I know her routine; I know how she feels. I’ve always been a spectator. And now . . . I’m actually a part of it, of her, and it makes my fingers twitch with restlessness.

The water’s raining down on the white shower curtain I considered hiding behind just a few nights ago. For years, I’ve been on the outside of her life looking in. And now I’m standing naked in her bathroom.

“How the fuck did I get here?” I whisper to myself. Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy about it.

I listen intently, and a humming sound drifts through the quiet. A man she doesn’t know just followed her home, tore through her apartment window, and finger fucked her on her bed. And she sounds fucking delighted.

Only Atlas.

A heavy sigh shoves from my lungs before I pull the curtain back and step into the little space. How does she function in this small of an apartment? The shower head beats hot water down onto my pecs, and I have to plant my hands on the wall and lean down into the stream to wash my hair.

The sound of her moans live in my mind. It’s all I can hear for a long moment. I don’t even hesitate before I’m gripping my shaft and making slow work of memorizing the way she felt squeezing against my fingers as she came all over my hand. Her hot cunt felt surreal. I glide my palm across my head and imagine how good she’ll cry for me the first time I enter her.

Fuck. I will own her. Every goddamn inch of her pussy will pulse just for my cock.

Do not touch her, I remind myself of that little broken rule but we’re way past that now. We’re in dangerous fucking territory, and I’m not turning around. I’ve seen heaven, and there’s no way I’m crawling back to hell.

My hand slams to the wall again, and I hold myself there as I stroke myself faster, using the hot water to remember how she felt beneath me. She bowed beneath me. She let me break her. And the way her hands felt pounding against my flesh, like she meant to punish me as much as I wanted to punish her? The sexy little fucking fantasy as she fought against me when we both know she wanted every inch of me and more.

“Fuckkkk,” I hiss into the steam of the shower. Cum slides across my knuckles, and I don’t stop until I’m throbbing and desperate to have her.

And then the smallest knock, the most quiet and polite little noise, breaks down the fantasy in my head.

“Rowan?” she whispers across the barricade of the door that’s separating my greedy cock from her sweet fucking pussy.

I clear my throat hard and force myself to think straight. The idea of fucking her brains out until both of us thinks it’s a good idea to live happily ever after with a piece of shit murderer like me circles my mind over and over again.

Fuck. Think, Rowan! Real thoughts are needed here!

“Yeah?” I grind out, gazing down through the wetness of my lashes to see my cock still rock hard and waving at me. Touching myself brought seconds of relief. But now, with her speaking softly on the other side of the door, I just want to bury myself in her.

I jerk the faucet handle until cold water rushes over my body. It sprays chilling pain across my arms and back. It douses me in clear thoughts. I look down again.

Still he stands thick and tall like a soldier ready for a hot and dirty battle.

Fuck me.

“Are you okay?” she whispers again.

No!

“Yes!” I yell out a bit too loudly. But I won’t be until I have her.

I turn off the water and shove out of the small space. A white towel that’s folded into an uneven square is ripped off of the shelf on the wall, and I shake my head into the soft material as I take long, slow breaths through my nose. Her scent surrounds every part of me. I can’t get her out of my head like this.

I dry off and pull my jeans on, opening the door to get to cool air that isn’t suffocating me with steam. I have to get out of that room before my mind wanders into darker territory that I know she isn’t ready for.

She’s a mess. She is. But she’s not damaged like I am.

She’s a beautiful, perfect mess. And I refuse to fuck her up by saddling her with my brand of insanity. My mind was carved by violence from a young age. I was caged in closets by a man who thought he could beat obedience into the fragile bones of a small boy. For a long time, I didn’t think I had emotions. I wasn’t allowed to. I had them. They belonged to me. They were real. They’re just fucked up now.

She isn’t like me in that sense. And that’s the single fucking blessing I count every day.

She calls out to me from the kitchenette, and I hear her walking my way as she speaks.

“Are you thirsty? I could–” Her words die on her lips when her attention finds me. Golden brown eyes rake up my torso and the dark tattoos that line my side. The pink of her tongue slides over her lips like she’s the one who’s actually thirsty in this moment.

“No. I’m fine,” I whisper with a faint smile.

Her eyes stay glued to my chest like she’s hypnotized. She’s cute. Sexy usually, but the innocent doe eyes are really doing it for me right now. I take a single step closer to her and pull her from the trance of all the nasty, dirty things that I can see flashing behind her pretty eyes. I can physically feel the heat of her body radiating into mine and I want more too.

I want to feel every fucking part of her wrapped around me, her thighs gripping my hips tighter just so I can fuck her deeper.

I blink slowly, pushing back those irrational thoughts to make way for the calm and clear ones that I need to be focusing on right now.

“Come back to bed, Little Bird. It’s late.”

She looks up at me, biting down on her plump bottom lip. I want to smooth my thumb across it. “I was going to make coffee,” she whispers a little breathlessly, her gaze dropping down to my chest once more before darting back up to my face.

The way Atlas Ortega looks at me like I’m not a scarred, mangled mess of a man. Fuckkkkk.

“I don’t want coffee.” I want you. Those words go unspoken between us, and my tongue itches to say them. To confess them. To whisper them across her skin right before I bury my face in the heaven between her thighs.

She swallows then, and clearly, I’m not alone in thinking about all the things I want.

I grip her hand and guide her through her room, petting the small white cat that’s pacing along her dresser as I go. It purrs softly along my fingertips, but I don’t linger. I pull back the thin bedspread that looks homemade and well worn. And I wait for her to follow my lead.

“You want me to just go to bed after all that?”

My brows lift high at her question. “Yes.”

“And what will you be doing? Watching me sleep?” There’s a note of teasing in her voice.

It’s what I’ve done for five fucking years. What else is there?

“Yes,” I say instead.

She pauses but sits down, sliding her small feet beneath the blanket. There’s a moment when I consider slipping in at her side, feeling her warmth, and basking in the smell of her hair.

I’ve never had that before.

And I won’t be having it tonight.

I tuck in the edge of the blanket against her soft curves, and before I can make a mistake and climb into bed with her, I take a firm step back. And then another and another and another. Until my back is against her bedroom wall, and then I slide down to the floor. The span of the room is safely between us. My knee bends, and I rest my hand there while my head tips back comfortably against the hard surface.

“I like having you here. I weirdly feel safer,” she whispers through a yawn as she turns on her side and is clearly ready to address all the red flags in the room. “But I can’t ignore that there are things you’re not telling me.”

“I will,” I vow. I’ll tell her everything. As soon as I get rid of Ed. As soon as I figure out how to get rid of someone whose fucking face is on the news every goddamn day.

“If I fill in the blanks for you, it’s not good, Rowan.”

I stare at her for a long moment. The curl of her hair is soft against her cheek, and I force myself to stay seated and not climb into her bed with her.

“I can only assume Edward Sinclare sent you to me . . .”

I swallow slowly.

“There are men who want to hurt you,” I whisper in a low voice, trying hard not to scare her. “After what happened with your mother–”

“Did you know he sent me there too?”

My gaze flicks up to hers instantly, and there’s a vacancy in her gaze that stabs through my chest with every breath I take.

When I was a kid, I thought Atlas was lucky Ed left her before she was ever born. He abandoned their family to terrorize mine. But as I got older, I realized he still managed to hurt them in other ways.

“For days, I don’t even know how many. They had me there. I was in a juvenile wing where kids are kept. My mom was kept in a part of the institute that doesn’t allow visitors. I haven’t seen her or spoken to her in five years.” Her voice is steady, but her dark eyes glisten in the moonlight. “I’ve tried to visit and tried to call, but they never let me even speak with her. They tell me she’s too upset for visitors . . .”

I can’t imagine how hard it was for her to walk back into that place after the scars it left on her. My teeth clamp together hard to obtain the rage that wants to spill out. I can’t interrupt her though. She’s letting me in. I want in so fucking bad.

She shifts on the bed a fraction and takes in a breath. “When they kept me there, everything felt sterile and wrong all at the same time. I think my father thought the kid’s wing would be safer. But that didn’t stop them from holding me down and force-feeding me medicine every night. I can still feel their hands on me.” She trembles just slightly. “They told me it would help. That it would heal my mind. I felt my own mind slip away then. I felt my whole fucking life slip away.” Her words choke on an unsteady breath, but she keeps going. “Then one day, he showed up and signed me out. I thought he was my savior then.” Her arms wrap around herself, and it’s so fucking hard not to go to her. But I know she’s not done. She needs to say her piece. “He wasn’t my savior. I was just a stupid kid still clinging to the only thing I had left: Hope. My father threw a gym bag at me that had a few of my clothes inside. None of my notebooks and none of my pictures from home. Just some shirts, jeans, my mom’s old rosary, and two thousand dollars.” A dry laugh hums over her lips. “I thought that was a lot of money then. I quickly found out it wasn’t. But he gave me the clothes and the money, and then he grabbed me by the back of my neck and swore if he ever saw my face again, he’d send me back to those people. And then he got in his little black town car, and I never saw him again.”

My heart wants to beat right out of my chest. The longer the silence slips by, the more the anger inside me simmers into uncontrollable rage. I focus on my breathing for several seconds, and I have to speak. I have to tell her.

“He signed you out because of me,” I finally manage.

Her lips part but no words come out. The way Ed screamed at me then echoes through my thoughts. He swore he’d let her die in that facility. He had the connections to do it. But I had the proof that Atlas Ortega was his daughter, and the woman he locked away in the institution was his maid once upon a time. Politicians have the darkest secrets. Because they never take accountability. He fired his maid, the mother of his child. He tried to send her away.

It worked for a while. For seventeen years. When deportation didn’t work to shut her up, he did the cruelest thing he could think of that would. That’s when it all came crashing down on him. And Atlas Ortega was just a high school kid who nearly lost her entire life because of that motherfucker’s secrets.

“I blackmailed him. And in return, he said you’d become my fucking problem. And I’ve kept you as my fucking problem for five years, Little Bird.”

“And you're the one behind all the gifts?” There isn’t a smile that comes along with that question, but the tears in her eyes waver against the quiet happiness there.

“I had to help you. In every way I possibly could.”

A sob breaks through her, but her smile is soft against her lips. She watches me in the moonlight. Our gazes lock, and I feel her attention burn through me. She doesn’t question the strangeness of it all. Nothing about us is normal. Normal is bullshit anyway. What matters here is trust, and she does trust me.

Even as her lashes close and the quietest breaths slip from her lips. And then she sleeps.

FIFTEEN

Atlas

I wake to an empty apartment. The only evidence that Rowan was ever even here at all lies in the faint scent of his that still lingers in the bathroom. Not to mention the broken cuff attached to my headboard.

The fact that he left without a word shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. He is my stalker, after all. He’s someone Ed sent to find me. Someone I should be afraid of.

But disappointment threads through me instead, and I force myself to shove it aside as I get ready for class.

I don’t feel like I have enough brain juice to focus on anything right now, but I know I need the distraction. At least so I can temporarily forget about everything Rowan said. I need to wrap my brain around everything, come to terms with what it is I truly feel. Sometimes, reactions aren’t always knee-jerk. Sometimes they come slow, our minds and bodies processing things over a longer lapse of time.

I definitely need time.

Using the supplies and products that I now know Rowan bought for me shifts my perspective. It was easy to accept everything when it came from a faceless benefactor. Now that I know he’s behind it, I wonder if he’ll expect something in exchange.

He says he did it to take care of me, but can I even trust his word when he was sent by Ed? I mean, he has protected me all this time. He got me out of that place. If what he said is to be believed.

Why do I believe him?

It’s hard not to. I feel him in all of these different memories of my life. He could have just gotten rid of me. His life would have been so much easier if he had. Instead, my life became his.

I bite on my lip as I lather the lotion he bought me onto my skin. Afterwards, I get dressed in my simplest gray sundress, needing to feel like myself, and I grab my backpack off the floor.

My textbooks suddenly feel all too heavy on my back. Rowan bought me these. He bought me . . . almost everything.

I’ve been dependent on him this entire time and hadn’t even known it was him.

Taking a breath, I head out and walk the couple of blocks it takes to get to school. Criminology 101 is a required course twice a week. Talking about criminals and crime scenes will help settle my mind for a bit.

That’s so fucked up.

Still, my nerves are eased the moment I’m in my seat, notebooks and textbook out, pen poised to take notes.

Someone jostles down the aisle and plops into the seat next to mine. My gaze turns, and I’m greeted with a warm smile and a whole lotta mustache.

“Hey,” Simon greets.

A sudden pang of guilt grips me as I look at him and feel . . . absolutely nothing. There’s no spark, no rush of blood to my cheeks. My body doesn’t warm at his proximity. He really doesn’t do a thing for me. Not like Rowan did.

I feel bad. Like I just wasted the poor guy’s time.

And God, just imagine how bad I’d feel if Rowan drop-shipped this poor guy’s cock to my doorstep just to claim what’s his like a fucking feral animal. I keep my features vacant as the memory of that sentimental little threat flashes through my mind.

“Hi,” I manage to whisper.

“How are you feeling? I was worried about you after the party. You didn’t look so good. You get home okay?”

Another flash of my orgasm shaking through me as Rowan pins me with just his hand wrapped around my throat.

“Mmmyesmmfine.”

“What was that?”

I clear my throat. “I got home fine, thank you. I’m good.”

Fucking great. Thanks.

“You sure?”

He reaches a hand out to press against my forehead like he’s feeling for a fever. This time, when I flinch, it’s not because I’m afraid of his touch. It’s because a shiver slides down my spine in fear that someone might be watching, and I bet Simon is really attached to his dick, and I just don’t want to be responsible for that kind of loss.

Simon lowers his hand, a furrow between his brows. I’m lucky he doesn’t get to say anything else because Mr. Morrison walks in and class begins.

For an hour or so, I’m drowned in the absolute bliss of schoolwork. Getting back into the groove of this routine was difficult after being at the institution. It was like learning how to be normal all over again. Learning how to care and listen and focus. The most basic of things had become a chore for me at one point until I got the hang of it again. Until I liked learning again.

I loved school. And I’m so happy that enjoyment from something so simple came back to me after it went missing for so long.

When class ends and my fingers are perfectly cramped, I hurry and shove everything into my bag.

“Where are you headed after this?” Simon trails after me with ease, walking side by side. His hand grazes mine, and that consuming guilt only feels worse.

I’m a garbage person. Assign my seat in hell already.

He’s still riding the high from our weird date yesterday. From that almost kiss. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about someone else entirely.

This isn’t fair to Simon, and I need to let him down gently. Something I am decidedly not good at.

“Work,” I say mildly.

We have to finish Mr. Hit-and-Run. I’m eager to get to it. Being there puts me in a headspace in which I can gather all my thoughts. It’s like meditation for me.

“What’s it like working at a morgue?”

We pass by the front of the class, and my gaze skirts over to where Nathan is sitting. Seeing the yellows and greens of his fading bruises makes laughter bubble to my lips, but I quickly squash it when his eyes narrow on me.

Rowan broke this asshole’s face like a boiled egg.

I wish I could have been there to see that.

“It’s interesting,” I finally answer.

“What exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m the cosmetologist.”

“Makeup?”

Because he sounds skeptical, I give him the side-eye. “A ton of makeup needs to be used to make dead bodies look good.”

“I’m not doubting you, beautiful.”

The word is said with affection, and I believe that he means it, but another voice is in my head, whispering the words “Little Bird,” and they drown out Simon’s voice entirely.

It isn’t until we’re out of the classroom and face to face with the most lethal look that I realize the voice wasn’t in my head at all.

Rowan stands there in the busy hall, looking entirely out of place among the small students. In one hand, he holds a brown bag with a Go Nuts, Donuts logo across the side and an iced coffee in his other hand, all while glaring viciously at Simon and his proximity to me.

I gulp at the gleam I see in his eye.

Rowan Stone would absolutely murder Simon if he was so inclined. Hell, he’d probably even make it fun for himself. He’d fucking enjoy it. I don’t want Simon’s death on my conscience. He’s a nice guy. I’d hate to have to see him on the slab at work.

Simon seems to halt as he takes in Rowan’s enormous stature. He’s taller than the door frame he stands next to. Broader too. We block the classroom entrance, and it feels like a crowd gathers at our backs to stare at all of us. Murmurings begin rising around them. Almost like they’re all waiting for a repeat of what supposedly happened on the ice with Nathan.

I can’t let Rowan rearrange Simon’s face. He’s too pretty and innocent for such violence.

“You have one fucking second to find any other girl in school to bore, Freddie Mercury,” Rowan threatens in a low, casual drawl.

The strange name he calls him distracts me, but I immediately look to Simon. To his credit, or because he’s absolutely stupid or maybe both, Simon stays rooted to the spot.

The poor lamb.

He looks at me sideways. “I thought you said you weren’t dating any big scary hockey player.”

“We aren’t.”

“We are,” said scary hockey player corrects.

Rowan and I glare at each other when we speak simultaneously.

“We aren’t dating,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.

I don’t even know what Rowan and I are. How one would even begin to describe our dynamic.

He’s my hired tormentor, turned stalker, turned bodyguard . . . Yeah, let’s not try to label it.

Rowan shifts his attention back to Simon. “What the fuck are you still doing here?” His knuckles whiten from how tightly he’s gripping that bag of donuts.

“Um, I’ll see you around, Atlas?” Simon directs the question at me but doesn’t take his eyes off Rowan. Smart, because the moment he looks away, I’ve no doubt Rowan would pounce. He has that predatory demeanor about him that makes him seem like a tiger. A feral tiger.

“Sure. I’ll see you around.”

“No, she won’t,” Rowan conversationally corrects. Again.

I roll my eyes and Simon walks away. To his credit, he doesn’t run, so I’ve no idea if the encounter has left him rattled or not.

I move away from the entrance, letting through the flow of traffic once again. Rowan follows close behind me.

“I brought you breakfast.” He hands off the donuts first, the bag like an offering of peace, golden retriever puppy eyes in full effect.

“You can’t decide who I’m friends with, Rowan.” I stand my ground but–it seems–he does too.

“No, but I can decide who gets to fuck you. And that, that’s just for me, Little Bird.”

My body reacts all over to those words. I swallow hard at the idea of him wanting to fuck me so badly that he’s literally shooing other men away like a wild pigeon lady at the park. How the fuck has this become my life?

He lifts the bag at me once more with a sweet smile that doesn’t deter my glaring gaze.

I debate whether or not I should take his offering. Won’t this just make me even more beholden to him? In the end, my stomach growls loudly, and I say fuck it. He’s already bought me everything else; what’s one more thing?

I tear open the bag and peek inside.

“Oh my god, Rowan!” My hand slaps against his chest in my excitement. “You bought me conchas!”

“One of every flavor,” he confirms. “I know how much you like those.”

“I love these. I would sell my first born for these, honestly.” I pull out the Mexican sweet bread and bite into it. Flecks of the topping crumble off with every bite, dusting along my fingers. “Here, have one.” I shove the bag back in his direction.

“I bought them for you, Little Bird.”

“Shut up and take a sweet bread, Rowan.”

His eyes flick to the ceiling, and he expels the longest sigh, like he’s asking the heavens what to do with me.

“I don’t share food with everybody, you know.”

“Oh, so I’m special?”

I shrug and keep eating until my mouth is dry, and he immediately hands me the iced coffee like he knows me inside and out.

Walking side by side with my stalker should feel weird, but I feel strangely at peace. While he does make me nervous, in a weird butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of way, I’m not feeling as much turmoil as I should. He barged into my life, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shake him.

“I’ve never had one of those before.” He finally breaks the silence.

“What? A concha? Are you serious? Ohhh, now you’ve gotta try one.” I thrust the bag back in his direction, and he just stares down at it like he’s contemplating his entire life’s existence within a single piece of bread. “Come on, don’t be afraid to add flavor into your life.” My eyebrows give a little wiggle, and I chuckle.

The sound has him snapping his attention back up to me. The heat in his gaze flares like burning embers. He stares down at my mouth like he maybe wants to bottle the sound I just made or devour me whole, I’m not quite sure which.

I’m suddenly very aware of the crumbs clinging to the sides of my lips, of my face, of the way I probably still have bread stuck between my teeth.

Yet Rowan looks at me like he doesn’t give a fuck about all that, and I want to swoon where I stand.

Stalkers, who knew they could be romantic?

Rowan takes the sweet bread and brings it to his lips then. I suddenly realize how large his mouth is, and that does something to me. His bite is slow, like he wants to savor the taste. Bits of pink crumb flake off with that first bite, dropping down to his shirtfront.

I wait with bated breath as he chews, watch his throat bob up and down as he swallows.

Watching him is addicting.

I wonder if that’s what he thinks every time he follows me.

“Good?”

He turns to me after swallowing. “Delicious.”

I beam at him. “I knew you’d love it! They’re hard to resist.”

“Hmm.”

We finish the sweet bread between the two of us and share the sweet coffee just before we make it to the morgue. I appreciate that he walks me to work, lingering at the morgue’s front door. I’m even more surprised when he trails in after me without a word.

“Um, I don’t think my boss would be happy if I let someone in the work space.”

Rowan shrugs. “Jim won’t mind.” I arch a brow at the use of my boss’s name, but he keeps going. “I’ve been in here before, you know.”

Righttt. That’s comforting in that it lets me overthink every awkward thing this man must have seen me do in my lifetime. It’s like coming face to face with God and pretending like he hasn’t seen you make yourself cum in the middle of the night while watching Bill Skarsgård play the most fucked-up clown in all of cinematic history.

How could I forget? To be fair, it’s easy to do that when we walk side by side, and for the first time in my fucking life, I feel normal. It’s weird. I can’t feel normal next to Simon, a cute-and-cozy actual nice guy. But I feel normal next to a man who has most definitely killed people.

Why am I like this?

“Right. Well, get ready for the . . . mess,” I tell him.

We step inside the room and are blasted with upbeat instrumental music and a voice that’s a mesh of pop and . . . scream-o?

Anna is in the middle of the room next to Hit-and-Run, a notebook in hand as she furiously takes notes and moves her body side to side in what I assume is dancing. It looks like she’s chanting an exorcism over the poor guy.

I wonder if he’s finally come back to haunt us for our annoying behavior?

“Um . . . Anna? What is this?”

Without looking up at me, she responds. “Do you think he got hit as a part of a more nefarious plan? Like what if he was involved with something he shouldn’t have been? What if he fucked over someone, and they had to make him pay?”

I feel my face heat up, and Rowan’s presence is suddenly very prominent at my back. “Like The Godfather?” I ask.

Anna’s face lights up but she still doesn’t look at me. Her pen taps aggressively against her journal. “Exactly! Like the Mafia!” She does another little jig. I can tell she’s excited about the Mafia idea because she keeps talking without a filter. “I bet you he stole from the local Mafia.”

“We have a local Mafia?”

This time, Rowan answers. “Of course, we do.”

At the sound of his voice, it’s like watching the hamster wheel stop turning within her mind in real time. Anna jerks and whirls her whole body in our direction, nearly tripping and stumbling onto Hit-and-Run. Her face flushes a shade as bright as her hair, and she pushes her big, round glasses up the ridge of her nose. She rarely wears those things, and I resist the urge to ask if she lost her contact lenses from all that dancing she’s doing.

“You’re not Theodore,” she stammers, her voice low like it gets when she’s embarrassed.

“Simon,” I correct.

I can immediately feel Rowan’s mood darken with just the sound of that name on my lips.

“This is Rowan,” I say before he can go on a rage. “Rowan Stone.”

Anna straightens and tilts her head to the side as she takes Rowan in. To be fair, there’s a lot to take in.

Anna has a tendency towards . . . having her head in the clouds. Reality and pain haven’t slammed into her yet, and so it makes her a person who is constantly smiling. Yet there are moments like these, moments of intensity that make her look absolutely fearsome and frankly, beautiful.

Once again, I’m very aware of myself in comparison. Anna has regal features that make me feel like she doesn’t really need cosmetics to enhance anything. Though if she let me at her face like I’ve asked before, I could make her absolutely stunning.

Finally, Anna finishes her assessment of him and turns back to me. “Simon wasn’t a good lay?”

I almost choke on my own spit. “Anna! Why would you say that?!” I can feel my face flaming.

Wow, she can go back to being the quiet, shy girl I first met!

“I’m being honest here. Simon looks nice but boring. Rowan here has arms like tree trunks. I’m sure he could crack you like a glow stick if you asked him to.” Before I can open my mouth and reply, Anna is talking to Rowan. “So, Mafia, there is one?”

I’m gaping like a fish, and Rowan answers in a perfectly cool and composed voice that hides his smug smile. “There is.”

She eyes him suspiciously. It’s like she knows he’s a darker figure than the average man. He’s … dangerous. And this discussion is only confirming that for my little watchful friend.

“Tell me everything you know about them. I have to get to the bottom of this investigation.”

“Why do you want to know?” Rowan puts his hands in his pockets, though he doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. If anything he looks amused at her prying antics.

“Because this poor guy needs justice!” Anna waves her journal in Hit-and-Run’s direction. “They destroyed his face! He’s unrecognizable!”

“Anna . . .” She’s always making up scenarios surrounding the bodies. She’s too afraid to look at them or touch them, but she will create a whole telenovela, mystery, and novel surrounding their deaths.

“The Mafia isn’t a group you want to fuck with, Red, trust me. Besides, I doubt that guy,” Rowan only glances to the dead body, “was involved with them. They don’t leave bodies behind to find.”

My friend eyes Rowan suspiciously before she makes a sound of annoyance. “Fine. But how do you know so much about the Mafia anyway?”

Yeah, Rowan. How? Explain your hobbies to my best friend. I’ll wait.

He shrugs again, his lips pressing into a firm line before he replies, “I’ve heard things.”

“And have you have you heard where their whereabouts might be?”

I narrow my eyes on her. “Why do you even need to know that?”

“Hmm?” She blinks rapidly. Suspiciously. “No reason.”

I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Anna, if you try anything you shouldn’t, I’ll tell your dad.”

“Ouch, low blow,” Rowan whispers.

If there’s one thing that can curb Ann’s impulsive urges, it’s her own dad. But to be honest, sometimes I find him to be just as spacey as his daughter. At least she tries to behave when he’s onto her.

“Now, let’s just finish this guy up real quick so we can work on the next one,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah.” She goes to put her things away. “Say goodbye to your boyfriend. Citizens aren’t allowed back here.”

I turn to Rowan. “Just a day in the life, huh?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t let loose that smile I really want to see. “Boyfriend,” he mouths without a sound. When I shove his chest, he adds on a more serious tone, “I’ll wait for you at your place.”

I smirk. “You gonna riffle through my panty drawer while I’m at work?” When he doesn’t say anything, my smile drops. “Have you riffled through my panty drawer?”

He does smile then. It’s small but still there, and it causes shivers to glide down my spine.

“Rowan, have you?”

He leans close and presses a kiss near the shell of my ear. “Every pair, Little Bird.”

SIXTEEN

Rowan

I have riffled through her panty drawer.

In fact, I am doing it right now.

I should be ashamed of these impulsive urges that grip me, but I’m more pissed off and turned on than anything.

My rage is flying to impossible heights because Anna implied that Atlas and Simon fucked. I know it’s not true, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Just the thought makes me want to lay claim to Atlas and rip Simon’s eyes from his fucking skull for even looking at her.

Even then, I can’t seem to shake the way my body is reacting. My cock is fucking hard and screaming, and all because she smiled. She laughed. Because she ate what I fed her and moaned with every fucking bite.

Fuuuuckkkk.

I pause my riffling to tug at the bulge in the front of my jeans. Pressing against my aching dick brings no relief. Nothing will. Only her. Only Atlas.

My fingers wrap around a pair of cotton boy shorts. Simple, everyday underwear that I know for a fact hug her plump ass and make it look so perfectly bitable.

My fingers twitch against the material, and I bring it up to my nose, inhaling deep. The only thing that would make this better would be if I actually had her wet pussy drowning me, choking me, sitting on my fucking face until her orgasm soaked across my lips.

That’s the closest thing to heaven I can imagine.

I tear at my jeans, shoving them and my boxers down to my thighs. The length of my cock brushes across my lower stomach. Unfortunately, freeing my dick doesn’t bring any relief. With her panties held in my open palm, I close it and my fist tightly around the base of my shaft.

There’s a zing of relief at the base of my spine, and I groan, giving myself a slow, deliberate stroke. The only thing better than the cotton that’s hugged her pussy would be to have her hand, her heat enveloping me right now.

It feels too fucking good.

But I know she would feel amazing.

I jerk against her panties, pumping my hips a fraction into the material, bracing my forearm against her dresser with my head bowed low. I can almost hear her breathless moans in my ear.

What would it be like to have her on her knees in front of me? Lapping up my dick and moaning like it was a feast? I want to feel her give me her pain.

“Use your teeth…”

The words echo through my mind and I can feel that pain as I squeeze harder.

Oh, fuck, she’d feel so good against my shaft, she’d make my head spin. I’d go crazier for her than I already am.

To have her absolutely own me. She already does, and she doesn’t even fucking know it. So I’d have to show her. Show her just how fucked up she makes me. I’d make her run from me, and I’d give chase. And just when she thinks she can get away from me, I’d grab her by the neck and slam her onto the ground face-first.

Let her try to fight me then. Let her try to get away as I tie her hands behind her back. She’ll forget all about Simon then. And when I plunge into her from behind, it’ll be my name she screams. Not his.

Oh, fuck.

I piston my hips, tightening my hold. It’s embarrassing, the time I last. The cum that leaks onto her panties soaks through and down to my palm. I capture as much as I can in the material, but it still leaks between my fingers, and I imagine smearing that sticky mess against her ass, marking her and claiming her as my own.

I’m a fucking animal.

And I don’t even fucking care.

I shove away from Atlas’s dresser with a heavy breath and wipe myself clean with her underwear. But I still feel too fucking hard to function.

And now I need a goddamn shower. And if a part of me hopes she’ll come walking in on me jerking off in her space and want to join me, well, those are delusions I’ll never admit to out loud.

So I guess I’ll just have to fucking take what I want.

Damn my rules.

Damn the fucking consequences.

And damn Atlas fucking Ortega for making me feel this way.

SEVENTEEN

Atlas

The shower is running when I get back to my place. I give a cursory look around and find my panty drawer wide open, the contents inside strewn across the floor.

Fucking Rowan Stone!

He does go through my panty drawer when I’m not here! I knew some were missing. I blamed the dryer, but that was obviously a lie I told myself to ease my mind.

My face flames, and I march into the bathroom, throwing the door open. I should wait until he’s finished, but if he doesn’t respect my privacy, then I’m not going to respect his.

He doesn’t deserve the courtesies he doesn’t afford me.

I yank the shower curtain away, a curse slipping from my lips and aimed in his direction. But I stutter halfway through, freezing as I catch his compromising position.

He’s huge and takes up a good chunk of my shower space. But what has me frozen is the gloriousness of Rowan’s body. Every smooth pane, every scar raised against his flesh, every inch is like he was carved from marble.

But the most impressive thing is his cock. Held in the palm of his hand as he squeezes the shaft in the slowest, taunting motion.

His eyes lock on mine, and he pulls his hand away like it burns, and before I can blink, he has grabbed me by the throat. I gasp at the suddenness and surprise the action causes. While his hand is wet and slippery, his grip is firm, rough, and feels like it’s meant to kill.

“Rowan–” I choke as his grip tightens, and then he’s yanking me forward into the confined space, his damp lips brushing over mine in a desperate way. Cold water rains down on me, and I try to sputter in breaths, but he holds me captive.

“Rowan,” I whisper once more, but it’s an afterthought in comparison to how good his mouth feels against mine.

“Shut the fuck up,” Rowan says on growling words that rumble across my lips. “Do you see what you fucking do to me, Atlas?” He grips my hand and forces it against the slick length of his cock, closing my fingers around his shaft as far as they’ll reach. The water is a painful sensation, but the feel of his cock sears my hand, branding against my palm, and my fingers eagerly close around it as much as they can.

His rough treatment sends a zing through me when I know it shouldn’t. Sliding my palm slowly down to feel all of him is almost instinctive, but he halts the movement, tightening his hand around mine to an almost painful degree. Like he’s punishing me and his cock at the same time for something neither of us can control.

Rowan leans down closer and our foreheads touch. Deep blue eyes hold mine from beneath his long damp lashes. There’s a moment when he breathes me in, and everything fades. The coldness of the water ceases to bite against my skin because it’s perfectly contrasted against the warmth of his own. It’s like he wants the pain of the water to make up for something else in his life. With every stroke I give him my thighs shift, the water making me slick and needy in more ways than one. My fear fades, bleeding into a pleasure so acute, I can hardly contain the moan that tries to slip past my throat, choked out of me in a strangled sound because his palm keeps my neck captive.

“You drive me mad,” he whispers, and the words are like a confession, fueled with hatred and awe.

And I feel the exact same way.

“I don’t know if I want to fuck you or kill you, Atlas.” His eyes burn brighter against the droplets of water on his lashes. “So I’ll settle for both.”

With a sexy smirk, he slams me hard against the shower tiles, and I see stars. His hands are suddenly everywhere, ripping at my clothes with surprising strength like he can’t get me bare fast enough. He only manages it halfway, tearing the straps of my dress down the middle, shoving the lace of my bra beneath my breasts. Stinging splatters spray across my flesh, pebbling my nipples in a pain-fueled way. My panties are pushed from my hips, and everything happens so fast that the gasp against my lips tears from my lungs.

Then his fingers are inside me, sliding down my wet pussy and sinking in hard and fast, making me cry out. He bends further, scraping his teeth against my breasts. He bites down hard on my nipple, and I barely grab him for purchase as his fingers surge deeper inside my sex.

“I’m going to kill you, Atlas,” he threatens against my skin.

Fear slices inside me, and somehow my desire is greater. The sweet kiss of death could never frighten me when I’ve lived through much worse than what Rowan could ever do to me. He can whisper whatever sinister words he wants but only ever gives me bliss. The pleasure mounting through me is far greater than fear could ever be.

“Then do it,” I threaten boldly. “Fucking do it.” My lips tremble against the cold but his body ignites mine with every little touch.

He curls against me near my neck, the idea of it clearly being considered in his head right before his lips come crashing down against mine. It’s like tasting heaven and hell all at once. Then his hand is around my throat once more. I gasp across his mouth, and he plunders me with fingers deep in my pussy and tongue sliding in the most demanding way. His slick hand wraps tighter, choking me hard enough that my head begins to spin. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I swear it's from the building energy pulsing at my core. Somehow, I crave that release, whatever it is. Whether it’s the edge of bliss or the whisper where life meets death all over again.

Rowan pulls away from me. “The things you do to me, Atlas.” His fingers curl deeply, touching that sweet, sweet spot inside me that has me curving in for more. “I want to end you for what you do to me. Maybe then you’ll get out of my fucking head.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but feel the lights dimming while desire surges through, igniting me down to my very core. It’s so close.

But Rowan pulls away and my knees buckle. He watches me land on them in a puddle of water at his feet. I choke on air and glare up at him, conveying my own emotions in my eyes while I heave in deep breaths. He barely lets me do that before his fingers tangle into my curls, and he shoves me back by the nape of my neck.

My mouth opens just as his dick slips over my lips, and he thrusts inside.

“Use your teeth,” he growls out. “I want us both to hurt.”

Relaxing my throat, I let him surge deep inside. I gag around his thick length, feeling my mouth stretch until there are tears in my eyes. He’s velvety smooth against my tongue, his flavor sharp and addicting in the best way.

I take him down as much as I can, and only when I feel like he can’t fit anymore, do I graze my teeth lightly across his flesh. He grunts, bowing over me with his hands braced against the tiles. His hips thrust, commanding and eager, and I know how good that would feel stretching to fit himself inside the deepest parts of me.

“Harder,” he orders. “I want to feel your anger, Little Bird.”

My nails sink into the muscle of his thighs. I swallow and do as he says, putting pressure against his cock, making him jolt. Each time I increase the pressure just a fraction, and each time I do, he thrusts, harder and harder until I feel him in the back of my throat. Every pump of his hips slams my head back just a bit further, and every pump of his hips has my own pussy pulsing with empty desire.

I never thought being used would feel this fucking good. Use me. Fuck me how you need and let me give you everything you’ve given me.

I moan around his cock, and his hands slam down against my head. Then he begins using me in earnest. I’m nothing more than a hole for him to fill as he pounds into me without remorse and without stopping. Yet it . . . it feels like I’m so much more than that. I choke, spit pooling from the sides of my mouth, and my eyes flick up to find him already staring down at me.

Like I hold his entire world in his hands when I’m kneeling at his feet. He looks at me with both tenderness and hatred, like they’re colliding inside in a desperate clash, and he’s unleashing all of those emotions on me right now.

My pussy throbs. Can I cum from this alone? I feel like I might.

His fingers tighten through the threads of my hair at the base of my neck. That glare stays prominent on his face, and his voice is little more than a ghost’s that echoes through the room. “You’re going to swallow every last fucking drop, Atlas.”

He begins to spurt in my mouth, and I choke.

“Don’t you dare spit a single fucking drop out, you hear me?”

I swallow him down. Slight pulses of saltiness push across my tongue with every forceful thrust until it slips from my lips at the corners, and he swipes it away with his thumb.

“Fucking take me,” he growls.

His hips move faster, and my own mimic those movements, though it’s empty and hollow, and I fucking need him to fill me entirely. I find no release.

“Swallow it all. And if another fucking man ever tries to kiss you? It’ll be me he tastes on your lips.” He slides the cum from his hand back onto the thick base of his shaft and pushes my head down to lap that up too.

His cock pulses against my tongue. With a violent groan, he erupts fully inside me, and I swallow every last drop until he shoves away from me and slides to his knees. His hands press to my center, fingers toying teasingly with my clit.

“You look so pretty choking on my cum like my good fucking girl,” he whispers to me, holding me roughly by the back of my neck while he pumps into my pussy in his demanding way. His fingers fuck me hard and deep like he has memorized my body and everything it needs.

Water crashes down on us, beating across my breasts while he takes in the sight of me and my desperate moans. He smirks maliciously as he works me faster, deeper, rougher.

My orgasm is immediate. My cries echo across the tiles, and he silences them with a slow, open-mouthed kiss that steals away my breath and every thought in my head. I fall into his arms, shaking from cold and heat like I’ve been perfectly and thoroughly fucked.

Rowan presses a kiss to my hair. “I mean it though,” he whispers like a confession, his words crawling up the walls like a far-off dream. “I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me, Atlas. You are mine and mine alone. Mine to watch, mine to protect, mine to love, and mine to kill if I so please.”

He pulls away, his hand gripping my throat once again. But this time, his touch is tender, and there’s something that looks like regret in his eyes.

My own hands lift, though I feel weak all over, and I grab him by the neck, too, digging my nails in.

“That means you’re mine too?” I whisper. I mean for it to sound confident and possessive. But it comes out like a question only he can answer.

Something fractures in his eyes, and he leans into me. He looks regretful when he nods. Like he’s sentencing me to a life he doesn’t want for me.

“You make me weak. I can’t even fucking kill you when I’m paid to do it. No way in hell I’ll do it for free,” he confesses with a small smirk.

I smile at him, and it conveys all the warmth I’m feeling inside. “You don’t scare me, Rowan Stone.”

His sigh is drowned beneath the sound of the water beading over our skin. “But you should be scared, Little Bird. If there’s anyone you should fear in this world, it’s me.”

EIGHTEEN

Atlas

The next morning, I wake to find the most beautiful man asleep against my bedroom wall. He’s so adamant about avoiding my bed. He’ll make me cum over and over again with his hand, but it’s like he’s terrified to really let me love him . . . to get to know him, I mean.

I take a moment to stare at him. His massive frame steals away so much space, and I find myself curling my knees against my chest as if I could fit myself against him if I think about it long enough. In his sleep, his rugged, handsome features are softer, more at peace. The hard angle of his jaw is tipped up, and the length of his neck and the peppering of his five o’clock shadow sends strange fluttering through my chest. The hinting lines of tattoos feather around his neck there like wings. The scar isn’t so stark on his face as it is when he’s awake and frowning. My fingers itch to touch that scar, but I keep my hands tucked beneath my cheek and to myself. Moments pass like that in the hazy morning sunlight of my quiet bedroom.

After our little talk in the shower the night before, he’d turned the frigid cold water to a more comfortable, warm temperature. He then proceeded to undress me and wash me from head to toe. It was sensual but prompt, and he didn’t paw at me or kiss me again. When we finished, he was meticulous as he dried me off and put me to bed.

Then he slept on the floor. Again.

I pretend like I’m not dying to feel him, to have him buried deep and claiming inside me. I haven’t had sex in years. And the boys I slept with in high school, they have nothing on Rowan. I swallow hard just imagining his hips spreading me open for the brutal thickness of his cock to slide in. I bite my lip and shake the thought away.

He’s still keeping things from me. He isn’t letting me in, and I thought if I gave him time, he’d tell me, but here we are . . . still strangers.

Strangers who whisper sweet words and make each other cum in their free time.

We’re frozen in time right now. If I don’t move, and he doesn’t move, all the darkness I shared with him and all the things he hasn’t shared with me don’t exist. Only he and I do.

Nothing else.

But that’s not how life works. And I can only ignore our problems for so long.

I get up on silent steps. I tiptoe across his long legs and into my bathroom where I close the door and lock it behind me.

Rowan very nearly fucked me in the shower last night. The evidence of it is all over the wet floors. As if having him in my room and on my floor isn’t evidence enough. This makes it all seem more real, seeing his things in my own space. His shirt hanging on a hook. His phone on my bathroom counter.

I shouldn’t . . . and yet the urge grips me tightly that I can’t hold it back at all. My fingers grasp for his phone and swipe it open. Only to find it’s password protected.

Fuck.

How am I supposed to . . .

I type in a bunch of random number combinations at first. Generic things.

1234

0000

Nothing.

If I try too many times, it’ll lock the phone and not let me in at all. But what could it possibly be? I think back to the past few days. The things he said. He knows my mom was taken from me. He knows she was locked up. He knows my entire life story. He knows my fucking father! How could he possibly know that? How did the two of them come together? How do our lives align? And why did he even care about what happened to me at all? Why go to the bat for me against someone as powerful as my father? What did he have to gain from all of this? It doesn’t make any sense.

Oh, not to mention he openly admitted to wanting to fucking kill me. Though that’s definitely not the craziest thing about this whole situation.

All these revelations are freeing, yes. But there’s more to all of this. There’s still so much cloaked in shadows, so much truth hiding behind the fog, and I can’t make sense of it all.

It seems he hasn’t told me the full fucking story, and now I’m determined to find out just what secrets Rowan Stone is keeping. About himself. About me. And most importantly, about fucking Ed.

I look back down at his phone, furrowing my brow. What could the password be? Unless . . .

An idea goes off in my head. I’ll feel really fucking ridiculous, but I try it. He’s been following me for years, so it might not be much of a stretch.

I add in my birthday one digit at a time and hold my breath.

The phone unlocks.

Jesus Christ.

His background is a picture of me that I’ve never seen before. It’s from just a few months ago. My face is mostly hidden behind thick curls of my hair from the shitty Ohio weather, but I sit in my reading chair with a paper in my hands. The faintest smile tipping my lips, and the biggest tears are in my eyes. I recognize the details of the day and the paper in my hand.

That’s my acceptance letter to Greystone University.

I fucking got accepted to one of the best universities in the country. And I’m the background picture of the hottest guy I’ve ever shared air with. How is this real?

The fact that I’m his background doesn’t creep me out, surprisingly. I know it should, but I think the craziest thing about all of this is the fact that he knows everything about me, and I know nothing about him. It makes me itch that he knows secrets about me, things I’ve kept to myself for years. Everything I kept so tightly caged inside me has suddenly burst free. It’s odd when someone else knows the deepest bits and pieces of you. All my beautiful parts and all the ugly parts are exposed to him. But now, I want to know more about him.

It’s only fair.

I search through his phone, ashamed to say I check his messenger and social media apps first. I do it like a jealous girlfriend, though I don’t find anything except a ton of unread messages from puck bunnies that are disturbing at best and borderline sexual harassment at worst. Each one gets worse and worse.

I saw you at the game last night. Call me sometime . . .

How thick is your stick, hockey boy?

My twin and I saw you on the ice last night and want to know if you pound pussy as good as you do those players . . .

Jesus fucking Christ, women are as bad as men, it looks like.

But I also find people have sent him videos of him on the ice.

I check the dates of those.

The same date my paper was due.

I click on those out of curiosity, holding my breath as the video fills the screen.

I make out Rowan easily enough, and my mind slips back to that day. To the mystery person who left me season passes. To a flash of his face as he went on the ice. A shiver races through me as I realize it was him. He was so close to me and I had no idea.

I watch him on the screen as the game starts. It’s a close-up video, zooming in on his strong thighs gliding over the ice with ease.

I don’t know anything about hockey, but even I can tell he’s a talented player. The way he speeds and controls the puck. It goes on for a few minutes. I even recognize Nathan, with his last name stark against the back of his jersey and the arrogant way that asshole moves. He skates like he’s untouchable.

Plot twist: he’s not.

On the screen, Rowan approaches Nathan, circling him slowly like an animal honing in on prey. They exchange words that I can’t hear or read from their lips. Nathan laughs, makes a comment, and shoves his fist into Rowan’s shoulder. It looks like friendly banter between teammates.

But I see the exact moment when Rowan snaps. His smile shifts from light and charming to fucking void and violent.

Suddenly, everything is a blur of destruction. Rowan tackles Nathan to the ice, and his fists pound into the guy’s helmet. He pulls off the shield over Nathan’s face, and it slides forgotten across the ground. Rowan lifts his hockey stick and breaks it into Nathan’s nose, the handle cracking across bone before he tosses it aside and just uses his bare hands. Over and over again, he slams his fist down. Blood flies until there’s a trickling pool of it, stark and too bright against the white-blue ice.

And Rowan is screaming something, repeating it like a sworn oath in Nathan’s face. The crowd goes nuts, getting closer, zooming in. Until I can hear the words ever so faintly that he’s screaming over the cacophony.

“You don’t ever fucking disrespect Atlas again. I will fucking kill you!”

The video cuts off after referees pull them apart. My own wide eyes stare back at me within the reflection of the dimmed screen.

Holy shit.

So it’s true then. Rowan really did it. For me.

That type of quick violence should be frightening, but it isn’t. It’s anything but. It’s a feeling of safety. No one will ever touch me again. It’s barbaric and brutal and incredibly sexy. Even now, the aftereffects of watching it have my breaths labored and have me shifting my thighs to stave the ache between them.

Fuck.

A man nearly killing someone for you does something to the body, that’s for fucking sure. I’d sit on his face and ride that man to the moon if I didn’t think he’d happily die there without ever tapping out.

Too bad said man has a mountain of secrets, and I’m unsure I can completely trust him. Sure, I let him make me cum. Trusting him with my body is easy. He’s protected my body for five years. Trusting someone with my soul and my heart is another matter entirely.

So I dig deeper into his social media. When I find nothing else, I switch to his text messages, finding one that stops me.

It’s a summons. A really weird and shady summons to which Rowan replied. There’s no name on the number, and I glare at it, suspicion and anxiety threading through my insides.

I reread the short messages again and again.

Seven o’clock tomorrow night.

I’ll be there.

The texts are screaming at me. This is important. I know it is. He’s meeting Ed. I just know it.

And I want answers. Now.

I have no choice.

I’m going to have to stalk my stalker.

I leave his phone exactly as I found it, bending down at eye level to make sure the square angle is in perfect position as when I picked it up. Who knew geometry would be needed for espionage? I thought teachers had lied to me about it being an important part of life.

Lesson 101 in stalking your obsessive, murdery stalker/almost boyfriend/person: geometry is key.

Once the phone is perfectly in place, I exit the room to find Rowan standing up, stretching his arms over his head. The move makes his every muscle flex across his ribs and abdomen and arms in the most delicious way possible. His broad shoulders are this smooth perfection of power that’s only interrupted by a short, jagged scar at the top of his arm. The strange urge to lick that scar flickers in my mind.

And then my gaze drops to his chest, and every ripple is a map that only draws my attention lower and lower until I’m memorizing how deeply etched the lines veering down his hips are.

For a second, my brain short-circuits. I can’t concentrate. I swear I drool a little.

Fuck. Focus. You’re a spy now. You’re better than this. You’ll catch flies if you don’t stop.

I shake myself out of the stupor his body puts me in and look up at his eyes to find him smirking at me like he knows just how hot he is. From all the unread messages courtesy of the puck bunnies, I’m not surprised. He never entertained them though.

I wonder why. I can’t ask though. Even if it’s all I can think about.

“Morning,” he greets, too casually after all the heavy reveals of the night before. After literally looking me in the eyes and telling me he wants to kill me. I could never repeat any of those words to anyone else. I can barely look him in the eyes, but I can’t help the allure of how much they sparkle when he looks at me.

“Morning,” I whisper.

We stand facing each other for a few moments. Like neither of us knows what to do or how to approach the other. Why is everything harder in the light of day?

This situation is so fucked up. He’s been monopolizing my life for the longest time. He broke into my house as an introduction, made me cum when we’d barely spoken two words to each other. He chased Simon away, pushed his cock down my throat, and threatened my life. Now he’s standing in my room, shirtless and staring. It feels a lot like a relationship, or at least toeing the line of a very fucked-up one.

The truth of the matter is, he knows me better than anyone. And with that, there comes a certain vulnerability in the space that echoes between us. We are something, even if whatever we are hasn’t been defined yet.

And it seems neither of us knows how to approach it.

“So, what are your plans today?” he finally breaks the silence and asks.

I narrow my eyes on him. “As if you don’t know.”

His lip twitches like he’s fighting off a smile. “Yeah. I thought I’d give small talk a try.”

“Small talk is stupid.”

“Fine, so you have to work with Anna today until five. You’ll probably pause for lunch at eleven because you never eat a good breakfast, and then you’ll scroll your phone the last twenty minutes of your shift unless your coworker accidentally breaks another dead guy’s finger off.”

Damn he’s good.

“That only happened once,” I defend rather lamely. I won’t tolerate Anna slander. She’s been too nice to me. My only friend. Though when I look in his eyes, I can tell he’s not really being malicious about the comment, so I sniff. “Then I have to get some homework done.”

“Alright. I’ll be–”

“Watching me from the window? My closet maybe?” I give him my cheekiest smile to let him know I’m joking.

“Maybe I have my own errands to run,” he says playfully.

The text message flashes in my mind, but I try to play it off like I have no idea.

“Maybe. And maybe tonight, I’ll invite someone over who will actually sleep in my bed like a gentleman when they stay the night with me.”

Just like that, his smile drops. His eyes flare. And he’s taking great, hulking strides in my direction until we’re close enough to touch. He looms over me, a monster staring down at his prey.

“You can try it, Little Bird. But just know that whoever touches you–in any fucking way–will lose their fucking hands, and if they taste your cum–” He cuts off with a loud crack of his neck one way and then the other, and why the fuck am I so wet right now?

“Do you understand?” he asks low, rasping the question across my lips as he leans into me and catches my gaze with a shadow of darkness behind his eyes.

I swallow past the sudden thick lump in my throat. The threat is more of a promise, and it’s one that hits me deep down to my core. Fuck flowers and chocolates. This is what women want.

“I said, do you understand me?” He steps forward so that our chests brush against one another. I suck in a breath at his proximity. He sends every nerve on fire, and I’m not sure if he even knows it. His hand cups the underside of my jaw, tilting my head up higher so I can see the gleam in his gaze. His grasp is firm and painful and makes me ache for all the things I’ve wanted to feel for so long.

I want to feel everything he’ll give to me.

“I hear you.” I’m so breathless, it comes out as a whisper. I nod, but he doesn’t immediately release me.

“I have to run some errands, and you have to get ready for work.” He pulls away without so much as a kiss to assuage the desire that he left coursing through me. I watch as he saunters past me, going into the bathroom to grab his things.

I let out a breath when he’s gone. Fuck, he’s so intense, and he doesn’t know it.

As the bathroom clicks closed behind him, I hurry through the motions of getting dressed. To make it seem more believable, I dress like I normally do for work. Maybe he thinks we’ve come to an understanding. Maybe everything that has transpired between us means he won’t be stalking me anymore. He’ll go to work, he’ll go about his day, and it gives me the perfect chance to follow him without rousing suspicion.

It’s the perfect plan.

At least, it should be.

Once I’m done, my curls tamed into twin braids, Rowan comes out of the bathroom, already dressed and ready to go himself.

“I’d ask you to walk me to work, but I’m technically already at work. Plus, I think you’d be happier spying from the shadows.”

He rolls his eyes and steps closer to me. I brace myself as he bends to my level, pressing his forehead to mine. There’s a moment of silence as he breathes me in and I do the same with him. We don’t kiss. But it’s okay.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Because if I find that I don’t like what he’s hiding, it might be the end of us. Before we’ve even begun.

After a few seconds, Rowan pulls away. “Remember who you belong to, Atlas.” He winks sweetly.

And he turns and walks away.

NINETEEN

Atlas

I wish there was a handbook for stalking. Following Rowan around has been so boring. You’d think my stalker would have a more exciting life. Alas, all he does is run fucking errands all day. You know, like he said he would.

At one point, he goes to the hockey arena. The parking lot is nearly empty. My shoes echo down the silent halls, and I have to just stop and watch where he enters before racing after him.

He sits in the back row, and I linger near the door in the shadows. He sits in the stands, and I can recognize him staring at the ice with longing. Meanwhile, his teammates all train. Even that asshole Nathan is on the ice, giving Rowan a side-eye when he enters. The coward.

Rowan got kicked off the team for the rest of the season because of what he did.

Guilt slams into me, but I try to keep that tamped down. I didn’t force him to kick Nathan’s ass. Even if I do appreciate the sentiment. Rowan’s actions are his own, and I don’t think anyone is able to control him.

Not even himself.

When he’s finished watching his teammates after only fifteen minutes, he gets up and leaves. I’m close behind, but not close enough to be recognized. I blend into the crowd on the streets outside. I’m glad he doesn’t drive a car around the city, or else I’d be fucked. I don’t have one of my own, and I can’t even afford cab fare. So this is actually kind of perfect.

Except by the time hours pass and he is still doing nonsequential things, my feet are screaming, and I swear I have blisters on my soles.

It isn’t until the sun is nearly setting that he finally slows, stopping in front of a restaurant. A restaurant that seems . . . fancy considering his casual attire.

Is this where he’s meeting the mystery texter? Is Ed inside waiting?

My nerves and anxiety flare once again as I watch him step into the restaurant. I spy from outside the glass as he gives the woman at the front his name, and she leads him to the back, blocking him from my view.

Well, fuck.

If this isn’t fucking suspicious, I don’t know what is.

Why would he meet Ed in such an open place? What if it isn’t Ed? What if he has a date?

My chest boils with the heat of sudden jealousy, but I shove that aside. I don’t have any claim to him. We’re . . . platonic. As platonic as obsessive stalkers go, that is.

With steely determination, I head inside, trying not to feel out of place in my jeans and T-shirt. Rowan came in wearing the same thing. Granted, he looks like a male-model made of a million bucks. I look like something that was scraped off the road. Only on my off days, though.

It’s really true that money does make beauty. When you grow up poor, you know that exponentially.

The inside of the place is swanky with its ambient music, crystal chandeliers, and carpets that look clean enough to lick. The same woman who had guided Rowan to the back is there again. She takes a look at me. I don’t expect a warm welcome. In fact, I brace myself in case she tries to throw me out.

Instead, she gives me a once over. “Atlas Ortega?” she asks sweetly.

“Um . . .” How the fuck does she know my name? “Yeah?”

She smiles. “Right this way please. Your party is waiting for you.”

Party? What party? I don’t do parties. Is it appropriate for spies to run away with their tails between their legs? What do they do when they’re in crisis mode?

Cry? I feel like I could cry right now.

My legs nearly lock together out of fear, but somehow, I find myself following her to the back of a place I never thought I’d be caught dead in. My breathing grows labored. Shit, is Ed here? Is he back there, waiting with Rowan to finish off the job of killing me, silencing me, like he’s always wanted to?

Is my life about to end?

More importantly, will he let me have a last meal before he offs me?

The place probably serves flavorless coin-sized pieces of lobster, and as far as last meals go, I’d rather have a steaming plate of menudo, mole, or my mom’s enchiladas. Guess we can’t all get what we want.

While I’m mentally bracing myself for the inevitable, the woman leads me off to a private section of the restaurant, pulling aside a plush curtain to reveal a dimly lit space, rose petals, and candles, and sitting at the table . . .

My eyes widen, and I nearly choke on my own spit.

Rowan’s smirk is wide and taunting. The mischief in his eyes shines in the candlelight.

“Please, have a seat, Ms. Ortega. Your waiter will be here momentarily.”

Then the woman is gone.

And I’m alone with Rowan.

TWENTY

Rowan

She’s cute when she’s stunned to silence. She’s cute regardless, but the look of utter shock as she takes in the seven o’clock reservations I had set up for the both of us is priceless. My twitching fingers calm, and I smooth my palms down my thighs.

“Have a seat.” I nod at the chair across from me.

I’ve never been one for romance or romantic gestures. Just the thought of putting in so much effort, time, and money for a girl who only wants to use me for my dick or status was always enough to make me want to gouge my own eyes out.

But Atlas isn’t just any other girl. She doesn’t give a fuck about someone’s status. That much is obvious in the way her eyes flick over the table with honest shock and then disinterest.

“What is this, Rowan?” she demands. She sounds so offended. My fingers tap against my leg once more, and I resist the urge to crack my neck to the side.

“A date. Sit.”

“A date?” she echoes with disbelief. “I’m confused. What–”

“Sit down, Atlas.”

I don’t snap at her, but I put a lot of force into my tone, brokering no room for argument. She does as I ask, reluctantly taking the seat across from me. When she does, I push a menu in front of her. “Pick whatever you want to order when the waiter comes.”

She doesn’t even glance at it. “Rowan, what the fuck is going on?”

I curl my fingers into fists. Was this a bad fucking idea? I thought my intentions would be obvious here. “This is a date,” I clarify.

Her brows furrow with confusion. “A date?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A war of emotions rages inside my chest. I’m offended that she’d even ask that question, humiliated that I put this together only for her to glare down at it, amused that she finds my efforts lacking, and determined to make her smile at least once.

This obsession is consuming me. I need to take a breath.

“I figured you’d be hungry after following me around all day.”

She blanches, jerking back in her seat, and begins stammering, stringing syllables together incoherently.

“I–I wasn’t . . .” She clears her throat, her pretty eyes drifting to the waterfront view from the window at our side. “How did you know?” she asks instead.

“You trail someone with as much finesse as a tow truck dragging away a car accident.”

Her eyes close against a soft smile that’s threatening her full lips. The taste of her flares back to life against my tongue, and I swallow hard at the idea of spreading her across this table for dinner. I wonder if the owners of the restaurant would kick us out for that?

Probably.

“I thought I was doing a good job.” She still sounds offended, almost hurt, by what I just said.

“Little Bird, I’ve been in the game far longer than you have. Don’t take it personally.” Besides, my body is so attuned to her very essence, I knew the moment she was behind me. It didn’t matter how much of a distance she placed between us. It didn’t matter how well she was able to blend into the crowd. I knew where she was at all times. I could feel her. It was fucking addicting.

That explanation seems to placate her, at least momentarily. She sighs quietly, looking down at the table. “I haven’t been on a date in years.” Her fingertips skim the edge of the sleek black menu like she isn’t quite ready to commit to having dinner with me.

I’ll persuade her. I’ll make this a fucking dream come true for her.

“What was your last date?”

Her lashes flinch and she replies so quietly. “It was a high school dance. I’d just come back from . . . everything and . . . I couldn’t do it. I left. I broke up with him that night. He was so furious. Cruel even.”

Fuck dreams coming true. I’m a goddamn nightmare of a date. Could I fuck this up any more?

I was there that night. The school threatened to flunk her for missing so many days while she was in the institute against her will.

She dropped out that week.

A waiter comes by with glasses of sparkling water, and his words begin to ramble together about the chef’s soup and some fresh crab cakes, and I can physically feel her recoiling into herself. When I get anxious, anger comes out. When Atlas gets anxious, she fades away.

“Actually, we have to go.” I stand abruptly, my thighs shaking and spilling the contents of the glasses. Her big eyes shine like golden fire when she looks up at me. I grab her small hand and nod to the waiter as I drop some cash on the table behind us.

She staggers behind me, but I guide her around the tables and the watchful eyes of the other guests without hesitation. I’m a whole fucking idiot. She doesn’t want crab cakes and sparkling water. This isn’t her fucking scene.

I was born into this life of luxury. I’m used to places like this. They only serve as a stark reminder to her just how much people like me have taken from people like her.

You’d think after so many years of following her around, I’d fucking know this.

“Rowan, slow down.”

I don’t listen to her until we’re finally out of the doors of that place. She’s out of breath, tugging on my fingers, trying to pry out of my grip.

She doesn’t know that I’d rather die a slow death than let her go.

It’s madness, the way she consumes me. The way she inhabits every thought at every hour of the day. And yet I’ve caused her undo distress.

I slow my steps with considerable effort until she’s at my side.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she admonishes.

I look down at her and give in to the urge to touch her. My fingers glide down the soft flesh of her cheek, reaching to the underside of her jaw to cup her there and keep her gaze tethered to mine. “Yes, Little Bird.” My gaze heats as her tongue darts across her lips. “I did.”

“Places like that remind me of him.”

“I know,” I whisper between us. “I’m sorry.”

I thought she’d appreciate the fanciness of that joint. I’m fucking stupid for ever believing she was like that. Atlas Ortega doesn’t have a bone in her body that’s in any way similar to Ed. One would ever wonder how he even spawned someone so lovely and kind, when he’s the exact opposite of her in every fucking way possible.

I bend my head so our foreheads touch together. It’s my version of an apology, or as much of one as I can convey without turning into a simpering fucking mess. I breathe her in, obsessed with her scent, and can almost taste her on the tip of my tongue.

My cock goes hard at the proximity. Always in a perpetual state of arousal when it comes to her.

I pull away, feeling my whirling thoughts finally settle. “What would you like to eat?”

She just shrugs.

Is this a test? Or is she afraid of telling me what she prefers?

Fine then.

I take her hand once more and tug her along. We walk in silence for several blocks until we finally make it to our destination. Her shoes skid along the sidewalk as she takes in a full block of parked food trucks.

“Take your pick,” I tell her, smiling as her mouth drops open and her stomach growls.

This is more her speed.

And when she pulls me along the sidewalk, laughter trickling from her throat, I have to fight back a smile of my own.

Atlas Ortega is mine.

And I’d destroy the fucking world if only to hear her laughter.

TWENTY-ONE

Atlas

I eat my weight in tacos and soft drinks before Rowan takes all my trash to a metal bin like he’s declaring we’re done with the food section of our date.

Date.

I’m on a date with Rowan Stone. My stalker, my savior, my–

I don’t know what he is. I don’t even know what I want him to be. He’s still holding something back. Still hiding secrets. Secrets that I so epically failed in obtaining today. I’m not sure if this date was just a ploy to take my mind off all the things he didn’t tell me. I’m not sure if I care at the moment when I’m sporting a food baby and suffering from a heavy case of mal del puerco. I could use a nap.

Whatever, it’s working.

For a moment, I can forget who–what–Rowan is. I can forget that there are still secrets between us that are miles long. For a single moment, I can pretend we’re normal, and this is a regular date between two people who aren’t as fucked up as we are.

“There’s more planned than this?” I ask, my eyes widening. I’m not sure I’ve had a decent meal in a long time. And Rowan let me order whatever I wanted without batting an eye.

You bet your ass I took advantage of that.

Never pass up free food. Ever. It’s like a rule.

“Yes.” He grips me and pulls me along.

More walking.

I groan, throwing my head back. “We could just go home and sleep,” I offer, only slightly hopeful after following him around all day.

His heated gaze roves over me, and it suddenly pushes away all my tiredness. I know what the gaze means, and it fills me with so much wanting along with the slightest slivers of fear.

“Not a chance,” he tells me with a smile as he pulls me against his side and guides me to whatever he has planned next.

I don’t have time to protest much anyway because after a few short blocks of walking, we’re back at the hockey arena, and he’s pulling me into the empty, creepy place. Only a janitor lingers in the halls, mopping the floors and eyeing us as he leads me down a long hallway. Toward the ice.

“What the fuck?”

He grabs a bag that’s on one of the seats as if just waiting for him. He unzips it and hands me a pair of skates. “Put these on.”

I stare from the skates to his face. “Absolutely not.”

“That wasn’t a question, Little Bird.”

“I am not skating. Those are death traps.”

His lip quirks to the side before his features smooth over. “Put them on. I’m going to teach you.”

I hold my palms out and back away slowly. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait at least an hour after eating before you skate?”

His brows kick up. “That’s for swimming.”

“Pretty sure it’s for any and all strenuous activity. Nope. You won’t catch me hurling on that ice. Could never be me, sir. Could never be me.”

I’m rambling and I don’t care. A sudden nightmare flashes before my eyes. One in which I’m on the ice, my limbs flail, and I accidentally slit my own throat with the blade of a skate.

They look sharp enough to kill.

The fear must be prominent in my gaze because Rowan lowers the skates and steps towards me. I back away, but the backs of my thighs hit the bleachers, and I fall on my ass in a seat. Rowan merely looms over me, unfazed by my absolute lack of grace.

His arms cage me, and he leans down, dark hair fanning against his eyes. His jaw works, and his eyes flare as he takes me in.

“Do you think I’m weak?”

I blink at the suddenness of his serious question.

“No?”

“Then why insult me by insinuating that I won’t take care of you on the ice?”

“Um–”

“You think I’d let you fall? Hurt yourself?”

I try to look away from the intensity in his gaze, but his hand shoots out, grasping that favorite spot of his beneath my jaw. He tightens ever so slightly, but that pain mingles with a strange sort of pleasure that suddenly courses through me. He forces me to look at him. To breathe in his steady anger.

“I’ve been watching out for you for years, fucking years. There is no one on this Earth more qualified to look after you than me.” He leans down, so close that our lips nearly brush. “Don’t fucking insult me by presuming I’ll let you fall.”

He pushes away with a quiet breath, grabs the skates, and thrusts them in my direction once again. The command is clear.

Put them on.

I reach for the skates. I should argue, I know that. But his words stick to me like glue. The deep promise in them. The implications that he’s been here, watching over me, like some fucked-up guardian angel, for a long time.

It’s only because of that, I bend and put the damn things on.

I soon find, being in this rink is where Rowan is the most human. He opens up when he skates. And I’ve happily come back to the rink with him again and again just to see him smile more.

Once again, I step out onto the ice where Rowan is already casually skating backward to make room for me. This is day one thousand four hundred and six on the ice with him.

Okay, that’s a lie, but it fucking feels like it to my ankles.

“If you let me fall, I will kill you with your own skates,” I threaten. Though the words hold no weight when I’m wobbling around like a newborn baby deer fighting against gravity.

Rowan’s eyes brighten with laughter he doesn’t unleash. “You can try, Little Bird.” He looks delighted at the prospect of violence. “But I promise, I won’t let you fall.”

This isn’t the first time he’s said those words to me in the many days that followed after that night he brought me here and taught me how to skate. When I first put the skates on and promptly fell on my ass, Rowan made it his personal mission to turn me into a professional skating hockey player.

It’s been a week, and I am nowhere near being the NHL star he hopes I can become.

His hands are gripping my forearms, guiding me slowly along the ice. My knees nearly buckle as I struggle to stay upright. My thighs–my fucking thighs have been so angry at all of this—but I do like it. I like being in his space with him.

He opens up more here. I finally get to see him without any broken pieces. He’s entirely free here.

“How do you make this look so easy?” I complain. This isn’t the first time I’ve bitched about his ease on the ice. He hasn’t even broken a sweat; meanwhile I’m cold all over.

“Years of practice.” He pulls me a bit further on the ice, and I glide in his arms, though not quite as easily as he does.

He teasingly pulls me against this chest his head dipping low and making my lips part with the mere idea of his mouth against mine. My body lights up against his. Then he cruelly pushes me back with minimal effort. I gasp from the sensation of being shoved out to sea alone.

And he laughs his fucking ass off.

The jerk.

He takes my hands lightly once more.

“When did you start skating–oh my god, Rowan, do not let me go!” I cling to him, digging my nails into his forearms to keep him in place when he makes a move to slip away again.

He picks up the pace before he answers, and I swear my head spins. I try to grasp at his words, try to let them ground me so I don’t pass out on the ice.

That would be so shitty.

“My dad taught me to skate when I was really young.” A darkness looms over those words. It causes me to look up, and I see the shadow that passes over his expression. I ease my tight grip on him, smoothing my palms over his arms in a gesture of solidarity.

I know that look very well. Rowan has a past. I mean, you don’t harbor the kind of violent tendencies he has from nothing. Something made him this way. Something bad.

I lower my voice. “Will you tell me about him?”

There’s a moment of silence, and we just glide around. My own fear is forgotten as I’m lost in the void of sadness in his eyes. For a moment, I think he won’t answer until he finally does.

“My dad was my everything.” His voice is soft, and yet it still echoes around the empty arena, creating an eerie backdrop of music almost. “He loved hockey. Played it professionally, was in the NHL . . .” There’s a brief pause as he gathers his thoughts. “He taught me everything he knew from the moment I was old enough to fit into skates.”

There’s something about the tone of his voice that lets me know that this story? It doesn’t have a happy ending. Though most stories don’t, and anyone who thinks they’ll get one is deluding themselves.

The world is a cruel place, and Rowan’s next words only further prove that.

“He got sick when I was eleven. Cancer.” He swallows and pulls me further along the ice. “The doctors caught on to it too late. He died only a few months after finding out.”

My fingers dig into his forearms, and I take a deep breath. I can hear the pain in his voice like it’s a tangible thing. A part of me wants to take that sorrow, let it consume me. If only so he doesn’t have to feel it. I’m used to the sadness though. It has followed me my whole life, become such an integral part of me that I know I could shoulder it. For the both of us.

“I’m sorry.” The words won’t help, but I want him to know that I mean them. Completely.

“My mother remarried before his body was even cold and in the ground.” He turns sharply, and my legs almost give out from beneath me. I gasp, gripping onto him. Once we’re straightened out again, my gaze darts up to his.

“I take it you don’t like your stepdad?”

“Let’s just say he’s . . . an asshole.”

“Well, I know what it’s like to have a shitty parent in your life.” I chuckle, but he doesn’t echo the sound. His gaze looks far away. Like he’s retreated somewhere deep in his mind.

I don’t want to lose him to his thoughts.

I wonder if I’ve completely ruined our date with this talk.

Time for a change of subject.

“So, did you really know I was following you the whole time last week?”

It’s not the smoothest way to change topics, but I’ll take it. Last week, we didn’t do much beyond skate, both of us comfortable in each other’s silence. And when he walked me home afterwards, I almost expected him to come inside. For something between us to happen. But he didn’t touch me. He said his goodbyes and disappeared.

To visit the mysterious texter?

I hadn’t the energy in me at the time to follow him again, especially since I’d have been easily found out. In the days that followed, he kept me occupied with more dates, more gifts, and I wonder if he’s trying to scrub my mind of suspicion. In doing so, he just makes me even more suspicious of him and his motives. It’s funny, though, how it all goes out the window when we’re in our own little moment. In a bubble where nothing and nobody can hurt us.

His attention draws back to me, and his lips twitch. “Yes.”

Damn. I guess I’m not as sleuth-y as I thought. Is that a word? I don’t think that’s a real word, but I’m using it anyway. It’s also a reason I haven’t had the guts to follow him again, no matter how much my insides burn and urge me to do so.

“How did you know?”

“I figured you would when you broke into my phone.”

I jolt, my legs crisscrossing beneath me. Rowan rights me before I can fall on my ass. When he does, I can feel my face flushing.

“How did you know about that?” I demand. The audacity I currently carry is probably hilarious, considering it’s his phone and I broke into it. Though, in the grand scheme of things, what I did is small. I broke into his phone. He broke into my entire life.

“All the unread messages from the puck bunnies were suddenly marked as read.”

Dammit!

I really am a terrible spy.

My face heats, and I try to pull away, but Rowan only tugs me closer until our chests touch. Then his hand is cupping the underside of my jaw, tilting my face up to his. Finally, finally, his lips curl up into a slow smile.

“Don’t go digging into places if you don’t want to find the answers, Little Bird.”

I grit my teeth together. “What if I do want to know the answers?”

“What if you aren’t ready for the answers?”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“Then ask.”

I blink. “What?”

“Ask whatever it is you want to know.”

I suck in a breath. This is my chance. My turn to ask what I want to learn and see if I can catch him in a lie. So many questions volley back and forth in my mind. Everything I wanted to ask, everything I spied on him to try and discover.

But what blurts out of my mouth isn’t what I even wanted to know.

“Why don’t you ever respond to them?”

“What?” He looks genuinely confused.

“The puck bunnies. Why don’t you ever respond to them? There are messages on your phone dating back months. And nothing.”

He lets out a slow breath. “Oh, you have to know.”

“Know what?”

“I’m twenty-fucking-five years old and signed up for general studies. Because of you. I tried out for hockey on a whim, and they fucking put me on the team like my life isn’t a shitshow. I thought I’d be closer to you, maybe get in your classes, actually meet you. I–I don’t know. It was stupid. I was kicked off the team. I failed Literature 101. Do you know what that fucking says about me? I can’t even read a goddamn book right.” His smile is easy and infectious, but it doesn’t answer my question. “I only know how to do one thing right.” His attention drifts across my face slowly. “I came here for you, Atlas. I’ve only ever belonged to you and no one else.”

My thighs quiver in a way that has nothing to do with the wobbly skates at my feet. I suck in a breath, and a hot flush crawls up my neck, taking permanent residence against my cheeks.

For once, that perpetual sadness that lives inside makes a gaping hole in my chest as something else shoves its way through. And for once, I fucking let that happiness in. It washes in with a warmth that sears through every single part of me. It’s a strange feeling to be happy when all you’ve ever known is pain.

“Alright. I hate when you smile at me like I’m cute,” he says with a smirk, skating back a few feet to force me to come to him on uneven, gliding steps.

“You are cute.”

“I’m terrifying.”

“Adorable,” I correct.

“More questions. Let’s go. Get them out, Ortega.”

I hesitate but I ask anyway.

“What was your stepfather like?”

The smile disappears, and I hate that I ruined it, but I need to know him.

“He was . . . abusive.” He tilts his head this way and then that way before continuing. “He hated me for existing. I was just a stupid kid and he wanted me gone. He’d find shit to punish me for. If my room wasn’t immaculately spotless, he’d take me out to this shed we had behind our house. I never knew if he’d use the chains in there to beat the fuck out of me . . . or if he’d lock me inside and forget about me until my mom came home a couple days later from one of her weekend getaways.”

My feet stop moving, and I can’t look away from the steadiness of his gaze. He confesses it all like there’s no emotion attached to the words.

“Oh,” I whisper. Searching for more words to add on that will somehow heal this brutally broken man. My lips part to say more, but he glides over to me instantly.

“I know you want to know what I have to do with Ed.” He pauses and takes my hands in his, and we just stand there for several quiet seconds. “Ed wanted me to shut you up. He wanted me to break you. Make you like that little boy I once was.” His head tilts down toward mine as he whispers, “And I refused.”

“Rowan?” I whisper, barely letting his name leave my lips.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me something good about you,” I ask, my words whispering across his lips.

A smile tilts there, and he kisses me slowly. Briefly.

“How about I show you instead?”

TWENTY-TWO

Atlas

The elevator doors are enormous slabs of intricately cut mirrors that show our reflections in disfigured, jagged pieces that somehow still don’t take away Rowan’s dangerous sex appeal. It sparks between us, and I see him smirking at me in the artistic mirror. My body thrums louder with every light that flickers on with each floor we pass by. The elevator carries us in tense silence, and I feel him brush closer against my side, his body alighting mine until I turn to him. My lips part as he dips his head low. His demanding hands push through my hair, and he turns my head roughly to one side, revealing the length of my neck for him. Warm lips brush so faintly against my skin that I tremble in his arms. The whisper of his breath skims my ear, and then he says,

“We’re here, Little Bird.”

My lashes flutter back open just in time for the doors to part, opening up to reveal the darkest foyer I’ve ever seen. The black walls are lined with stained trim, and the door to the apartment is large and commanding.

“This is your apartment?” I ask, carefully taking a single step out in case he’d like to tell me he’s just fucking with me, and we’re actually at the wrong place.

“You expected something less than a penthouse?” he guesses, and I part my lips to argue as he opens the front door for me, but my words die on my tongue the moment I’m standing in his space. And holy fuck, is it a space. The living room sprawls out to overbearing dark windows that have heavy shades drawn down over each of them, the city firmly shut out from the luxurious life he’s secretly living.

“I just thought . . .” I lift my hands from my sides, but I don’t know what to say.

“You thought I was a criminal who lived on the streets.”

I turn to him and his cocky smile that’s lazily tilted at one side.

“I mean . . . I was worried how long you’d been living in my closet, Rowan Stone.”

His laughter is this delicious rumbling sound that lingers in my own chest. My own amusement brightens under the light of his. His strides casually eat up the space, and then big hands are on my hips. He walks me back slowly, and then the cold wall is beneath my back as his hard body melds against mine. My heart struggles to beat. His lips brush over mine, consuming me with the dominating feel of his affection.

“Your closet is my summer home,” he jokes quietly.

“Had I known you were there, I would have started to charge you rent, rich boy.”

His breath fans across the top of my head, warm and inviting. “Ask me for anything, and I’ll give you the world.”

It’s hard to think or speak or even breathe when his entire energy is all wrapped up around mine. The words are a force of nature that wreak destruction through my very soul.

My chin lifts, and the pressure in my chest grows with each second that ticks by as he holds my gaze but never fully closes that infuriating space between us. I almost whimper with want, and I have to fight off the maddening urge to pull him closer.

“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re desperate, Little Bird.” And then pulls away, capturing my hand in his and pulling me from that perfect wall that I really wish I was getting my brains fucked out against right now.

He shakes his head at me with a dark and taunting smile.

“I haven’t even shown you the best part.” He turns his back on me as he guides me through the darkness of his kitchen. Dim light haloes down from beneath the cabinets, making the black countertops shine with glints of sparkling highlights. The dining room is blanketed in that same sleek black, my attention catching on the stark wall that looms over the long white table.

Everything is so moody and gorgeous. It’s like I’m living in this broken man’s soul, and I get the feeling that it’s lonely here. Isolated and unseen. I wonder if that’s why he hid away behind my life for so long. Like maybe even being within the shadows of my own life made him feel less alone. And if he finally revealed himself to me, it was so he could finally feel seen.

My fingers squeeze around his just as lightly, but then he’s looking back on me with flashing excitement in his eyes. There’s a brief moment as his hand lingers on the door handle where I worry that the room he’s about to reveal is some fucked-up shrine of all my old Facebook photos and discarded panties with a vow of eternal love written across the wall with his own blood.

I mean . . . not a total deal-breaker, but it might be awkward for a bit.

He pushes the door. It glides open without a sound. The carpet is soft and quiets my footsteps as I enter another darkly painted room. But this one isn’t tragic and brooding. It’s carefully decorated with intense emphasis on the hanging decor like I’m stepping foot into a museum. Lights shine beams of golden halos over glossy black frames. Beneath the glass are professional pictures of a player in heavy gear and striking action shots. I spot the words NHL Hall of Fame across the closest one. It’s the next one, though, that dawns understanding through my mind.

Donovan Stone, NHL Hall of Fame.

“Is this your father?” My fingers graze the sleek frame, but I get the feeling an alarm will go off, and security might leap out of the shadows if I actually lay a hand on any of these memorabilia.

“Yeah. He was the greatest.” Rowan’s smile is faint. Tainted by something he doesn’t seem to want to admit.

Was.

My mom was too. She was a lot of things.

And now she’s gone. He’ll never let her come back. I’ve accepted it. But fuck if it doesn’t still hurt. I understand his hurt. I feel his hurt.

I take my time strolling along the nearest wall and taking in each image that Rowan holds close to his heart. The back wall holds images that are smaller than the poster-size frames, but there are more of them. So many more. These pictures aren’t professional. There’s a grain to some of the images. Memories caught on film by old cell phones and quick-moving parents that had to stay on their toes to follow around the most adorable blue-eyed baby boy.

His father is younger here. His body is leaner, and his happiness seems freer. He holds Rowan in one arm, and as I stare at the two of them, I can almost hear the laughter through their enormous smiles. Images from beaches and schools and hockey rinks and even a small black dog at a dog park are everywhere across this wall.

But his mother isn’t.

Perhaps this room isn’t about her. Maybe this is a space for Rowan to remember the man who raised him. The man who possibly could have made Rowan into a hockey legend if life had played out differently.

I almost believe all that too. Until the wall art ends and a bookcase lines the side wall. It spans the length of the room with old books that seem like collector's editions to some modern publications that give me pause when I come across names like Gaiman and Elllis.

It’s not the books that really pull me in. It’s the decor that lines the shelves. Two bookends shaped like hockey sticks press the novels together in one section. That little black dog has a spot in the upper right-hand corner where his frame looks down on me, and his shining dark eyes are bright with mischief.

And there, slipped in between a sleek black set of encyclopedias . . . is a picture hidden away.

I feel him watching me. His gaze heats my neck, and I know he’s now fixated on the exact same thing I am.

“You can look at it,” he says on a low rumbling voice.

I bite my lip with a smile. It feels like he’s giving me the chance to pick him apart in the same manner he has picked me apart for the last several years. I’m exploring who Rowan Stone is on the deepest level. This is a gift, one very few have the pleasure of receiving.

I could ask him about his pets. His childhood. His likes and dislikes. I could ask him about his scars. But seeing them, taking them in slowly: it feels invasive and intimate all at the same time.

The photo slides from between the two clothbound books, spilling several others out behind it. They fall to the gray carpet, and my breath catches when I see my own face looking back up at me. I kneel down and shuffle through the worn images of myself. The edges are bent and creased. I flip through the first few of me in my apartment. It’s a close-up picture that I swear is taken from inside the apartment. Some are of me studying . . . and some . . . are of me in bed, head thrown back with my breasts naked to the cold air. In mid orgasm.

My face heats fast and hot, and I try not to think about how wet my own photos just made me. It’s not the photos. Not really. It’s the idea that he saw me like this, and he . . .

Flashing ideas of him stroking himself and the low vibrations of his groans sounding through a dark room. Because of me.

His hands push down my arms, and the warm sensation sends goose bumps all through my body as his chest aligns with my back. He wraps me up in the most consuming hug anyone has ever given me. I want to die in his arms just like this. That rumbling groan I’d imagined is against my ear as he whispers.

“Do you want to see the best part, Little Bird?”

The breath in my throat catches, and I shift against his big body, wanting so fucking bad to see the best part.

His hand lifts from the dominating place where he was holding it against my stomach to the perfectly lined row of encyclopedias. With a hard push, the bookshelf rolls back. It opens. Like a door.

I swallow hard as we face the darkness of the open doorway.

“I need you to see this part of me too. I need you to know what I really am.”

I don’t move. I stand in the safety of his arms, and my feet don’t take a single step. Maybe it’s the eeriness of the hidden space or the heaviness in his tone, but something bad is in there. Something . . .

Sinister.

TWENTY-THREE

Atlas

Without a word, he commands me forward. He pushes me with a small press of his palm against my lower back, and despite every nerve in my body screaming to not go into that room, I obey his unspoken command.

The floor is hard beneath my feet, and the room is cold with chilling ventilation. My hand lingers on the smooth wood of the bookshelf behind me, but it slips away in the darkness. Warmth seeps into my back as he shifts against me. The silence is so heavy, all I hear is the slamming of my own heart.

And then with a lift of his hand, bright white lighting flickers on across the space. The flat white colors of the room flood my vision in a way that’s entirely foreign in comparison to the rest of the house. Home. This is his home.

And he has a sterile room made of metal countertops with saws, drills, and more hanging from the far wall. The faint smell of bleach is in the air. A white freezer, the largest I’ve ever seen in a residential setting, is in the corner. The table at the center of the room is so similar to the ones we use at work. The ones that hold the bodies. With one resounding difference: ours don’t have a need for chains to dangle from above and straps to hang from the sides like his does.

It has been custom built. Just like a lot of things in Rowan Stone’s house. He has a murderer’s wet dream built behind a hidden wall in his library. And now I’m standing in it.

I turn to him with sympathy welling in my chest. I’m not afraid of him. This space is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen decor wise, but I see death every day. I make friends with it. I make it pretty.

This isn’t even on my top ten most concerning issues in my life right now.

“Rowan, I don’t need to see this.” I know he’s a killer. He has killed for me even. Does he think he’s going to get me to change my mind about him if I see this? That I’ll run away screaming?

I told him I’m not afraid of him. Is this what it’ll take for him to believe me?

“I need you to see it.” His words rumble out as he searches my features slowly, taking an inventory of every emotion I have within me. But none of it is what he expects.

“I see dead people every day. Do you want me to go running through the city screaming? What do you want, Rowan?” I lift my hands from my sides and ignore all the red flags in the room. If I pretend I’m color blind, I could gather up all those flags and make a pretty centerpiece here on the fucked-up table in the center of the murder room.

“Seeing dead people and dating a murderer is not the same thing. I want you to see who I really am. I’m not your hero, Little Bird. I’m very much the bad guy. And I need you to know how real that is. I thought I could date you? I thought I could be a real part of your life instead of just your dirty dark secret. I can’t. I’ll always be your secret.”

My secret. I’ve got a thousand of them . . . What’s one more?

“Then murder me,” I tell him, my voice bold, daring.

It startles Rowan, as much as his severe face can appear so. He blinks, his eyes widening a fraction at my request. “What?”

“You say you’re a murderer. So murder me. That’s the real reason you’re showing me this, isn’t it?” I step close to him, grab his hand, and force it against my throat. I know he can feel the way I swallow against his palm. The way my pulse is thumping against his skin. “Murder me, Rowan Stone. End it now.”

His fingers squeeze, but I don’t feel fear. Not even when he tightens. Not even when lights dance behind my eyelids. But then he’s pulling away, stepping away from me.

Always bringing me to the brink, but never shoving me over that edge.

My chest rises and falls with every heavy breath, but I keep my gaze pinned on him. On the boy who is just as fucked up as me.

“I never thought you were my hero, Rowan.” Even if he has saved my life more times than I even know. “I never thought you were the bad guy either. Life isn’t that simple. Our lives,” I look up at the intensity in his serious eyes, “are never going to be simple,” I add on a whisper.

He’s a bad man who kills other bad men. These two things don’t cancel each other out, but it isn’t something tragic to me. Not when I’ve been afraid of bad men all my life.

And now I have one of my own. My own personal safety net of terror.

“Maybe.” He glances away from me then, and I can’t help but grip his shirt and force him to look at me. “You’re going to see me clearly someday. I’m going to disgust you. You’ll hate me,” he vows.

The way he says those last few words makes me want to dig through every photo he owns to understand who the fuck in his life made him believe this. Who made him feel he wasn’t worthy of love.

Because they’re so fucking wrong.

My fingers push across his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes as my fingertips trace the edge of that cruel scar.

“You could have killed me, too, Rowan. Your life would have been so much simpler without me. But instead of getting rid of me, you saved me. Over and over again. I’ll never hate you.” My voice drops to a confessional whisper. “I only know how to love you.” My quiet words kiss along his lips.

His eyes widen with the weight of my words clearly spinning in his head.

“I fucking love every inch of you, Little Bird,” he growls out before his head dips low as if he tastes the words I just confessed. He kisses me. Slowly. Dominatingly. Letting me memorize the possessive press of his lips against mine.

A big hand slips through my hair, claiming me there before another grabs my hip, and then his chest melds hard against mine. It steals my breath away until it burns inside me for more. My hands slip beneath his shirt, and hard lines skim my fingertips as I push my way up the warmth of his abdomen.

It’s like that small touch sets him off.

Quickly, he’s walking me backward. Our feet tangle, and a moan is all I can manage before my lower back hits something hard. He growls darkly against my mouth before his hand slams to the countertop with a heavy clank, steadying us there for only seconds before I’m shoving against the metal to shift ass up on the table.

He pins me there, his hands caging me in on either side. The weight of his hips is against mine, and the arch of my back only presses my center even harder against him. It feels like we’re warring against each other, giving and taking between ourselves but still needing more.

My palms fumble against the smooth planes of his chest, but he captures my hand. A breathless smile tilts my lips and only grows when he takes the hem of my shirt and slowly glides his hands up my sides, sending shivers all across my body while he strips me bare for him. The warmth of his chest against the curves of my breasts pebbles my nipples beneath my bra, and he takes his time, covering them with the rough calluses of his hand as he cups me from over the lace.

His groan is a delicious sound that trembles all through me as he rocks his hips in the most demanding way against my center. His lips brush mine in a needy, quick kiss before his big hands drop between us, and the button of my jeans is unclasped in an instant. His fingers grip the top of my jeans, and he’s jerking them down my thighs, letting my ass hit the cold table without pause.

And then I’m nearly naked for him. My underwear is the same thin material, covering my nudity but really just separating the feel of his perfect body from mine with the most infuriatingly tiny amount of fabric.

He takes a single step back, letting cold air all between us. My ankles cross casually as he takes me in, his gaze shifting over every inch of my skin. I wait with a shiver of anticipation skimming all through me. But none of it is nerves.

Because the way he’s looking at me, I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Anxiously, my hand reaches behind my back, my fingers searching for the clasp of my bra to remove the last barriers between us.

But the moment I do, his big hand is gripping around my wrist.

“Ahh, ah, Little Bird.” His words hum along my throat while the most mischievous smirk shadows his lips. “Hands above your head,” he whispers against my neck, his mouth leaving soft, slow kisses in the wake of his words.

My lashes flutter slowly, my body trembling for him to touch me more. Even as I obey and lift my hands above my head for him. Teeth skim across my flesh ever so gently between the worshipping press of his lips against my neck. My head falls to the side, and I want so badly to feel him on the deepest level.

I hate the space he has kept between us for all this time. And now I know why. He wanted me to see him.

But I always have.

It’s a casual ascent of his palm pushing up over my breast, my arm, my elbow, my wrist . . . And then, cold metal is wrapping there, once, twice, a loud clamp clips into place. With a gasp, I look up at where my hands are bound, lifting me just slightly off of the table and making me unsteady where I sit. The silver gleams like new, but I can’t help but wonder how much blood these chains have seen.

He takes a careful step back from me, his gaze glinting sinisterly in the bright fluorescent lighting as he takes in the sight of me strung up just for him. It’s a dangerously sensual way he appraises me. My thighs shift back and forth at the thought of it alone. The chill of the room settles into me, and I almost let a moan slip from my lips when his warm hands press along my outer thighs. He takes his time pushing his palms up my body. And then he lowers himself down, his watchful eyes locked on mine as he lowers and positions himself between my legs. The heat of his breath kisses my inner thigh just before his lips do. I tremble in his hands.

Rowan. Stone. Owns. Me.

He can take anything he wants right now. But instead of taking, he’s teasing.

His palms push hard against my inner thighs for me to open up wider for him. That taunting smirk lingers on his lips as he lightly flicks his tongue along the rough fabric of my panties. It’s when he covers my pussy entirely and devours me as much as that annoying thin material will allow that my knees start shaking against him.

“Please,” I whisper on a breathless plea.

A growl of a hum rumbles over my clit before his dark lashes lift, and he pulls back to look at me.

“Sweet Little Bird, more is coming. Be patient, and I’ll have your pretty cunt dripping down my fingers in no time.”

He follows up with that promise by standing and leaning into me, capturing my mouth with his in the deepest, most controlling kiss of my life. His tongue slips against my lips to take me further while the palm of his hand covers my pussy entirely, grinding hard over the most sensitive part of me. Two fingers slip quietly beneath the lace. He dips in, sliding from my entrance to circle my clit over and over and over. Energy swirls through me from every move he makes. From the way he teases me with an easy, controlling touch, down to the way he kisses me with commanding possession.

His other hand skims over my jaw, his lips devouring the desperate moans I can’t hold back. But that soft feel of his fingers along my cheek lifts, and then I feel him there between my wrists, twisting the chain even harder around my flesh. The stinging pain of it bites in, but then his two thrust in deep and consuming, arching into my wetness in just the right spot. He holds me tight above my head while fucking me harder and harder, the heel of his palm grinding over my clit with every move he makes. It all builds into one thrumming sensation that pulses through my core. I need more and more and more, and he gives me just that.

“That’s it,” he whispers along my cheek before his lips brush my ear. “Cum for me like a good,” he slams in hard, “fucking,” harder, “girl.” He slams in so hard then that his palm slaps against the building nerves, and every fucking part of me combusts for him.

I tremble against the cold table as my head falls back, and my screams resound through the bright, empty room. My lashes flutter against the fluorescents. My chest heaves against his, my body melding as close as I can possibly get to him. He still holds my chains tightly above us while his other hand pumps slowly in and out of me, riding that wave down until it all becomes teasing once more.

Bright, calculating eyes flick over my features. I suddenly feel on display. A thing for this man to use in any way he wants.

And he reminds me of that as he shifts just slightly back from me, his hands working the button of his jeans, never once dropping my gaze.

He lowers the waistline of his jeans and underwear, revealing the thick length of himself between my thighs. I shift against him, trying to close the distance between my wetness and the glistening tip of his cock.

Once more, he kisses me slowly, his palm pumping up and down between us. Roughly, he grips my underwear and slowly slides it down, pulling my panties off without breaking the sweet kisses he gifts me. And then I feel him slick against my clit. My hips buck for him, but my thoughts are drilling through my head too fast.

“Take your shirt off,” I breathe against him.

That gorgeous smirk of his tilts his lips. I think he’ll deny me for a moment, the seconds passing us by as he studies me in all my desperation.

“Please,” I add on a whisper.

And it only makes him smile harder. The warmth of his palm brushes my chin as he takes me with his thumb and index finger.

“When you’re with me, you’ll get everything you ask for, Little Bird. Don’t ever for a second shy away from asking me for something.”

He lifts his hands to the back of his black shirt, and little by little, the hard lines of his abdomen are revealed for me. My thighs tense against his lean hips, wanting to feel every single part of him but also struggling against the bindings on my wrists.

When he’s shirtless and prowling back to me, I realize I want more. His words still circle my mind, and I suddenly realize how hard it is to ask for what I want.

“Can I taste you?” I ask in the smallest voice, forcing myself not to look away from the intensity in his eyes.

He looks at me with so much appreciation as he nods. But it confuses me as he walks away, his jeans slung low across his hips as he strolls to the far wall. And with the press of a silver button, my chains lower, the circulation coming back to my arms as they come down little by little. My ass fully hits the tabletop, and when he returns to me, he pulls me closer, my weight dropping from the table, and my knees giving out instantly. I fall to the floor, but the chains clack together, my weight suddenly strung up painfully as I nearly kneel on the cold, hard floor. My thighs are spread wide, and I can barely manage to keep myself in place without teetering to one side.

Dark boots stand in front of me. The length of my body is before him, and I lift my chin to look up at the bright lights casting his dangerous features into dark, ominous shadows.

“Open for me, Little Bird,” he says tauntingly.

My lips part for him, and he grips his shaft ever so slowly, sliding the tip of his cock over my lips.

“More,” he commands, and I open wider for him.

With one slow thrust, he slides in. All the way. I gag against his length as it hits the back of my throat, but I don’t waste a single second sucking down the salty taste of him. His growling groan shivers all through me as he fucks my mouth a little faster, a little harder. My chains clank as his hand threads through my hair, forcing my hands back and my head down even more against his throbbing cock.

Tears sting my eyes, but my pussy aches when he pulses even harder. It’s a feeling I want buried deep inside me.

“Fuck, I can’t wait,” he growls out, pulling my hair until his glistening dick pops from my mouth on a jagged breath.

Then he’s kissing me messily. He lowers down in one quick move, his palms gripping my thighs painfully and deliciously as he pulls me up against him. My thighs grip his lean hips hard. I barely have time to enjoy the feel of his slickness against my opening before he’s lowering me down his shaft. He stands fully, gripping my ass and guiding me down his cock, stretching me slowly and fully. My moan trembles out, and he swallows it down, owning every fucking part of me as he holds me in his arms and fills me with every inch he has.

“Fuck, Atlas,” he hisses against my lips before he buries his head in my neck and thrusts in deeper. Slower.

My chains tangle around us, but I hold his head in my hands, holding on like he’s the last thing I have in this life. It’s a slow, torturous pace that pulls the tension in my body tighter and tighter with every move. He takes his time thrusting in, dragging every inch of his length against my pussy before sinking in as deep as I can take him. My nails dig into his hair, holding on harder as the tension builds into a reckless energy.

Again he sinks in. Again he grinds against me. Again, I swear to fucking God, every nerve in my body is controlled by this man.

Even as it shatters down into a thousand messy pieces. It comes out in flashing colors behind my eyes and trembling moans against my tongue. I pull him to my chest, desperately holding on as my orgasm shakes uncontrollably through me.

And he holds me right back. He takes me hard in his arms. It’s faster now. Dominating and more consuming. His body tenses, every muscle turning rigid beneath my fingers as he sinks in so deeply, my breath catches. The pulsing feel of him deep inside sends another wave of pure ecstasy all through my body.

He stills. His hooded gaze locks on mine, our breaths mingling as we bask in the most intense feeling I’ve ever shared with another person. I never want to look away from the bliss shining in this broken man’s eyes.

Rowan Stone completely owns me.

And I hope he never gives me back.

TWENTY-FOUR

Rowan

There’s a moment of deep regret for what I’ve done. It stabs into my chest in the middle of the night when I’m holding her in my arms. Her lashes are dark and fanned across high cheekbones. Quiet, even breaths fall from the beautiful lips that were wrapped around my cock just hours ago. She’s perfect.

I made that rule not to touch her for a reason. She’s too perfect. Too sweet and too hurt by what the world has done to her already.

And I’m a greedy fuck for touching her. Wanting her. Making her mine.

What’s the alternative? Leave her and never contact her again . . . while lurking from the shadows of her entire life because God knows I can't just walk away from her? I’m addicted. Consumed with loving her. Even from afar.

Even if I can never have her.

My phone buzzes annoyingly from the nightstand. My teeth grind just thinking about the shit I’ve ignored. I can pretend our fucked-up lives don’t exist all I want, but it’ll always be there waiting for me. It’ll loom over us.

Sure, she wants me now. She even said she loved me … She thinks there’s nothing wrong with dating a murderer, but I know better. Right now, I’m safe because I’ve protected her, bought her things. But what do I have to offer beyond that? The shadow of fucking Ed hovering over the both of us, waiting for me to finish the job?

And what happens when she knows the truth?

She’ll go back to what we were before. I’ll become invisible again, but maybe this time with an added layer of heartbreak.

That might be fucking worse.

I turn quietly in my bed, shifting away from her to pick up the phone. The time, 2:36 a.m., glares painfully in my eyes just before I flick open the home screen.

A picture of Atlas greets me there. For the first time in my life I realize, if I were a normal person, it could be a picture of Atlas that I saved as an adorable-as-fuck picture to remind me of what I have in life. Instead, it’s something I took without her knowledge and consent.

And still she thinks I’m worthy of her. How fucking wrong she is.

I shake that sentimental little thought away as I pull open the pending text.

We need to talk. Seven am tomorrow.

Ed’s words are alone and commanding in the chat, and I don’t know why it pisses me off tonight. Maybe because a seven-a.m. breakfast with that senile old asshole isn’t as appealing as devouring Atlas’s orgasm first thing in the morning.

Fuck him.

My fingers pound across the screen without hesitation or deeper consideration.

Why wait? I’ll see you tonight.

Three dots appear across the screen, but I’m already storming through the room and opening the walk-in closet. Gentle lights appear at the baseboards, but I don’t need them. I grab a white shirt and a pair of folded jeans, and I’m pulling them on as I stride back into the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Atlas calls out, shy and uncertain, and the sound of her concern alone sends a new wave of fury through my mind that I have to deal with Ed right now instead of showing Atlas how much gentler I can be with her.

I can give her sweet and sensual if that’s what she’d prefer. It doesn’t always have to be a crime scene when we fuck.

But fuck me if I don’t want to see what she’d look like strapped down to my table too. The image of her perfect tits pressed against white straps slashes through my mind, and I have to clear my throat before I meet her at the side of the bed. I kneel there at the bedside, and her hand slides into mine beneath the cool blanket.

“I have to run an errand for work. I’m sorry, baby, but it’ll only take a minute. Get some sleep, and I’ll be back before you wake.”

Her sleepy gaze sweeps over my features, assessing all the things I’m not saying before she smiles lightly. I hate that we’re the same like that. We read into the words that aren’t written. And she knows there’s more to the story. But surprisingly, she trusts me . . .

I think.

“Hurry back,” she whispers, her lashes already fluttering closed once again.

Just like that, all the regret that soured my stomach all night disappears.

And I can’t stand the thought of my fucked life without this girl.

Ed’s house isn’t the one I grew up in. He sold that one during the housing boom for three times what my father bought it for the decade before. So yeah, you could say he’s fucking winning at life.

He actually never shared his new address, choosing to send my mother’s holiday and birthday cards from their P.O. box like I’m a fucking stain on his family name. He always forgets it’s my family name that he bought his way into. Without us, he wouldn’t be shit.

He also forgets how resourceful I am. He can scurry to his “secret” home like a gutter rat, and it won’t matter. No matter how careful a politician is, their life is never private. And yeah, it took some digging into the sold sign he posted on his social media when he moved to the city, but realtors, they’re proud of their shit. And that vague post about Time for a New Beginning was his first slipup. I found dear old dad’s address before he even fully closed on his McMansion earlier this year.

I hop the fence on the north side of the gate, the side where his cameras don’t fully capture the right angles. The grass is soft and unnatural beneath my boots when I land. A fresh dew glistens on the surface like it has just been watered in the midnight hours.

I stride through the outlandish yard and avoid the red dot that’s recording the nightlife from the corner of the brick estate. His front door is large and heavily captured by whatever million-dollar security system makes this fucker feel safe at night.

He’s not. He could be dead tomorrow, and they’d never have a scratch of evidence linking him to me. I take a deep breath through my nose and type in his address information on my phone. With a click of a button, the red light on the two cameras fades out. They stop swiveling for motion and die then and there. The curving brick steps are enormous and still I take them two at a time as I jog up the front porch like a teen missing curfew. Brings back memories. The sleek black lock on the door offers a thumbprint scan just above the keyhole.

I pull out the realtor’s key from my pocket, and it slides in with ease. What’s the point of being secure if you’re also going to be lazy, Ed?

He’s a mess and a waste of space. It’s a wonder he’s lasted so long in this life.

I shake my head, but the moment I walk through the doorway, there’s a gun in my face.

“I told you to stop breaking and entering my homes!” Ed screams at me in the darkness of his glossy foyer. The chandelier above our heads nearly touches all four walls, and I realize how tacky the golden thing is every time I’m here.

“Well, the last home was more mine than it was yours, Ed,” I say with a smirk.

His hand shakes against the metal of the weapon. He has never killed a man in his life. Not personally anyway. He can beat little boys for years, but he has no idea how to face a man in a fight. No, his nails are too polished for that. I know for a fact he goes to get mani-pedis once a week. With nails like that, there’s no way he’s committing crimes. Ed is the type to hire or force others to do the dirty work for him. How many has he sent me after?

He won an election six years ago because of me. He still celebrated like he won it himself, but I’m not bitter. You should have seen the disturbing images of young boys I found on his opponent’s hard drive. I couldn’t even control my rage when I found it.

In a way, I was happy to help Ed that time.

“Who else is with you?” Ed demands, shaking the gun at me like it’s a tambourine instead of a weapon.

If he’s not careful, it’ll go off. But unlike him, I’m not afraid of death or of getting shot. Been there, done that many times before. It’s what I was trained for, after all. And that’s something he could never even begin to understand.

“Just me.” I’m bored with his antics and paranoia.

I grip the barrel and twist it from his wrist, his cry of pain soothing something in my soul as I take away just one more thing that’s his.

“Bullshit, they triggered the alarm.”

I don’t allow the drilling thoughts that are scratching through my mind frantically like drowning cats to surface in my features. I remain impassive as I consider his words.

Someone triggered the alarm.

“It was obviously me, you paranoid fuck.” I lift my hands from my sides, but my fingers itch to check my phone.

Wild dark eyes look me up and down where I stand unflinching before him. He knows I’d never be so careless.

And I wasn’t.

But he has to believe I was.

“You wanted to talk. Here I am.”

“I said at seven. Not in the middle of the night when my wife’s sleeping.”

My wife.

It’s like he wants so badly for us not to be related. He’ll call her his wife before he calls her my mother. Trust me, I fucking wish we weren’t related, either, but I’m not irrational about it. He works so hard to draw his life into everything he’s ever wanted. And an eleven-year-old punk kid like me wasn’t in his picturesque plans when he married my mother.

He gets rid of everything that doesn’t fit. But he couldn’t get rid of me. And I won’t let him get rid of Atlas either.

“You said she’d be leaving town. That she wasn’t something I’d have to worry about this election season. I saw that video of you nearly killing that hockey player over her online. People are posting her name all over social media because of you! How could you be so stupid?! Why is she even here? Why did she follow me?”

“She didn’t follow you. You’re being paranoid,” I reiterate. Atlas got a full scholarship to the best criminology and criminalistics graduate programs in America. Not that I’ll be sharing that information with this fucker who thinks everyone’s major life choices are about him.

He needs to trust me when I say he isn’t fucking special.

“I’ve spoken with my confidants.” I try not to roll my eyes. Confidants is just code for a bunch of retired golf buddies who kiss the ass Ed shits from every fucking day “They’ve recommended another route for her. They think you’ve gotten too close to the girl, and we need someone fresh and new to take care of the situation.”

Over my dead fucking body.

The sweat in my palm mixes with the blood that coats my nails as I sink them further into my fists to stop myself from punching my hand through this asshole’s Botox-filled face.

I lift the gun conversationally at him as I speak calmly. Carefully.

“And I thought I told you not to send someone in on my jobs, Ed.” My neck cracks as I tilt my head one way and then the other. “Remember what happened to your last guy? What was his name? Fish?”

“Joseph McNish,” Ed murmurs quietly.

“Right.”

I nod quietly like I’m considering everything, but honestly, my mind is already made up.

I rear back hard and slam the gun into his face. Blood sprays across my white shirt as he falls to the ground, kicking backward against the smeared tile floor with every step I take closer to him. I shove the barrel against his temple, making deep wrinkles there for the first time in his entire miserable life. I drop to the ground with him and cradle his head in my hands to stop him from moving. Soon, I have to cover his mouth with my palm as my stepfather begs for his life while I hold him against my chest. Blood drips out around the metal from how forcefully I’m grinding the thing into his skull. I sit there sadistically with him in the darkness like a mother comforting a child.

And still I dig the hard end of the gun into his head, so fucking close to his brain that it kills me not to pull the trigger once and for all.

The tiniest move could change my future forever. It could change hers too. It could change everything.

With just the smallest flex of my index finger.

I can’t. I can’t because like he said, someone triggered his alarm. And that someone is watching us.

I can feel it. I feel it like spiders walking across my back, each leg taking its time to dig into my skin and nest there.

I fucking hate it. How ironic.

I crack my neck once more to wash away the intrusive thoughts before refocusing on the real issue at hand.

“Stop talking to your little fucking friends about Atlas. Stop threatening her life. And stop fucking with mine. Do you understand me, Ed?”

“Honey? Come back to bed. You need your sleep. You have the gala tomorrow night,” a voice calls down, and I recognize my mother’s soft tone instantly. Her composed melody of calm is ingrained in my brain like a fucking cancer.

“Nod your fucking head at me, asshole,” I growl against his sweaty hair.

He nods hard and fast, his head rapidly agreeing and continuing to shake up and down long after I shove him off of me. His palms slap to the floor just before his head hits there.

Then I wipe his gun clean of my fingerprints. I toss the weapon to the ground with a heavy thud. Jagged breaths sound through the room, but I look up the staircase at the slightest movement there. My mother stares down at me in the foyer of the pretty little home he’s made for her. Her hair is still an unnatural dark brown like I remember. Her eyes are the same deep blue as mine, but the shadows overtake that little detail. Thank fucking God too. Because that’s where the similarities end between me and the woman who birthed me twenty-five years ago.

“Rowan.” She gasps, and I know the sight of me is startling because it’s so fucking rare. Her fingers touch her lips, and I can see the wet sheen of tears in her eyes even in the darkness. “Rowan, I–”

I don’t wait to hear what she has to say. As my back turns, she screams, her voice lifting up from her natural posed composure to a tone of desperation, “Son, just talk to me!”

I don’t give her one more second of my attention, I don’t say a single goddamn word to her at all.

And then I walk out their front door.

TWENTY-FIVE

Atlas

Tears sting my eyes as I run through the city. The sidewalks are empty, and I hate walking alone at night, but I couldn’t stay there a second longer. I followed him. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have trusted Rowan Stone for a single second.

A part of me wishes I could go back to before his phone vibrated on the nightstand. Before he got up and left in a hurry and I stupidly decided to follow after him. If I hadn’t done that, then I’d be oblivious. Content and oblivious to the wretched truth Rowan was hiding from me this entire time.

A sob wrenches from my stomach just as light raindrops kiss my skin. It mingles with the sweat, and I’ve never wanted a shower so fucking bad in my entire life after what I just saw through the window of that house. Of Rowan cradling Ed to his chest like a child. Of the woman on the stairs, calling down in such a sweet, soft voice.

She called him her son.

And he’s known. He’s known for . . . for so fucking long, I can’t even fathom it.

I can’t believe I trusted him.

I knew he knew Ed. That was a sort of bonus for me. They say to keep your enemies close. But there’s also that saying that a friend of my enemy is no friend of mine. I should have listened to that fun quote a bit better, clearly.

I didn’t know how deep a betrayal could run. How much someone else could hurt me. I thought I lived and breathed sadness, that it was as much a part of me as the marrow inside my bones. This feels so much worse.

I knew Rowan had lied to me. I’d suspected from the moment we met. He hadn’t made it a secret that he’d been sent to kill me.

I just never imagined Ed was the stepfather that Rowan had so much disdain for.

My breath is rattling by the time I get to my apartment from across town. I left my book bag at Rowan's penthouse, so I guess that’s his to keep now because I’m never seeing him again after tonight. I slide my key into the side entrance of the morgue and quickly enter my living room. I deadbolt the door behind me, and then I’m racing to my bedroom. The dormer window above my bed has an old metal hook lock that I nearly strain my wrist shoving in place.

But now I’m safe from him and all his pretty lies.

A chill crawls up my arms, and I spin on my heels to fling open the closet door. The hangers clank against one another in the darkness of the small space.

But it’s empty.

A weird pang of sadness twists my stomach that he’s not here. He’s not watching me. Why am I so fucking stupid? I need to call my therapist. Not now because it’s nearly four in the morning, but at eight a.m. sharp I’ll be calling her about this very apparent case of Stockholm syndrome.

Jesus, how did this happen to me? Yeah, so I was a little too invested in the Black Dahlia homicide at the ripe old age of ten. And while most girls were excited about their junior prom, I was fixating on decoding the messages of the Zodiac Killer. It was all just an invested hobby. My mom called it a morbid quirk.

Growing up to accidentally fall in love with a stalking killer wasn’t supposed to happen! God, I should have gone home with Mustachio that night. He was the good guy. The safe guy. And what the fuck was his name again?

A knock raps softly against my window, and I fling a dark death glare at the gorgeous man on his hands and knees looking in at me like a lost angel. As if he even has the right to look at me that way. The fucking asshole.

“You know I have a door, right? Normal people use a door, Rowan!”

“Do you want me to go around to the door?” he asks patiently with big pleading eyes, and his rational tone only makes me more irate.

“No, I want you to go fuck yourself!”

At that, he shoves off from the ground and storms away. A shaking breath trembles from my lungs, and I hate that it hurts me to turn away from him. In a sick way, he’s been my security blanket all of my adult life. He has always taken care of me even when I didn’t know it. But this . . . this changes everything.

Dahmer’s ears perk up just before a solid knock tumbles across my apartment door. I walk casually to the living room with my glare fixated there for several seconds. My palm lingers on the knob, and I can feel my emotions tear in half. A single slab of wood separates me from him, but it feels like the space between us grows with each passing second. With every thought that circles my mind, the tension in my chest pulls a little tighter.

“Atlas, open the door,” he orders, but his tone is shadowed with agony. “Atlas, please.” His voice becomes a broken whisper.

I push the deadbolt aside and hold the door firmly in place. The golden hue of the porch light shines across ocean eyes. My heart lurches just seeing him, begging me to reach out and feel his skin against mine. It’s like my body knows this might be the last time I ever see him again.

“Why did you follow me?” His voice is low, quiet, not allowing his words to carry as he looks over his shoulder and down the street.

He seems on edge. Like at any moment, the FBI might jump from the bushes. Or maybe he’s just staring at the phantom consequences his lies brought on.

“Why didn’t you tell me who Ed was to you?”

“Same reason you didn’t say it to me, I guess.” He doesn’t brush it off or deny it. He treats it as factual and respectfully, and once again, my stupid little heart is ready to forgive and forget and rush him inside and take him into my arms and live happily fucking ever after.

“Except you knew, Rowan.”

“Let me come in. Let’s talk about this,” he pleads.

“You knew! You knew what he did to me, and you knew he was your stepfather, and you fucking knew I was your stepsister! And for what? Some sick sister-fucking fetish?”

At that, he shoves open the door and storms inside, walking me backward with every enormous step he takes. My back hits the wall, and he slams his hand there just above me, caging me in with the weight of his body against mine.

“Lower your fucking voice,” he hisses against my lips when we’re in the safety of my apartment. The feel of his chest brushing mine with every breath I take sends a pulse of need all through my veins.

“Lower my voice? Lower your fucking expectations, Rowan. What did you expect? That I’d fall in love with my stepbrother? Move to the suburbs and ignore how fucked up it is that you work for the man who literally tormented me all my life?”

“I don’t work for him,” he grinds out.

“Looks like you do. It looks like Ed fucking owns you,” I whisper, barely getting the words out as my gaze searches his. He keeps the closeness between us, making my thighs shift against his with anxious energy.

“I stopped accepting money from Ed the day he took you away.” His gaze flashes from my lips to my eyes, and once again I’m tempted to throw myself at this unhinged man just to calm my racing hormones down a notch.

I can’t deny the way my heart softens instantly at his words.

His fingers brush back my hair, and I hate that my head tilts the slightest bit to lean into his attention there.

“I chose you, Little Bird. Even before you knew I chose you. If anyone owns me, it’s you.”

God, my knees just went weak, and I have to force myself not to lean into him. I keep my back firmly against the wall.

“Why are you still in contact with him? Why does it sound like you’re keeping tabs on me for him?”

“It’s quite the opposite, Little Bird . . .” A smirk kisses his lips then, and confusion sinks in slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“I was hoping you’d like to make a change in our lives.” His smile turns sick and sadistic. It’s an expression that puts my anger on pause.

“What do you mean?” I ask once more, slower, quieter.

“Your mother still resides in a private mental health facility in Athens, Ohio. It’s a private institution that Ed owns.”

I nod, not daring to interrupt the moment he mentions my mother and that dreadful place.

“Did you know Ed had your mother assign himself as her legal guardian and power of attorney when they were together?”

I shake my head slowly. “The institute just keeps saying she’s not stable enough to be released. They won’t talk to me.”

“Because Ed keeps it that way. He blackmailed her decades ago.” Rowan whispers. “I want to get her released. I want her to be here with you. And I want to fuck Ed’s entire world up in the process.”

My mouth parts but I can’t respond. The information swirls wildly in my mind, and it all feels out of reach. Impossible.

Never in my wildest dreams could I conjure up this fantasy he’s painting. It always seemed like something completely out of reach, and I trained myself to believe that there was absolutely nothing to be done about what Ed did to my mom. Standing here now I feel a surge of hope. For the first time since it happened. And I have zero doubt Rowan Stone is exactly the kind of man who can make it reality.

“How?” I finally ask, and that single question only makes his manic smile grow larger.

“I thought you’d never ask, Little Bird.”

TWENTY-SIX

Rowan

The two of us are running on around three hours sleep when I send her into the back of the Ripped Seam with the little woman holding a pile of sparkling gowns and lacy material that’s stacked so high, only her glasses shine from over the fabrics.

“These will all look so lovely on your figure, dear,” the woman says as she shuffles behind Atlas. “Your hourglass figure is to die for.”

I eat up the sight of that fucking “hourglass figure”. Every curve of her body is maximized, full, fucking delicious. I’d bury my face in the perfect roundness of her thick ass if she’d let me.

But I doubt the little woman helping us right now would appreciate that gesture.

The woman walks into the fitting room first, and the clank of the hangers resounds through the empty store. While the woman sets her up, Atlas shoots me a nervous smile that clearly screams she feels like an inconvenience for coming into the store before they even open at ten. It’s not an inconvenience when they charge a five-thousand-dollar consultation fee just to open the door for us. Not that Atlas will ever know that.

“Now you slip into the first one, and I’ll sneak in to zip you up, dear,” the woman says before ushering Atlas in. She gives me one more wide-eyed look before the door is closed securely behind her.

She’s so out of her element.

I fucking love it.

I want every goddamn day of her life to be out of her normal until one day it clicks, and she realizes: She deserves every. Fucking. Thing.

And I’m going to give it to her.

Because this is the life she should’ve had all along. Instead of sitting in the basement of a fucking morgue, she deserved a penthouse. She deserved a comfortable bed to sleep in at night. She didn’t deserve to worry about her bills or her schooling all because Ed was a fucking piece of shit and a deadbeat dad.

“Ready,” Atlas calls out after several minutes slip by in the quiet of the store.

The little woman rushes in to help, letting the door click closed behind her. I stride through the aisles of designer gowns, my fingers skimming the tulle and beadwork of dresses that seem too small and petite. Perhaps I’m in the children’s section. I peer up at the white sign that reads: sizes zero, zero to nine.

What the fuck does zero, zero mean?

“We’re ready, Mr. Stone,” the woman calls out to me just before throwing open the dressing room door dramatically.

I turn just as white material spills out of the space. And then Atlas is smiling at me. Her smile touches her eyes and shines there like warm honey. But it’s the way she fills out the whitest dress I’ve ever seen. The lace hugs her breasts with intricate details. The material presses perfectly along her curves before splitting at the thigh with a sexy fucking slit that I want to lick my way up.

It’s gorgeous and she’s a sexy goddess.

It’s all wrong. Terrible. Fuck me.

Because she looks like my bride instead of my date.

I don’t often find myself at a loss for words, but my brain has been promptly broken. A switch has been flipped inside, awakening the most primal, barbaric part of me. I consider throwing her over my shoulder and hauling her out of this shop and keeping her in my bed for the rest of the day. For the rest of her fucking life.

I’ll chain her to my bed and never let her go.

“It–It’s–” I think that’s the first time in my entire life I’ve stuttered.

“I look like a bride,” Atlas whispers with a deep blush that wrecks all my insides. So she sees it too. Her mind went exactly to the same place mine did at the sight.

“You look like my bride,” I correct as I take stalking steps toward her.

I can’t stop myself from touching her low on her hips and dragging her to my chest. Her breasts push perfectly against me and laughter tumbles out of her, and I think she thinks I’m joking, but secretly, I’m already calculating how much they’d charge me if I took her into one of these rooms and fucking destroyed this gown and convinced her with multiple orgasms to be my fucking wife.

The white lace wrinkles beneath my palms as I grip her hard.

“Should we try another color then, Mr. Stone?”

Atlas smirks as she looks over her shoulder at the woman, pushing me off and ruining all my good ideas.

“Yeah, I’ll try the black one,” Atlas tells her, already entering the room and closing the door on me and my fucking throbbing cock.

I shove my hand through my hair and walk it off. I walk the other way this time, the opposite way of the children’s section. The little white sign at the top of the rack says sizes fourteen to twenty-two, and I can tell I’m in the right spot finally.

A deep-red fabric sticks out from the others, the material sleeker like silk as it folds near the waist in a design I can’t fully see. The color would darken her skin tone with a glow like fire casting across her pretty features. The waistline would emphasize the flare of her hips. It’d . . .

“We’re ready, Mr. Stone,” the woman calls out again, and I rush through the aisle to see her step out.

The black number is pretty. It’s formal. Too formal really. It blooms out into a wide cast of soft material all around her feet, overtaking her body with a mass of fabric that hides all the beauty she has underneath it.

“It’s heavy,” Atlas tells me with a curl of her lips. “I look like a bowling ball.”

“You look stunning,” I correct, taking her against me all over again. At this rate, I’ll be fucking her in my car by the time they flip over the Open sign in their window.

“It looks more like a prom dress,” she whispers quietly as if she’s terrified of offending the shop owner with that small feedback.

It’s not like the woman designed the dress herself.

But it’s the second one she’s tried on. And though that’s not a lot really, I can see it’s wearing on her that she hasn’t found what she’s looking for.

I consider it my personal duty to fix every bad thing in this girl’s life. And fuck me if I don’t want to fix this too.

“Go in the room. I’ll bring you something,” I can’t stop myself from brushing my lips ever so lightly against her, the slightest taste of her lingering faintly against my tongue.

Her big brown eyes narrow on me, but she walks back to the room to change out of the black gown. As soon as the door closes, I walk straight to the deep red one. When I bring it into the light, I find it’s more of a burgundy tone than red. It’s perfect, and I have no idea if it’s her size, but as soon as I bring it to the front, the woman takes a look at the style and nods her head.

“Let me grab her size.” She takes the gown from me and flits away for a moment before returning with the correct size. She knocks lightly and then passes the dress through the crack of the door that Atlas opens for us.

A ruffling of sound comes from inside as I stand with the shop owner. Minutes slip by, and I wonder briefly if I fucked up. Maybe red isn’t her color. What if it doesn’t flatter her hips like I thought it would? What if–

The phone rings from somewhere in the back, and the woman smiles at me while I have an internal melt down. She scurries away and leaves me to die a slow and horrible death of overthinking.

“Can you zip me, Patricia?” Atlas calls out to . . . just me.

And it’d be my fucking pleasure, Little Bird.

The door opens just enough to unlock the handle, and I sneak inside, my palms pushing along her hips before she even spots me in the mirror. A breath of surprise slips from her lips before her eyes widen in her reflection of the floor-length mirror, and they shift from me to the door I’m carefully closing behind us.

“Rowan! You’re going to get us kicked out of here!” She puts space between us, but the moment I can see her fully in the mirror, I find I was so fucking right about the dress. Righter than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

And there’s no way I can keep my hands off of her.

“You look fucking incredible, Little Bird,” I whisper, my gaze eating up the curve of her breasts peeking over the edge of the satin top that’s fitted like a corset there before swooping along her arms with the thin, loose sleeves that hang perfectly against her body. The fabric constricts against her stomach and folds against her hips, accentuating the high slit there where the material bunches together that once again begs my tongue to taste her.

I drag her against me, her back flush against my chest, and her jagged breath is one of worry and concern and . . . excitement. Her hand braces against the wall as I curl my arm around her, pushing down the curve of her stomach. Little by little, I grip her gown in my fist until the black see-through material of her panties teases hints of her pussy for me in the mirror.

“Do you like it?” I ask her, looking up through my lashes at the reflection of the only woman who has ever owned every fucking part of me.

My fingers slip beneath the thin waistband and push even lower until my index finger is just above her clit . . . so fucking close but not nearly close enough.

“Um–” Her lashes flutter as I slowly dip my fingers into her wetness beneath the pretty gown. My fingers tease her slit, and her head nods quick and fast. “I love it,” she whispers for me.

“Does it feel good?” I ask tauntingly, my smirk edging up higher when I watch her in the mirror as her head falls back against my chest, and she nods even harder.

When I have her all wrapped up in my arms like this, it only emphasizes how small she is. I’m all around her, consuming her little breaths and controlling every single part of her.

When I circle her clit hard and fast, a moan stumbles from her lips, and I instantly shove my palm across her mouth, dragging firmly over her teeth before stifling the sound of her pleasure to a low, delicious hum.

“Look at me, Little Bird.” The words are whispered along her ear, and her gaze flashes open with big, dilated pupils meeting mine in the reflection of the mirror.

She’s so fucking sexy like this. It makes me needier, pushing hard across the one spot I know will have her screaming my name if we’re not careful.

“I want you to scream for me. I want all your filthy fucking sounds, but we can’t do that here, do you understand?” Doe eyes absorb my every word as I work her pussy with fast, even strokes. “Can you be a good girl for me just this one time?” I ask her sweetly as I sink two fingers deep into the tightness of her cunt, and my own groan mingles with hers when she trembles and rocks her ass against my cock just right.

“Nod your pretty head for me, beautiful,” I whisper against her neck as I kiss her there so slowly, mirroring the stroke of my tongue with the teasing brush of my fingers up her sex.

She nods hard and fast, her whimpers kissing my palm. Her hips rock, and she starts to fuck my hand for more. I smirk against my greedy girl and sink back in, curving into the sweetest part of her pussy.

Sadly, we don’t have much time for teasing and touching and tasting. I focus there, pumping deep and hard as the heel of my palm grinds across her clit with every move I make. She’s shaking in my arms as her breath and screams are a twisted, diluted sound beneath my palm that only makes me harder. Her curves keep shifting against my length, and I have to force myself to focus on her sounds.

Because she’s fucking close. I feel her tense against me. Her body stiffens before her pussy clenches hard around my fingers. Her moans are jagged and cutting as I keep my pace, fucking her over the edge with a relentless need to have every drop of her dripping down my fingers.

Her hand shakes against the wall, nails scratching across the paneling just as a soft knock sounds against the door behind us and still I sink in deep and hard into her trembling orgasm. I ride it out until the pulsing of her pussy around my fingers slows and she’s breathless in my arms.

Then I kiss her neck gently and take in the gorgeous fucking sight of her. Her lashes seem heavy, her eyes a beautiful, sated whiskey color.

Another knock rumbles more adamantly over the door, and I crack it open just slightly to meet Patricia’s outraged face. I give her my most charming smile, the kind I’ve practiced in front of the mirror since I was a teen. The fake kind of smiles that assholes in high society use to get their way, but it doesn’t change the disgusted downturned frown on her lips.

So I slip my credit card through the small opening of the door for her.

“Yeah, we’ll definitely take the red one if you could box it up. Ring up the others, too, for your trouble,” I tell her. My voice is still laced with the remnants of my need for Atlas, and I can’t hide it.

Her eyes narrow on me, but she snaps the card out of my hand and walks toward the front. I adjust the straining outline of my dick beneath my jeans just as I catch Atlas’s sweet smile in the mirror again. My heart dips to see her genuinely happy.

I so rarely see her truly happy.

I step back from her. I put space between us and consider running out of the room entirely. Because this girl . . . she’s going to be the death of me.

And I don’t think I have it in me to care.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Atlas

It’s a limousine that drives us through the city.

I’ve never sat in a limousine before, but I have sat in a police car, and I think that little detail alone tells me just how different Rowan Stone’s life has been compared to mine. But I suppose Rowan very much could have had many incidents in the back of a police car as well. But I don’t think he’s the sloppy type. He has built a whole career on taking care of the little details.

I peer at him from the corner of my eye. His all-black suit hugs his broad shoulders. The waist of his dress pants emphasizes just how lean his hips are. The sleekness of the jacket makes me want to touch him even more than normal.

My own dress is just as flawless. The deep burgundy color makes my brown hair seem darker, and I forced myself to put maximum effort into styling it in long, loose curls. The hair, the dress, I’ve never had anything so nice like all of this, and I kind of hate that we look so beautiful for something so ugly.

His hand slides over my tapping fingers in the middle of the leather seat, and I hold his gaze for a long moment.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells me.

And I wish it was that easy. I’m about to come face to face with the one man who completely ruined my life before it even started.

I’d always pictured the moment. Wondered what I’d do if I had him before me. Spit in his face, a swift kick to the dick, maybe a bullet to the eye. Even then, it wouldn’t give him a fraction of the pain he gave me. Gave my mother.

“You know, I’ve only ever met him twice,” I whisper, barely getting the words out. “The second time, when he pulled me out of that place. The first . . .”

His brows lift, and I keep going because if I stop, I might never tell him. And I want him to know. I want him to know all the bad parts and all the good.

“When I was seventeen, my mother got an eviction notice on the trailer we were renting. We’d always struggled, but this was the bottom of the barrel. We didn’t have anywhere to go. No one to help. My entire family is in a country I’ve never even seen, too far to help or contact. So she called him. And called and called and fucking called. Until one day, she drove us across town. We parked our old, rusting car on the perfect suburban street, and she made me promise not to get out of the vehicle. When she walked up, I rolled down the window. It broke my fucking heart to hear her beg him for child support. Anything. Anything that would help.”

“What did he say?” Rowan’s voice is steady but hard, verging on violent.

“He said she should stop making waves in front of his wife. He said he’d sue her for slander or call deportation again if she didn’t quiet down.” My lashes flutter as my jaw grinds. “She didn’t, of course. She wrote him letters. Flooded his voicemail and continued to harass the man who should have been a father to me. I was such a stupid kid, I thought the worst thing that could happen to us was we’d lose our home. But the police came and had her committed the following week. They took me too. On his orders.”

My lip quirks slightly amid the sadness as I remember what he said: he made Ed release me. Rowan Stone saved me.

And he’s still saving me.

The limousine comes to a stop, and massive spotlights push golden colors across the brick estate. I can see how gorgeous the outside of the home is this time. We’re exactly where we were just last night. But this time, we won’t be sneaking around Ed’s home.

We’ll be his guests.

Rowan exits the limo without a word, and panic shakes through my chest the second he has left me. Only for my door to pull open and him to be standing there, his palm outstretched to take mine.

Fuck, this is the most romantic heist in the history of heists. Bonnie and Clyde who? More like Rowan and Atlas.

My heels click across the brick sidewalk as I step out, hand in hand with the most gorgeous man. His eyes shine with that knowing mischief he always has. When he looks at me like that, it’s hard to realize how scarred his eye is. The lashing line of it kisses his lower cheek and disappears back within his hairline. It used to be the first thing I’d see when I looked at him. Now, it hardly exists. And I still don’t even know how he got it.

“Let’s go show these old fuckers a party,” he whispers as he pulls me in against his side and leads me up the curving stairs.

We wait in line for an elderly couple ahead of us as a stocky man at the door takes their name. He checks the paper on his clipboard, adds a little check mark, and then welcomes them inside.

Shit! We’re not going to be on that little list . . . This guy’s going to toss us out of here on the ass of my fancy dress. The heist will be over before it’s even been heisted.

“Name?” The gentleman greets us with a smile while my mouth goes entirely dry without a single word to offer him.

“Joseph McNish,” Rowan says clearly and confidently.

The man looks to his paper and searches the sheet of names. The mere seconds tick by painfully, and I swear I can feel the sweat beading at my temple. I’m going to puke on the welcome mat of this fine home.

“Mr. McNish, we’re so happy you could make it. Please come in. There’s hors d’oeuvres here in the grand foyer, and the gala will begin at seven o’clock sharp with kind words from our host Edward Sinclare in the dining room just to your left.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rowan tells him before pulling me and my stunned silence away from the man.

He winks at me when we’re inside, and I can’t help the stupid grin I give him back. This is fun. Exciting. A little bit scary but mostly fun so far. If I don’t think too long about how everything ended for Bonnie and Clyde.

I’ve come a long fucking way from lying around in my pajamas with hot Cheeto dust on my fingers, that’s for fucking sure.

Rowan steals a glass of white wine from the hors d'oeuvres table and passes it to me. I down the glass in one gulp and reach for another to calm my nerves. My undercover agent at my side has more class and simply holds the stem of the drink as he scans the room quietly.

“We’re going to be exiting on the staircase to your right,” Rowan instructs under his breath before taking a drink. “Once more people shuffle in and get seated in the dining room, we’ll make our move as the gala begins.”

I nod and take a weird little cracker with some kind of white-and-orange paste on top to give my hands something to do. I regret it the moment it touches my tongue. I swallow the atrocity down hard. Rich people. They have all the money in the fucking world, and it still can’t buy them a good meal. Despite that, my stress is making my stomach twist with hunger, and I try not to stress eat the entire fucking table while we wait the ten minutes for the gala to officially begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Please make your way to the dining hall. Our generous host will be with you shortly,” a far-off voice says over a microphone, and then Rowan’s taking my hand again.

As the last remaining guests walk past the snack bar, the two of us stride casually up the stairs. It feels like a dark, twisted fairytale retelling. I’m here in the most amazing gown with the most gorgeous man in a castle of a home.

To fuck up Edward Sinclare’s entire life.

We come to the second-floor landing. A white rug runs down the flooring with several doors on the right-hand side.

Rowan opens the first one and looks inside before closing it and moving on to the next. I watch our back and keep an eye out for us, but there isn’t a single person. All is quiet. The door to the next room is pushed open, and after a short minute, Rowan nods his head to me.

We step inside.

He closes the door softly behind us and flicks the light switch on the wall. A large desk, all sleek and glossy, sits near a bookshelf of memorabilia. Photos and plaques and city awards all shine like new. My fingers itch to toss them all in the unlit fireplace and start a weenie roast there, but we have bigger problems to worry about.

“Where would he keep the documents?” I ask, peering around at the large room with an oversized sofa and a practice golf-swing setup running along the wall. A thin rug of green leads to a fake hole at the opposite end of the room. A putter is leaning against his leather desk chair, and once again, I have the urge to just start swinging into all his belongings.

I want revenge in the form of chaos, but our revenge is coming in a much quieter tone.

“He used to keep all his secrets in his desk drawer when I was a kid. Told me never to touch anything in his office. Of course, I did. I read all about his affairs and his payoffs to women over the years of my mother’s marriage.”

I arch an eyebrow at my unhinged boyfriend, but he just shrugs a little such-is-life shrug.

“I liked to keep the info for blackmail. When he first thought he could run my life, he beat the shit out of me for breaking a lamp.” He talks as he checks a few drawers on the side of the desk. “That only happened for a few years. He never touched me again when I got the courage to ask him about his separate bank account in Thailand my mother didn’t know about.”

I shake my head like I understand what kind of fucked-up childhood this beautiful man had, but honestly, it sounds like his mother was too busy to notice her son building a criminal empire and his stepfather . . . I think Ed admired Rowan in a sick way. I think he liked seeing how he could carve a kid into something he could use.

And he definitely used Rowan.

He pulls the bottom drawer on the far side, and it doesn’t budge. It’s locked.

Rowan looks up at me from where he’s squatting on the floor, and the sexiest fucking smile tilts his lips.

He pulls skinny metal rods from inside his suit jacket and starts picking around in a way I can’t see from over his hulking shoulders. Why is this so sexy? Picking a lock shouldn’t be an attractive trait in a man, should it?

The sound of metal on metal resounds through the silence, and I make my way back to the door, pressing my ear along the smooth surface. I hear his voice. Ed’s words are a blend of overbearing tones that mix together into rumbling sounds from downstairs.

“Got it!” Rowan stands, and he has a fist full of papers, flipping through each one as he looks up at me with wide eyes.

“Your birth certificate is here. He didn’t sign, but he has a copy. Ed likes to make copies because he lives in the stone age. There’s also a DNA test.”

“What?”

He hands me the paper, and the font is a scratchy ink from decades ago, but there it is.

Father: Edward Sinclare

“How could he hide this?” I ask quietly.

“He has a lot of people working for him, Little Bird. Look at this one too.”

He snaps pictures of each of the documents before he hands me more and more papers with my name as well as my mother’s with big bold words like Legal Guardian, Power of Attorney, Life Insurance, and on and on and on.

Edward Sinclare is also my Power of Attorney, it seems. And my mother and I both have very hefty life insurance policies. And we didn’t sign for any of these.

Ed did.

All the pieces click into place. His reason for hiring someone to off me. The attempt on my life.

Fear slices down my spine at this. If he’s trying to kill me because of a life insurance policy, what is he trying to do to my mom? A sickening feeling claims me as I wonder if she’s even still alive. If Ed owns the private institution she’s in, he could easily kill her and cover it up. Is that why I’m not allowed to see her? Talk to her?

“How is this possible?” My hands shake as I keep reading. I try not to let premeditated grief consume me.

“Forgery. I have a guy. We’ll take it to him, and he’ll get us out of all this, Little Bird.”

“A guy?” I look at him, and I can’t help the desperate sound in my voice. That anxiety threads through every little piece of me. Worry for my mother, for myself. For our futures, which suddenly loom with uncertainty along the horizon.

“An attorney,” he whispers with a smile. “Not everyone I know is a bad guy.”

“You think lawyers are the good guys?” I whisper out and he smiles.

But I feel empty inside. I haven’t felt this in months, but it’s creeping back in like a sense of lostness. I fucking hate it. Ed has once again reduced me to that little girl I was before. The same one who’d been hauled against her will by the police and thrown into an institution where I became a shell of myself. Where I stewed in my hopelessness time and time again, with no option of getting out. The sadness crept into my bones until it became a part of me.

Rowan takes the papers before taking my hand in his, pulling me out of my trance, and leading me out of the room and back downstairs. We pass the shitty snack trays, and I’m not sure what he’s doing, but then he pushes open the dining room door, opening it to hundreds of chairs as they all listen intently to the man with the microphone at the front of the room.

Ed pauses in his speech for a fraction of a second when he sees us. It should be comical, and any other day, I would have gotten sick satisfaction out of watching him flounder. Except there’s nothing funny about this.

That bastard ruined my life. He took my mom from me. He took my stability, tried to have me raped and murdered.

I hate him. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone as much as I despise him. I didn’t ask to be born. And he stands there doused in riches, preaching reforms about immigration while he helped spawn a half-Mexican child.

He’s a hypocrite. A dirty fucking hypocrite with evil living and breathing through his fucking soul.

A dark bruise highlights his gaze that follows us as we cut across the back of the room. Only he pays attention to the two shadowy figures on the outskirts of his lovely gala. His voice rumbles on, but I never look away from him, and he never looks away from us.

The two children he should have raised with a bit more care.

The two fucked-up kids he created, molded into what we are today.

We pause at the side door. Rowan turns with a sick, twisted smile. He takes a moment, waving at his stepfather, my father, with a fistful of papers in his hand. It’s a knowing fuck-you move, but it lifts me in that moment. We’re the underdogs. We fucking win.

The door pushes open to the cool evening air, and a sense of pulsing triumph overtakes the numbness inside my chest. I’m alive. I’m safe. And soon, I’ll be free of Edward Sinclare for the rest of my life.

Rowan twirls me on the sidewalk as we make our way to the front. A small laugh slips out, and he does it again and again, dancing with me in the sweetest way.

When we get to the circle drive, bright lights pull up instantly. It’s like everything is perfect and perfectly planned. Right down to the timing of our driver even.

Except it isn’t our driver. It’s a white van. And two men rush out, tackling Rowan to the ground. Everything overtakes me too fast. My scream sounds far off and vacant. Hands grip around me. A bag shoves over my head as my pulse pounds in my ears, and I lash out at all the palms touching me at once. It’s like reliving a nightmare over and over again.

And then I’m shoved inside.

And the door slams shut.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Rowan

They came out of nowhere. One second, Atlas was in my arms, the taste of our victory sweet on our lips. The future played out so clearly in my mind, one in which everything I wanted finally, finally fucking came true. In which Ed finally got what he fucking deserved.

The pain of my childhood had led up to this. Every time he beat me, used me, morphed me into the perfect killer that he needed to end his enemies, every fucking scar I endured, every time I did his bidding had led to this moment in time.

Our future was on the horizon, all because of the papers I had in my hands and the pictures on my phone.

Tires throw rocks against me, and her screams are a sound that lives on repeat in the back of my mind.

I thrash against them. I’m on the ground, fighting to stand. The blood pounds through my system, and I can hear my heart beating in my ears like a drum. Darkness tunnels through me, a rage and anxiety like I’ve never known before crashing against my system, and it’s Atlas’s voice that’s the light at the end of that dark. The strength and determination I need to stand up and fight.

Yet that strength is also my weakness, because in my need to get to her, I become clumsy. Little more than a snarling beast. My punches are thrown far too wide, and every single skill I’ve accumulated over the years diminishes down to nothing but my worry for my woman.

A blow to the head has me seeing stars. Something hits the backs of my knees with such force, I cry out without meaning to. A bat? A pipe? I’m not sure, but it nearly shatters my legs, and I don’t feel the impact on my knees as I fall to the ground.

Agony ripples up my spine as the weapon connects to my back. I fall face first to the ground, tasting dirt and my own blood as I gasp for breaths that won’t come.

I blink away at the encroaching darkness, willing myself to stay awake. Atlas needs me. Atlas was taken. I have to save her. I have to–

Shining shoes step into my vision, and my eyes flick up to glare at the man before me. The man who made me. And by the gleam in his eyes, I know he means to unmake me just as easily.

“You should have just fucking listened,” Ed spits, glaring down at me like I’ve ruined his carefully placed plans before they could even begin. He looks away, a jagged cut healing against his temple from when I saw him last. “You, pick up all those papers and give them to me,” he commands to one of the guys who’s still wiping the blood from his hands.

I groan and push myself up. I can’t let him take those. That’s our ticket to–

Pain explodes as a weapon comes crashing down against my body once again. I wheeze, feeling a rib crack.

“Fuck!” My cry is muffled into the grass, and I hate giving Ed the satisfaction of seeing me hurt. Too many dark memories swirl in my mind, bringing me back to a childhood I’ve mostly blocked out.

“You did this, boy. You underestimated me, and now both you and that whore of yours are going to pay.”

“That ‘whore’ is your daughter.” The words taste vile on my own tongue, but I force the words out from between each wheeze. I look up at him. Even though I’m on the ground, I won’t let him see me break.

I can’t.

Because it would make all this for nothing.

Ed’s lip twists in disgust. “She is no daughter of mine.” Then he’s turning, walking back towards his little party, something that seems so far away now. Nothing but dots of lights and music in the distance.

“Take care of him,” Ed orders. “Once and for all.”

The bat comes crashing down across my eyes.

And then there’s nothing but darkness.

“Wake up.”

I groan my discomfort aloud and it feels like gravel scraping across my throat. My eyes feel crusted over, and there’s a tangy taste in my mouth I recognize as blood.

“Rowan, wake up!”

I recognize the voice from somewhere, but my head is a muddled mess. What the fuck happened to me? Why is my body screaming? Why is every breath coming out a wet wheeze?

Pain slices down my body as I try to push myself up. The ground is hard and uncomfortable beneath me and the brick scrapes my palms as I lift.

“Rowan, you have to hurry.”

I blink my eyes, nostrils flaring as I heave. Atlas? The memories slam into me almost immediately. The gala. We found the papers. And then they got her. They got my girl and Ed—

Rage tears through me, more painful than any of the wounds I’m currently sporting on my body. They have Atlas. They have her and I can only pray she’s okay because I can’t accept any other outcome. I’ll burn everything to the ground for her, raze the world to its fucking knees to keep her safe.

Agony like I’ve never known cleaves through me.

“Rowan, hurry!”

I let the familiar voice guide me to a stand and when I do, the fog finally clears from my head and my vision brightens as I take in the woman who spoke.

Mom?

I must’ve been hit harder than I thought because there’s absolutely no way my mother is standing in front of me, gun in her hand, dress covered in blood. This can’t be real. Am I still unconscious? If so, I will myself to wake up from this nightmare.

“Rowan, you have to go! Now!” My mom waves the gun frantically, her gaze darting in several directions. It’s then I notice the flashing lights. The sounds of police fast approaching.

“What—”

Tears slide down my mom’s cheeks and for once, there’s sincerity there. “I couldn’t let him kill you.”

I blink again at the dead bodies littered on the grass, but none of them belong to Ed. Fuck.

“He’s left,” she explains. “But you need to go too. Hurry.”

My brain has finally caught up to everything and I don’t have time to waste. Ed has Atlas, and he means to kill her. I can’t let that happen. Not when it’s my fault she got taken in the first place. I never should’ve walked through that public space with her at my side. I never should have taunted Ed the way I did.

In my confidence, in my surety that he’s a useless sack, I underestimated him.

And it might just cost me the person I love most in this world.

Before I leave, though, I have to know.

“Why?” I croak out.

My mom sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of the hand not holding the gun. “You’re my son,” she whispered. “I couldn’t protect you before when I should have. I was so lost after he died, Rowan.” Her voice catches and I hate that I can feel her sadness in my chest. “I’m going to protect you now. No matter what.”

I wish I had words to say right then. So many mixed emotions flow through me, none of which I actually have the time to take out and examine. Not when there are more important things at stake.

“Go, Rowan,” she urges once again.

This time, I don’t wait. I turn and I run. Even as my ribs scream and my legs ache, I run and ignore that pain. Because that? It’s nothing compared to what Atlas is probably going through right now.

I keep that in mind and compartmentalize everything, keeping my singular focus on her and only her.

And how I plan on getting her back.

It takes me far longer than I have to make it to my place. I only take a few minutes to wrap gauze around my battered ribcage before I’m slipping into my secret room and shoving all manner of weapons into a rucksack. I grab everything, a vicious fury and vengeance burning through my veins that I can’t wait to unleash to the world.

My fingers graze against a bomb and I pause before I grab it and stuff it in there as well.

Once I’m stocked up, I whip out my phone.

I underestimated Ed, but his mistake has been to underestimate me. He thinks he’s untouchable. Safe in his corruption. He thinks I’m nothing more than a stupid kid, the same kid he beat nearly to death time and time again, but that’s where he’s mistaken.

I’m so much more than that.

I’m a murderer, a weapon honed and sharpened against the chips of years of abuse. I’m stalker and lover, I’m fucked up, arrogant, possessive, and smart. And I’m completely and utterly a fool for Atlas Ortega.

I underestimated him, but he underestimates just what I’m willing to do to get my woman back. I’d jump into the fire for her.

I’ve killed for her.

And now, I’m ready to kill Ed for her as well.

And I’ll bring the entire city to its fucking knees if only it means I’m going to get her back.

TWENTY-NINE

Atlas

So many murder documentaries. So many podcasts. So many books and cases and reports. All for what?

Just so I can make up thousands of scenarios in my head of what’s going to happen to me as I’m hauled away by these bastards. Just so I can picture in my mind so vividly how they’re going to torture me, rape me, kill me.

All in the name of some hypocritical asshole with an overeager need to be mayor, governor, and president.

The ties bite into my wrists. Zip ties are easier to get out of than duct tape, at least. I would know. I practiced with Anna, after all.

I thank Anna now for forcing me to sit through her lessons. It wasn’t weird after all. It was productive. I also thank the podcasts I spent an unhealthy amount of time listening to.

Through a frenzy of anxiety, she’s all I think about when they bind my hands tightly together in my lap in the back of the van. They throw me against the far corner, slamming my head on the metal of something unseen. Pain stings into my skull, but I’m already testing the ties on my wrists. Tight, but doable. I just have to bide my time.

I’m acutely aware when they finally stop. My body lunges forward, but a hand stops me in my place, sending my nerves into overdrive from the palm against my shoulder. A door slides open, and someone hauls me out like a sack of potatoes, throwing me into someone else's arms as they drag me over gravel. Pain stings through my knees before cool concrete meets my skin.

My captors throw me down once we’re inside the space, and then a door slams shut behind me. I wait with bated breath for something more to come.

But I’m alone.

With a sack still over my head, I’m left to my own devices. My jagged breaths tumble from my lips, and my tears dry against my cheeks. Then I smile quietly to myself through it all.

I pull the bag from my head immediately, blinking through the darkness until my vision clears. I’m not sure where I am, but being alone gifts me plenty of time to think about all the ways these criminals will want to fuck me up.

They can certainly try.

But they’ve already made so many mistakes.

I take a breath, bring my bound hands over my head, and with a fast movement I didn’t know I was capable of, I crash it down in an arc, snapping my wrists against the top of my thighs.

Nothing.

Again, I repeat the movement. Over and fucking over until the zip tie finally snaps. Red lines encircle my wrists with pain. I’m a sweating mess. My curls are plastered to my cheeks and neck, and the dress is clinging uncomfortably against my frame. One boob is nearly out and roaming the room from all the chaos of the evening.

I fucking hate gowns. Let’s never do this again.

I give a cursory look around the room I’m in. It’s industrial, made of metal and wood. A factory? I’m unsure. Maybe one of Ed’s many properties.

Pain strikes through my knees when I stand. I lean into the wall just to make it to an agonizing crouching position. I push myself along the smooth surface until my head leans against the door, and I listen intently then. Voices speak low amongst themselves. Two men, I think.

Where’s Rowan?

I try to think if they captured him, too, but he wasn’t in the van, and I don’t know what they’ve done with him. That alone spirals a renewed wave of fury to course through me.

I have to get out of here.

I push open the heavy door a fraction of an inch, but two men are standing around a white table near a door that has a rustic Exit sign above it. Guns lie on the countertop. I peer away at the big windows up above that are too tented to see out of.

It’s not a factory, but it’s like a restored warehouse of some kind. Even a bar and several martini glasses line the wall.

Where are we?

Carefully, I slip the door closed again and try to think through my options. I can hide behind the blind spot of the metal door, and when they open it . . . what? I get my ass kicked again? Jesus, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

A sudden boom echoes around me, and I tense hard, nearly knocked off my feet from the impact. I take in a harsh breath to steady the racing of my heart. My hand grips the handle, and when I pull open the door, Rowan’s enormous stature is the first thing I see. His back is to me. At his feet, a man lies dead on the floor, blood pooling out around him while the other man wrestles Rowan for the gun in his hand.

The sight of it nearly brings me crashing to my knees, but I manage to stay upright. I want to rush into the fray and help, but I know logically I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help, so I stay rooted to the spot, feeling the tears stream down my cheeks.

The front door bursts open, and Ed walks in waving a gun, and it’s then that I can’t remain hidden any longer. I rush out, and the gun swivels from Rowan to me.

Everyone stops dead in their tracks. Rowan clocks the guy hard across the face, sending him tumbling back across the floor before turning the weapon on his stepfather. The two of them are in such a trance of heated hate, they don’t hear the sirens in the distance.

But I do.

“Put your gun down, Ed,” Rowan orders.

“You think you can save her, don’t you?” Ed sneers a nasty fucking smirk. “I tried to figure it out for a long time. She’s a fucked-up mess just like her mother. Why do you want something so broken, boy?”

Rowan doesn’t respond. I don’t even know if he really hears Ed. I can see his eyes flashing, his fingers tensing at his side like he’s dying to end this in the worst way possible, yet he’s still holding back.

He tried to do the right thing. To let the justice system break Ed down the old-fashioned way. To publicly watch his fall from grace, to watch Ed lose everything and all his dirty little secrets to come to light. For me. Instead of giving him the dignity of a quick death, he waited to act out this slow vengeance in my honor.

But I can see now he’s only moments away from killing his stepfather.

Ed’s finger slides over his trigger, but Rowan’s gun resounds through the warehouse, drowning out my own beating heart. It’s a flash of sound and movement as the other gunman stands and slams into Rowan’s side, bringing him down fast and hard. Ed’s attention swings to the two of them, his eyes wide like he’s just as surprised as I am that he’s not been hit.

And then he’s striding toward them, his weapon lifting with intent. Fear strangles through me in a way I’ve never felt before as I see the line of fire so perfectly aimed at Rowan. Panic slashes through me and in a split second, I can see how it all plays out. I can see Ed firing and killing the only man I’ve ever loved and the only one who has ever loved me in return. It’s in that moment I realize that Rowan has walked through fire for me. Do I love him enough to do the same for him? And then I’m running. My vision blurs as more gunfire shakes through the room, but I don’t stop. I don’t pause for a single second.

Even as the knife is pulled from the bar, and I’m gripping Ed’s head from behind and slicing the blade as deep as I can get it across his meaty neck.

An empty, surprised gurgle is the last thing I hear before he falls to the floor. Silence settles into the space. No one moves. And when my full senses slam back into me, I notice things I hadn’t before. The sharp smell of blood. Bodies littering the concrete. The sounds a dying man makes as he crawls and struggles for his last few breaths.

I’ve seen dead bodies over and over. I’ve made death so pretty it’s brought tears to the eyes of the living. But I’ve never actually done this.

It’s one thing to dress up a corpse. Another entirely to create one from scratch.

It’s Rowan that looks up at me with wide, blue eyes. He blinks over and over again like he can’t really see me where I stand in front of him. His mouth opens and closes as he takes everything in.

Warmth crawls down my arm and hand, the blood a stark contrast against the bite of cold air as it drips slowly from my fingertips and along the knife’s edge.

I’m lost in the haze of this moment: The moment where life and death meet in the middle, one hanging precariously on a thin thread until it finally just . . .

Snaps.

The second it does, the tension loosens from my shoulders after a lifetime of hating him.

I stare down at the body. Deep lines lash across skin like red ribbons, wrapping the mutilated corpse like a twisted gift.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this, anyway . . .

Flashes of red and blue flicker across the dense shadows of the dark room.

A normal person would feel remorse for what they’ve done.

I just feel . . . free.

“Atlas, give me your knife,” Rowan whispers along my ear, his palm smoothing across my jawline and into my hair until he forces me to look at him.

I take in the sight of Rowan’s bloody face, unaware of when he got up. He holds several guns in his hands, and he’s sliding them into his suit jacket. He pulls the knife away from my loose grip, and he now holds the bloody weapon in his hand. It’s casual. He looks so casual and comfortable with it. Like he’s done this a thousand times. Maybe he has.

“The police are coming. I need you to listen to me. Slip out the back. Run through the woods. It's dark, and it’s going to be hard, and I know you're hurt, but don’t stop running. Not until you hit the pavement of the highway. My car is there. Get in and drive straight to my house. Don’t get out of the car until the parking garage door has fully closed. Nod your pretty head for me if you understand.”

I’m so focused on the scar cutting through his pale eye. Intensity burns in the depths of that cruel imperfection. He’s always so intense with me. Because he only ever wants to protect me. He said it himself. I never realized how seriously he took that responsibility. Until now.

And then I nod.

And then I’m running once again.

THIRTY

Five Years Earlier

Rowan

The trailer I hide behind stings hot against my arm when I lean into the metal siding. Dozens of other trailers line the lot, soaking up the hot sun like tin cans in a dumpster. Some have backyards with toys scattered across the grass while others have tattered lawn chairs positioned in the shade the houses themselves provide. I peer out at the only tree in the entire trailer park. And there, a dark woven swing hangs. It’s large, and circular, and possibly homemade by talented hands. A beautiful girl lies in the woven web, her face tilted up to the light of the sun.

I assess her. She’s the smallest target Ed’s ever sent me after. I flick open my messages again and reconfirm the address he sent me. I look from the address to the numbered sticker taped to the end of the black-and-white trailer.

“Hmm,” I whisper to myself.

The last guy Ed had me trail was a political opponent. Some rich asshole running for mayor in the glorious state of fucking Ohio. I snapped some pictures of this guy getting a blow job in the back seat of his sedan. Slid them through his mail slot, and I was done.

Now he sends me to babysit some high school girl?

I shake my head and watch the girl again. A book lies forgotten in the dry dirt beneath her swing. I lift my binoculars, expecting some bodice ripper romance, only to find it's a true crime novel about the Menéndez murders.

Fuck, maybe this girl does have some problems.

I wait for whatever will happen next. I'm only here to make sure the girl's mother leaves town peacefully. The woman's been making threats during reelection season. She says Ed owes her child support. Almost eighteen years’ worth.

Naturally, Ed didn't tell me that, but his private emails did. Bastard has his password as his own birthday. Took me all of six clicks of the keyboard to open every secret he's ever had. He’s such a dumbass and he doesn’t even fucking know it.

Sweat beads across my temple, and a quiet humming catches my attention. The girl pushes lightly with the tips of her toes, and the softest, sweetest sound of her voice calls out to me.

Fuck, I hope whatever Ed has planned for her mother isn’t harsh.

My gaze flicks to the woman tending to a small patch of red noche buena flowers at the corner of the rotting front porch. Her dark hair is pulled back from the angles of her face. She's younger than Ed. Unsurprisingly so. She's too pretty for him. Also unsurprising.

And then the gravel driveway crunches under the weight of heavy tires. Two vehicles shine beneath the summer sun. The first is a police cruiser. I pull back from my hiding spot and press my back to the hot metal of the trailer.

Two officers step out from either side of the car, gaining the attention of the girl's mother instantly.

"Mija, go inside," the mother calls out to the girl, her accent loud and commanding, her body standing taller as she faces the two men.

But just behind the little police car, is an ambulance.

"What the fuck?" I hiss out.

Both the officers hold a stance like they’re walking up to a violent animal. They speak slowly and calmly. Their words don't carry, but the mother's attention shifts toward Atlas, a flashing look of worry and alarm, and my entire body is immediately tense with adrenaline.

What the fuck is Ed planning?

The officers make quick work of backing the woman into the corner of the house. The girl, Atlas, doesn't go inside. Instead, she's stalking slowly behind the officers, even as the medics behind her start to blockade these two women into a shitty situation.

My jaw grinds, and my fingers tick restlessly at my sides.

Then they're grabbing the woman. The mother kicks and thrashes, but the cuffs slam hard around her wrists. Atlas lunges then. The small girl grips the officer’s shoulders, and her arms wrap around his throat from behind in a bizarre head hold, her hands gripping his face with sharp nails digging into soft flesh.

Cutting cries and gruff commands call out, but it all happens too quick. The mother is bound to the gurney with her hands still cuffed. The red-and-white door slams against her screams. The officer throws the girl off his shoulders while the other one shoves her into the back of the squad car.

Tires kick up dust and rocks.

Silence falls into place against my shaking adrenaline.

I swear to God I'll kill Ed someday. But right now, Ed has work to do.

Because there's no way in fucking hell I'm going to let him fuck up some teenage girl the same way he did me.

THIRTY-ONE

Present Day

Atlas

The breeze is cool against my face as I step out onto the back porch. Wildflowers dance in the orange-and-pink hues of the setting sun. She snips them with long stems still intact. My mother loves flowers. It’s when I see her old self shine through the most.

She looks back at me. The rosary I conserved all these years dangles from her neck, swaying sideways with the warm breeze. I remember the moment I slipped that around her neck. It was like the final piece of a long-forgotten puzzle clicking into place. And with it, I was home. We were home.

My mom’s dark eyes gloss over like they do often, more so when she stares long and hard, but then a small smile pulls at the corner of her lips just before strong arms wrap around me from behind. I lean into Rowan, and his warmth is a calming energy that coils all around me. It’s the feeling of safety. Of love.

“She likes the red ones,” Rowan whispers, and it makes me smile that that little detail is the same too.

She was lost when we picked her up from the institute. Her brown eyes weren’t the same. The laughter and love that I remember beaming from them was gone. She was hollow.

But she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t broken.

None of us are now.

Everyday we're a little bit stronger. A little bit happier.

Rowan presses a gentle kiss to my cheek before he breaks away and walks over to where my mom is crouching. Something warms in my chest as I watch him bend to her level and when they start speaking Spanish together, that feeling only intensifies, especially since I know he learned for me. For her.

The friendship he’s formed with her means everything to me. I think it means a lot to him too. He doesn’t talk to his own mom anymore. He still hasn’t forgiven her for the years of abuse she let him endure at the hands of her husband. I’m not sure he ever will.

Maybe in time, but some wounds can still be raw, no matter how much time has passed since it was inflicted.

The three of us are content out here after we had to leave the city. Which was fine by me. We quieted down in a pretty country home at the edge of the woods, just a few miles from where it all happened.

I still drive into town twice a week for my classes. I still meet Anna on the days I work.

I could leave everyone else behind easily, but Anna is someone I value far too much to leave her. Her friendship and quirkiness were just the things that got me out of my head when I needed it the most. For that, I’ll be eternally grateful, even when she seems to be keeping her own secrets from me lately. I just know that whatever’s going on in her life, I’ll be here for her. Like she was there for me.

After everything that happened, I was so terrified it would go back to that lost sensation that Ed threw me into once upon a time. But I didn’t feel the guilt or confusion wash over me like it did years ago. Not even when the news broke out across the media about who Ed really was. All those papers were found once again when Rowan sent his mom an email of the picture’s he’d taken of the documents. She went to the police herself, then leaked them online for good measure. Just in case any of the dirty politicians that had allied with Ed tried greasing palms of the authorities to make the problem go away.

Everything went to shit overnight, the headlines blaring what a terrible, corrupt person Ed was. And when his body landed on the slab of the morgue, well, it was easy to manipulate evidence and cause of death, with Rowan’s help.

No one questioned a thing.

It left us free to leave. Especially when all his private institutions shut down and underwent investigations. We were able to get my mom out of that awful place and finally put it in our rear-view mirror.

Things are different but the same now. Rowan sold his penthouse and bought three acres and a dream home that I never could have imagined.

I don’t snoop through his phone anymore. He still paws through my underwear drawer when he thinks I’m not looking. He still grumbles on the rare occasion that Simon dares to message me, but he’s not violent about it anymore because he knows Simon is a nice guy, and I’ve already shown that me and nice guys? We don’t mix. And when Rowan and I are feeling particularly adventurous, he quietly pulls out a goalie mask, and we play our little game of cat and mouse out in the woods at night.

Life didn’t kick off to a great start, but I believe it all happened for a reason. A purpose.

In a way, I’m proud of myself for finally standing up to Ed. Maybe it was a darker form of closure, but I deserved it. Ed definitely deserved it. And I’ll never regret doing what I did.

Because finally–finally–I believe myself when I say everything’s going to be okay.

The End.

Want more morally pucking grey men? The mafia doesn’t always let what dies, rest. And Anna will find that out first hand when she’s blackmailed by a gorgeous, emotionally unhinged, hockey player in book two, Ugly Possession.

AFTERWORD

A Note From Jade Hernández

About Atlas

Atlas is a No Sabo Kid. What a weird way to start this little section, but there’s a reason I put this at the end of the book and not at the front (spoilers is another reason) and that’s so I can speak freely about her character within this book.

So, yeah, Atlas is a No Sabo Kid. What does this mean, for those who don’t know? A No Sabo Kid is someone (usually of Mexican descent) who isn’t fluent in Spanish and/or does not have heavy ties to their culture. If you aren’t new to my work, you might be wondering why she was written this way, considering every work I’ve released so far has been thick with Mexican representation, Spanish, and heavy ties to Mexican culture.

I just want to take a moment to remind you that being a mixed Latina (like me), not speaking your native tongue (like Atlas and so many others) doesn’t make you any less Mexican (or Latinx). You are not less than just because you can’t speak the language, because you are mixed, because you don’t feel you ‘look Mexican enough’, or because you’ve never been to your country.

Sometimes, to assimilate into a country we were taken to as children (or were born into) means we have to leave some things behind. It means our parents, guardians, or whoever, sacrifice so much for us to live a life free of the hardships and racism they faced. It doesn’t make you less than anything or anyone. You are you, and you are fucking perfect, and you deserve to be represented as well because I know how invalidated you often are made to feel and the internal conflict it can create in your own mind.

I often wonder if I would’ve been a No Sabo Kid, had my father not been deported and we’d been forced to move to Mexico where I had to learn the language at the tender age of 8. Who knows what I’d be? Life is weird. Life is hard. Atlas’s life has been hard, as you could clearly tell.

Her character was written to the truest and best of our ability and her struggles are bits and pieces of both A.K. and I. She was not written to be white-washed, or skinny-washed. She was not written to please a white audience because she doesn’t have heavy ties to her family and that would make her more ‘relatable.’ She may not speak Spanish, but she is Mexican just the same. She doesn’t need to wear a sombrero and eat beans and rice every page to prove what she is. Funny how people are like that, too.

That being said, I hope you enjoyed her character and her growth and like always, if anything I’ve written has been inadvertently offensive within the pages of this book, know that I am not perfect and I don’t do it with that intent. If you wish to let me know that my representation is harmful, feel free to email me.

OTHER BOOKS BY JADE

El Rancho Los Corazones series

Learn to Love You

Los Diablos Motorcycle Club

Ink

Miguel

Morally Pucking Gray series

Beautiful Obsession

ALSO BY A.K. KOONCE

Reverse Harem Books

The To Tame a Shifter Series

Taming

Claiming

Maiming

Sustaining

Reigning

The Monsters and Miseries Series

Hellish Fae

Sinless Demons

Spiteful Creatures

The Rejected Realms Series

Hell Kissed

Fire Kissed

Soul Kissed

The Villainous Wonderland Series

Into the Madness

Within the Wonder

Under the Lies

Origins of the Six

Academy of Six

Control of Five

Destruction of Two

Wrath of One

The Hopeless Series

Hopeless Magic

Hopeless Kingdom

Hopeless Realm

Hopeless Sacrifice

The Secrets of Shifters

The Darkest Wolves

The Sweetest Lies

The Royal Harem Series

The Hundred Year Curse

The Curse of the Sea

The Legend of the Cursed Princess

The Huntress Series

An Assassin’s Death

An Assassin’s Deception

An Assassin’s Destiny

The Beautiful Monsters Series

Of Sins and Psychos

Paranormal Romance Books

The Cursed Kingdoms Series

The Cruel Fae King

The Cursed Fae King

The Crowned Fae Queen

The Twisted Crown Series

The Shadow Fae

The Iron Fae

The Lost Fae

The Midnight Monsters Series

Fate of the Hybrid, Prequel

To Save a Vampire, Book one

To Love a Vampire, Book two

To Kill a Vampire, Book three

ABOUT JADE HERNÁNDEZ

Jade Hernández is a proud Mexican-American woman who strives to bring more Latinx stories to life within the contemporary romance genre. You may know her as Aleera Anaya Ceres, the USA Today Bestselling Author of diverse fantasy and paranormal works. Under this new penname, she aims to represent her culture by writing sweet, dark, gritty, and fun stories for all. As an introvert, Jade prefers to stay inside with a good book, collect tarot cards, and she's recently found a love for book boxes! She currently lives in Tlaxcala, Mexico with her husband and children.

Follow Jade

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ABOUT A.K. KOONCE

A.K. Koonce is a USA Today bestselling author. She’s a mom by day and a spicy romance author by night. She tires her best to focus on her actual life and not the lives of her fantastical but demanding characters,

She lives in a small town in Illinois with her beautiful daughter, chaotic puppy, and wonderful partner.

If you want more A.K. Koonce updates, deleted scenes, and giveaways, join her Newsletter or Facebook Reader Group!

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Table of Contents

Untitled

Untitled

Copyright

Contents

Trigger & Content Warnings:

Foreword

Praise for A.K. Koonce

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Afterword

Other Books by Jade

Also by A.K. Koonce

About Jade Hernández

About A.K. Koonce