SHATTERED IN DARKNESS

DONNA KESSLER

Copyright © 2026 by Donna Kessler

Self-published

ISBN: 979-8-9949808-1-1

First edition: 2026

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover designed and copyrighted by Jay Aheer at simplydefinedart.com

Interior Art designed by: Be Your Shelf Services

Edited by: Hunter Author Services

For the girls who like their men unhinged, damaged, obsessed and completely out of their fucking minds.

For the readers who were once shattered in the dark and felt isolated, lost, depressed, traumatized… and still crave the kind of devotion that consumes, claims, and never lets go.

FOR READERS

Hi, thank you for reading Shattered In Darkness.

This is a pitch black romance. It’s intense, toxic, messy, and emotionally dark. These characters don’t fall in love in a healthy way. They collide. They hurt each other. They cling, they fight, they survive. If you’re here for a story that lives in obsession, power struggles, and the kind of love that can feel like a cage before it ever feels like home, you’re in the right place.

This book explores heavy themes including abuse, captivity, coercion, control, dissociation, manipulation, forced obedience through abuse cycles, conditioning, power, corruption, obsession/possession, trauma, gory violence, and explicit sexual content (multiple pages long). There are scenes meant to unsettle you. There are moments that may be triggering. Please take care of yourself while reading. This is a very dark dark romance for a reason with sub-themes of psychological horror and suspense.

It heavily explores the theme of identity loss. Trauma has a way of stripping us of our identities. Especially long-term abuse. Lola and Brody are examples of that. In the past chapters, you’ll see their true selves, before trauma really took over. In the present chapters, their identity is lost. Lola’s true self is buried beneath years of conditioning, abuse, trauma. She has learned to never speak up, to never question the dark, to bury who she is and become a void. Brody is the same way. He has shut off his ‘humanity’ completely. He’s a black hole. Lola is the only thing that can slowly bring him back from that darkness. The switch can be immediate.

So, this is for readers who understand how trauma can fracture an identity until you no longer recognize the person you were before. The only time you will see Lola and Brody have an identity is in the past chapters. In the present, you’ll be inside of the jumbled, hazy and dark minds of their psyche. It’s supposed to feel confusing, conflicting, disturbing, empty and even unreliable at times. You will not get an accurate answer as to who they are, because there isn’t an answer. They are the aftermath of trauma.

Some scenes of abuse are highly explicit. So please read with caution.

Shattered In Darkness is for readers who enjoy morally black characters, dark psychological tension, love to hate to love energy, possession/obsession dynamics, and stories where the romance is wrapped in danger. There are pitch-black elements in this book especially regarding Lola’s step-father.

It’s for the readers who like their books dark, with characters who make terrible choices and still manage to find each other through the wreckage. It’s for the readers who have trauma in their life and enjoy reading about other people’s trauma and darkness to cope with their own demons. It is very trauma-heavy with explicit, disturbing scenes.

This book is not for everyone, and it’s not meant to be. If you prefer lighter romance, comfort-first love stories, or relationships that stay healthy and uncomplicated, this one may not be a good fit. Read what makes you feel safe and happy.

Everything in this book is fictional and in no way represents my values in reality. The themes, dynamics, and situations on these pages are not meant to be replicated or idealized in real life. Dark romance explores extremes on purpose, pushing into fear, control, and intensity in a way that’s meant to stay on the page.

For some of us, writing stories like this is also a way to process heavy emotions through fiction, in a space where we can shape the ending. I myself have been through tragic and traumatic experiences, so dark themes are what I write best.

If any part of this hits too close, please take care of yourself and step away when you need to.

Thank you for trusting me with a story this dark. I hope it breaks your heart in the best way, keeps you up too late, and leaves you feeling wrecked and satisfied when you turn the last page.

There is a HEA with eventual redemption and resolution. This is a stand-alone. A future book based around Lucas and Sophie is being considered.

Thank you to any and all support during pre-published stage. Thank you to everyone who shared my book! Thank you to ARC readers too. Thank you to my alpha reader, Lynn! Thank you to my street team, @baddy.books on instagram and my PA!

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to leave a good review on Goodreads, amazon or social media! Reviews help indie authors like me.

BLURB

She learned early that love can be a cage.

She lives under the thumb of a monster—his rules, his punishments, his leash. Survival means silence, submission, and pretending not to bleed.

Brody was the one thing she chose for herself.

Now he’s back, filled with rage, violence, sickening obsession and vengeance. The way he watches her says one thing:

He isn’t here to save her.

He’s here to consume her.

Because in the end, she was never free⁠—

She was only ever his.

PLAYLIST

Wet by Manic Kazzy

Who’s a good girl by Manic Kazzy

My Happy Ending by Avril Lavigne

Forgotten by Avril Lavigne

Why by Avril Lavigne

Rabbits can swim by Florence road

Untitled by Simple Plan

Siren Head by Chills ft Corpse

Disdain by Corpse

Tag You’re it by Melanie Martinez

Cherry Waves by deftones

Red vineyard by diggy graves

Circus psycho by diggy graves

Haunted by evanescence

Sexy drug by falling in reverse

Creep through the street by Freddie dredd

Hemorrhage (in my hands) by fuel

Melancholic by ghostmane

Flesh by ghostmane

Innocence by kill dyll

Hide and seek by lizz robinett

Afraid by the neighborhood

Closer by nine inch nails

Tear you apart by she wants revenge

Inside my veins by deer death

Wait and bleed by slipknot

Lipstick by gonedark & 47stillstanding

I am her god by manic kazzy

Haunting by braeker

Beg (on your knees) by Ash to Eden

World so cold by three days grace

Heavy by linkin park

Concrete angel by Martina mcbride

Already over by red

Breathe me by sia

TRIGGERS

This is a psychological pitch black dark romance, with heavy themes, so please read for the sake of your mental health. It contains abusive scenes, trauma, murder, violence, explicit content, kidnapping, torture, death, addiction, non-con, dub-con among other triggers and kinks like blood play, knife play. Please only read if you are 18+. Please email me at donnakesslerauthor@gmail.com with any questions or concerns. Full list of triggers on my website: donnakesslerauthor.com

70+ triggers. If you have any triggers, please check my website to be sure you are not reading anything that will upset you!

1

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 18)

The air is too quiet, even for a house full of grief.

I sit on the edge of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the wall. The scent of the mountains still lingers on my skin. I haven’t been able to wash it out.

Mom’s gone. Just like that. One slip on the trail, one scream echoing off the rocks, one day that split my life into before and after. The ache is all-consuming. There is an emptiness spreading inside of me, and I fear that it won’t ever go away. It’s like a black hole is swallowing me, pulling me into the depth of the abyss.

Brody’s here, next to me. He doesn’t touch me at first, just sits close enough that I can feel his heat, like a shield against the cold that’s wormed into my bones. Every time I start to shake, he nudges a little closer. Eventually, he takes my hand and holds it in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles over my skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice quiet. “I wish I could’ve done something. I wish I’d been there.”

I’m tired of being the girl whose mother died on the mountain while she watched. I’m tired of this endless sorrow. 

“I just can’t believe she’s gone. Just like that. It was horrible, Brody. Terrible. All that blood. She barely screamed, because she was gone so fast. In seconds.”

I lean my head on his shoulder. Brody caresses my head and kisses the top of my hair. He is always there for me. He is like my security blanket. He’s the one good thing in my life that I have left. 

Please don’t go too.

Footsteps move down the hall. Brody’s grip hardens.

Marcus appears in the doorway. He doesn’t knock, he never does. His eyes flick over me, then Brody. There’s something strange in them.

His voice is smooth, too gentle, like a man making a speech at a funeral he doesn’t care about. “You’re still in here, Lola? People are waiting to see you.” He glances at Brody with a thin, polite smile. “You too, son.”

I press my nails into my palm. “I just needed a minute,” I mumble.

Marcus walks into the room, not even pretending to respect the space between us. He stands close, his hand landing on my shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting, but it makes my body seize with terror. His grip tightens, almost possessive. “You know, your mother always was careless,” he says, voice soft but with a cold edge that makes Brody tense beside me. “Some people just don’t understand how dangerous the world can be. She left you behind, but I won’t. I’ll take care of you now. You’ll see.”

His thumb strokes my collarbone, too familiar.

Brody shifts, bristling. “She needs space,” he says, jaw clenched.

Marcus looks at Brody, and for a second, the mask drops. There’s a warning in his eyes. “Family doesn’t leave each other alone in times like this. Lola needs someone who knows how to keep her safe. Someone who won’t disappear when things get hard.”

I want to shrink away, but Marcus’s hand stays heavy on my shoulder. Something in his touch has changed. He lingers, his gaze too intent, as if seeing me as something other than his step-daughter.

There were some uncomfortable moments before, but he never got close like this. 

“I’m here now, sweetheart,” Marcus says, eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll always be here. You belong right where you are.”

I can feel Brody’s anger beside me, simmering. I want to reach for him, but Marcus’s grip pins me in place. The room feels smaller, the world outside feels impossible. All I can do is sit there, trapped between the boy who makes me feel safe and the man who just claimed me as his own.

The ache in my chest grows. I realize, in that moment, that my mother’s death didn’t just leave me alone.

It left me exposed.

“Well, she’s fine for now. She has me, and I’m more than capable of making her feel better. You’re just her step-father; I’m her forever.” Brody’s voice rises, and I stiffen next to him. I know where this is heading. Brody can be very possessive of me at times, and I silently plead for him not to do this right now. “She belongs to me,” Brody says.

Marcus doesn’t budge. He squeezes my shoulder until my spine aches. “You don’t decide that, boy.”

My chest shrinks, oxygen going thin. I can’t fucking move as they stare each other down, wolves circling, muscles bunching for the next bite. I wonder if they might kill each other right here, on my bed, with my tears still wet on the sheets. I want to disappear. I want to sink into the carpet. Turn into a shadow crack.

Marcus tightens his grip, and for a second there’s nothing in those gray eyes. Flat. Like pond water. “Why don’t you go home, Brody? Let Lola grieve with her family.”

Brody’s jaw ticks. His knuckles turn white around my wrist. “Your house isn’t her home.”

“Funny,” Marcus murmurs. “You’re not her family. You’re just a distraction she’ll forget in a year.”

It hurts. Worse than I expect. Like he’s already dumping dirt on the coffin. Like I’m the dead one. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

Brody stands. The energy in him is violent, caged, like a dog waiting to snap the collar. I hold my breath, fearing he’s going to hit Marcus. Right here. Right now.

Instead, he releases my hand and steps back.

“If you ever hurt her.” Brody’s voice shakes, not with fear, but with something wrecked. “If you touch her, if you make her cry, you’ll pay for it. I don’t care if you’re her fucking step-dad. I don’t care what you are.”

“We’ll see about that.”

All the warmth leaks out of the room.

Marcus makes me stand, his hand never leaving my skin. Like a leash. Like everyone should see who owns the prize. “Come along, sweetheart. Let’s say goodbye to your mother properly.”

I do as I’m told because obedience is all I have left. I follow Marcus, and Brody stalks behind us. I don’t look back. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes. I’m afraid it would ruin me for good.

The funeral is a blur. Cold wind slithers around me. Wet leaves clinging to my shoes. Women hugging me with nails that dig into my spine. Marcus with his hand on the small of my back, anchoring me for all the world to see.

Brody stands across the dirt, staring, his eyes fixed on me and nothing else. I want to run to him, jump into his arms, and let the sadness fall out of my body and never touch the ground.

I stay rooted to the fake grass. Damp leaves cling to my ankles. All these stares. All these greedy hands, waiting to claim whatever’s left of me. The little girl whose mother screamed and then disappeared.

Marcus fills up my world. He stands behind me, a hand pressed to my back, heavy and false-gentle, squeezing until my bones flex. His mouth is next to my ear. His mask is for the crowd, swooping and sad; only I can feel the knife twisting underneath.

Only I can see his empty eyes. There’s nothing behind his expression. No soul. No life. Only a darkness that engulfs me. 

He whispers that I’m brave. He calls me darling, sweetheart, little bug. The eyes of distant family, neighbors, men from Marcus’s business look through me.

They don’t see the truth: I am a void wearing a pretty dress, painted up to look alive for strangers.

My breath keeps getting stuck. My arms and legs are stuffed with cement.

Brody stands at the fringe, watching everything. I want to run to him. I want to bury myself in him and never come out. But that would be weak, and weak girls get eaten alive.So I look at the coffin. Cool, perfect wood. It doesn’t look anything like my mom. It doesn’t look like anything except maybe a warning.

I clench my fists. All I want is out.

They shovel dirt on her before the sun even starts to set, each thud is louder than the last. Everything in my chest caves in, over and over, until I’m sure there’s nothing left.

Come back, come back, come back.

Marcus holds me tighter through the whole thing. His grip leaves marks. Just on the inside, where no one can see.

Afterward, when the last mourner sniffs off to the cars, Marcus guides me to the car to bring me home, his hand never letting go. Not once. Not even when Brody tries to block his path and demands to take me himself, just this once, just for tonight.

Marcus says, “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

He pushes the front door open once we arrive, shoves me through, and locks it behind us.

“Don’t look back, Lola,” he says, his voice is soft.

At home, Marcus makes me sit at the kitchen table. He pours me a glass of something strong and sits across from me, legs splayed, watching so close it pricks my skin. He pats my hand. “We have to stick together now. The world is full of users, liars, little monsters.”

Like I don’t know that already. Like I don’t live with one.

His thumb rolls over my wrist. I stare at his hands. I don’t want them anywhere near me.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea the trouble that brings, do you?”

I do.

I do.

He tells me I’m his world now. He tells me I belong to him, always.

I’m so fucking tired. Numb everywhere, even where it hurts. The darkness in the kitchen feels more real than the light. Muffled, underwater. My mother’s favorite mug glares at me from the sink.

Marcus holds a whiskey in one hand, the other hand loose on the table as he stares at me with hungry eyes. Starving. There is nothing left of him except want. He says he’s never wanted anything the way he wants me. Even my mother, in the coffin. He talks about her like she’s an afterthought. A mistake.

His hand drifts over my hair and my cheek.

I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.

He likes that.

He pours another glass of liquor and slides it across the table. “Drink.”

I swallow. It tastes like gasoline, burning all the way down.

He watches every swallow. He talks about the future. How we’re going to run the network now. The family business. How nobody will ever be able to hurt me, not so long as he owns me. Every word is a shackle.

“You know you’re special to me,” he murmurs, stroking my wrist, cold fingers leaving wet trails. “I knew it the moment I met you, baby. Even before your mother. She was… fine. But you. You’re different.”

I shake my head.

He laughs, flashing a hint of teeth. Like a creature in the dark. “You don’t believe me?”

His other hand lands on my thigh. I flinch but he holds me pinned. Squeezes. I look at his hands, at the wedding band, at his thick fingers pressing so hard my skin goes white.

“That’s enough,” I whisper. I’m dizzy. The world tilts.

“What did I say about talking back?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He stands, dragging me to my feet by the wrist. I stumble, knocking the glass over, and liquor pools across the table. He pulls me through the dark hallway, and my shoulder slams a doorframe. I try to jerk away, but his grip gets meaner.

We get to my room. The lamp glows soft and gold, delicate, maybe a trick of my memory. There’s nowhere to hide. He shoves me onto the bed, his hands moving fast. He yanks my dress up over my knees, and rips the waistband of my tights. The cheap fabric tears easily. He doesn’t even blink.

My scream gets caught in my throat. I want to run, to fight, to disappear into the sheets. None of it works. Marcus pins my hands above my head as his hot breath claws my throat. He tears off my panties, splitting them at the seams. There’s cold air everywhere. My dress is bunched at my waist, nothing else. I can feel my legs shaking, my cunt exposed. I want to die. He’s everywhere, like a menacing phantom latching onto my bones.

I wonder if I hold my breath, will I lose consciousness and join my mother?

His hands are bruising, digging deep into the meat of my thighs as he forces them wide. I sob. The sound is weak, curled up in my chest. He loves that, the weakness. The shame. “Please, stop…don’t do this.” 

He doesn’t listen. He licks his thumb and rubs it over my pussy. He kneads the flesh until it bruises with cold hands, not even pretending to be soft. No hesitation, Marcus never had any to begin with.

I close my eyes. Maybe if I close them, I can disappear. Maybe if I hold still, I’ll fall through the mattress. Sink to the basement. All the way down, down, down.

He spreads my thighs wider. My own hands are useless, pinned at my wrists above my head. 

His rough fingers push inside. Two, maybe three. I don’t count. He moves them fast, jerking them in and out. I clamp my teeth down hard, try not to scream.

He laughs, the sound vibrating through the bed. “You’re not fighting as much as I thought you would,” he says. “You must need this.”

Fear chokes every word. I want to say no, but the sound is lost. He takes my silence as permission. My vision turns icy white, and I tell myself to black out. I tell myself to float away. But my body just shakes.

He doesn’t even ask. Never a word as he rips his pants open, the zipper slicing the quiet. Roughly pushing my knees higher, my dress bunches around my ribs, my bare skin exposed to the air and his hands. The tip of his cock jams inside me. There’s no mercy, no waiting for anything to adjust except his own pleasure.

Pain explodes up my thighs, through my stomach. I gulp air, wet, burning in my lungs. My own tears are bitter.

He growls above me. Nothing human, just a hungry wolf that’s dead inside. “This is what pretty girls get. This is what you were made for, Lola.”

He ruts into me, hips slamming hard, and making my head thunk the headboard. I’m pinned. He’s everywhere. His weight, his sweat, his grunts in my ear. Not a father, not a man. Just a black hole trying to find out if I can be emptied too.

I am sucked into his darkness.

He grinds his fist into my cheek, mashing it to the side until my mouth squishes open. Tears streak into my hair. I want my mother. But nobody’s coming. There’s just this.

His fingers wrap my throat, squeezing until spots explode in my vision. He spits in my ear, “Obedient. Just like I taught you.”

I stop fighting. The shaking turns into freezing. My body goes limp, boneless. I want to disappear. In my head, Brody is here. Brody is the arms holding me. His eyes, blue-gray and soft and wild. My love. My only real thing.

That’s not real. That’s not now.

Now he is the monster crushing me into the mattress, the stink of whiskey and aftershave. He groans like an animal, part broken, part hungry. “Fucking perfect cunt,” he breathes, voice thick with pride and greed, moving inside me hard, harder.

The sound of skin echoes, slap, slap, slap. My thighs are burning. My cunt is aches. All of me aches in a way that doesn’t belong to earth.

He bends down and licks the tears off my cheek as he calls me darling, telling me I’m special. Telling me this is what I was made for. Sometimes his words fall apart, nothing but rough groans and filthy noises in my ear.

This is what boys grow up to be. Monsters who take whatever they want and call it love.

He jerks my head back, forcing my mouth open. “You like it, don’t you?” He says it, but he doesn’t care about the answer. “You need to be owned. Just like your mother.”

He fucks me until I can’t feel my hips, until my ribs and wrists buzz with numbness, and I’m dizzy and sick. The violence never softens. He wants me blank, ruined. Wants me empty, just like him.

I stare at the ceiling and count cracks. I float so high above the pain, it barely registers as real. My body is below, and the monster is pounding away at it, and I’m grateful I’m not there. When he finally finishes, he shudders, burying deep inside me and still crushing my wrists like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. 

In this moment, I’m grateful for the knowledge that he got a vasectomy in the past. That’s what he told my mother when she mentioned wanting more children. 

Seconds tick by, the only sound is his breath, harsh and ragged, fogging up my hair, my neck, the shell of my ear. He stays there, heavy, pinning me to the mattress. My arms have gone numb above my head; I don’t bother to move them. My gaze drifts across the ceiling, tracing the water stains, the cracks, the place where I used to stick glow-in-the-dark stars, back when I still believed in wishes.

Marcus exhales. A long, satisfied sound, like he’s just finished a meal. He pets my hair, gentler now. I hate that I flinch. I hate that he notices and smiles, that little private curl of his mouth. His thumb brushes the corner of my eye, collecting a tear.

“See?” he murmurs, all cooing poison, “you’re safe now. You’ll always be safe with me. You don’t have to think so hard anymore. You just have to listen. Be my good girl, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not ever again.”

He pulls out. I feel the ache, the mess he leaves behind. He straightens his shirt, zips up, not looking at me, not even pretending to see the body he just used. He wipes his hands on the blanket, on my skin.

I lie there, dress bunched at my waist, legs splayed, wrists throbbing. My breath rattles and I want to curl up and disappear, but all I can do is stare at the ceiling and wait for the world to end.

He stands over me, looming, shadow blotting out the lamplight. “I know it hurts now, Lola, but you’ll thank me someday. You’ll see how lucky you are. I chose you. Not her. Not anyone else. You’re all I need.”

He leaves me there, tangled in sheets, ruined. I listen to his footsteps fading down the hall, the creak of the door closing, the lock sliding.

Silence again. Even quieter than before.

I pull my dress down and cover my legs, but it doesn’t matter. I am split open, emptied out, nothing left but a hollow ache where my heart used to be. I curl into a ball, fists pressed to my chest and count each ragged breath. When the crying starts, I press my face into the pillow and scream until my throat is hoarse, until there are no more sounds left.Until I am nothing but a bruise in the dark.

This is what’s left. This is what it means to be loved, to be chosen, to be owned.

I don’t sleep. I just wait for morning, for Marcus’s hand on my door, for the world to start again. This is the new silence, the one that eats you alive. And I let it.

You left me here, momma. You left me with this monster.

I miss you.

2

LOLA

THE PRESENT

When I tell men that I’m a model, they always ask if I meant to say ‘stripper.’ I don’t have a thin physique like a model. I have a stripper body. I know that.

They look at my curvy hips and my round ass. They admire my plump tits and my flat stomach. And they have the audacity to degrade my beauty by putting me in the stripper category.

They lick their lips and ask me if they can get a private show. I always tell them no, but they always persist. I am nothing but a body to them. A shell to lust after. It’s all I am, and I am afraid it’s all I will ever be. My father made sure of that.

It’s a trap. I know it. Every time, every single time, a man tucks that sly little smile under his voice and says, “A model? You’re kidding, right?” all he’s really asking is how much it would cost to own me, even if just for a night.

They see only what’s on the surface.

I refuse to flinch when their gaze roves over me, dissecting and hungry, because my father taught me early: never let them see you cower. They want weakness; I want war. I smile, matching their crude ogling with a cold, glassy stare. They back down eventually, or they double down, desperate to conquer something wild in me. There is always a catch. Always a line they hope I'll cross.

But nobody wants to acknowledge the soul within the shell. They’d rather imagine their hands around my throat or my knees on the carpet.

I am many things, but I am not for sale. Not to them. Not to anyone.

Beneath the bright veneer, the everyday prettiness, there’s something dark that seethes under my skin. A memory of my step-father watching me in the mirrors of our house, inspecting his handiwork. Making sure the bruises never bloomed where a man might claim me less valuable. He only wants me perfect on the outside, sculpted and immaculate, but inside? 

He turned me to stone.

Trauma has stripped me of my identity until I am emptiness embodied. The girl I once was is gone.

Men like him control everything. The money. The words. The rules. Our family dinners were silent competitions for his approval, his mocking “love” curling like smoke between the dishes. I used to think if I could be beautiful enough, bright enough, good enough, I’d finally be free.

All I ever became was a cage of someone else’s making.

Marcus doesn’t just hurt me; he runs girls. That’s what he does. He hides it behind businesses and “events” and the kind of money that makes people stop asking questions. He calls it a network. He calls it protection, but it’s trafficking. Girls get moved around like packages, introduced as “models,” booked for “gigs,” and handed off to men who pay for silence. I know because I’ve seen them. New faces in the house for a week, a month. Girls who don’t make eye contact. Girls who disappear. Girls who come back looking empty.

If they come back at all.

That’s why he makes me do the modeling and the sex work jobs. It isn’t because he needs the cash. Marcus had money. Old money. Dirty money. He came from a rich family, and he used it to his advantage in a terrible way. Money taught him that power is everything. He loves to own things, and people. Like me. It keeps me trained and it keeps me scared. He likes putting me in situations where I can’t say no and can’t fight back without paying for it later. He likes reminding me that my body is something he can sell, trade, threaten, and use to control me. He likes knowing I’m not the only one, because it proves to him he’s untouchable.

I step out of my car and begin to walk. My phone vibrates; I don’t need to look to know who it is, but I do anyway. 

The Monster

My stomach tightens. I answer on the third ring after debating if I should let it go to voicemail or not. I know what happens when I don’t come when he calls. I cringe at each memory burned into my brain. My father is a poison that is embedded into my veins, and I will never be rid of him.

“Hi,” I say. I keep my voice emotionless, but obedient. The voice I perfected from a young age, ever since my dad died. Ever since Marcus barreled into our lives. 

“Where are you?”

I keep my eyes focused on the horizon in front of me, my hands tight on the phone. “I’m in town. On my way to a job.” 

I can almost see his cruel smile on the other end of the line. As long as I stay compliant and sweet, no harm will come to me. My mother’s words ring through my ears.

Stand tall, sweetheart. Don’t let them see any weakness. 

My heart drops at the thought of my mother. Gone too soon. She brought the monster into my life after the death of my father, then left me with him. 

I look towards the sky. 

Look at me now, momma. Look at what he turned me into. 

“Good. Do not disappoint me. This is a well-respected client, and I expect you to perform your best. Just the way I taught you.”

My skin goes cold, then there’s the emptiness that follows. Flashes of his hands, his cold and possessive eyes, his slimy dominance popping into my mind. Since my mother went away, I do not remember what it is like to feel safe. Warm. Loved purely.

All I know is him. The monster. My doom. My imprisonment. 

“I understand. I will perform exactly to their standard.” I keep my voice professional and robotic, exactly like I practiced. 

“Good girl. I don’t want to have to give you a punishment if you act up. Come home right after, and you’ll get a reward.”

The line goes dead. I can still remember the last punishment he gave me. It was after he left. The boy I thought could save me. 

Marcus found out that I hired a PI to look for him. Marcus did not like that. That night he hit me. My face turned a nasty shade of color and stayed swollen for over a week. He forbade me from going anywhere, so I was trapped in the house with the monster, nursing a swollen and beaten face. He told me that I am his, and I am not allowed to look for the boy.

Or think about him. 

To make sure of it, he tied me down and fucked me. Then made me repeat his name over and over. I can still hear it in my nightmares; the screams,.my tears leaking down my face. I can feel the sting of his hand every time I resisted his name.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus.

Please, I can’t take it anymore. Please stop.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus.

That’s when I knew: I cannot fight him. I have to be obedient. Until death takes his breath away. That is who I am now.

The cruelest thing about trauma does, though, is make you homesick for a version of yourself you can never return to. Where is that fiery girl with spark? The one who didn’t back down, the one who was carefree, the one who could stand up to anyone. Where did she go?

Now, I don’t know who I am without fear telling me what to do. Back down. Stay quiet. Stay still. Do what they want. Smile for the camera. Be a good girl.

I keep walking, I don’t drag my feet; I keep the same pace I’ve kept for years. Steady and quiet. 

The building sits in the shadows of the street. I’ve only been here once before but it takes no time for me to recognize it. The tall structure, its black brick exterior, and the alleyway that cuts along the side. People come here to do shady and raunchy business.

On paper, this place was rented under one of Marcus’s event companies. Girls were sent here and photographed, used, and moved along before anyone could ask questions.

Today, I am here for the same reason. 

The entrance isn’t obvious; no big glass doors, no reception desk behind a well-decorated counter. Just a metal door with peeling black paint and a keypad that’s been scratched up. There’s a camera above it, angled down to watch the street and the alley. It watches me. 

I almost want to hide. Almost. Then, I remember my life revolves around being watched. I have to get used to it.

I punch in the code given to me; the lock clicks, and the door opens before I even touch the handle. A man wearing a dark hoodie stands on the other side. Not a security guard. No name tag. Just a stern face and empty eyes. 

Just like me.

He looks me up and down and I remember what my father tells me.

Don’t be a prude, Lola. With a body like that, they should be allowed to look. But don’t let them touch you. Never let them touch unless I say so.

He steps aside without a word. The hallway is narrow, the lights are dim and yellowed, like they’ve been on for years and no one has bothered to change the bulbs. The walls are brick black, just like the exterior. There’s music somewhere deeper in the building, the bass low. Not club music, more like background noise. Something to cover sounds.

Like the sound of a scream. 

I walk into the designated room and the door shuts behind me. There is one small window on the far wall, and cameras in the corners. I feel that heavy feeling on my lungs whenever I’m alone in a room with a man. The iron grip on the lungs. The sensation of drowning and choking.

Stand tall, sweetheart. Stand tall. sweetheart.

Her words pass through me, and I do exactly that.

Another man appears near the end of the hall. He wears an earpiece, and doesn’t look at me like a person. He looks at me like I am a product being delivered.

“Lola?” I nod. He doesn’t smile or shake my hand. He holds his hand out expectantly. “I need your phone. Security reasons.”

I nod again and give it to him. That’s what I do. I give men what they want. That’s all I know now. 

He pats me and my bag down, and I let him. My body stays still. My stomach doesn’t. He glances at something on his own phone, then nods once. “Wardrobe is through there.”

He points to a door halfway down the hall. I walk towards it; the door opens into a small room that looks like it used to be a storage closet. There’s a mirror nailed to the wall. A metal chair. A hook with a black robe hanging from it. On the chair is a clear plastic bag. My throat tightens when I see what’s inside. Not lingerie. Not exactly. It’s lace and straps. the kind of thing that makes a man think he’s allowed to decide what you are. 

I stare at it until my eyes go numb, then I change fast. I keep the robe on over it and tie it tight. My fingers shake once when the knot slips. I redo it, harder, until it bites into my waist. When I step back into the hall, the first man is waiting. He doesn’t speak, just gestures for me to follow.

We pass two closed doors; one has a red light above it, the other has a keypad. A muffled laugh slips through a wall somewhere. A woman’s voice, too loud and too forced. A man answering in a dark tone. 

I keep walking.

We reach the studio space. It isn’t white and clean like a real photography studio, it’s darker. Grungier. The backdrop is set up, but the floor is stained. The lights are harsh and hot. There’s a couch in the middle that looks expensive and dirty at the same time, and a camera is already mounted on a tripod.

A man stands behind it, adjusting a lens. He looks up when I enter and his eyes flick over me with the same casual entitlement I’ve seen a thousand times.

“You Lola?” he asks. 

“Yes. Pleasure to meet you.”

He nods. “Good. We’re gonna keep it simple. Robe off when I tell you.”

I don’t move yet. I wait. That’s what I’ve learned. Don’t do extra. Don’t guess. Don’t give them a reason to punish you for doing it wrong.

Two men sit off to the side, half in shadow. They aren’t crew; they don’t touch the equipment. One of them is on his phone, the other watches me without blinking. 

The photographer, Dean, checks something on a clipboard. “Alright, he says. “Stand on the mark.”

I step onto the taped X on the floor. The lights click brighter.

Dean lifts the camera. “Look at the lens. Don’t smile. Keep your face blank.”

I do.

“Good,” he says. “Robe off.”

My fingers go to the knot. I untie it and let the robe slide down my arms. The material drops and pools at my feet. I hear the sound before I feel the draft on my skin. It’s cold in here, but the lights burn like fever, pinning me down. 

I stand there on the X in nothing but lace and elastic, straps digging in, ridges biting into my hips and shoulders. I keep my eyes flat, face blank. Just a body. Just a product.

Good girl, Lola. Show them what you are.

My father’s voice in the shadows of my mind, always controlling me. 

Dean grunts his approval. The camera clicks. “Chin up.”

I do it. I know exactly how to tilt. I stare into the lens with dead eyes. He likes that. Men always do.

“Hand on your hip.” I move as told. “Arch your back. More.”

I arch until my ribs strain against the fabric and the air is thin. My body remembers what comes next even when my head wants to float away. The camera fires, rapid and hungry. I know what they see. Curves. Skin made for bruising. A glare that invites and promises nothing. 

The men on the couch watch silently, all tension in their hands and thighs. They don’t blink; I know that stare too. It wants to peel me apart, layer by layer.

Another pose. Another order. “Turn around. Look over your shoulder.”

My hair falls. I let it. He likes the mess of it. My ass in full view. A click, then another.

Dean lowers the camera and clears his throat. “Alright, the next set is with the client.”

He gestures with his jaw and one of the men on the couch shifts forward. He’s older, I think, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I am all nerve endings, all hot blood and chill. My feet move without asking, my work mode activated with a flip of a switch. I become the thing they all want. The thing I have to be.

He sits, legs spread, and pats his thigh. I force a smile that is not a smile, and cross the floor, my hips swinging, and my stomach turning.

Don’t be a prude, Lola. Never let them touch unless I say so.

Marcus knows the job, so this is ok. This won’t be punishable. 

I straddle him, facing forwards towards Dean. His hands hover at my waist, not touching. I can feel the want radiating, a pulse that soaks the air.

Dean barks from behind the camera, “Move. Be sexy. Sell it.”

I sway my hips. I rub up against him because the job is the job. I can feel his breath, his heartbeat. Every time I grind, the lace threatens to snap, and my whole body shudders with disgust I bury deep in my gut. I dissociate. Drift. I’m not me, I’m some other bitch pasted on magazine paper, pixels, and color correction. I shut down. No thinking.

The man underneath grunts. I look through him. Lights flash, Dean shouts orders I barely hear. Faster. I go faster.

My chest burns. I grind my hips. He wants a show, so I give one.

Lace cuts deeper at my thighs. I arch my back and tilt my chin exactly how they want it. My hands caress my skin, my hair falling like a wild mess, just the way they like it.

Just a body. Just a prop.

Another flash, but through the light, I see a movement in the hallway through the open space of the door. A man walks by. A moment later, another man. Slower, steadier, as if he were hunting something, lurking in the dark. 

The second man stops and looks straight through the door. Our eyes meet while I’m openly grinding on this stranger, tits nearly spilling out. 

He’s tall. Bigger than the others with his face half-hidden. His jaw is hard as stone, his eyes on fire even in the low light. Blue, gray, storm-twisted, and locked on me like a scope.

My lungs freeze as a memory slams through me. Rough hands. A stare that never let go. He used to look at me like I was the most precious thing, from across rooms, through windows, like he’d devour me if I got too close. 

Panic slithers up my spine. Anger hits next.

It’s him.

The boy who stole my heart. The boy who left me. The boy who broke me. 

That was three and a half years ago; we were barely nineteen when he left. Now, he looks more like a man than a teenage boy. 

Why in the fuck would he be here? 

Brody watches. Not moving, not breathing. Fists coiled so hard at his sides I worry he’ll break his own fingers. His gaze is a furnace, eating through the cameras, the men, the room, torching me whole.

Years gone, dead and buried, but now he stands in the rotted hallway, staring while I sell myself one frame at a time.

My shame curdles into heat, into challenge. I know how this game goes, even if my insides tremble. I roll my hips harder. My hair over my shoulder for his benefit now, too, for the memory of the boy.

Brody’s face never softens. Anger, hurt, the sick echo of desire. All for me. My fury rises, trying to eat the panic. He left me. He left and never came back, and now here he is, watching me. 

The shoot winds tighter, messier. Dean barks louder. I bare my teeth at the camera, giving them everything they want. Giving him what I know he remembers, the way only I can.

I catch Brody’s eyes again just before he turns. Not a word. He walks away, silent and brutal, pulling the world with him into the dark.

My chest empties, lungs flat and ruined. I keep moving. I grind. I pose. I let the lace bite because that’s what I’m here for.

Dean barks at me to go slower, then faster. I don’t know which he likes more—the “fuck me” in the arch of my spine or the “don’t touch me” in my eyes. Both, probably. Perverts like options.

“Yeah, like that. Good girl. Now angle your hips. Push your chest out. Perfect.”

I turn, hair in my mouth, my thigh pressed right to the edge of the stranger’s knee. The two men on the couch don’t move, but I sense the heat of their eyes. Hungry. Dead. Like wolves at a kill.

Another pose. Another flash. My body throbs and my teeth grind. I want out of this skin, but it’s glued on.

Done? Not yet. Dean’s voice slices through the haze. “Lean back. Look at him like you mean it.”

I do. Head tipped, eyes empty. I could win an Oscar—if Oscars went to girls who know how to make men believe they could own her.

The man beneath me breathes louder. Dean loves it, he eggs me on. “Last set, Lola. Make it count.”

I stand and bend over. My hands rest on the top cushions of the couch by the man’s head. I arch my back and push my ass out, then my head twists to stare at the camera. Perfect position for full view of my ass, and the side of my tits. They love that. 

Perfect whore for the lens and the money. Just a body. Nothing but a shell. But something inside is burning, feral and numb at the same time.

A muffled sound seeps through from the hallway. The music covers it, a static heartbeat thumping under my own. Maybe a thud, maybe a shout. I know enough to pretend it isn’t there.

Dean doesn’t notice, nor do the others. Nothing matters but the show I give them.

But then⁠—

Footsteps. Not creeping, not dragging. Heavy and purposeful. Echoes punch through the wall and straight through my stomach.  Brody walks back through the hall, the other man nowhere to be seen. I don’t let the surprise of his reappearance show on my face as I keep moving. He comes to the open doorway, eyes locked on me, and stands there, burning a hole straight through the set.

My breath goes still. Everything rushes up at once. Shame. Fury. This sick, twisted wanting that has no name. Grief, right under my skin. All I want is to curl up and scream. Or maybe rip the camera off the tripod and throw it through a wall.

But I do my job, because that’s what I am. I know my parts.

His eyes flick downwards, towards my tits, and a fierce expression comes over his face. He glances up again, eyes shifting to the man’s neck. Then, back to me. 

It all happens so fast. Too fast that I feel dizzy from the shock. He walks away, and leaves me with the hungry predators. 

Alone and lost, sinking into the deep end.

There’s nothing sweet left in me. Only the disgusting shame of who I am now. 

He knows it now.

3

BRODY

THE PAST (AGED 15)

The darkness follows me everywhere I go. It inhabits my breath like a venomous viper, curling around this heart of mine.

I know I’m not normal. It became obvious when I was a young boy and couldn’t feel the things that other kids felt. It became obvious when all my peers were talking about their crushes, and there wasn’t any girl in the whole town who could catch my eye.

Nothing. A void.

I envy my sister, Sophie. She inherited my mother’s side of the DNA. Normal. Happy. Loved. I am my father’s son. Inside and out. I see very small hints of my mother in my DNA.

A knock interrupts my brooding thoughts. “Honey, can I come in?”

My mother’s voice, soft and hesitant. My own mother. Scared of me. How fucking great. After what happened in our last town, I do not blame her. I would be scared of me if I were her. If I were anybody else.

The sound of their skull cracking still echoes in my mind.

I’m a fucking psycho.

“Yeah?” I sit up and run a hand through my hair, which is already tousled.

The door opens, followed by quiet footsteps. Like a mouse. Her face comes into view, a smile plastered on her face. I can see how she is straining to hold the smile when all she wants to do is cower.

She must be ashamed to be my mother.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see how you’re adjusting.” She looks around my new room, still barren. “I see you haven’t unpacked yet.”

I exhale a sigh. “Give me a break, Mom. It’s been two days. I’ll unpack when I’m ready.”

She nods and takes a step back. Fucking coward. “Okay. We’re trying to take all the empty boxes to the dumpster on the same day. So, try to get it done by the end of the week.”

She does not bother to stick around and chat about anything else. The door shuts, and I’m left alone again.

“Annoying bitch,” I mutter angrily. I know I can be cruel some days, and heartless. My mother does not deserve that. My sister does not deserve it, neither does my dad. I know that.

But, some days, I feel so fucking cold.

No matter what I do, it never drifts. It sticks to me; it festers, and augments. I fear one day, I will become a black hole, and I will swallow everything around me. My meds help to regulate my anger and impulsiveness. Somewhat. But something is missing. I am waiting for the day when I find something that makes me feel alive and warm. Something that quiets the noise in my head and brings light into the dark.

A hopeless dream. I’m sinking. Screaming. Nobody hears me. Nobody reaches for me. The stars don’t twinkle, and most days I feel more dead than alive.

I stalk over to where I set up my gym equipment: a few dumbbells and a multi-functional weight bench for arms and legs. I work out regularly. Almost daily. It’s a good way for me to release my anger. I sit on the bench and I’m about to start working my arms when movement outside of the window catches my eye.

Scooting towards the edge, so that I’m not too obvious, I stare at the figure in the house across from me. My bedroom faces a bedroom in the house next to us. A girl catches my attention.

I typically never give women more than a second glance, but this girl, my eyes stay glued to her. She’s exotic. A beautiful creature. Hypnotic. I watch her movement, analyzing her features, and wondering what it would be like to touch her, to smell her, to hear her.

What the fuck is happening to me? I’ve never thought this way before.

She looks like she’s cleaning. Thank fuck. Sloppiness is not attractive to me. I need a clean, spotless space.

My eyes drag over her face and her hair that falls over her shoulders like soft silk. It’s a dark color, like a mixture of brown and black. I imagine it wrapped around my hands with my fist around her throat.

Fuck.

The image causes my dick to shift and twitch in my shorts. She’s perfect. I’ve seen plenty of pretty girls, but this girl? I need to be closer to her. I need to feel her. Just watching her perfectly round ass in those tiny shorts makes me envision things that are completely new to me.

I don’t like being touched; it feels foreign and wrong. But suddenly, I want to know what it is like. To be touched by a girl, to feel her hands wrapped around my cock. Stroking. Squeezing. I groan and rub myself over the fabric. Not enough. I need more.

She appears to be around my age, a teenager, maybe fifteen like me. Or my sister’s age, who is a year and a half younger than me. Maybe they will become friends. Maybe she will come over here for girly sleepovers. Maybe I can watch her undress or get close enough to feel her skin.

Fuck. I hope so. The urge to be near her is strong. It pulls me, like an inevitable gravity.

She has not noticed me yet, lost in her own world.

What is keeping you so distracted, my sweet Bambi?

Bambi. That’s what I shall call my mystery girl. It suits her. Her eyes. They are gorgeous. Wide and doe-like, yet slanted upwards. Like a doe. Or a siren.

She flits from dresser to window to floor, oblivious to my steady gaze. Her fingers graze glass and wood as if she’s coaxing dust motes into ballet, her movements all nervous intention and unconscious grace. Light etches itself along the bones of her arms. Her mouth twists in concentration as she folds a shirt, pink tongue caught between her teeth.

My pulse stutters.

There’s this sick, primal hunger in me. It gnashes at the inside of my ribcage, demanding to get closer, to burrow under her skin. I want to unspool her, cell by cell. I want to watch those wide eyes shatter. To see what happens when she finally sees me and realizes she can’t look away.

She kneels to smooth the bedspread, her hips arching perfectly, her hair spilling wild down her spine. With every second, the void in my chest contracts, singular and greedy. She’s a lifeline. A pulse in the deadness. My world distills to her silhouette framed by a neon-tinged dusk, and for the first time in my memory, I ache. I hunger for something outside of myself.

I’m rock hard now, dizzy with it. I palm myself again. Clumsy, frustrated, feral. My heart punches at the inside of my ribs, and it feels like both a curse and a gift, this visceral ache. Is this what everyone else feels? Is this what I’ve been missing?

She turns suddenly, and for half a second, our eyes meet. I go dead still. Predatory, poised. She freezes too, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, etched across those uncanny eyes. There’s a charge threading between us. Unstable, electric.

Sweat needles down my spine. If she pulls away or turns off the light, I’ll lose her. If she keeps looking, I might explode—implode, collapse inward, black out the sun with all this filthy wanting.

Her mouth opens, closes, and I see the fine tremor in her hands.

My lips curl. She’s scared, but almost smiling. There’s something broken and hungry in her, too. I know it. I can smell it through the glass. She’s not like the other girls who laugh at my cold stare at school, the girls who think I am beneath noticing. 

Bambi is different.

I decide at that moment that she will be mine.

She finishes wiping her window and vanishes for a moment. A flash of movement, then nothing. My body twists with disappointment. How quickly I’m addicted. Is this what normal boys feel? This gnawing, this sick obsession? Or is this already warped, something uglier than love?

I let my hand drop from between my legs, just enough composure to steady myself, and then I inch forward into the blue-lit shadows until I can see her room again. Hungry, desperate, already plotting ways to make her come back.

She doesn’t.

I hate how empty it feels; the taste of her vanishing lingers, teeth sinking into the tender place beneath my ribs. My mouth is dry. I want to kick the fucking wall, howl through the screen, tear something apart until my head is blank and there’s nothing but her face floating in the darkness.

It takes a week and a half of watching her through the window until I find the courage to talk to her. Sophie—like I suspected—became her friend. She’s more desperate than I am to have peers in this new town.

My heart begins to race while I stand at the top of the stairs, watching as she walks inside with my sister. Her legs are long and tan, and I wonder how it would feel to have them wrapped around my waist.

Her doe-eyes flicker back and forth, observing her surroundings. She takes in everything, as if she feels like she needs to.

What are you afraid of?

Before I can ponder that, my sister sees me. Shit.

She waves at me. “Brody! Come down and meet our new neighbor. She’s really nice.”

I don’t doubt it. She looks nice. And sweet. 

I stalk down the stairs, body thrumming. I have to steady my grip on the banister, so I don’t shatter the cheap wood under my palm. Control. Always control.

Bambi. Closer now. Flesh and breath and nerves, not a fantasy projection spliced with city light.

Sophie’s eyes meet mine, soft and desperate for approval. She’s always looking for a sign I won’t explode. Little mediator, little shield. She doesn’t know how easy she makes it to be human. I nod at her, barely, which makes her brighten in the hall-light.

The girl looks even prettier up close. Skin spiced gold, scattered with faint stripes of sun, tinged wild and alive. Lips plush, cuter than any girl I’ve seen. Not that I’ve cared to look before. 

And her eyes. Fuck. They’re a captivating shade of blue. 

I’m inhaling her.

“Hey,” I say, letting my voice carry. I keep my eyes trained on hers, catching the flicker of uncertainty, curiosity, maybe a shadow of the fear she tried to hide last time she looked through the glass at me. Her scent’s already floating in.

Her lips part. She stares for one heartbeat too long, pupils blown wide. “Hi.” Breathless. Almost a gasp.

Sophie, sweet idiot, beams between us. She wants so badly for this to be normal. “Brody, this is Lola. Lola, Brody.”

“Nice to meet you, Lola.” My voice comes out low. Intimate. 

She tugs the hem of her shirt, fingers restless, unreadable. “Nice to meet you too.

Her gaze lingers on my jaw, then drops, then flickers up again. A moth learning what it means to find a flame. I want to pin her to the nearest wall and press my mouth to her pulse. I want to see how she trembles up close, how she sounds when she breaks between threat and pleasure.

I’m not sure what else I should say. I haven’t talked to many girls, at least, not for too long. But I want to talk to her, I want to dive in deep and bury myself in there. 

“It’s nice to have some new neighbors who are my age. The last owners were old.” Lola turns to Sophie as she speaks, but she side-eyes me. 

I tilt my head, giving her a look, careful not to soften even a millimeter.

“Old people are annoying,” I say. “They leave behind weird smells and plastic on the couches.”

That gets Sophie’s face to fall, but Lola snorts, her lips twitching.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, jaw set, and a fire burning bright in her eyes. “Sophie tells me you’re kind of a neat freak. Like, bordering on psycho.”

Sophie shushes her. Too late. Lola grins wider.

“Yeah. I am a psycho. Girls like you learn to stay far away from guys like me.”

I don’t know why I say that. I want her to come closer, but I can’t control my tongue sometimes. I watch her eyebrow rise. My lips pull into the faintest smile. She takes a step closer. Still far enough to put distance. But her smell? It’s consuming. Tantalizing. 

“What makes you think you know what kind of girl I am?” Lola speaks in a way that sends heat straight to my dick. 

I hold in a breath and clench my fists. “I don’t plan to care about what kind of girl you are. Just stay away, got it?”

I put some distance between us. Who the fuck does this girl think she is? Coming in here, challenging me. I fucking like it though. It feels good. But I’m not used to this feeling. It scares me. It makes me want to run. 

Sophie is about to say something, but Lola stops her and rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say. Nice meeting you, Mr. Grouchy.” 

Lola walks away with Sophie, flipping me off and swaying her hips. I watch. Fucking obsessed with the way she moves. I watch her until she vanishes, and I realize that my heart is beating too fast. 

What the fuck is happening to me? I can’t get her out of my head.

There’s a low, gnawing ache in my chest, harder and brighter than before. It hurts, this thing I never had a name for, not in all the years they tried to label me with syndromes and dull me with bitter pills. 

I’m not a good guy. I’m not a soft guy. I’m a guy who has already killed somebody. There’s blood on my hands and ghosts in my head. 

The worst part? I do not feel guilty. The kid had it coming. He was pissing me off. He was the kind of guy who pushed other kids around for no reason. That day? He was pushing me around. Calling me names like “robot boy” and “empty eyes.”

I only meant to make him afraid when I shoved him down. I didn’t intend for his head to crack open like an egg.

I’m not a good guy, but I do not want Lola to know that. My Bambi is so sweet. I do not want to scare her away by showing her how fucking dangerous I am. How I can snap at any moment. Lust, desire, obsession. None of those capture the fractal edge to it, the split-second violence of needing her closer, even if it means tearing her open or burning down everything between us.

My Bambi. My Lola. My light in the dark.

4

BRODY

After all this time, my Bambi is still as stunning as ever. Those hypnotizing eyes that pierce through me. Those round tits. Always fucking turning me on. 

I went into that building to do a job. My father made it clear what kind of person I needed to be after the incident, so, I became that. I did not intend to come back into town, but things change. I came back home to be closer, and to do my father’s dirty work. He needs me here. So, I’m here.

Despite my rage towards her. 

The first girl to ever make me feel. To make me yearn. To make me fucking obsessed. I fell for her and she fell for me, then, it all fell down. Back then, just the thought of her made me feel something that wasn’t hunger or hate, but this sick, shivering hope that maybe I could be changed. That she could fix me.

Lola Bloom is exactly like her father: a sly snake. A conniving bitch. 

I can still envision her. Earlier, in the studio before I made my kill. Lola, spinning slowly in the center of a biting white light, music pulsing and hands everywhere, her hips grinding. Her face was a half-shadow, but I knew every line. The perfect jaw, the lips made for sucking, those blue eyes that lock and twist and take.

She gave a performance back there. She was the best at pretending: helpless, desperate for rescue, needing someone to champion her, when what she really craves is power. Control.

But I couldn’t stop looking at her. Never could. The need is still there, festering, doubling back on itself, black and bitter and endless. She is an infestation in my fucking blood. The anger consumes me, but so does the obsessive hunger.

It’s pathetic. I want to break something. Rip drywall, splatter blood. Instead, I focus on the aftermath of the job. My father’s voice echoes from a thousand dissected memories:

You are a tool, Brody. That’s all. Emotion makes you weak. Focus on the work. It’s what you were bred for.

When I left three years ago, after the incident, I became my father’s personal puppet. A “fixer” apprentice. Trained to kill, to hunt, to watch, to stalk, to take out any information that could end my father. I make sure certain people stay loyal. If they don’t? I kill them. 

It doesn’t just stay local though, I’ve had to take out people across the globe related to his filthy fucking business. My father has connections and enemies all around the country. I’ve travelled intensely over the past few years. Training, killing, collecting information, threatening the enemies, destroying information.

Ironically enough, his work collides with Lola’s stepfather, Marcus. My father is a well-known lawyer. Powerful, but incredibly shady. He uses his profession for leverage and control. People owe him favors, paperwork disappears, charges get reduced, evidence gets lost in cases, enemies get trapped in legal hell until they break.

The list goes on. 

He said it would kill the grief. He said it would make me forget. I haven’t forgotten. In fact, the anger has augmented into something dangerous and violent. 

It’s in my blood. It always will be. 

I wouldn’t have come back, not for anything. But my father called, and when he calls, you listen. His instructions are precise. The old man rarely wastes words; he sends a location, a time, maybe a brief note about who needs to bleed and why. I go where I’m told and do what’s required. I’m the best at what I do, because I have nothing else.

Except the memory of her.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, screen lighting up with a message from Richard. I rarely call him dad anymore. 

All done?

Me: Yes

I don’t specify; he knows I will get it done. That’s what he trained me to do. Like a loyal dog.

Good, Son. I won’t be home tonight. Please make sure Sophie eats dinner.

I put the phone in my pocket, and head towards home. Once I arrive, I pause outside the house. My reflection stares back from the glass: jaw set, eyes hollow, suit immaculate. The Observer. My father’s creation. I barely recognize my own face anymore.

My hand tightens on the doorknob as I let myself in, reminding myself, over and over: Lola is the enemy. Lola is the reason my mother’s dead. Lola is the sickness spreading through me, making me weak, making me want.

Enemy. Disease. Poison.

But fuck, the thought of her still wrecks me. Still owns me.

I will not let her win again.

Not this time.

The door clicks shut behind me and I let the quiet settle. My father’s house is a shrine to efficiency. There’s no clutter, no mess, nothing left out of place. 

Sophie’s in the kitchen. I can see her from the foyer, pretending not to notice me at first. She’s slicing something, her hands steady, eyes down. Always the peacekeeper. Always bracing for aftershocks. I watch for a moment, unmoving. She must sense me, because the knife stalls mid-slice.

“You’re home,” she says, chin tucked, like she’s working out how dangerous I might be tonight.

“Yeah.” I let my shoes fall heavily on the wood as I move in. “I said I’d be.”

I keep it neutral. Controlled. The version of me Sophie can handle. Civilized, patient, not the thing that wants to tear down walls, to gnaw the world to the bone just to get to Lola.

Sophie glances up, eyes warm, scanning for wounds. “How was the trip?”

I almost laugh. The trip? She means the kill. The job. The reason I exist. “Same as always.” I pull out a barstool, toss my jacket over the back. “Tiresome. Clients suck. Dad’s got me on new shit already.”

She nods, lips pressed tight. No questions; she’s too smart for that. Part of me appreciates her caution, the way she tiptoes around the wound at the center of this family. She’ll never touch it, never dig, just smooth everything over with careful words and soft hands.

“You eating?” I ask to fill the space.

She hesitates, then pushes her hair behind her ear. “I can make something. It’s really no trouble…”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.”

Not for food, anyway. Inside, the other appetite glowers and smolders. I cannot get the image out of my skull: Lola, center stage, grinding her hips slowly over a stranger, mouth open in a practiced gasp. The way she lets them look, lets them paw, like it means nothing. Sells herself for a camera flash, a few hundred bucks, maybe less.

The hate rears up again, dark and familiar. For a second, everything goes white around the edges.

Why do you let them touch you, Lola? Why do you crave their eyes on your body? Why do you act like you have no shame? Why wasn’t I enough for you?

It’s the same question I asked over and over on the night she ruined me.

Enemy, I remind myself. She’s the enemy now. A poison that needs to be purged.

Sophie says something about Richard, about him running late, but I barely process it. She eyes me then, her gaze flicking from my hands to my face, reading the micro-expressions like she always did. “You’re tense,” she murmurs. “Is it the work?”

“Always is.”

She nods, skeptical. “You know… you don’t have to do what he asks. You could⁠—”

“I could do what?” The words snap, colder than I mean. I rein it in. “You know how it works, Soph. Dad needs results.”

Her mouth twists. She doesn’t push it further. Smart girl. I drum my fingers on the counter, restless. My mind cycles back to that party, to the betrayal, to the aftermath.

Lola’s eyes wide, lips smeared with someone else’s taste. The look she gave me; confused, begging, or maybe just bored. I can’t fucking decide.

I thought I was her protector. I thought I mattered. Turns out, I was just another mark. Another idiot lining up to worship at the altar of her ass.

Sophie is still watching me, so I shift gears. “What’s new around here?”

“Not much.” She shrugs, arms folded, trying to appear casual. “Lola’s modeling, you know. She’s doing well, I think. She’s coming over tomorrow, actually. I hope that’s… I hope it’s not awkward for you.”

I let the words wash over me. Modeling? Is that what it is? Looks like she would have fucked that guy if he asked nicely. I school my features and force a smile. “No problem.”

She relaxes a little, her shoulders unknotting. If only she knew. If only she could see what her friend really is when the makeup peels off and the lights fade.

Sophie tries for small talk. I answer in clipped monosyllables, keeping her at arm’s length. I don’t want to be seen. Not really. Observation suits me better. The Observer. The Outsider.

Inside, the promises churn.

I will watch Lola. I will trace every move. I will catalog every fuck-up, every lie, every time she lets someone have a piece of her. I’ll wait until she thinks she’s untouchable, thinks I’m neutralized.

Then I’ll make her pay for what she did.

She destroyed me. Left me empty, sick, obsessed. What’s the point of pretending otherwise? It’s the only truth that ever felt honest.

I fidget with my cufflinks, keenly aware of how staged the moment is. A family tableau, all of us pretending we aren’t monsters. I picture Lola walking in tomorrow, curves on display and smiling sweetly. Maybe she’ll look at me and remember how it used to be. Or maybe she’s too far gone for that.

Doesn’t matter.

She’s a bitch. A whore. She’s the enemy.

But she’s also the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive. The only heat I ever tasted.

That’s why I can’t let go.

After dinner, I go to my room. The sheets are crisp, but there’s nothing personal here, nothing lingering from before. It’s all been erased.

Except memory. Memory is what I have left.

I stare at the ceiling, replaying Lola’s dance, frame by frame, until all I see when I close my eyes is her body, her eyes, her mouth. All I hear is her laughter. I tell myself I hate it—hate her—but my cock betrays me, stiffening at the thought of splitting her open, making her scream my name, making her beg for mercy.

You want to be watched, don’t you, Lola? You love it. You love being a whore. You love being ruined. I’ll watch you, Bambi. I’ll watch until you break. Then I’ll show you what real destruction looks like.

I fall asleep that way. Aroused and furious, half-choking on the need to own her, to erase her, to finally be free of this fucking disease.

But I know I’ll never be free.

The only cure is her.

I wake before sunrise; I never sleep past six, not anymore. My body runs on orders and aftermath, my mind always cycling.

Memories, threats, obscene little daydreams, all colliding behind my eyes. I stare at the ceiling at the paint cracks fracturing overhead, and think about Lola. Lola in motion. Lola laughing at something I’ll never hear. Lola pressed up against another man’s cock, writhing for the camera.

It burns. It always burns.

Eventually, I drag myself out of bed, shower cold, and dress carefully. Everything in its proper place; shirt, slacks, cuffs, the armor of a man who can be trusted. I play my role. Downstairs, Sophie is already up, making tea. She glances at me sideways, polite, wary, like I might shatter the cup in her hand just to watch the shards scatter.

She clears her throat. “Morning.”

I nod, noncommittal, and pour myself black coffee. The only way I take it.

We stand there, locked in an easy silence. She’s lost in thought, probably already mulling over what she’ll say when Lola gets here. How she’ll smooth things over, make everything less jagged.

She tries again with a gentler voice. “Are you still okay with Lola coming by?”

It’s not okay. But I lie anyway. “Like I said, fine by me.”

She lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “I just thought, you know, since you guys haven’t seen each other in a while. It’s been three years, maybe it wouldn’t be too weird.”

Three years feels closer to three lifetimes. Three years of bitterness, of missing the way she used to look at me. I always told myself I wouldn’t be in the same room with her again. I didn't trust myself to not rip her apart, or throw her against a wall just to taste the fear in her voice. But here I am. Counting down the minutes.

Sophie watches my face, searching for cracks, for the monster behind the mask. I give her nothing. This isn’t about her.

My thoughts race. Scenarios unfold, instant by instant: Lola stepping through the door, her eyes finding mine, and she freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Maybe scared, maybe excited, maybe both.

I take a sip of coffee, letting it scald my tongue, in hopes the pain will drown out everything else.

It doesn’t.

Sophie is still hovering. “I invited her for lunch. Just to catch up. No pressure, okay?”

I nod. “No pressure.”

But inside, pressure builds. A storm gathering at the base of my spine, all of my muscles taut, wired, ready for war.

I wonder what she’ll wear. Something tight, probably. She always knew how to reel in attention. She pretended not to notice the stares, but she fed off them. I hate how good she is at it, yet I crave it anyway.

I finish my coffee and rinse the mug with a shaky hand. I can feel myself vibrating at a frequency nobody else can hear. Pure anticipation, hate and hunger, braided tight.

I tell myself: you’re just watching her. You’re just gathering information. You’re a professional. Don’t let your dick or your grudges get in the way. Make her believe you’re over it.

But when I close my eyes, I see her as she was in the studio. I see her as she was the last time we fucked. That’s my Lola. Filth and sweetness in one pretty package.

When the doorbell finally rings, I freeze, every nerve ending on high alert. A predator catching the scent of prey. I wait for Sophie to float to the door, all soft reassurances and friendly smiles. I hang back, wanting to watch the play unfold. I want to know if she’ll sense me, even through the walls. I keep my distance for now, lurking at the landing. 

But I’ll be there. Watching her.

Let the war begin.

5

LOLA

My heart races, almost as fast as the wind on a stormy day. I couldn’t get the image of Brody out of my head. Those eyes, like fog in a cemetery, the moon on a cold night. They were filled with hatred and fire when he looked at me in the studio. 

Why do I care so much about what he thinks? We broke up three years ago. He hurt me. He left me. I need to be over him, not obsessing over him. So, why am I getting butterflies at the thought of seeing him at their house?

When Sophie invited me over, I almost said no. Almost. I couldn’t afford to be around Brody. Not now. Not when the leash around my neck is as tight as ever. I close my eyes and think of my mother. She would know what to say. But, then again, if she were alive, I wouldn’t be in this position. 

Marcus is a monster, worse than ever, since she left.

I am his project, his prisoner, and he’s gotten more creative with the leash since my mother died. She was the only force in the world that could slow him, could make him play nice. Now, with her gone, he has unleashed a violence. He wants me to be his daughter, his lover, his trophy, and his business partner, all in one. I am the only thing that makes him feel anything other than rage, so he’s determined to consume me. He’s determined to make me grateful for the privilege.

If she were alive, maybe Brody and I would still be together. Maybe I would be happy. 

The best I can do now is give Sophie companionship when she calls. Sophie is a lonely girl, I can see that. Ever since the death of their mother, and Brody being gone for so long, she fell into an all-consuming grief. I will be a good friend today and hang out with her. Screw Marcus. Screw Brody. I can lie to Marcus, I’m a good liar. 

I type out a text. Words on a screen are easier. Safer. He can’t see how fucking nervous I am through a screen. My hands shake while I type.

I will be home late tonight. I have a last minute modeling shoot in another town. No touching will be involved. They reached out to me through your client after they discovered how great I am.

His response comes in seconds.

I expect nothing less. Make me proud. But if you let them touch you, I won’t let you forget a fuck up like that. I will know if you lie. 

I look at the words on the screen, and feel my muscles tighten with anxiety. Fear shoots up my skin, knowing all the ways he could punish me for lying. Sometimes, I wish I could have the courage to poison him.

I’m a bird in a cage, too afraid of taking flight. I survive, that’s all. 

It doesn’t take me long to walk to their house. Sophie’s door opens before I can knock. She beams, pink-cheeked and all gentle warmth, wrapped in one of those cardigans that looks soft enough to sleep in. 

“You made it,” she whispers. 

I slip inside, pulse rolling. “Sorry I’m late.”

She grabs my hand and tugs me past the shoes in the entryway. I think for a second that maybe this is the normal I could’ve had if things had broken differently.

“Wine?” she offers, already reaching for a bottle on the kitchen counter. “It’s just, like, pinot. If you like that.”

I hesitate, Marcus’s rules pressed between my ribs. But the thought of turning her down feels more exhausting than the risk. “Sure. Just a little.”

“Just a little.” Sophie grins.

I slide onto a barstool at the kitchen island, fingers curled tight around the edge. My cutoff top isn’t warm enough for this house. Voss house always runs cold, maybe out of habit, maybe because he’s here. Brody. He’s not in the room, but he’s everywhere. I can feel him, like a storm at the edge of vision, waiting to crash over the horizon.

Sophie fills two glasses. I watch the red fan out, smooth, pretty, and dangerous. “Movie?” she asks. “You deserve a break.”

She’s always saying I deserve things. Love, safety, all the soft stuff she believes in. It’s both endearing and impossible. I nod anyway. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

We collapse onto the couch and I sink into the cushions, body too heavy, breath too shallow. Sophie flicks on the TV, streaming something with chattering dialogue and an upbeat score. I barely even register what it is. I’m watching the hallway, the shadows, the way my nerves flicker when I sense movement above us.

It doesn’t take long. Brody’s footfall is unmistakable, the sound of control. Every step is measured. I remember when that used to mean comfort, not a threat. The way he let me curl up against his chest those endless summer nights, hands skimming over bare skin. 

Not anymore. Now I know what it feels like to be gutted by that stare.

He stands in the threshold, looming. Lean muscle, black shirt, unreadable eyes fixed on me. Cold. Hungry. The kind of hungry that doesn’t want food, not really.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does, unless he’s cutting you open to see what bleeds.

Sophie glances up. “Brody, you want to watch the movie?”

He shrugs, barely a motion. It pulls his shirt tighter across his chest. “Not my thing,” he says, voice flat. Not for me but for her, signaling which side he’s on.

But he sits anyway. Drops down into the armchair with the heavy, bored grace of a predator conserving strength. He’s not watching the movie. He’s watching me. I focus on the TV, feigning interest.

Sophie makes a game of it, talking back to the screen, giggling at every stupid joke. She fills my glass again when it’s only half empty, nudging my foot with hers. “You need to relax,” she murmurs. “Let it go, just for tonight.”

I want to. God, I want to. I down the wine. It burns sweet, then bitter. Brody’s gaze drags over me. I try not to look, but I can feel it.

Sophie keeps up the banter, determined to break through the fog. “Remember that dumb movie we saw in sophomore year? The one where the girl faked her death?”

“I think I blocked it out.”

“Looked like you were blocking out something at the studio the other day, too,” Brody’s voice cuts in, icy. His face is carved from stone. 

A flush starts at my throat, creeping up. “I was working.”

“It looked like work. If your job is to shove your tits in a guy’s face and bounce on his lap. Not judging. You looked… comfortable.”

Sophie’s eyes dart between us. She doesn’t speak. She never does when the tension gets like this, she just wants it to go away.

I swallow, fighting the urge to shrink back. “I do what I have to do. I didn’t exactly see you volunteering to help.”

Brody leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Didn’t realize you needed help. You always made it clear you could take care of yourself. Guess that was a lie, too.”

It’s almost funny how quick he is to pour acid on any weak spot. I shake my head. “Why do you care? You’re the one who left.”

His jaw flexes, something feral in the way his lips curl. “Yeah. Because I had to. Because you and your family made it clear I didn’t belong here anymore.”

I scrunch my face in confusion. ‘What?”

Sophie clears her throat. “Lola, can you help me grab snacks from the kitchen? Please?”

The reprieve is brief. She tugs me off the couch, warm hand on my arm, and whispers, “Just ignore him. He’s trying to get a rise out of you. He’s always been like that.”

Not always. The Brody I loved would’ve defended me. Now? He wants to see me squirm.

We grab popcorn, but when we return, she gets a text, something urgent about work, and runs off to “fix a crisis,” leaving us alone.

The silence is heavy, crushing the air from the room. I perch at the end of the couch, wine glass clutched like a lifeline. Brody doesn’t move, just studies me. Eyes storm-dark, ringed with something almost tortured, but colder than any winter wind. He waits until the silence is unbearable.

“Do you ever regret it?” His words fall hard, no inflection. “Becoming just like them.”

“Like who?”

He shrugs, gaze flicking to my chest, then back up to my eyes. “The girls who get paid to sit on men’s laps and pretend they like it.”

Each word lands like a slap.

“I’m not pretending,” I shoot back, desperate for some ground to stand on. “It’s a job. Not that you care, but it pays.”

He lets the silence drag. I let the shame bloom in my throat. Brody’s eyes narrow. “If that’s how you rationalize it.”

“You think you know everything?” I spit the words, defensive. “You don’t know what I have to do to survive.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know you could’ve made different choices.”

All my muscles tense, knotting around the old wounds. “Maybe so could you.”

He laughs, bitter, mirthless. “I did. I left.”

The finality in that sentence is a guillotine. I can’t breathe for a second.

“Congratulations,” I say. “You got out. I hope it was everything you wanted.”

“You could’ve gotten out too, Bambi. But you didn’t want to leave the glass cage.”

Hearing that name stings more than I want to admit. “That’s not fair. You don’t know⁠—”

He cuts me off, standing, looming over me, predatory. “I know you belong right where I found you the other day. Spread over some stranger for a camera. That’s the real you, isn’t it?”

My cheeks burn, shame and anger warring. “Go to hell.”

He leans in, his eyes are on fire. “Already there, princess. I thought I’d find some company.”

My hands shake. I want to hit him, or kiss him, or both. Instead I sit, hollowed out. “You’re cruel, Brody.”

He straightens. “You don’t know half of it.”

Sophie returns, her smile is too wide, too forced. She doesn’t ask what happened as she plops down between us, shoving popcorn at my face. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

For a little while, I try. I let the wine fuzz out the ache, let the movie’s flickering light distract from the black hole chewing at my insides. But Brody never stops watching. Not really. His eyes keep finding me, latching on, branding me as his.

Nothing else gets said. Not out loud.

After a few hours, I stumble up, the world tilting just enough to make it hard to walk a straight line.

Sophie hugs me at the door, whispering, “Block out the bad. Remember I’m here.” She means it. But even her arms can’t warm what Brody froze.

Back in the dark, I shiver. Marcus waits for me at home. I think about his hands, the way he traps and claims. I think about Brody’s stare. The hate. The hunger. The memory of warmth, now broken and dead. 

I stagger down the path, wishing I could vomit up every last feeling, leave it in the gutter for the rats. I can’t. I never could. I walk home alone, body buzzing and sore.  Everything feels floaty, like my bones are hollow or dissolved. Inside, it’s so dark I see stars, but no darkness compares to the one left behind my ribs. It’s always there, waiting for me.

Always.

I breathe in, hoping for emptiness. The kind you get in late-night apartments, when no one’s home but ghosts and the echo of old arguments. But that’s not what I get. He’s here. Of course he’s here.

Marcus sits in the shadow of the hall, not reading, not watching TV. Just waiting, spine straight, hands folded like a man at his own funeral.

His eyes track me before I even shut the door. “Where were you?”

I try to be casual. “Studio went late.” But my voice is slurred. Weak. He hears it, of course he does.

He stands, smooth as a predator unfolding from camouflage. His feet are bare. I notice stupid shit like that when I’m scared. Hyper-awareness, they call it. A trauma-response. Skin, pale in the moonlight. The way his hand opens and closes by his side.

He walks like a wolf in the night. “Funny,” he says, stopping a breath away, “because I saw you walk out of the Voss house. With my own eyes.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I ramp up the lies, desperate. “Sophie invited me over. Just for coffee, I didn’t even⁠—”

His fist cracks against my cheek. The sound echoes. He doesn’t let me fall. Not yet. He grabs my hair, yanks my head up until my neck screams.

“You think you’re fucking clever? Hiding things from me?” His breath scorches my ear, sour and cruel.

Tears sting even before the pain fully registers. I claw at his wrist, pure panic. “Please—Marcus⁠—”

He slaps me again, harder. “Did you forget what I said? Did you forget who you belong to?”

He drags me, stumbling, into the kitchen. My scalp burns. I try to twist away, but his grip is a vise.

“You lied to me,” he says, voice steady, deadly. “You disobeyed.” He shoves me against the fridge. My head knocks the metal and the world blurs, rings. I want to vomit. He drops his mouth to my ear, voice thick. “You filthy little cunt. You want to be with them so bad? You think you’re not my property?”

My entire body shakes, useless. “Please, I’m sorry, I won’t⁠—”

He cuts me off by squeezing my throat. No warning, just those huge hands, all pressure, cutting off sound, cutting off everything. The noise in my head goes white hot, then dim. My vision fuzzes at the edges, stars and black spirals chewing at the world. He doesn’t let me go. Not at first. He waits until my hands go limp, until I’m slumping and seeing double. Then he eases off, just barely, so I’m gasping.

He lets out a soft, amused noise. “Look at you. Fucking pathetic.” He drags my face up, fingers sticky in my hair. “You listen to me,” he hisses. “You are mine. You go where I say. You talk to who I say. If I catch you lying again—if I catch you near that house again—I’ll make you sorry. You understand?”

I nod, salt stinging my eyes.

But he isn’t done. Not even close. He shoves me down, flat on the floor, a foot to my hip, holding me in place. His breath rasps, thickening. “Maybe you want to be a slut for them. Maybe you like being watched. But you don’t belong to them, Lola. You never will.”

He grinds his boot into my thigh, hard enough to bruise. Pain ricochets up my spine, my tears dripping onto the tile. I’m shaking so hard that my teeth chatter.

“You tell me what you are,” he growls.

I can barely form words. “I’m yours. I belong to you.”

He laughs, nastily. “Fucking right you do. You want to go next door? You want to see how they treat pretty little things like you?” Tears blind me. I can’t answer. I can only choke on sobs. His grip tightens. “Answer me.”

I gasp. “No—I don’t. I only want to be here. Please.”

“You’re not even worth breaking. Not yet.”

His hand slides up my thigh, and I freeze. The old terror, the old shame, it fills every crack inside. He doesn’t go further, but he could. He reminds me he could.

His hand lingers. Then he’s up, stepping over me. He spits on the floor, disgusted. “Clean yourself up.”

He doesn’t look back as I roll onto my side. My breath comes in gasps. My cheek is swelling already, my ribs ache. My thighs are streaked red and purple, the beginnings of marbled bruises.

I lie there, and try not to think. Try not to remember how safe I felt, just for a minute, in Sophie’s arms, with wine and dumb movies.

I never get to keep anything good. Marcus makes sure of that.

I drag myself to my feet. The house is quiet now, hush like an empty mausoleum. I don’t look in the mirror; I don’t want to see what’s left.

Staggering up the stairs, each step is an act of forgetting. I strip off my clothes, and ignore the salt trails on my skin before lying down on the bare mattress; he took the sheets last time I made him angry.

I hold my breath, wishing it would stop hurting. I wish I could be anyone else. But I’m not. I belong here. Exactly where he put me.

My body aches as I listen for footsteps, for the threat of him coming back. But tonight, he leaves me alone with the static in my skull. My soul aches worse.

I close my eyes, and try not to dream. It never works. He reminds me, every time, that I am nothing, and nobody is coming to save me. I wish I could float away into the abyss, and let it swallow me. Maybe then, I’d be free of this pain.

6

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 16)

The waves remind me of serenity. The aqua hue of it consumes me, like a warm hug. I close my eyes and smile, embracing the soft breeze and the sunlight. 

When Sophie invited me on a beach trip, I knew I had to go. The thought of being right by the ocean filled me with joy. Away from my household. Away from the slimy, wandering eyes of Marcus. Ever since Sophie moved in next door a year and a half ago, we’ve become inseparable. I always forget about my home issues when I am with her. 

I also knew it would be a good opportunity to spend more time with Brody.

Brody is a mystery. We tease each other, we bicker, we get on each other’s nerves, but at the end of the day, he is always watching me. He is attractive, but so intimidating. 

Sophie runs ahead, hoodie flapping, bare legs shining. I chase her down the slope, hollering, until we crash into the flat part near the water. She throws herself down, cackling, and rolls, immediately covered in sand. Brody is up the beach, maybe thirty yards, but he’s doubled back. Watching. Pretending not to. He’s drawing something in the sand with a stick. 

When I look, he waits a second, then looks back at me, eyes too pale for the sunlight, and my cheeks go hot and my knees turn traitor. I’m not ugly. I know that. But people look at me and only see curves. Boys at school say “slut” if your shorts are too tight, or stare when you bend over. At sixteen years old, my body is developing more.

Brody isn’t like that, though. He doesn’t talk about it, he just watches. Like a wolf in the underbrush. Like if he holds still long enough, I’ll walk right up to him and let him take a bite.

Maybe I would.

“Hey, Bambi,” he says when I get close.

There it is. My nickname. He barely smirks but his mouth curves, just a little, and it’s like a punch straight through the spine.

“Hey yourself,” I say, pretending I’m not grinning.

Sophie splashes water at his feet. It’s too early for the sun to be hot, but she acts like she doesn’t care. She dances back and forth, making a mess. Brody barely moves. He just stands there, shadow solid on the sand, looking like a bodyguard or a serial killer. Or both.

Lucas shows up last, dragging his heels. He’s got athletic shorts and a faded soccer jersey. He’s also wearing sunglasses, pushed up on his head, but unnecessary. The sun isn’t bright enough to hurt. He’s nice and cute, with floppy brown hair and green eyes, but he does not catch my attention. 

I only know Lucas from school. He’s our age, and coincidentally, the son of Richard’s long-time friend who joined us on this trip too. They told me it’s a tradition to go on a trip every year. Brody and Sophie’s parents are long-time friends with Lucas’s. 

He squints at Brody. “Whatcha making?”

Brody doesn’t reply, but flips the stick away. Sophie answers instead. “He’s writing something.”

I kneel and look. It’s my name. Okay, not my name. Just the word “BAMBI” in huge block letters, stabbed into the sand. The B’s are crazy big, and the rest is a mess.

I burst out laughing. “Damn, Brody. You always this sappy?”

He shrugs, offhand. “You like it or not?”

He’s teasing. Or is he? I can’t tell; his face is so flat. Unreadable. Only the edges of his ears are a little pink.

I trace my big toe over the ‘I.’ “It’s cute. Definitely wouldn’t survive a high tide, though. Just saying.”

“Not for the tide,” he says. “Just for you.”

Jesus. That does something to my belly. I can’t stop smiling.

Lucas shakes his head. “You two are weird.”

Sophie elbows him. “You’re just jealous your art sucks.”

“I’m not jealous,” Lucas says, but he flicks a shell at me anyway and it almost hits my arm.

I fake a scream. Everyone laughs, even Brody, low and guttural, so fast you’d miss it if you weren’t obsessed. I am.

We run around for a while, nothing to do but chase the water and dig holes. Sophie starts building a fortress, and Lucas helps. They have this way of syncing up, like twins, even though she’s nothing like him. He’s punchy, always loud, always talking about sports or dumb pranks. Sophie is quiet but ten times smarter. She lets him think he’s in charge, but he never is.

I hang back with Brody. He lets the wind eat his hair, the dark pieces whip around, getting in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s taller than me by a lot. It’s easier to look at his hands; the veins in his wrist, and the way he fists his thumb as if he needs to crush something soft. A crab shell, maybe. Or my throat.

I try to think of something casual. Something that won’t sound desperate. “You gonna swim today or just stalk me from the shoreline?”

He tilts his head. He does that a lot, like he’s dissecting every word. “That depends, Bambi. You want me to swim?”

I almost choke. Is he flirting? It’s impossible to tell, but his gaze holds me for a second too long.

“Think you could beat me?” I say. “You look more like you’d sink.”

He’s so matter-of-fact. “Bet I could pull you under.”

God.

“Bet you couldn’t,” I say, but my voice is thinner than I want.

We stare at each other. The wind lifts my hair and curls it around my cheek. He doesn’t break eye contact, not even for a blink.

He does this all the time, waiting, watching, but never pouncing. Never making the first move.

I step closer anyway. “Prove it.”

He smirks, just a fraction, then walks straight into the sea, no hesitation at all. The water goes up to his knees almost instantly. I hesitate at the edge. It’s freezing, but now there’s no way I’m backing down.

Sophie shouts behind us. “You’re nuts! It’s, like, negative degrees in the water!”

“We’ll live,” I yell back.

Brody twists and gestures like I should follow.

I go in. The cold stings so bad my ankles burn. I scream, but that only makes him smirk more. He waits until I’m next to him, then dips his hand in the water and flicks a huge wave at my chest. My tank top is soaked instantly. Suddenly, I am self-conscious; my bra barely hides my nipples peaking through the cotton.

I gasp. “Asshole!”

He shrugs again. “Told you.”

We splash at each other. Brody moves differently in the water. Looser, more carefree. The muscles in his arms show, but not in a gross jock way. I keep staring, not that he seems to care. Then he gets this weird look, like he wants to say something and can’t. He looks at the water, then at me, then at the water again.

His hand brushes my shoulder for no reason. “You cold?” he asks, voice low. I don’t trust myself to answer, instead nodding. He grabs my wrist—just a squeeze—then lets go. “Come on.”

It’s not playful now. It’s ferocious, even the way he moves. He drags me out of the surf, up onto the dry sand, and we both flop down like corpses. Sophie brings us towels. She puts hers around my shoulder, then sits beside Lucas, who looks annoyed that nobody is playing soccer.

“Should we build a fire?” Sophie says.

Lucas shrugs. “We can’t. They said no fires.”

“Well, that sucks.”

Brody sits really close to me, close enough that I feel the heat coming off his skin. He never says anything about it, doesn’t act weird, just takes up space like he owns it. His eyes are on the horizon, or maybe on my thighs, which are wet and sandy and shaking a little.

Sophie and Lucas start arguing about something, rules, or who won a card game last night. The noise blurs out. All I can feel is Brody’s shoulder brushing mine.

He finally leans in. “You look miserable,” he whispers.

“You look like a serial killer,” I whisper back.

He laughs, just a puff of air. “Takes one to know one, Bambi.”

I want to tell him something. I want to say, I think about you all the time. I want to see what your hands would do if I let you. But nothing comes out,so I bump his shoulder and say, “Next time, I’ll beat you. Promise.”

His mouth twists. “Try me.”

My chest won’t stop pounding.

We spend hours like that. Nobody moves. Nobody does anything except get sunburned and cover themselves in sand and fight over dumb jokes. Lucas and Sophie go for a walk, but I stay. I can’t leave Brody alone, not when he’s sitting so close, not when I know he could snap and break me in two if he cared enough. He never does, though. He’s always careful. Always holding himself back. Every once in a while, he glances sideways at me like he wants to ask something. Yet the questions never come.

When the sky starts to turn gold, I lean back and close my eyes. For a second, I let myself imagine it’s just us. Not Sophie, not Lucas, not the voices from the deck. Just us and the ocean and this low ache that never goes away.

Eventually, Sophie comes back, dragging Lucas. “They’re grilling. Food’s ready!”

Brody pulls himself to his feet and offers a hand to me. I take it, his grip tight enough to hurt.Once I’m standing, his fingers linger on my wrist for a second too long.

We head back up the hill. Sophie skips ahead, yelling about burgers while Lucas actually runs. Only Brody holds back, keeping pace with me, like he doesn’t want this walk to end, and neither do I. At the top, we peel off our towels and toss them over the balcony. Someone yells at us from the kitchen but Sophie flips them off and laughs.

Inside, the house is bright and crowded. Music plays on the speakers, people talk with their mouths full and not listening to each other. Plates of food everywhere.

Nobody else notices; they all laugh and drink and pretend nothing is wrong. Maybe nothing is. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I am.

But Brody’s eyes say differently.

Later, the grownups are hammered again, even Richard, who never lets his guard drop, so sneaking out is easy. We steal leftover chips and a bag of grapes. Sophie grabs a blanket and I take two sodas from the fridge. Brody pockets a pack of matches.

We slip out the back door, no shoes, no coats. The sand is cold on my ankles but I keep moving.Brody just follows me, like he always does.

The air is different at night. The water glows white-blue in the dark, and there’s this strange sense that nothing could ever touch us here. Not Marcus, not the voices in our heads, not the fact that we’re too fucked up to ever be normal. Lucas picks a spot behind an old dune. There’s a log here, half-buried. We drop the blanket and sprawl over it like seals. He pulls out a bag of green stuff and something that looks like paper. 

It hits me: weed. The smell is overwhelming. 

Sophie giggles. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

Lucas winks at her. “Not if we don’t get caught.”

That’s the kind of logic that gets kids killed in movies, but we’re not in a movie. We’re four idiots on a beach and nothing bad ever happens to us. Not yet.

Lucas fiddles with his lighter. It takes three tries, but finally the tip glows. He takes the first hit and looks so stupidly proud he might burst. He holds it out to Brody next who doesn’t hesitate. He breathes in, holds, then hands it to me.

I almost drop it, my fingers tingling already. I puff a little, not much. The smoke is harsh and burns behind my nose, but the taste isn’t bad. I cough once, but play it cool.

Sophie is last. She makes a face but still does it. The circle goes around. More and more. Lucas tells some dumb story about a haunted football field at his old school. He keeps losing the thread, then looping back. Sophie keeps laughing, high and light, head against my shoulder as she constantly tugs at her sleeve cuffs.

Brody barely talks. He sits next to me, closer than usual, thigh pressed to mine. Every time I shift, he shifts too, mirroring me like a weird magnet.

I let it happen. I let it burn.

He finally says, “You’re really quiet, Bambi.”

“Trying not to inhale,” I say, and Brody almost grins.

His arm brushes mine. Goosebumps pop up everywhere.

Lucas and Sophie start arguing about ghosts and whether aliens are real. She teases him about being scared of the dark. He gets all red and sputters, “I’m not scared,” which makes her laugh harder.

I take another puff. This time, it hits me right in the skull. Like a pillow, but heavier. My limbs go floaty and I relax into the log, into the blanket, into Brody at my side.

He’s so close I can hear the grit in his voice as he says, “Bet you couldn’t handle a real haunted house.”

“You don’t think I’m tough?” I lean over so our faces are almost touching.

He shrugs. “You’re cute. But not scary.”

I snort. “I could take you.”

He looks at me, really looks. His eyes are silver in the moon, scary and empty and perfect.

“I doubt that,” he says.

It’s so quiet I forget anyone else is here.

Sophie sings a little jingle under her breath. Lucas throws sand at her; it gets in her hair and she whines, flicking it back at him. They keep escalating, throwing handfuls, rolling around, yelling. Kids.

I’m not a kid. Not when I’m sitting this close to Brody.

He passes the smoke to me. I take a longer drag than before and cough so bad I almost die, and my mouth tastes like ash. He pats my back, not gentle, but not cruel.

He leans in. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t let go; his hand staying on my shoulder. Heat radiates through my tank. It’s the most contact we’ve had, probably ever. I freeze, afraid he’ll move away, but he doesn’t. He just stays like that. Watching.

The moon makes my skin look blue and strange. His knees are spread wide, tough, and unashamed. He watches the ocean, but I know he’s staring at me out of the corner of his eyes.

“You always this quiet?”

“I talk if it matters,” he answers.

“What matters?”

He looks at my mouth first. “You could figure that out.”

I laugh, but it breaks. “You’re weird.”

“So are you, Bambi.”

The word makes my insides clench.

Lucas calls out, “You guys making out over there?”

Sophie throws a grape at him which nails him right in the eye socket.

Brody huffs a low noise, almost a laugh. “They’re children.”

“‘Scuse you,” Sophie starts, then stops. “Never mind.”

We pass the smoke until it’s gone. My head feels like it’s floating, everything is loud. Waves, breathing, even the sound of Brody scratching the side of his thumb against his knee.

Eventually, Lucas falls flat on his back. “I think I’m dead.”

“Good,” Brody says.

I laugh. My knee slides against his and he doesn’t flinch.

Sophie grins at us, making a face. “Lovebirds.”

It’s meant as a joke but it’s true. I want to rest my head on Brody’s shoulder, but I’m afraid he’ll push me away.

He wouldn’t, though. Maybe that’s the scariest part.

The conversation spins out. Dumb would-you-rathers. Weird childhood stories. All the secrets you say when you don’t think anyone will remember tomorrow. The weed makes it easy to not care. I let myself laugh, even when it hurts my stomach. I let my fingers pick at the edge of the blanket until I’m sure they’ll bleed.

It’s easy. That’s what’s so fucked about it.

Nothing has gone wrong yet.

After a while, everyone gets tired. Lucas says he can’t feel his feet. Sophie is half asleep, tangled in the edge of the blanket, hair sticky with sand. I finish the warm soda and throw the can behind me, because who cares?

We stand, but nobody moves fast. Brody hauls me to my feet, not letting go of my hand for too long, and I wonder if he notices.

I do.

We stagger up the sand, wind cutting at our faces, cold seeping through our shirts. I can’t stop giggling. Brody walks slowly so he’s behind everyone else. I lag too.

“What’s so funny?” he says.

I shrug. “You. Us. Everything.”

He turns. For a second, his eyes are pure dark. All the joking is gone.

“Means you’ll remember it,” he says.

I hope so.

Sophie calls from ahead. “Keep up, lovebirds!”

Lucas yells too, but he’s already at the door, pawing at the handle like a raccoon. We duck inside. The house is silent, only the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock. Everyone else is asleep.

I grab Brody’s wrist before he goes to his room. He stops. Waits. I want to look at him. No point, but I do it anyway.

“Night, Bambi,” he says, his voice softer than it’s ever been.

I could die from it. I think I want to.

I let go. “Night.”

He disappears down the hall and I slip back to my room, collapsing next to Sophie, who’s already out. I lie there, staring at the beams in the ceiling, heart jackhammering.

It could have happened. I could have kissed him, or let him kiss me, or something. But I didn’t.

Next time. Next time, next time, next time.

Long after the weed is gone and the world is gray again, I still feel the heat of his body on my skin. I stare out the window until the stars look like eyes. Watching, always watching. I fall asleep and dream that I’m swimming. Pulled under, but never drowning. Never.

7

BRODY

My father makes it clear to me: be helpful or get lost. Without my father, I might’ve ended up dead in a ditch. In a way, he saved me after mom died.

After I lost Lola. 

He found me in my room one night, a gun in my hand, tears sliding down my cheeks. I wanted to blow my brains out. It would have been so easy. But, he stopped me. He said, ‘Son, don’t let grief control you. Bury it. Turn it into something useful. Channel it to get what you want, to feel powerful again.’

That’s the last time he said anything somewhat comforting to me. Not the best advice, but he tried. 

That was three years ago. Now, I am doing his dirty work. Covering up his tracks, and mine. I tell myself I hate him, but at the end of the day, I need him. He’s my father. I already lost my mother. How can I lose him too?

What will I have left?

Lola used to be my anchor. Not anymore. Now, he is that person. Despite how much of a monster he can be. We’re both monsters, anyways. That's all I am. It’s all he is. We relate. I have to stay. I have to obey. I have to be a good son. I have to do what he says.

I have to. I have to. I have to. 

I think about our conversation earlier, after I finished a job, killing some pathetic piece of shit who begged for his life.

“Why him?” My voice is dead. “Why this company?”

His lip twitches, the closest he’ll get to honest irritation.

“I didn’t train you to ask questions.”

He tries to stare me down. I don’t respond, I just stop moving. Not a muscle flinches.

It’s enough. He peels his gaze away. “Let’s just say they may be involved in your mother’s death coverup.”

The world goes silent. Long enough that if I had a heart, I might hear it breaking. But I don’t. I only feel that quivering emptiness. Maybe hope. Maybe hate.

He drops the badge and lets it land face-up, the logo staring at me.

I say nothing. I want to destroy him. I want to rip the answer straight out of his clever, useless mouth.

“What coverup?” I say it in a flat tone.

He leans back, chair sighing under his spine. He’s not going to tell me.

“Does it matter?” His voice goes loud, then cold again. “You want revenge, you do what I say. You’re not here to question me. You’re here to do work.”

What the fuck is he hiding?

The image of Lola burns in my brain. If she is involved with the death of my mother, I will make sure she suffers. My father seems sure of it. He wouldn’t lie to me. He saved me. Why would he pull me back from shooting myself only to lie?

It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The dark curls around me, and I slither through it. The need to fall into destruction tugs and tugs like a demonic presence. The need to see her burns through me.

In an effort to calm the storm within me, I rummage through my drawers until I find it. My skull mask. The one that makes me unstoppable. The one that lets me be nothing but hunger, violence, and need.

It’s cold against my face as I pull it on, followed by the gloves. I find the vial, the needle, the tiny spoon. The drugs are a friend, a curse, a necessary step into unreality. The powder melts, the needle slides under the skin. The sting is nothing but the burn is everything. The world softens at the corners, colors leech out, leaving only shapes, shadows, and the pulse under my skin. My heart is a war drum. Thunder rages in my veins. The mask is my true face now.

I stand in front of the mirror. My reflection is a monster, tall and stretched, limbs too long, eyes blacked out. My pulse throbs with my father’s voice in my skull, over and over: Bury it. Channel it. Don’t let grief control you.

Obey.

Obey.

Obey.

Tonight I’m not going to obey. I’m going to take what’s mine.

I move through the night, silent as a shadow. Her house looms ahead, windows dark except for the faint glow of her bedroom. I stalk through yards, slip past fences, boots silent in the wet grass. I pick up a stone and toss it at her window, just to make sure she’s asleep.

No movement.

I climb up to her window. It’s unlocked. She’s careless. Or maybe she wants to be caught.

I slide it up. The air in her room is warm, heavy with the scent of her. The curtains ripple as I slip through, a breeze of shadow and purpose. She’s there. Sprawled on her back, hair wild on the pillow, lips parted, one arm flung across her chest. The moonlight traces her curves, the rise and fall of her breath. She looks peaceful. Too peaceful. Like she never betrayed anyone. Like she never lied.

The mask makes my breathing sound like a storm. I move to the bed and stand over her, staring down like a god, or a demon, or nothing at all. My hands shake. With want. With rage.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the rag. The chloroform-bottle is heavy, glass cold. I soak the rag, watching the liquid seep into the cloth, a black shadow spreading before I press it over her nose and mouth.

She jerks—reflex only. Her arms flail, weak and clumsy, but I lean my full weight across her chest. Her breath comes faster, then slows, then stops fighting.

I count. Fifteen seconds. Eighteen. Twenty-two.

She goes limp.

I hold the rag there a little longer, just to be sure. I want her nowhere near awake for this. I want her lost, floating, as far from herself as I am from reality. My father’s voice echoes in my head, ‘Make it useful. Make it yours.’

Dropping the rag on the floor, my hands shake as I pull the knife from my jacket. The blade shimmers, moonlight caught on steel asI press it to my forearm, just below the elbow and I drag it across, savoring the sting, the bright flare of pain. Blood wells up, thick, dark, glistening. I press the cut to her mouth, painting her lips with my blood. Marking her.

I press my thumb into the wound, then smear a bloody cross over her forehead. My mark. My property. I strip the covers from her body, leaving her bare to the waist. Her nipples are tight, skin chilled. I trace a line of blood down her throat, over her collarbone, between her breasts before slicing my palm, pressing it to her stomach, and leaving a red handprint, sticky and spreading.

She moans, half-conscious, lips parting, eyes flickering under closed lids.

I lean close, mask to her ear. “You’re not going anywhere, Bambi,” I whisper. “You never were.”

Press my bloody fingers between her legs and under her shorts, I spread her open. She’s wet, even in sleep, even after all this. Filthy, beautiful, hypnotic. I slide two fingers into her, twisting, marking her inside and out with my blood.

She whimpers, hips shifting, breath catching. I fuck her with my hand, blood smearing in and out. My own hand is shaking, my cock hard, and my mind is gone.

Memories flash—her laughter, her tears, the look on her face the night we broke, the night Marcus took everything from me and left me hollow.

I want her to wake up with my blood drying between her thighs, my mark on her skin, my scent in her hair. I want her to know she’s never alone, never safe, never free.

I pull my hand out, blood dripping from my fingers. I wipe them across her cheek, her lips, her neck.

“You’re mine,” I whisper again, voice guttural, barely human. “You always will be.”

Sitting on the edge of her bed, I watch her breathe, counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours.

The night is slipping away, and I have to go.

I pull the covers up to her chin, tucking her in like a child, and through the mask, I kiss her forehead, leaving a bloody smear. Slipping

out the window, I drop silent into the grass, and vanish into the dark.

Returning home, I pace in my own room, skin buzzing, blood drying on my hands. I can still smell her. Still taste her. The drugs make the world flicker, burn, dissolve at the edges.

My father’s voice is in every shadow.

Be useful. Be brutal. Don’t feel. Don’t let them win.

But I want to feel. I want to feel everything. I want to drown in it, choke on it, tear it apart with my teeth.

I stare down at the mask lying on the bed. My whole life, I’ve worn masks. Son. Monster. Lover. Killer.

Lola is the only thing that ever made me take one off.

I close my eyes and see her, mouth red with my blood, thighs stained, chest heaving under my mark.

The rage is still there, but under it is something worse—need. Love, maybe. Or the thing that comes after love, when all the light is gone.

I wish she’d wake up, find me here, beg me to stop, beg me to hurt her, beg me to end it. I wish she’d never left. I wish I’d never let her go.

I curl up on the floor, knees to chest, blood drying on my skin, mask pressed to my heart.

She’s mine. Always. Even if I have to kill her to prove it.

She’ll wake up sticky, sore, confused. Maybe she’ll think it’s a dream. Maybe she’ll know it’s a warning. Maybe she’ll finally understand what it means to belong to me.

The sun is rising, a thin blade of light cutting through the gloom. I let it slice me open, let it burn the rot inside.

8

LOLA

The pain refuses to dissipate. It claws at me like a vicious beast, jaws pulsating around my veins. It hurts to smile. It hurts to blink. It hurts to laugh. The ache is gnawing through me; hungry and wild. Bite, bite, bite. It feeds off helplessness. Off memory. Off every failed attempt at being untouchable.

I woke with blood on me. Did I do that? Did Marcus do it? The terror inside of me is an immense thing, eating me from the inside out. I do not remember anything except falling into a deep sleep.

The blood came off easily, staining the white rag to a dark red. I threw the rag away, not wanting any reminder of it. Marcus must have done it, who else would spread blood on me?

My hands shake as I lift the pill bottle and count out three before dry swallowing. I don’t wait for relief. There’s never enough, not for this. It’s not about curing pain, just changing the shape of it.

I snort two lines off the cold countertop. Coke isn’t my favorite, but tonight it’s what I have. It makes my nose ache and my skull light. The relief is a lie. But I take it.

My reflection glances back, unfamiliar and pitiful. The girl who had hope, who thought she could outsmart Marcus, who believed love was a real thing you could carve a life from.

What would my mother say?

She would look at me with those soft, blue eyes and shake her head. I raised you better than this. I didn’t raise you to be weak, or to let yourself rot from the inside out. I didn’t raise you for this.

But she left. and Marcus stepped into the space she left behind, filled it with his rules and his cruelty and his hands. I became whatever he needed me to be. I performed like a child’s doll: smile, pose, say the right thing, stay quiet when the darkness comes seeping in.

He doesn’t hit me every night. Only when I disappoint him. Only when I’m careless or too loud, when I forget the script. When I seem like I might leave. Then he’s all hands and rage. Then he’s shaking, not me, his control splintered, voice low. Then love and hate are the same thing.

But sometimes he’s gentle. Sometimes he picks me up off the floor and tells me I’m precious, his good girl, his sweet gem. Sometimes he pets my hair or presses a cold cloth against the wounds and kisses my forehead and says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean it, I just made him so angry, and that I have to learn.

The whiplash is worse than the blows.

I close my eyes and think of Brody. For a moment, I pretend I’m seventeen again, ducking out my window and across the glittering grass, bare feet cold on the dew. Brody waits for me under the fire escape, hood pulled low, eyes burning with desire. He never made me beg, never made me perform. When he touched me, it was safe. No, not safe, but real. Like there was no lie between us. Like I was a person, not a doll.

I ache for that again. For that feeling of belonging to someone, even if it is fucked up and secret and doomed from the start.

Now, I’m a shell. A ghost. A body with nothing inside except the echo of someone’s daughter, someone’s lover, someone’s shame.

The drugs kick in; an hour late, but they do. My limbs float, I don’t feel anything but a dull, cotton-wrapped numbness. It’s almost peaceful. I could sleep forever in this state. Marcus is in his office downstairs, making calls. He’s been soft since he hurt me but I know what comes next. He’ll want me quiet and sweet, curled up next to him like a lapdog. He’ll want me to play along, to cradle his ego, to be grateful for the money and the house and the trips. 

And I will. Because it’s easier than the alternative.

But inside, I am screaming. Inside, I am burning the whole house down a hundred times a day. This is the only power I have left: I can hate him. I can hate him until it wipes out everything else. I can hate him so much that it’s the only thing about me that’s real.

I think about my mother again. She’d weep if she saw me. She’d think it was her fault, but it isn’t. It’s mine. I never learned to be strong. I never learned how to get out, I just learned how to disappear, inch by inch, until there was nothing left but pretty skin, empty blue eyes, and obedience.

Standing too quickly, the room tilts. The floor is too far away, the ceiling too close. I steady myself at the dresser and breathe through the tremor. Marcus’s voice floats from downstairs. He calls my name, gentle, almost loving. Goosebumps cover my flesh.

My pulse thunders in my ears, from panic or the coke, it doesn’t matter. I go downstairs, one step at a time. I don’t limp, never limp, he hates that. I hold my head high, even though it feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

Marcus waits in his leather chair, relaxed, legs crossed. He smiles at me, his eyes hungry, but not the way Brody’s used to be. There’s no warmth in him. 

He pats his lap. “Come here, sweetheart.”

I do.

I always do.

Inside, I rot a little more.

I fold myself onto him, careful not to wince when his hand slides under my hair and cups the back of my neck. His fingers are cold and gentle as he strokes my hair like I’m a pet.

He kisses my temple. “There’s my good girl.” My stomach turns over. I smile anyway. “You know I love you?”

“Of course,” I say, wondering if my voice sounds alive, or if it slipped away somewhere upstairs.

His hand drifts to my hip and squeezes. He says I shouldn’t make him angry, that I know how to keep him happy. He says he doesn’t want to hurt me, but sometimes I leave him no choice.

He says all the lines.

I think about screaming until I tear my throat open.

Be perfect. Be obedient. Be invisible.

I can do that. I will do that. This is who I am now. This is what Marcus made me. The pain never really leaves, I don’t think it ever will. But at least for a while, I can pretend. I can float in this numb haze and let the world spin without me. I can watch myself from far away, like a stranger or like a ghost. A caged bird who’s long since chewed her own wings down to the bone.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “You know this doesn’t happen when you behave.”

He means the bruises. The split lip, the busted cheek, the colors that bloom and rot across my skin. He means the way time slows down right before his palm hits my face.

I nod, because that’s what’s expected. It’s always my fault. Always.

He tilts my chin up, hard enough to make my eyes water. His smile is perfect, cold. “I don’t like having to do that to you.”

Liar.

He likes it. He needs it. Power is the only thing that gets him hard. I know this, I learned it years ago.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words sound thin, a lie even as I say them. I’m not sorry, not really. I just want the world to go quiet.

He pets me, slow strokes down my arm before his hand slides to my thigh, fingers pressing, possessive, marking me even through the fabric. “If you’re a good girl, there won’t be any more pain for a while. You know how to keep me happy, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He lets his thumb wander, tracing circles close to the hem of my skirt. I freeze and hold my breath. He wants me scared and frozen, wants me to remember who owns me.

His voice drops, softer but sharper. “You’re mine, Lola. Don’t ever forget that.” He kisses my temple, then my mouth, brief and punishing. “Behave and I won’t have to teach you any more lessons.”

He says he has to go out tonight. Business. He says it like it’s a treat, like I earn freedom or grace by being his puppet.

“My good girl can have a quiet night,” Marcus says, smoothing my hair like a reward. “Order food. Watch a movie. Be ready when I get back.”

A coil of dread forms in my stomach. Be ready. For what?

He stands and fixes his suit, checking his reflection in the glass, and flicks imaginary dust off his cufflinks. He’s so composed; no one would ever believe what happens inside this house.

He looks at me again, hard, like he’s searching for any sign of rebellion. “No more mistakes.” I nod, frozen. He leaves a credit card on the table. “If you need anything, you know the rules.”

Of course I do.

He touches my chin one last time, a mock caress. “Smile for me.”

I do and he grins, satisfied. Then he leaves, the door slamming with a bang. Silence swallows up everything.

At first, I just sit there, staring at the wall, at the shadows lengthening across the floor. It’s unreal, the stillness. My pulse thumps against bruises, reminding me I’m still here. Still his.

I am so tired of being haunted by him. By what he does, what he says, by the way he can wreck me with a look or a word or a laugh. He says I’m the problem, that the pain is my fault, my doing, my weakness. That if I was better, prettier, smaller, quieter, there wouldn’t be any reason for punishment.

The sick thing is, sometimes I believe it.

Sometimes I catch my reflection and think: yes, he’s right. I am nothing. I am trash. I am the bruise that won’t fade. I am the daughter who failed.

But sometimes I remember the girl I used to be.  I want to be her again. I want to kill her, too. Both at once.

I contemplate the pill bottle. I contemplate the razor in the drawer. I settle for more powder, chasing numbness like it’s air. Maybe it is. Maybe everything else is poison.

I don’t know how to be alone anymore. I don’t know how to stitch the pieces back together. But when I’m alone in the dark, I hope the universe blinks and erases me. Just for one night. Just until the screaming stops. Until the world goes still.

I give up on sleep and pace the hallway, bare feet slapping the hardwood, pulse drumming in my throat. Something is eating me from the inside. Boredom, hunger, desperation, maybe all of it together. I want to claw out of my skin, or just curl up and die. Silence isn’t freedom, it’s a different kind of cage.

It doesn’t take long for the panic to build. The sense that if I stay here another minute, I’ll do something stupid. Stupider than usual. Maybe trash the house. Maybe take too many pills. Maybe rip the sheets and hang myself with the tatters just to see if Marcus cares when he comes home to a mess he didn’t make.

When I look out the window, I see the glow in Sophie’s room next door. Warm yellow. Homey. Almost normal. It’s still early in the evening. There’s still time to feel alive. Our houses are supposed to be rich-people mansions, but I always thought they looked more like asylums. Big, cold, too much glass. You can see everything everyone does, every hour of every night. Marcus liked it that way. Never any secrets.

I slide into a long coat, smooth my skirt, and ignore the pulsing ache in my side. When I slip outside, the air is cold. My heart is thumping, my mouth dry. This is so fucking stupid but I do it anyway.

I ring the doorbell.

It’s Sophie who opens the door. She’s in sweats, her hair in a messy bun, eyes wide with concern.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is a balm I don’t deserve. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “I tripped earlier and hit my face on the table. Clumsiest bitch alive. I haven’t been feeling great.”

She scans my face. She knows I’m lying. She always knows, but she never calls me on it. She just pulls me inside with a gentle hand on my arm, as if I might break.

The house is painfully quiet. Brody is stretched out on the couch, all angles and darkness, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when I come in, his eyes cold, stormy, already picking me apart. 

He snorts. “Never knew furniture could punch back.”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Brody.”

“Maybe you should try falling up the stairs next time. Even the head trauma might be an improvement.”

He’s cruel, always has been. But it stings more tonight.

Sophie shoots him a murderous glare. “Brody.”

He shrugs, no apology in it. Setting his phone aside, he watches me, waiting for me to say why I came over here in the middle of the night.

I sink into the armchair, legs crossed, trying to look casual. “I just—needed to get out. The house was giving me cabin fever.”

Sophie softens instantly. “Do you want tea? Or snacks?”

I grin at her, trying to be playful. “No, I want to go out. Get trashed. Maybe even dance.” My chest thrums with anticipation. I need chaos, I want to be reckless.

She lights up. “There’s that new club downtown. Velvet.”

Brody’s eyes narrow. “Velvet.”

“Yeah,” Sophie says. “The one with the neon sign. Supposed to be impossible to get into, but Lola’s face could get us anywhere.”

I smooth my hair, all performative confidence, but the compliment lands flat. I’m so sick of being wanted only for a body that doesn’t even feel like mine.

“Sounds fun,” I say. “Let’s do it. I’m bored out of my skull.”

Brody tilts his head, a predator considering his prey. “Getting drunk and pawed at by losers is your new hobby?”

I cross my arms, challenging him. “You got a problem with it?”

He leans back, arms folded, and his shirt stretches tight across his chest. “No. Do whatever the fuck you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Liar. The air between us ripples with hostility, history, more than either of us will say out loud.

Sophie steps between us, voice light, defusing. “Why don’t you come too, Brody? Be our—what’s the word—bodyguard.”

She winks at me and I play along. “Yeah, keep the creeps away.”

He hesitates just half a second. Then: “Fine. But I’m not going to chase after you if you get yourself killed.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

He stands, crosses to the stairs. His movements are liquid violence, all coiled muscle and threat. “Give me five minutes.”

He disappears upstairs. Sophie grabs my hand, leads me to her room. She has always been the best at normal. The best at pretending.

She pulls open her closet, clothes everywhere. “Pick a dress,” she says. “Something slutty.”

I laugh. “You know me.”

We dig through the fabrics, sequins and velvet, and cheap silk. I pick a dress barely long enough to cover my ass, cut low in front. It’s red, of course. 

Look at me. Look at me. Hurt me, hate me, want me.

Sophie’s choice is sleeker, darker blue, straps thin. She plops onto her vanity stool and starts curling her hair. She hands me a brush. “You sure you’re okay?”

There it is again. That soft edge, that worry. I hate it. I love it. It makes me want to scream.

I paste on a smile. “I’m fine, Soph. Seriously.”

She doesn’t push.

I pile on more makeup: more concealer, more contour, darker lipstick to hide the shaking in my mouth. My hands are not steady, but I make it work.

We talk about nothing. A guy she’s seeing. A show on TV. I make jokes, crack them too loud. It’s the coke, probably. Everything feels like it’s vibrating. Inside, the loneliness is deafening, but from here you’d never know.

Brody knocks once on the door but doesn’t wait for permission before walking in. He’s changed into a black button-up, the sleeves rolled, and dark pants. He looks expensive, controlled, and dangerous. He could break me in half without blinking.

He surveys us, eyes lingering on the top of my tits, then my face. I pretend not to notice, but heat pools under my skin. I remember what it’s like when he touched me. He fucked like a wild animal, especially when he was angry. Sometimes I think that was the only time I was ever alive.

He grunts. “You ready?”

Sophie laughs. “Almost. What’s the rush?”

He scans me again. Judging. Always fucking judging.

I smirk at him. “You going to be able to keep up, or do you want to stay home and knit?”

He steps closer, stands too close. The room shrinks. “Try me, Bambi.”

The nickname is a punch in the gut. He used to say it when he was sweet to me. Now it’s an insult.

You’re so pretty, Bambi. My pretty girl.

We could lay here forever, Bambi. You make me feel so complete.

Come close Bambi, you know you want to.

Do you think we’ll find each other again in the stars, Bambi? After we die? I don’t want to be apart from you. Not ever. 

I lift my chin, refusing to shrink. “Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say.”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “God, you two are hopeless.”

I watch him as he turns away. My body is reacting, even if my mind is chaotic. My nipples are tight, my thighs ache. I want him to pin me to the wall and say how much he hates me. I want him to break me open so I can finally feel something that isn’t this.

Sophie pulls on a coat and checks herself in the mirror. “You look amazing, Lo.”

I don’t, but maybe she believes it. Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true.

Brody waits in the hall, arms folded, the way cops do before raiding a house. I head out first, brushing past him. He catches my arm for a second, his grip bruising me, but lets go just as fast.

He leans in, voice low for my ear only. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. Everyone already knows what you are.”

I should slap him. Instead, I laugh. “Yeah? What’s that?”

He just shakes his head. “Forget it.”

I hop into Sophie’s car, she drives, music loud. Brody drives his car. I stare out the window, watch the city lights flicker past, count every second until I can get my hands on a drink, a stranger, a reason to lose control.

My heart is pounding. Somewhere in my head, my mother is whispering: This isn’t you. But it is. Or maybe it’s all I have left.

When we pull up to the club, there’s a line six blocks long. But the bouncer takes one look at me and we’re inside in seconds. I toss my coat. I am all skin and hunger. No one can tell I’m shattered underneath. Shattered in the black of the night. 

Sophie grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bar. Brody hovers, never too far. The lights strobe blue, red, violet. For once, I don’t care who sees me. I order shots. I want to feel invincible. Or maybe just numb.

Sophie is laughing and dancing. I join her, hips rolling, girls watching, men circling. I want them to see. I want them to touch. I want Brody to watch and hate me for it.

He does. I can feel it, like a chain around my throat.

I let the music vibrate through my bones. I let the eyes on me fill the emptiness a little. It almost works. Almost. I lose count of the drinks. I lose count of the hands, but I don’t lose count of Brody. He’s always there. Watching. Waiting for me to fuck up so he can punish me.

Men circle, close in, touch my hips, my ass, brush their thumb across my lower back. I let them. I let their fingers dig in, let lips skim my throat. 

If this hurts Marcus, good. If this hurts me, even better.

Sophie is a few feet away, lit up with giddy joy. She shouts, “You bitch, you’re going to get us kicked out!” and I laugh, almost alive.

I feel eyes on me. I turn, and there’s Brody, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, eyes molten. I make myself a spectacle. It’s the only power I have left.

The guy I’m with gets bold, he slides his hand up my thigh until he hits skin, and I flash him a look: Go on, see what happens. 

He pushes it, and now he’s pressed up behind me in the dark, hands everywhere. His breath is sour in my ear. “Let’s take this somewhere quieter.”

I laugh, head tipped back. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

That’s when Brody’s voice slices through the bass.

“Be careful with this one,” he says to the guy, tone dead. “She’s a slut with no heart.”

The guy stiffens and pulls his hands back. “Fuck, man, we’re just⁠—”

Brody steps between us. “Ask around. She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

He’s not even looking at the guy. Just me.

I snap, instantly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

He laughs. “I’d know. I fucked you before anyone else did, Bambi.”

My cheeks sting, but I refuse to break. “Is that all you care about? Being first?”

Brody grabs my wrist and yanks me into the shadowed hall. The guy dissolves, like everyone else always does. We’re alone. He pins me to the wall, hard enough to make my chest seize. One hand at my throat, thumb pressed just under my jaw. He traces my skin down to the cut of the dress, until his finger hooks against the top of my breast.

His eyes are black with disgust and something so much hotter, hungrier. “You think acting like a whore is going to get me to care?” I can’t breathe. Not sure I want to. He leans in, mouth at my ear. “I fucking hate you. I don’t care what you do anymore.”

Bullshit. I push my hips up and grind until I feel him harden under the fabric. “If I’m nothing to you, why is your cock so hard, Brody? Hm?”

His grip tightens. He groans. Pain flashes. “Just because my dick is hard doesn’t mean you’re special to me anymore. I always liked you for your body, Bambi. But your personality became too fucking much.”

I let the words run through me, hot and bitter. I want to hurt him back.

“Guess I’m not the only one who changed, huh?” My voice shakes but I keep it steady. “You’re just like every other guy. At least I’m honest about it.”

He studies me, searching for cracks. “You’re bolder tonight. Sluttier, too.”

“Maybe this is who I really am. The old me is gone.” I say, mimicking the words he uttered to me not too long ago.

He moves closer, so close I could bite him. “I doubt that, Bambi.”

For a second I want him to smash my face in, kiss me, fuck me, any of it.

Instead, he says: “Don’t flatter yourself. I could have anyone here if I wanted. I just lost my taste for leftovers.”

He releases me and my back slams against the wall. I breathe in the pain, let it fill the cracks before storming off, heels stabbing the sticky floor. I’m shaking and wild, dying for another drink, another distraction.

Finding the bar, I slam a few shots straight. Everything’s blurry around the edges, but at least the ache isn’t just physical anymore.

Sophie finds me. Her smile fades when she sees my face. “What happened?”

“Your fucking brother’s an asshole,” I hiss.

She pulls me in, arms gentle, voice low. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just—Brody.”

“He’s worse than before.”

She tries to rock me, soothing. “Let’s just dance, okay? Forget him.”

I break away and scan the crowd for a man. Any man who looks like trouble. It takes seconds. He’s at the bar, a little older, hair buzzed. Smiles like he knows exactly what I’m offering.

We talk. I don’t hear what he says, I just want to feel wanted, even if it’s bullshit.

He offers me a ride and I grab my coat, almost making it out before Brody appears. He shoves between us, grabs my arm so hard I gasp. “She’s not going with you.”

The man tries to argue, but seeing Brody’s eyes, he bails.

I wrench my arm, but Brody just tightens his grip. “Let go of me, fucker!”

He leans in, a snarl under his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lola. I’m doing this because Sophie will have a panic attack if you die tonight.”

The words almost hurt more than the fingers digging into my skin. He drags me through the parking lot. I kick at him—childish, wasted, desperate—but he never breaks stride.Dumping me in the passenger seat of his car, he slams the door and drives away without a word. His knuckles are white on the wheel. He’s seething, but he won’t look at me.

When we pull up to my house, my stomach drops. The lights are off. He kills the engine and stares straight ahead.

I yank open the door, trying to make a dramatic exit, but my heels catch on the walk. I go down, hard, onto my back. For a second I just lay there, staring at the sky. Empty, huge, uncaring. The universe doesn’t blink.

Brody gets out. He stalks over, hauls me up by my armpits, none too gentle. “You done?”

I want to hit him. I want to fuck him. I want to claw his eyes out. “Get off me.” He manhandles me to the porch, shoves me toward the door. I’m fumbling for the keys when panic hits. “I can’t—Brody, you can’t come in.”

He freezes. “What?”

“If you come in, Marcus will know. He’ll know I fucked up, that I wasn’t good⁠—”

Brody’s face goes cold, analytic. “What are you talking about?”

I shake my head, wild, stupid. “Just—please, don’t.”

Please don’t push. Not now. 

Brody wouldn’t understand. He’d only find some reason to call me a liar. Or dramatic. I want him to save me, but that won’t happen. Not ever again. 

He lets me go and steps back. I unlock the door, stumble inside, and slam it behind me. Collapsing against the cool tile of the entry, my breath comes out ragged, my heart splintered.

Alone, again.

All night I tried to lose myself. All night I tried to make it stop. But the pain comes to bed with me, wraps its arms around my ribs, and presses my face to the pillow.

I want to claw myself out of my skin, but instead, I lie there. The emptiness gnaws and gnaws. Brody’s face, it melts in my mind. My mother’s eyes become black holes. Pale skin. Blood curling around her crushed bones.

Brody’s face again. Twisted in pain and anger. A monster. He is storming away, back when we were nineteen, and telling me that I am dead to him. My heart falls so far. It sinks and sinks until I wonder if I am a living thing. I wonder if the light will ever return. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally break for good.

9

BRODY

I want to check on her. It is a burning urge, something that devours me whole. It distracts me from the hate that I feel for her. I’m not supposed to obsess over her anymore, but I can’t help it. She is like a fucking drug in my system. 

She was so reckless tonight. So wild. The vision of her in that slutty red dress flashes through my mind. She lets herself be seen, lets herself be used, like it doesn’t matter. It turns my stomach, and it lights a fire in my veins that won’t fucking die.

I see it every time I blink. Lola, spinning on that shitty club floor, sweat on her skin. Neon slicing her curves. Blue light, red light, harsh as blood. Her hair stuck to her damp neck, her ass in a tight dress, rolling for strangers. I remember what it felt like to smack her ass while I would fuck her from behind. She always had a nice ass. Fuck. 

I circle the block twice before I even pull into my driveway. Hate. Hunger. It’s all the same. I’m always circling her, even when I tell myself I’m done.

The house is dark except for the kitchen window. Richard’s home after all.

Perfect. Another round of father-son poison.

I kill the engine and slam the door, hard enough to echo into the night. My hands are still shaking. 

Richard sits at the dining table, suit jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled halfway up. He’s reading something. Case files, as always. He doesn’t even look up when I walk in. That’s how he plays it. Pretends my absence means nothing, that he hasn’t been waiting up. That he doesn’t track the mud I drag in, the violence I leave behind.

I dump my keys on the marble counter and look at him.

He speaks first. “Rough night?”

I shrug. “I handled it.”

“Not quite,” he says, flipping a page. “You left a mess.”

“What mess?”

He closes the file, lining the edges up precisely. “The Martinez garage. There’s unfinished business.”

Martinez garage. The guy I left crumpled near the stairwell, blood pooling under his jaw. The taste of violence, still sweet in my mouth.

I don’t flinch. “He’s dead.”

Richard sighs, the patient way he does when I’m boring him. “That’s not the point, Brody. The dead don’t talk. It’s the living you need to worry about. The witnesses.”

I take a step closer. The light over the table is halogen, and it makes his eyes almost colorless. He stares up at me, no fear, no affection. Just the calculation.

“There’s a witness?”

He smooths the folder, tapping it twice. “Someone saw you leaving the scene. The problem is, they can’t identify you. The security camera was covered, but there’s a person of interest.”

I want to break the glass, just to hear it shatter. “Who?”

A smile flickers at the edge of his mouth, cold. “Girl in a hood. Small. Quick. Security says she was there after you left. They’re digging, but the description is… familiar.”

My gut seizes. I hate how fast I jump to her. I hate how my mind fills in the blank with Lola’s face, even though it’s stupid.

Richard sees it. He always sees too much. He leans back in his chair, folds his hands. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised. Trouble has a way of finding your ex-lovers.”

He lets that sit, watching me intently.

I don’t let him bait me. Not visibly. “You think it’s her?”

“Who else?” He’s lazy with it. “You and that Bloom girl were always magnets for disaster. Wouldn’t be the first time she showed up somewhere she didn’t belong.”

He’s pushing every button because he knows what happened the last time. He knows what Lola did to me. Or what I let her do.

I push back. “She has no reason to be there.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But maybe someone sent her.”

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. The name beats at my skull.

Richard’s voice drops. “Women like her, they’re currency, Brody. You think she’s not working for Marcus? You’re more naïve than I thought.” I want to hit him. Instead, I do what I always do. Stand there and absorb it, let the words burn into the lining of my chest. Richard’s face is blank, only a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You never did learn to pick the right side. That’s your mother in you.”

Fuck that. I shake my head. “What do you want?”

His eyes narrow. “Clean up your own fucking work. Make sure there are no loose ends. I don’t care how you do it.”

He slides the folder across the table. I don’t open it. I know what’s inside. Photos, grainy security grabs, maybe a timeline.

I pick it up. “After tonight?”

“The world doesn’t stop for your misery, Brody.”

I stare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

A small shrug. “I take pleasure in facts. The fact is, your girl is never going to be clean of this. Not with the family she’s got. Not with the things she knows.” He pauses, then speaks again. “You want to know why your mother died? Why nobody could fix it? Because the people involved made sure there was nothing left to fix. You remember what I told you about the company?”

I do. Night after night. Sitting on the stairs, listening to him sober and cold: There’s a company that arrange things. Accidents, disappearances, clean as a bone. He said they’re untouchable, and they work for Marcus Bloom.

Northline is one of them. The same company that was involved on the night of my mother’s alleged car accident. It was no accident.

Before the accident, everything was fine. Richard and Marcus didn’t cross paths much. There was no feud. I think Richard mentioned that he used to work with Marcus a long time ago. But after? It started a war between them. My dad is convinced that Marcus had something to do with my mother’s death.

When I asked him why he thought that, he said: Because you took something from him. His daughter. This is his payback. Marcus likes to own things, to control things. By dating his daughter, you made it impossible for him to do that. So he intervened. And Lola, that skank, she’s a part of it. She played you, son.

I clutch the folder until the edges bend.

Richard’s eyes flick to my grip. “You’re angry. Good. Use it.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” My voice is coarse. “Who’s the girl in the footage? If it’s not Lola, who is it?”

“Why do you care? Unless that little bitch still has her teeth in you.”

He wants a reaction. He always does. I give it to him. I slam my palm down on the table, rattling the glass and making him blink, just once. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t move. “You want the truth? You can’t handle it. You never could. That’s why she broke you.” There’s a black hole under my ribs, pulling everything in. Richard keeps talking. “She’s involved, Brody. Maybe not directly, but you know how this works. Her father owns those companies. He owns the people who arrange things. The kind of men who send girls as bait, who use them as leverage. If she was there, she was working for someone. You think I’m the big bad wolf? He is the fucking ruler of Hell.”

The words bounce around my skull, setting off old alarms. I remember the day they told me my mother was dead. Car accident, rain-soaked road, tow company there before the police. A NorthLine truck, logo blue and silver in the rain. An accident nobody could explain, but everyone wanted to forget.

A company. A girl in a hood, maybe Lola, maybe not.

I remember her face the last time I saw her. Terrified, bruised, wild with something like shame.

Richard stands up, smoothing his shirt. “You’ll take care of it tonight, or you’ll regret it. I’m not saving you again.”

He’s by the stairs before I can say anything, and then he’s gone. Just the soft tread of his expensive shoes, the closing of his door. I stand there in the stench of his threats and my own rotten hunger, folder in my hands, blood rushing in my veins. Brain full of Lola.

Always her. Always her. Whether it’s revenge or sex, hatred or longing, I can’t fucking separate it.

There’s a scene in my head I can’t shake: Lola, laughing, spinning away from danger, until it catches her and drags her under. Maybe I’m the danger. Maybe I always was.

It doesn’t matter. I want answers. I want her on her knees.

Maybe I want her to hurt, the way she made me hurt.

The folder’s thin; the photos even thinner. A blurry girl in a hood, head ducked down, moving quickly across the parking levels. No face. Just shape and habit: the way she walks, barely touching the ground. It could be her. It could be anyone. But my mind wants it to be her because then it means something.

I toss the folder onto the counter. The kitchen window is cracked open, and the night air bites my skin. I stand there for a long time, not moving, just letting the thoughts consume me.

At some point, all I see is a memory.

It’s junior year. The old parking lot behind the field, summer heat still baked into the asphalt. She waits by my car, hair up in a messy knot, wearing my hoodie and nothing else. When she sees me, her whole face lights up. Real, hungry, like I’m a sunrise. She runs to me and jumps, her legs wrapping around my waist, laughing. We kiss until the world spins.

I used to think I could be that light for her. Maybe I wasn’t dead inside. Now? Now I’m the monster in the night watching from the shadows, waiting for her to slip.

The memories rot. The sweetness curdles.

But the need never dies.

What’s left, after you strip away every excuse? All that’s left is obsession, and maybe some burned-up version of love.

I’ll get closer. I’ll get the answers. I’ll own her, or I’ll ruin her, or both.

I promise you, Bambi, you’re not getting rid of me. Not ever. Not until the whole story’s out. Not until you give me what I want.

The fire is raging like a storm, bursting through me, begging to be unleashed. The need to drive my knife through somebody is so strong. To feel their breath fade. To release my need for violence. I close my eyes and take a breath. I need to control my emotions. I had always been good at that. Until I met Lola. 

My legs take me to her house before my brain can catch up. The night sky shields me from sight. A predator in the dark. I stand outside in the shadows, staring at her window from the ground. The light is on, and her silhouette floats through the room. 

I remember all too well how to get to her room. Using all my strength, I climb the tree next to the roof. One branch at a time, scrunching my face, trying hard not to fall to the fucking ground.

Before, I would do it to sneak into her room past midnight. I’d crawl under her covers and slip my fingers into her panties. It wouldn’t take long for her to become soaked. I would proceed to make her cum, hushing her moans with kisses.

Now? I don’t plan on giving her pleasure. I plan on breaking her. 

With steady feet, I hop onto the roof. I stalk across, crouched low. My palm slides on the grit and catches. Blood slivers line my skin, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the light burning behind her fucking window.

I bang on the window. Two unmerciful knocks. 

A pause. Sidestep, shuffle from inside. The curtain jerks back. There she is.

Bambi. My Bambi.

Caught in the white spill of lamplight, hair a mess. Eyes wide, blue-ringed, and almost phosphorescent with fear. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. She’s fixed to the spot, all prey and horror, and for a second I feel nothing but hunger, the need to have her pinned.

Her hand floats halfway up, trembles, but drops uselessly. She wants to run, but she can’t.

I flatten my palm on the glass. “Let me in.”

Maybe she dreams I’ll vanish, dissolve back into the black, but she unlatches the lock. She’s obedient, always so fucking obedient when it’s me.

She shoves the window open and recoils. I swing a leg over and drop to her carpet without a word. My boots hit hard, the shock rattles her, and she shrinks back.

She stammers, “What are you doing here, Brody?”

Her voice is brittle with panic but it doesn’t hide the thirst in it, either. She’s afraid, but she wants me here. It’s sick. We’re both sick.

I advance, crowd her into the wall, blocking every escape route. She’s cornered. She looks everywhere but at me. My reflection wavers in her pupils, a wolf’s silhouette. She’s not ready for what’s in me tonight. 

“You know why I’m here.”

I close in, until there’s nothing between us. My fists clench and unclench. My pulse is a sledgehammer. Richard’s words spin through my skull: she’s in it, she’s in the photos, she’s his little spy.

Her eyes squint in confusion. “What do you mean?”

I take a step closer, looming over her like a raging monster. “Don’t act fucking stupid. Were you at the parking garage? Or the car accident?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Brody. If you’re here to play games, please don’t. I’m not in the damn mood.” She tries to push past me, but I grab her elbow and whirl her around. Before she can protest, I pin her against the wall, similar to how we were at the club. “Brody, stop,” she says. It’s a low plea. “You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” I tell her. “You should be fucking terrified. Who are you working for, Lola? What did you do?”

She laughs, a quick sound. “What, you think I’m some kind of criminal mastermind now?”

I see the way her arms cross over her chest, the way her fingers dig into her biceps to hold herself together.

“You’re always there,” I say. “Always at the center. You, the company, the same mess every fucking time. Explain that.”

She flushes, red bleeding up her neck. “I don’t owe you shit.”

I brace an arm beside her head, hand flat against the wall. Caging her in.

She flinches, then sets her jaw. “Get out,” she whispers.

I lean closer. “Make me.”

Her eyes go wide. I can hear her heartbeat now, see it flutter under the skin of her throat.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lies.

“You should be.”

My other hand finds her jaw, tipping her face up. She shudders, but doesn’t pull away.

“You want to know what I think?” I say. “I think you’re hiding something. I think you’re dirty, just like the rest of them. You’ve got blood on your hands, Bambi. You just don’t want to admit it. Maybe you even like it.”

She tries to gain leverage by slamming her knee into my thigh. Useless.

“That’s cute,” I say. “Did Marcus teach you that, or did you pick it up at the club?”

She goes cold, then angry. “Fuck you.”

I chuckle. “Keep telling yourself you’re not like them. Keep pretending you’re not on your knees for the next guy who cuts your check.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Who do you think you are?” she says, voice shaking. “Barging in here, acting like you know anything about my life? You don’t know shit, Brody. You never did.”

I lean in until our lips almost brush. I can taste the heat coming off her. “I know everything I need to,” I murmur. “I know you can’t stop wanting me even when you should. I know you’re a fucking liar, Lola.”

She shoves at my chest. I don’t budge. “You’re insane,” she hisses. “Marcus was right. You really were always just a violent, psycho brute.”

The words hit harder than I want to admit. “Could a violent, psycho brute make you cum like I did?”

She gasps. Outrage, shock, maybe both. Her body betrays her before her mouth does. Her thighs press together. She wants to hate me. Maybe she does, but not enough to stop me.

I slide my hand down, palm rough on her bare hip beneath the thin sweatshirt. Finding the elastic at her waistband, I tug just enough to slip my fingers inside. She fights—one pathetic, useless push—but she’s already melting, already shivering. I crowd her against the wall.

My breath scorches her ear. “Tell me the truth,” I growl. “Tell me who you’re working for. Or I’ll make you beg for it.”

She shakes her head, eyes wet, jaw clenched. “I’m not—stop⁠—”

I plunge two fingers into her, dry at first, then wet with the heat of her. She’s soaked. Fucking drenched. Her body always knew better than her mouth. She twists, but I hold her in place. My grip bruises her wrists. I want her marked. I want her ruined for every other man who ever thought he could own her.

“Liar,” I whisper. “You say you want me gone, but your cunt says otherwise.”

Her hips buck against my hand, movements desperate and wild. Her eyes are murder and hunger at the same time, blue, wide, and fuming.

I feed off it.

I slow down, fingers wet and relentless, just circling her clit, keeping her right on the edge. Teasing, taunting, cruel. Her hips jerk, desperate. She shakes her head, begging without words, throat working on a sob.

“Still not talking?” I spit the words, flexing my grip on her. I want her to cry. I want her to admit it. “What are you hiding, Lola?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. I ram my fingers in fast, then stop. Then repeat. It’s punishment: let her think she’ll get what she wants, then rip it away.

Tears threaten the corners of her eyes, lips trembling. “Brody, please—I’m not, I swear, you’re hurting me, I swear I don’t know anything, please just stop⁠—”

God, she sounds wrecked. Wrecked by me.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I snarl. “You want to be treated rough? I can do rough. I can destroy you, Lola.”

My fingers curl inside her, crooking up, hitting exactly where it hurts, where it burns. She chokes out a moan, louder this time, hips jerking. I keep the pressure up, relentless, rooting out every sound she tries to swallow.

She whimpers. The muscles on her thighs clamp around my wrist. She’s right on the edge, shaking, helpless. I stop, pulling my hand back just as she starts to keen. I let her clit throb in the empty air, trembling, desperate, but I give her nothing.

“No,” I say. “You don’t get rewarded for lies. You get nothing.”

She looks at me with sorrow and terror in her eyes. I can almost see my reflection in her gaze. A cold beast. A reaper of the night. 

“What happened to you? You’re not Brody anymore, I never thought you’d be the one to treat me like this. Other men, yeah, but never you.” Her fucking voice sounds desperate for an explanation. 

I push my body against hers, and my hand glides up her stomach, lingering on her tits, then making a path to her neck. I hold it, ever so slightly, and I force her to look at me.

“Why am I like this? Are you really that dense? Or do you just not care? You fucking broke me. You’re nothing to me, Lola, not anymore. Now you’re just another target.”

“Brody…” she gasps, voice thin and pretty as a broken thing. “Please…”

Please what? Stop? Keep going? I could wring her out until she forgets her own fucking name.

“You think I don’t see it?” My face turns to a scowl. “You think you can fuck around and lie to my face and walk away? That’s not how this works. You’re not special. You’re just mine to use now, Bambi.”

Her hips—fuck, her hips—rub up against my thigh and she’s wet again, wetter than before. Even now, even sobbing, even shamed and pinned.

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, her voice destroyed. “You’re sick. I hate you.”

I smile and squeeze her cheeks, squeezing her mouth into an O. “Too bad you love how it feels when I’m inside you, Bambi.”

“Let go,” she says, gutted, voice shredded. “You don’t get to do this. Not after what you did to me.”

She thinks she can weaponize the past against me. She thinks she can dress her filth up in victimhood and walk away like I won’t call her on it.

“I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want, Lola, because you’re still mine.”

She shakes her head, sometimes slow, sometimes shuddering. My cock throbs, almost painful. If I wanted, I could have her on all fours, choking, crying, begging for relief. But she doesn’t deserve that. Not yet.

I slam the question again: “Were you at Martinez garage? Yes or no.”

Her eyes roll up, wet and wild. “No. No, Brody, please, I wasn’t, I swear. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear, I swear.”

Bullshit.

I press harder on her bruise. She yelps.

“I saw the photos. Security footage. Little wasted blur in a hoodie, always at the edge of the scene. Just like the night you fucked me up. Just like your old man wanted.” My voice turns cold, vicious. “How much does he pay you? Is it worth it, letting him ruin you every night?”

She sobs, once, maybe twice. But then she tries to twist free, hissing, “Fuck you, I’m not his, I’m not anyone’s—I didn’t go to that place, fuck, you’re insane, you lost your mind, Brody, you fucking lost it.”

“You’re wrong,” I hiss. My lips are so close to her ear I can see the tiny hairs stand up across her neck. “I haven’t lost shit. This is who I always was.”

She sobs, but it’s not broken. There’s anger in it too. The endless coil. Love. Hate. Primal and rotten.

She thinks she knows what pain is. She thinks the world has already bled her dry. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get that obsession is a thousand knives in the gut, every second, every hour, day after day. 

Being apart from her hurts more than anything my father ever did to me. I want to pound her skull through plaster, or kneel and lick salt from her wounds. I want both. That’s my fucked up curse.

My hands shake. Fury or want, I can’t tell. My vision goes edged, white-hot. I press my thigh between her legs. She’s hot, soaked. Her cunt pulses for me. Her body always betrays her. My fingers dig in against her inner wall until I feel her start to break.

She’s crying now, dripping. I watch the drop trace her cheek. For a second I doubt myself. Impossible. My father raised me to spot weakness, to hunt for subtext and betrayal in every syllable. She’s not lying. Or if she is, she’s better at this than I thought.

“Keep screaming, Bambi. Makes me hard.”

She’s trembling, shattering for me. She’s gorgeous when she’s ruined. Most girls crumple, stop fighting, go flat. Not her. She’ll snarl at me all the way to the bottom. She’ll rip up anything I give her, just so I have to make her take it ten times harder.

She gets it from me. From all the wrong in both of us.

Her pupils are huge, swallowing blue. She snarls something I can’t even parse, voice broken, a pitiful cry fucked by rage. “I wish you were dead,” she says, but it comes out as a moan under my hand. I can’t tell if she’s pleading, or cursing, or praying.

“Yeah?” My voice is low, controlled, whispering right against her ear. “You want me dead? Or do you want me to fuck you hard enough to knock the air out of your pretty mouth?” She shakes her head, clutching at the line between disgust and desperation. “You don’t get it, Bambi,” I whisper. “No matter how much you fight, your body will always fucking give you up.”

I dip my head, lips skimming her jaw. She cries out again, not in terror, though. It’s surrender.

I laugh at her, at us. “You should hate me,” I say, “but you don’t. That’s the joke, isn’t it? You want me more every time I treat you like garbage.” She whispers something. I loosen my hand. Only a little. “What was that?” I taunt.

She huffs out a noise like she’s choking down whatever pride is left. She looks up at me, every inch of her body shaking, defiant as a dog with a broken back.

“I said,” her teeth clatter, “I wish I could stop wanting you.”

It’s sick. It’s so fucking sick. My cock throbs.

“You wish,” I echo, soft, mean, right in her ear, “you wish you could stop?” She tries to nod but I squeeze her harder. “You can’t, Bambi. Don’t pretend you’re not desperate for it. For me.”

She jerks in my grip, a tremor beating in her neck. “You’re full of yourself. You think you’re the only thing I ever craved?”

“You’re right, I’m not. You’re just a back-stabbing whore.”

Her legs wobble. She’s half a breath from collapse. I let her drop to her knees, just to see if she’ll crumble the rest of the way. She doesn’t. She plants her palms on the ground between my boots, thighs spread. Just like that. No shame. Eyes wild.

I stare at her. I want to remember every second burned into my skull. Lola, with my fingerprints bruising her jaw, tears on her face, mouth trembling open. The past and present. The fucking ghost of what we used to be.

Look at her. My Bambi on her knees. Exactly where I always knew she belonged.

She glares up at me. “Go ahead. Do it. Humiliate me. That’s what you want, right? That’s all I’m good for.”

“Yeah,” I say, unzipping my jeans. “That’s exactly what I want.”

I shove my cock in her mouth before she can catch her breath. I don’t let her get gentle with it, don’t let her control the pace. I fist my hands in her hair and fuck her throat, hard, mean, unforgiving.

Her eyelids flutter. She gags. She can barely breathe. I let her choke, let her drool run down her chin. She claws at my thighs but I hold her steady, grinding deeper until her nose is smashed against my stomach.

Her tears keep coming, but she sucks me like she was born for it, quick clean licks with her tongue, hollowing her cheeks even when she’s got nothing left. My hips shudder. I clench so hard my vision pulses white. She grinds her knees into the floor, loving the sting.

When I cum, it’s fucking volcanic. White light blanks my vision. I hold her head tightly and squeeze her skull until she tries to yank away. I force her to swallow all of it, every last drop, so she’ll remember this salt in her mouth for days.

My jaw cracks. I grunt, groan, pulse. I let the wave eat me alive, make my brain go empty, blind, pure. This is what I’m made for. Not love. Not normal. Just obliterating her. Making her choke on me.

She does, like she’s trained for it. Gags once, hard, the sound so filthy I want to put my fist through the drywall. I keep her pinned to my thigh as I finish, riding out every last twitch. Her nails dig into the meat of my leg. Not hard enough to break skin, but almost. I want them to. I want her to mark me.

I finally stagger back a step and release her skull. She gasps for oxygen, mouth splitting open wide, drool and spit strung from her lips to my cock. 

“You look good there, Bambi.”

“Go to hell.”

I zip my pants up, slow, deliberate. Button the top button. It’s a performance, and I want her to know she is the audience. “I’ll see you there.”

She doesn’t hop to her feet. She scrapes herself together inch by inch, not looking at me. I watch her ribcage flutter under the cheap fabric. She’s shaking, trying to hide it. I stare at her until she starts to fold in on herself. Until she’s just a little pile of prey. This is all she is now.

The room is scary-quiet. I want her to say something. I want her to scream. I want her to fucking attack me, rake her claws down my neck and make me bleed.

She doesn’t.

I lean against the wall. It creaks under my weight. My pulse is still ragged, blood boiling up from my thighs to my jaw.

“Next time you wanna play innocent,” I say, “don’t use your mouth like a fucking pro. Gives you away every time.”

She doesn’t answer. She’s all out of answers.

I turn and look at her slumped on the carpet, a spill of limbs and hair and torn-up pride. Bambi. My former everything, now just a mess on the floor. Maybe I should feel something. Maybe I should reach for her, offer a word, a hand, some crumb of comfort. I don’t.

Instead, I stare. Let the silence stretch. Let it drip into her ears like poison. I do what I always should’ve done, I turn my back and leave her there.

Slamming the window shut, I make my way out. It’s stupid and melodramatic, but who fucking cares. The echo cracks behind me, and that makes my pulse slow down, makes my bones vibrate with the rightness of it.

On the roof, the cold night air slices deep. I welcome it, it makes the sweat on my neck freeze, keeps the blood from boiling over. I slide down the tree. My hands shake, but I grip and drop, grip and drop, until I’m back on the ground, shadow-silent.

I stalk away from her house. Every step is freedom. Every step is a promise: don’t come near me unless you’re ready to bleed for it.

I hope she sobs all night, splits her nails scraping at the floor. Let her taste what she pretends to crave. Let her rot in the memory.

She doesn’t have answers. Not now. Maybe never. She’s not my problem.

I’m done with her.

I’m done.

I’m—

Fuck.

I never am.

10

LOLA

I can still feel the phantom touch of his hands on me. I still have the marks on my throat, and the soreness between my legs. Having him touch me like that, it’s nothing like how I remember.

Brody was never a gentle lover, but he always kept boundaries. He always made sure I felt safe. He always blended his rough dominance with possessive, sweet love.

That version of Brody feels like an ancient relic.

Marcus is coming home today and I need to cover the marks. I need to put myself back together for him. But I am still shaking from my encounter with Brody in my room last night. The anger in his eyes. The hunger. The cold hatefulness. What did I do to deserve that?

He interrogated me about something crazy with a psychotic look in his eyes. Something that strikes fear in my blood, turning my skin to ice.

But there is also a fire burning, a fire that is still burning.

The house is completely still, silence cascades in every room. I like it when there’s no chaos or noise. Just stillness, and the lightweight feeling of serenity. I can pretend I am free. 

In time, the lock rattles. My neck goes cold and I sit up straight, smoothing my hair, and pretend that my hands aren’t shaking. I smile sweetly like a good girl. Like there’s nothing wrong at all.

The door flies open and Marcus steps inside, too wide for the frame, face flushed and bright with city-burn. His suit is rumpled, jacket hanging open, big hands gripping a bottle by the neck. That smile. He flashes it at me. There’s no warmth, only the cruel expression of violence disguised as love. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He slams the door behind him, sets the bottle down hard enough to make the table jump.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re home early.”

He watches me, eyes narrow, lips curving. For a second, I think maybe he’s in a good mood. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. I pretend to relax and shift so he can sit by me. My bare feet are tucked under the blanket, an attempt to hide from him.

He shrugs out of his coat and throws it over a chair. He pours a drink, neat, barely blinking, then drains it. A vein twitches in his neck. It was a rough night for him. I can see it written all over him, even before he starts talking. He drops onto the couch next to me, too close. His hand lands on my knee and he squeezes with his fingers.

“How’s my girl?” He says it soft, almost loving. His thumb rubs circles, right where my bones are closest to the skin.

“I’m good,” I say, forcing a giggle. “Just tired.” My voice sounds fake. I hate it. I sound fake, fake, fake.

He leans closer. “Miss me, baby?”

I nod. I always nod. Don’t give him a reason to get angry. Don’t give him anything.

He strokes higher. Under the blanket, his palm slides to my thigh. He kneads it, greedy, like he’s testing fruit at a market. He’s always hungry.

“Been thinking about you,” he says, voice dropping. “All fucking night.”

I swallow. The TV blinks shapes behind his head but I can’t focus, not with his fingers inching up. His eyes shine; it looks like I’m not a daughter tonight. I’m a lover. 

He wants me. He always wants me, but tonight, there’s an edge. He’s vibrating. The city’s gotten inside his skin and he needs to tear it out. I can sense it, smell it, taste it.

I wish I could disappear.

He drags the blanket away, exposing my legs. I flinch. He grins.

“God, look at you,” he mutters. “You’re perfect. Fucking perfect.” He palms my thigh, slides his fingers under my shorts.

I stiffen. “Marcus—,” I whisper in a pleading tone. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

“What, you shy now?” He squeezes harder. I can feel bruises blooming under his grip.

I reach for his hand, trying to peel it off. Weak and pathetic. He doesn’t budge. His other hand knots in my hair and he yanks my head back. I gasp, pain shivering down my spine.

“Don’t play games with me, Lola.” He’s not smiling now. His voice drops, a warning. “You know how this works.”

I know. God, I know.

His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking. He likes to mark me. He likes to see his shadows on my skin in the morning. My body goes electric, terror veined through every muscle. I try to shift away but he clamps down. His hand cups my jaw, squeezing, forcing my lips open. He kisses me.

His hand skims up my shirt and finds my breast. He pinches. I can’t breathe. I twist, try to break free. For a second, his grip loosens. I push up and scramble off the couch.

I only make it in three steps.

He snatches my wrist, wrenching me back, spinning me so fast my vision blanks out. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is like a growl.

He shoves me down, face-first on the carpet. The fibers burn my cheek. His weight crashes onto my hips, pinning me. Unmovable. Predator and prey.

I buck, panic screaming through my limbs. I claw at the floor.

He grabs my wrists, yanks them behind my back. Traps them in his fist. He grinds against me, rough denim bruising my ass. Hot breath on my neck.

“You’re mine, Lola,” he snarls. “Fucking act like it.” He tears at my shorts, ripping them down my thighs. My skin warps with goosebumps. I sob, but he laughs again. “God, listen to you,” he whispers. “That’s my good girl. Cry for me.”

He shoves into me. No warning. The pain splits me, white-hot. He fucks me hard, dragging me up by the hair to force my head back. I scream once, ragged. He stuffs his fingers in my mouth to shut me up, leaving me helpless to the rhythm. Brody moves faster, ramming into me. He comes with a snarl, body shuddering. He holds me there, crushed under him, until I stop struggling.

He pulls out, shoves me face-down, lets me crumple on the floor.

I hear him zip up. He staggers away to pour himself another drink without looking at me. He always does this. The violence. The forgetting.

I lay there, shaking. Wet between my thighs. His come, sweat, maybe blood, I don’t know. My shorts are ripped. My knees are cut. I can’t move. My arms are numb.

I hear him in the kitchen, muttering on the phone. Voice calm, collected. No trace of the animal that ripped me apart.

After a while, the door slams again. He leaves. Of course he leaves.

I stay on the floor. I’m not sure how long I stay there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. I roll onto my side and curl up tight, sobbing into the carpet, the fibers sticking to my face.

My body pulses with pain. My wrists are ringed red where he held me. My thighs burn. I want to peel my skin off.

Crawling to the bathroom, my knees drag streaks across the floor. I flick the light on and the room explodes. I stare at my reflection. Hair wild, face smeared, eyes so wide the whites show all the way around. I strip and step into the shower. Hot needles carve up my skin. I scrub hard, harder. Still, I can’t get the smell off.

I sit on the floor of the tub, arms wrapped around knees, water pounding my head. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Getting out, I drop the towel and shuffle to my bed, collapsing facedown. The sheets are cool against my skin as I curl up, trying not to remember. Trying not to feel the ache between my legs. Trying not to feel anything.

But the memories cycle.

His hands. His voice. His weight.

Reaching for my phone, I scroll past Sophie. She can’t help. She’d just be scared. My finger hovers over Brody’s contact. For a second, I can feel how safe it used to be, curled in his arms, listening to his heartbeat. Tears burn down my cheeks. I tap the screen. The call starts to ring. My heart slams against my ribs.

But as soon as I hear the first buzz—his voice, maybe, his voice answering, ruined and hard now—I panic. I can’t let him hear me like this.

I hang up and throw the phone across the room. It clatters as it falls and I bury my face in the pillow.

Sobs claw out of me. I bite down so hard I taste blood again. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know how to survive it any more.

One day, I have my mom. She’s alive and smiling. I have Brody. He’s hugging me from behind. We stare at the sun as it falls into the horizon. We whisper promises of eternity to each other.

Then, there’s my mother. Eyes open and staring into nothing. Skin pale like winter. There’s Brody. A face in the fog. Nothing left except the ashes of everything I’ve lost. 

I dig my nails into my arm and count the lines on the ceiling. Nothing helps. Nothing fixes it. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. I wait for the sun. I wait for something to change. It doesn’t.

11

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 17)

I float around Brody like a butterfly. I want him to kiss me. I want him to grab me and give me everything that he’s holding back. I can’t tell him that, though, he’s like a skittish horse. Make one wrong move, and he’s galloping away. 

He’s never even kissed a girl. It’s not like I have a lot of experience, but I’ve kissed a few guys. I’m not judging; I think it’s cute. I wonder what kind of kisser Brody is.

Too much tongue? No tongue? Hands in my hair? No kissing at all? Some guys are quick to jump right into it. Will Brody take it slow? Or will he pin me against a wall?

I tingle at the thought of being so close to Brody while he pleasures me. His hands are so big and masculine. Long fingers. As if they were made to touch me. Wetness forms between my legs at the image of it. Brody kissing me against a wall. Fingers stroking me. Grinding me into dust. 

“Lola! Are you okay? You look like you’re spacing out.” Sophie waves her hand in front of my face. I blink. The images leave, and I am back in reality. 

“I’m okay, just thinking about stuff.” I wave it off, not wanting to tell Sophie that I am fantasizing about her brother. 

“No worries,” she eyes me for a second. “I know you’ve been kind of stressed about your home life lately. I try not to pry, but I do worry.”

I smile. Sophie is so nice. I am glad I met her. It’s comforting to know I have a friend I can go to. 

“Yeah, Marcus is just weird. Freaks me out sometimes. He’s harmless, though. It’s not like my mom would listen anyways even if I expressed myself. She’s brainwashed by that man.”

I sit back and sigh. I do not want to tell Sophie the whole truth. She’s too innocent, too soft. I don’t want her to change or see me differently. I show what I want to show, and keep the rest inside. 

Sophie chews on her lip, probably contemplating if she should leave it alone or push me for more insight into my life. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask what I mean. 

“Hey, let’s take a break from all this studying. The test can wait. I’m sure we can go out for a bit, maybe it will make you feel better.” Sophie stands up and stretches before closing the books that were open on the table.

I shrug and stand up too. “Alright, that sounds a lot better than sitting here and memorizing all these words. My brain is fried anyways.”

Sophie smiles, big and wide. “That’s what I thought. School work just makes me so bored. Sometimes we just need to step away for a little bit.”

Before I can respond, Brody walks into the room. Shirtless. Sweat is dripping down his chest. My eyes go wide for a moment. For a seventeen year old boy, he has a good amount of muscle. His chest is broad, and his arms? I can feel myself drooling internally at how big his biceps are.

Sophie’s lip curls as she turns. “God. Put a shirt on, Brody. I have a guest, you animal.” She throws a scrunchie at him, it bounces off his shoulder and rolls under the table. 

Brody shrugs, eyes fixed on me like none of it matters. Like Sophie isn’t even here. “Don’t think she minds,” he says, voice low and too steady.

My face bursts into flame. I pretend to focus on the scenery outside of the window. 

Sophie huffs, feigning disgust. “Why are you walking around like that? Are you broken? Go blow off your testosterone in your own room.”

Brody’s smile is thin, not really a smile at all. “I was. I just needed a glass of water.”

Even when he’s not looking at me, it’s like he is. I can’t get enough of it. The way his muscles tense under his skin. The heat coming off him in waves. His hands—ugh, those hands. Big, veined, fingers flexing. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from staring.

Sophie grabs her phone off the table. “Fine. I’m gonna change. Lola, if he tries to wrestle you or whatever, just scream.” She grins at me, but I barely see it.

The silence is instant, suffocating. Only Brody and me now. Even the air feels different. He leans against the door frame, not moving closer but not backing off, either. His gaze flicks over me. My skin prickles.

He cracks his knuckles, one hand, then the other. “You okay?” The words are almost gentle. Not what I expected.

My mouth goes dry. He must’ve heard Sophie and me, whispering about my house, about curfews and locked doors, and step-fathers who never let you breathe.

I try to play it off, give him my best smirk. “Yeah. I mean, considering I haven’t been locked in a dungeon or sold to pirates yet, I’d say I’m doing great.”

His frown deepens. “Not funny.”

I feel something snap tight inside me. The urge to spill all of it—how some days I want to run away and never come back, how Marcus’s eyes make my skin crawl, how lonely it feels to be a body and never a person. I want to say it. Beg someone to see me.

Instead, I look at Brody’s hands, fists unclenching, then balling again like he’s holding himself on a leash. I want to touch him. I want to see if he’ll let me. But I can’t say that, either. Not yet.

I swirl my hair around my finger, clearing my throat. “So, what’s your excuse for terrorizing innocent girls? Just bored or is being half-naked your career plan?”

His eyes drag up my body. A flicker of something dark and possessive lingering there. “Maybe I was hoping you’d like the view,” he says.

He’s not smiling. He means it.

Blood hammers at the inside of my ribs and heat rolls down my spine. I force a laugh, but it comes out all wrong. “I mean, I’ve seen worse.”

A pause. It aches. I can’t stop drinking him in. The way his collarbones stand out. The thickness of his neck. Those hands. Veined and brutal and perfect. I imagine them pinning me. I imagine them around my throat. The thought makes my thighs press together.

Brody’s mouth twitches. It’s like he knows. Or maybe he just wants to.

The space collapses between us. He rolls his shoulders, and the muscles in his chest bunch and flex. My eyes follow, greedy. I’m not even pretending to not look now.

He notices. He cracks his neck like he’s about to snap. “You’re staring.”

“So are you,” I fire back.

He pushes off the door frame, inching closer. Not predatory, not exactly. More like he can’t help it. Like I’m pulling him in. My heart stutters, so loud, I’m sure he hears it.

He stops just within arm’s reach and flexes his hands at his sides, pulse jumping in his throat. The silence is thick. I want to fill it. I want to ruin it.

I reach up slowly, hand trembling even though I try to act smooth, and tuck a stray piece of hair out of his eyes. His hair is short, but it flops over his forehead. I have been itching to do that for some time now. My knuckle grazes his temple.

His whole body goes rigid. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

“Your hair’s in your eyes,” I murmur.

He grabs my wrist, not hard, but enough to make me gasp. His fingers are warm and rough, and I think about them on my skin, on my hips, digging into me. My mouth floods with want.

He lets go, but not completely, trailing his fingertips down my arm. “You’re not scared?”

I blink. “Of you?” He nods once. Steely, unreadable, but the hunger is there. The need. Like he’ll die if I say no. I shake my head. “Not even a little.”

Our faces are close now. Too close. I can see every pore, every slash of his cheekbones. His lips twitch.

I don’t wait. I close the distance, tiptoe if I have to, and press my mouth to his.

He groans. His hands are on my waist, yanking me closer, our bodies tight together. The kiss is clumsy, desperate, teeth and tongue, and too much. It’s not sweet at all. It’s like drowning.

I whimper into his mouth. He shudders, and for a second I think he might break me in half. We pull apart, panting. I can’t think, can’t breathe. My whole body is shaking.

Brody’s pupils are blown wide. I can feel him wanting. He hesitates, still holding me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. I lean in again, kissing him softer this time while my hands roam up his chest. His skin is hot. Damp. Muscles jump under my touch. His lips find the corner of my mouth, my jaw, down my neck. I gasp again, clinging to his shoulders. I want him to bite me. Mark me. Make me his.

His hands slide up under my shirt, just the barest brush against my ribs. That’s all. That’s fucking all and I’m already melting.

And then⁠—

Sophie’s voice echoes down the hall. “Sorry, Lola! I’m ready now, I’m coming.”

Instantly, we jerk apart like guilty kids. I wipe my mouth, stagger back a step, but my heart still bucks.

Brody scrubs a hand over his face. He looks dazed, almost angry. Like he hates needing me this much.

Sophie bursts in, not even glancing at the tension in the room. “Brody, you coming?”

He doesn’t look at her. He looks at me. “Nah. I’m good.”

Sophie shrugs. “Suit yourself, moody.”

She heads for the door, waving me along, and I follow. My legs are jelly, everything inside is scrambled. Brody doesn’t speak again. He just stands there, watching me leave. Watching like he owns me already.

We step out into the hallway. I know I’m flushed, lips swollen, hair a mess. Sophie doesn’t notice. We slip out the front door; dusk clings to the street like a mist. Lights blink on in other houses. The air is wet, heavy. We walk through the neighborhood, down cracked sidewalks, shoes slapping uneven pavement. The world feels quieter now, like everything else has faded.

At the end of the street, the pond waits. A little stretch of water, surrounded by trees and the promise of darkness. Somewhere private. Somewhere you can disappear. Sophie chatters beside me, talking about nothing. My head is spinning. My mouth still tingles from the taste of him.

I can’t stop thinking about Brody’s hands, the way he kissed me, the way he looked at me. Like I’m the only thing that matters. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t have me.

The ache is back, heavier than before.

I hope we go back soon. I hope he’s there. I hope next time, he won’t stop. I want all of it. Every bruising second. I want to be his.

12

BRODY

I park at our house, then make my way towards the Bloom residence next-door. I set my sights on Lola. She is like a comet falling into the dark. 

Lurking in the shadows like a fucking wolf, I make the path around the side of the house, but something stops me in my tracks. I see a man. He is crouched near a bush, with a camera, taking photos of something.

I follow the angle of the camera. It is aimed at her. Bambi. 

Fuck no. That motherfucker. The thought of somebody else watching her, stalking her, taking fucking photos of her, sets my blood on fire.

I walk towards the crouched man, careful to keep my steps quiet and close the gap until I’m right behind the fucker. The click of the camera is louder than I expected. He’s so focused on her that he doesn’t sense death right behind him. I’m closer now. I can see the mesh of his scalp through the thinning hair. It’s greasy with dandruff caught on his collar.

Grabbing him by the back of the jacket, I wrench him out of the bush. He yelps, a high, mewling sound. Weak. I slam his face into the mulch. Twigs snap, and his glasses crack down the nose. He scrabbles for the camera, but I dig my knee between his shoulder blades and grind him deeper into the dirt, picking the camera in my own hands. It’s blocky, black, and cold in my palm. I wrap one fist around it and crunch it against the concrete, glass shards scattering around me.

He struggles, but it’s pointless. I lean forward, all my weight, twisting his arm up behind him. I want him to scream. I want him to bleed. He strains to look back. There’s mud in his mouth and panic in his eyes. “Jesus, please, please, I just work here, I’m nobody, please don’t hurt me, man, I swear to god I’ll go, I’ll never come back I swear it, fuck, please.”

I put my mouth right next to his ear. “Who sent you?”

He’s shaking so bad his words rattle. “A guy called, said to sit here and take pictures. Just pictures! Nothing else! No address, no names, just cash to be delivered if I watched the girl and reported back. That’s it.”

I squeeze his wrist and pull. Ligaments pop. He howls. It’s delicious.

“Who hired you?”

He’s crying now, spitting out his reply, desperate to live: “Voss. Mr. Voss, he said his name was Mr. Voss, I swear!”

My father. Of course. I see red. Nothing clever left; just pure, simple violence.

I yank him up by the hair. His face is smeared with snot and tears, glasses long gone. “You like spying on girls?” I hiss. “You like being a pathetic worm for money?”

He begs. Of course he does. “Please, don’t, I’m not—I’m nobody, I have kids, fuck, please, please, I won’t even tell, I’ll leave town, I swear just let me go, please sir.”

His skull feels hot in my hand. Fragile. I slam his face into the bark, then the sidewalk, faster and harder, until the wet meat of his mouth pulls loose, teeth scatter, skin splits. The sound is soft, satisfying. His final noises are thick, gurgling. He tries to scream, but he’s choking on his own blood.

I don’t stop until the violence burns through me.

When it’s done, my hands are shaking and soaked. The concrete shines red, blood pooling like paint. I watch the life pulse out of him. The body twitches, once, then nothing. For a second there’s no sound. Only the pulse in my flesh, the high from ending something that didn’t deserve to watch her. I want to keep going, to drag this carcass into the street and leave it for the dogs. 

My heart pounds like a war drum. I want more. Always more. But her window glows above me. She’s moving inside, unaware. It’s better this way. She doesn’t need to know what I do for her. What I kill for her. She ruined me, but I still have to make sure she survives. 

I wipe my hands on my jeans, smearing red into the denim. Glass crunches under my boots as I double check the ground. Nothing left but a dark smear and shattered plastic. The body is limp, forgettable. Nobody will find this fucker before I want him found. Nobody touches Bambi. Not unless I give them permission. Not unless it’s me. 

Circling the perimeter, I check every shadow, every side of the house. I stare up at the window again, breath barely even. I imagine kicking the door in and dragging Lola to the floor. Making her watch what I do to the world for her.

Control is an illusion. Obsession is the only thing I have left.

I cross the yard, stomping the mulch out of my boots onto our porch. My house looms, the lights off except for the flick of TV glow from the living room.

Inside, it’s silent. I yank the door open. The echo rings down the hallway. Sophie’s on the couch, blanket tight to her shoulders, eyes glazed to cartoons flickering on the screen. She blinks when she sees me, zones in on the red streaks, her mouth opening.

“What the hell, Brody?” Her voice is tiny. 

“Not your problem,” I say. I don’t pause.

She reaches for me, some old habit. I jerk away. She can smell it. The blood, the hate. 

She recoils. “Are you okay?” She tries again. Won’t quit. Annoying, helpless.

“Go back to your show.” My voice cuts, flat and robotic. “Forget you saw anything.”

She tries to protest. I ignore it. My head is a furnace. My fists drip. I want answers and I want them now. Dad’s home. His office door is shut but the lamp underneath leaks yellow. I don’t bother knocking, kicking the door open. It slams against the wall.

Richard is at his desk, sleeves rolled. He doesn’t even look shocked by the blood as he looks up like he’s been waiting for this.

“You spying on her?” I’m nearly shouting. The words rip out of me. “You send some asshole to her house with a fucking camera, is that your game now?”

He blinks. Doesn’t flinch. “Had to make sure she was contained. You don’t do your homework, I hire someone else.”

I slam both fists on his desk, papers explode everywhere. “You don’t watch her like that. Not without going through me first.” My pulse is thunder. My fists ache to break something.

He licks his lips, slow, predator in a better suit. “Control your temper. Sit down, Brody.” I don’t sit. I want to throw this desk across the room. I want to wrap my hands around his throat, see if he’s as tough as he pretends. “If you were competent, I wouldn’t have to hire anyone. You let your dick and your feelings get in the way. Don’t be sentimental. It’s embarrassing.”

Sentimental. Fuck him. I want to beat his head against the wall.

I lean in, sweat streaming down my jaw. “You don’t fucking touch her.”

His mouth curls. “She’s nothing, Brody. Leverage. If Marcus acts up, she’s bait. If she flips, she’s a liability. That’s all. You want to protect her? Fine. Do your job because if you don’t, I will.”

I slam my fist down again, harder. A pen cracks under my palm. The blood on my hands leaves stains on the white pages. “You think I can’t handle her? You think you’re the only one who knows how this works?”

He is silent, a beat too long, calculating, always calculating. “You’re unpredictable. That’s why you’re useful but not reliable. You let emotions rot your spine. Just like her. Just like your mother.” His voice scrapes.

Everything in my head is red. I laugh. “That supposed to hurt me? You’re pathetic. You think being empty makes you strong?”

He tilts his head like a reptile. “It does. Weak men die. I taught you that.” He stares, icy. “Do you remember your mother at all? She was always so sure she could fix things with hope and tenderness. Look where it got her.”

He says “her” like she’s a stain he can’t wash out.

I snatch a folder off the desk. “You want Lola spied on, do it yourself. You want her erased, tell me yourself. No more middlemen. No more creepy bloodless rats with cameras.”

He shrugs. Unmoved. “You care so much about her, but you don’t even know what she is anymore.”

“She’s mine. Doesn’t mean I still care.”

He smirks. “Not for long.”

The urge to bash open his skull is so strong I see stars. But I just stand there, shaking, vibrating with hate. He studies my wounds. The blood, the way I barely hold myself back. He likes it. He thinks it means he’s winning.

He lowers his head to the paperwork. “You’re not the worst thing to come out of me, but you’re not my equal. Don’t pretend you ever will be.”

He’s a monster.

I stare at him. My father. The man who crawled out of whatever black lake and called it ambition.

Richard Voss, king of nothing, sitting behind his desk like he owns the city, but I see the veins in his temples. Pop. Pop. He wants to think he’s a slab of marble, but rage always gets in. Rot will ruin even diamonds, if you give it time.

I grip the folder with shaky hands, blood smearing. Hate is a physical thing. It lives in my jaw, in my fists, in the spike in my skull that wants to pound the desk straight down to the dirt.

He ignores my stare. He’s drawing a line under a contract. Even after all that noise, the blood, the threat, he’s just bored. Annoyed. Nothing gets through. Not since Mom. Not since her bones left stains on the tow truck ramp.

My mother is still everywhere. The way her perfume clings to the carpet, somehow, after years. Her voice in the back of my skull: ‘Don’t be mean Brody, you’re not broken, not like him, please try to be good. I know you killed that boy in our old town, but that was an accident. You have good in you.’ 

And then the accident. Black glass, a red smear, the sound of her name on the phone. No comfort. Not from him. Never from him.

Richard leans back in his chair, shoes up, careful with the cuffs. “Clean yourself up,” he says, still not looking at me. “You drip on the paperwork again, we’ll need forensic specialists to scrape it out.”

I want to lunge across the desk. I want to grab his throat, squeeze until his pupils burst. See what color his soul leaks. But he isn’t scared. He never is. I was barely out of my teens the first time I realized he’d let me die to win another round against Marcus. He’d let anyone die. My mother. Me. Lola. Just pieces to be moved.

“They’re going to pin this on you if you keep being sloppy,” he says, eyes flat. “I don’t care about the body. You leave any part of yourself at the scene and you’ll make it harder to fix. Do you want me to fix it? Or should I treat you as a loose end next time?”

I almost gag, but I can’t stop listening. Can’t stop wanting approval, one scrap, one crumb, like the sad dog he thinks I am.

I want to say his bloodline is infected. He’s the source of every bad thing. I want to crack open my sternum, show him what grows in the dark. It’s all him. The need to hurt. The joy I find in bone and screaming.

I wipe my hands on the folder. The red stains go pink in the grain of the cardboard. There’s nothing clean about any of this.

“You think Marcus did it?” I ask. 

He laughs. “Marcus doesn’t get his hands dirty anymore. He has people for that. His daughter. His whores. His companies. NorthLine, the Bloom Network, all of it.” A pause. He tilts his head. “She’s not just his puppet, Brody. She’s a part of it. NorthLine, the girls that he trafficks and uses, the eyes on every street. You need to wake up and see what’s right in front of you, for once in your wasted life.”

I want to throttle him. Pull the teeth right out of his lying skull. He hates that Lola is still tangled in my head. He hates that I can’t cut her loose. I hate it too. But the more he tells me to kill the feeling, the sicker it gets.

“She’s weak, Brody. Marcus made her that way. Use it. Don’t let her use you.” 

I’m not listening. Not really. All I see is a white flash—the car, rain-wet glass, the moment my mother’s head hit the dash and her eyes went empty. The hydraulic whine of a tow truck. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill. Even then, the world just moved on.

Richard didn’t even shed a tear. He said, “That’s the price.” He taught me to shove grief down. Crush it down until something worse takes its place. Now I can’t feel anything except this need. Lola in my hands, Lola on her knees, Lola screaming my name. Our violence. 

I snap back. His pen scrapes the page. He’s already forgotten my mother. He’s already forgotten everything. “I expect results,” he murmurs, head bent. “Don’t disappoint me again. If you do, maybe I’ll hire someone hungrier next time. See what his girl fetches on the market these days.”

I see red. Full blackout. I slam the file on the desk; it bursts like a gunshot, paper flying. “She’s not yours to fucking sell, you piece of shit!”

Richard blinks at me. Just that. Utterly bored.

“Grow up. You’re still a child. Still want to think she was ever innocent. She wasn’t. None of them are. They arranged it. Maybe under Marcus. Maybe for someone bigger. Doesn’t matter now. The only justice you’ll find is what you carve out for yourself.”

He leans back, the chair creaking under his bones. “Marcus plays a long game. He’ll cut out his own daughter’s heart if it keeps his fingers clean. You understand now why the girl’s so dangerous? She’s the only thing he can’t control, so he keeps her on a short leash. You want to avenge your mother? We need to take her out of the picture, just like he did to your mother. We will ruin Marcus Bloom.”

I let it sink in. My jaw pulses. Mother, Lola, violence. It’s a straight fucking line.

He’s gloating. He thinks he’s showing me my own death in a mirror. He’s proud of it. Bastard.

“If you want to burn him, use her. Use what she is. She’s already ruined. No point pretending she isn’t. I have something big planned for her, for Marcus. A storm is coming Brody, you’ll want to be on the winning side,” he says, quieter,

My vision blurs at the corners. I see a mouthful of red. My mother on the tile, her skull opened up like a flower of bone. Lola on her knees for me, cheeks and thighs bruised where I left my mark. All the softness scraped away by men like Richard and Marcus.

I step back from the desk. My hands drip. My mind empties out. I want to bite through my own tongue just to stop the noise.

He doesn’t flinch. Not once. “You good?” he asks. Like he’s checking on the fucking groceries.

I slam my fist into the door on the way out. The crack echoes all the way down the hall.

13

BRODY

THE PAST (AGED 18)

Kissing my girl is like a dream. My sweet Lola, my beautiful Bambi. 

I never thought that someone like her would go for a guy like me. Wrecked. Damaged. Psychotic. But she sees something in me. Something good. Makes me want to be good. But, if she knew my secret, she would run. That boy’s blood won’t ever wash off my hands. My first kill. An accident. But ultimately, it only expanded an existing darkness within me. 

We made it through junior year, sneaking around, and giving each other companionship. I hold myself back for her. She’s not ready yet. I can see that. Something is stopping her. There is fear in her eyes when sex is brought up. 

Who hurt you? I want to ask. But, I don’t. I don’t pry, not until she wants me to. 

She has trust issues; I know that, I see it. But I am hungry, and I can’t wait forever. So, I want to make it special. I want to spoil her, show her she is safe, show her I will not hurt her. 

It is the summer before senior year, we are both eighteen now. She is an adult in every way, especially her body. It is nice and filled out now. Round, full tits. Wide hips and a perfect ass. Every fucking time I look at her, I want to pounce her bones and never let go. 

I need to work up to it. Despite how I want to rip her clothes off and fuck her until I am the only man she will ever want. 

Her house is right there and I watch her through the window. There is a pull within me, as if she is a magnet I cannot resist any longer. I hop off my bed and tiptoe downstairs. The house is quiet; Sophie is at a friend’s house for the night. Mom and dad are asleep, or getting wine-drunk in their room together. So, it is easy for me to slip out. 

I walk to the side of her house. There is a tree looming right by her window, and I climb up. I balance on the roof and make my way to her window. It’s one of those houses with a dormer window, giving me a spot to crouch right outside.

I watch her for a moment. So beautiful. So innocent. I lift my hand and knock. Not loud enough to scare her, but enough pressure for her to know to look. She jumps up and turns her head towards me. Her eyes widen. She comes over and opens the window with a smile on her face. 

“What are you doing here? You could have texted first, I almost had a heart attack!” She steps backwards as I climb inside. I see the way she bites her lip and looks at the closed door.

“What are you so afraid of?” I ask, stepping closer. In the time we have been together, she does not talk much about her home life. 

She laughs it off. As usual. “It’s nothing, Brody. I just don’t want my mom or step-dad to walk in here and catch us.” 

I walk over to the door and lock it. “Well, now they’ll have to bust the door down just to get in here.” I smirk and grab a hold of her.

She is about to protest but stops when my lips catch hers. She melts into me; her hands tremble against my chest, but she doesn’t push away. Instead, she clings tighter. Like she’s scared she’ll fall through the floor if she lets go.

I push her up against the wall. The drywall thuds. I want to see if she’ll moan or gasp. I want to leave her breathless, dizzy, marked everywhere. Her mouth opens under mine. Her tongue flicks shy at first, then bolder, greedy little licks that make my cock pulse. 

I grip her jaw, angle her head back, force her to take every inch of my mouth. I want to make her remember me for the rest of her fucking life. My pulse hammers. There’s nothing in the world except the feel of her tits smashed against my chest, her hips grinding desperate into my thigh.

She moans into my mouth. Shaky, half-ashamed; it makes me want to wreck her. I groan back, unable to control it. My hands slide down her back, palming every angle, dragging her closer. I want her on the mattress, on her knees, begging. But she breaks the kiss first, gasping, smiling with swollen lips. Eyes huge, haloed in blue. Her hair is a mess. She looks like she’s been fucked already. I want to mess her up even worse.

A laugh bubbles up from her throat. Breathless. “You could’ve warned me, Brody.”

I crowd her, pinning her again. I whisper it in her ear, “You like it when I don’t warn you.”

She shivers but doesn’t deny it. I drag my teeth along her skin, down her neck, biting a trail until she whimpers.

“Fuck.” She sighs. “We can’t…we can’t get caught.”

I pull back just enough to see her face. “We won’t.” I’d burn the fucking house down if anybody tried to open the door.

I grab her hand and guide her to the bed. Every step, my body aches for more contact. My cock is impossibly hard. My head is full of static. She sits down, legs crossed, shorts riding up obscenely. I want to slide my hand under there, tease her until she begs.

Lola points to the TV. “Pick something.” Her voice is wobbly, eyes glued to my hands. She wants to see what I’ll do next.

I stare at the remote but can’t focus. All I want to do is press her into the mattress and make her mine. Instead, I sit beside her. Too close. Our thighs touch. My hand brushes the soft skin just above her knee.

She goes stiff, then pliant. I watch the way she breathes, in and out, shallow and desperate. Her hands are in her lap, fingers twisted together.

The bed dips under my weight. Her thigh brushes mine, and the world lurches. I could take her right here, right now. Push her onto her back. Rip those shorts clean off. Instead, I feed it slowly. Patient. The way predators toy with prey just to taste the terror before the kill. My knuckles graze her knee softly. Her body jolts, and blood surges in my dick.

She flicks the remote, fumbling it. I don’t care about the movie. I care about the way her breath fans my neck, the heat of her body melting into mine. Every shift of her limbs sends static through me. She glances up through her lashes. Shy. Wrecked. There’s a question trembling in her mouth but she can’t voice it.

I reach over, resting my palm on her knee and just press. Gentle, but territorial. Letting her know she’s fucking claimed. I watch her face. The wet shine in her eyes. She’s terrified and delighted. Perfect.

We don’t talk for a minute. Just the buzz of the TV, two kids pressed together pretending not to want what we both want. The possessiveness in me gets louder every second. She smells like sugar. Lotion, maybe, something cheap and floral. I want to lick it off her skin.

She brings her hands to her chest. One crosses over her breast. She’s aware of the way I look at her. She always is.

I trace my thumb up her thigh, just a touch, nowhere dangerous. Yet.

“You nervous?” I murmur, not looking at the screen.

“No.”

Liar. I squeeze. She jumps. Her eyes flutter closed for a second. Her lips part but she doesn’t have words. Doesn’t matter. I lean in and bite her earlobe, just the barest graze of teeth. She gasps. A pretty, broken little noise.

“Lola,” I hiss. “You want me to stop?”

She shakes her head. Fuck, that’s good. That’s so good I want to bite her bones in half. I push her onto her back, slow, careful, so she doesn’t spook. She looks up at me, wide-eyed, open, trusting.

If she knew how much I want to destroy her, she’d never let me touch her. Maybe that’s why it’s so sweet. Delicate. I kiss her softly this time. Everything in me is violent and nasty, but my mouth is soft. I force it to be. For her. Tongue gentle, slow, patient.

Her fingers tangle in my hair. She drags me closer, hips arching up to grind against my thigh. We kiss forever. Her breath comes in little whimpers. I want to brand her. Make her incapable of leaving my bed, my side, my orbit.

The movie’s still playing, but nobody’s watching it.

She shifts, thighs brushing against me, and my skin goes fever-hot. I let my palm slide higher, just an inch, staring at the way her breath stutters and pulls. Pretty, trembling, almost scandalized. Like it’s a secret only we can touch.

“You like that, Bambi?” My voice tears up the space. She nods. She’s always honest with her body, even if her words come out sideways. I lean into her, lips against the shell of her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

There’s hesitation. She’s shy, but not unwilling. I can feel her heart pounding through her chest, wild as a hummingbird in my hands. I watch the blush rise up her throat, beautiful, impossible.

“I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “The way you did before.”

She doesn’t have to beg. Not ever. Our kiss is filthy.

She opens for me, tongue tangling, desperate. All pride gone. My hands roam up her thigh, over her hip, squeezing, claiming. Flesh so fucking perfect. I could knead it for hours. Her hands tangle in my hair, scratching, yanking me closer, as if any distance will kill her. I slide my palm to her waist, up her side, fingers curling under the hem of her shirt.

She breaks the kiss, panting.

My voice shakes when I say it: “You want more, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Please?”

Fuck me. The sound of her begging is an overdose. I want to be good for her, careful, but my head is too full of wanting.

I slip my hand under her shirt; her skin is electric. I don’t go straight for her tits, not yet. I trace her ribs, memorize the lines of her, the way she arches into my hand. She makes this soft, breathy whimper when my calluses rake her side.

“So sensitive,” I murmur.

She bites her lip and looks up at me. Blue eyes. Like the sky during dusk. “Nobody ever touched me like that before. Not like this.”

Possessiveness slices through me. I grin. “Nobody ever will, except me.”

She laughs again, all nerves. “That supposed to sound romantic?”

I tug her shirt higher, barely exposing the swell of her stomach. She shudders. “Yeah,” I breathe. “You’re everything to me, Bambi. Thought you figured that out.”

I drag my thumb over her hipbone. She moans, helpless. I want to hear her do it again.

“Maybe I’m greedy,” she whispers. “Maybe I want more.”

God, her voice. A little hoarse. Nothing fake about it. The fire in her nearly sets my skin on fire.

I sit up. “You can have more,” I say. I can barely make words. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”

Her eyes go wide, then darker. She licks her lips, slowly. My cock is throbbing. “Show me,” she whispers.

She’s trembling. My veins are humming. I crush my mouth to hers. The kiss is brutal; she gasps when I bite her lip, just to see if I can make her flinch. Instead, she arches and moans for me.

Perfect.

My hand slides up her thigh, slow, torturous. I feel how hot she is, how the muscle jumps as I touch her. She’s so fucking responsive. She tries to bury her face in my shoulder. I nudge her chin up, making her look at me, so I can see her wrecked and needy.

My palm slips under her shirt. She’s not wearing a bra, just smooth skin and little shivers. I graze her ribs, then higher, until I cup her tit in my hand. It’s heavy and soft.

She shudders and makes a helpless sound. She tries to talk, but all that comes out is, “Brody—fuck. Oh, God.”

I roll her nipple between my fingers. She jerks, and her thighs open under me. 

“You like that?” I say it low. “You want more?”

She nods, desperate. “Don’t stop. Please.”

There it is. The begging, the hunger. I breathe it in.

I dive back in. Mouth on her throat, biting, sucking, leaving blossom marks only I get to see. She tastes like vanilla. She writhes. I love it. She’s not even pretending not to want it.

My fingers drift down, fumble the button of her shorts. I don’t take them off. Not yet. I press down over the seam, right where she’s soaked.

She bucks. Moans. “Oh, my god…”

“I could make you cum so easily like this.” I’m barely breathing. “You want that?”

She nods, wild, eyes drowning. I keep a steady rhythm rubbing her through the denim, and she can’t keep quiet. Little noises. Too fucking good.

She’s going to cum for me, just like this. I stroke her clit with my thumb and pinch her nipple at the same time. She chokes out my name, jerking wildly as her back bows. She’s so soft. So needy. My Bambi, right where I want her.

“Bambi,” I murmur. My voice shreds the quiet. “You look so fucking pretty begging for me.”

Her lashes flutter. “I’ve never begged before,” she whispers, embarrassed but proud.

“Good,” I say. “I don’t want anybody else to ever make you feel this way. I want you ruined for anyone but me.”

It’s fucked up, but she doesn’t fight it. She squirms, thighs clamping around my leg, and moans again. Deep and reckless.

Lola arches under me, tits pushed up into my palm, hips grinding into my thigh. The heat from her cunt burns through the denim. If I tug her shorts off, she’ll let me. I know it. She wants me to be the first. She wants me to be her fucking everything.

But I’m holding back. For her. For us. My monster’s on a leash, for now. She deserves to be worshipped, not devoured. Not unless she begs for it.

“Tell me what you want,” I say, lips on her ear, “and I’ll never deny you.”

She can barely breathe. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop touching me.”

I keep working her over, thumb grinding slow circles, fingers tugging her nipple until she nearly sobs. Her hips jerk up, chasing more. My cock is leaking, straining against my jeans. 

She claws at my wrist. I know she has no control left. I like that. I love it.

She whines, frantic. “Brody, Brody, please, please.”

I could die right there, with her voice begging. It shreds my fucking soul.

I lean down, mouth against her ear. I make it nasty, gentle, worshipping and cruel. “You gonna cum for me, Bambi? You want me to?”

She nods, helpless, wet eyelashes and glazed blue eyes.

God, holy fuck, I’d kill the world for her.

I work her harder, desperate, grinding my palm against her cunt through the shorts. It isn’t enough but it’s enough to make her shake.

I bite at her neck, just above her pulse. Not gentle. I want her marked, painted up so she thinks about me every time she showers. I suck, hard, tongue wet, enjoying the way she writhes.

Then I let go. I stop.

She whimpers, shudders, clutching at me, trying to clamp her thighs together. I don’t let her. I wedge a knee between her legs, and I kiss her. I kiss her until her lips bruise. She kisses back, shy at first, then desperate, all tongue and soft gasps.

Guiding her hand to my cock to make her feel the insane bulge there, she freezes. Eyes wide. A pretty panic.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You do whatever you want.”

She glides her palm over me through my jeans. I almost lose it. I jerk in her grip. She likes the effect, I can tell, because she bites her lip and does it again, this time harder.

Fuck. My vision whites out.

“You want to see it?”

“You’d probably break me.”

I smirk. “Not unless you beg, Bambi.”

Her cheeks are so red, I could burn my hands on them. She’s brave, though. She unzips me, just a little. Her fingertips graze my cock, cautious, tentative. I flex under her touch, desperate not to snarl.

God, those tiny hands. The way she shivers but won’t stop.

I watch her. Every micro-expression. Hunger flickers in her eyes, blue gone black at the center. She bites her lip. She’s thinking about it. My cock under her palm, heavy, dangerous. She strokes again. Knuckles pale and trembling.

My pulse thunders. I grab her wrist. Not hard, but enough. I want her to know I’m in control, always. She gives this tiny gasp, skin burning under my thumb.

“You’re playing with fire,” I whisper. I want to bury my mouth in her neck. “You know that, right?”

“Maybe I like the danger.”

She’s fucking perfect. Soft, shy, but not scared. Not of me.

I pull her closer. Bodies flush. I cup her cheek, force her to look up. Her mouth is cherry red, spit-glossed, open in anticipation.

She whispers, “What are you gonna do if I push you too far?”

Predator and prey. We both know which I am.

“I’ll ruin you,” I say. Honest. Dark. “But I’ll do it slowly.”

She melts at that. I kiss her, full force this time. Her mouth gives way, tongue tangling with mine, greedy, messier than before. My hand slides up her ribcage, feeling every stutter of breath. I want all of her. My palm skates over her tit, slow, gentle at first. Her nipple is hard already, perfect under my fingers.

I roll it, pinching. She moans into my mouth. The sound makes my cock lurch, desperate to be buried inside her, but I hold back. I want her to remember this after I leave. Every touch. Every bite.

She wraps her arms around my neck, legs spreading a little, welcoming. My thigh slots between hers. I grind, slowly, making her feel the size of me, the weight. Her hips arch, chasing more.

“You’re so wet.” My lips ghost her jaw, voice barely there. “It’s fucking unreal.”

She claws at my shirt, dragging me closer, greedy. She’s not pretending anymore. The way she moves is wild. I palm both her tits, hands covering her completely. Squeeze and knead until she whimpers. Collarbone to sternum, I map every inch of her.

Her hands are under my shirt now. Exploring. She traces the lines of my abs, nails biting into flesh, scratching her name into me. She kisses my neck, awkward at first, but learning. She leaves a wet, desperate mark just below my jaw.

I groan. The control slips. I grip her ass and flip us, hauling her up into my lap, forcing our bodies closer.

She laughs, helpless, then kisses me again.

“I want you to rub yourself on me, Bambi. I want you to cum on my cock.”

She looks at me, flushed and trembling, lips parted. “You’re…you’re insane,” she whispers, like she doesn’t mean it at all.

I tilt my head, force her eyes to mine. “Yeah?” My palms find her hips. Warm, perfect. She fits in my grip like she was made for me. “You like that about me.”

She tries to laugh, but it breaks on a gasp when I buck my hips up, grinding my cock against her pussy through the thin shorts. She’s dripping. My head spins. I clamp her hips tight and pull her closer. Her thighs straddle mine, open and helpless, shorts riding up so high I almost see everything. I want to rip them off. 

She squirms, trying to get comfortable, but I make her move. I jerk her hips, slow, make her rock forward, then back. The friction is brutal. She shivers and clings to my shoulders.

“You feel that?” My voice is wrecked.

She whimpers. “Yeah.”

I flex under her, harder. She rides my cock, grinding through both our clothes. Hungry little noises bubble up out of her. She’s watching my face, desperate to see if she’s doing good. 

She is. Fuck, she is.

I grab a fistful of her ass, and make her move faster. “Don’t slow down.” I spit the words out. She moans and nods, never tearing her eyes off mine. She grinds her pussy over the length of my dick. Every motion makes her tits bounce. They’re amazing, barely covered by her shirt. I push the fabric up, exposing her hard nipples. I mouth at one, sucking until she claws my hair and almost sobs.

“More,” she breathes. The word is barely there.

I lock her wrists in one hand. The other slips down, peels her shorts off, dragging them down her thighs. She doesn’t fight it. She lifts her hips, helps me strip her, panties drenched.

My filthy girl.

I shove my boxers down. My cock slaps against my stomach. She stares. For a heartbeat she’s shy, but then I press her bare cunt down onto me and the shyness evaporates.

Fuck, I want to be inside her, but tonight is about her. Making her trust me. For now, I will have to settle for her grinding on my dick. 

“Oh my god,” she gasps. It’s pure filth, the way her pussy slips and slides over my cock. I rock her in place. Her clit drags perfectly over the head, again and again, a wet shuddering mess.

I crook my neck, whisper gutter words into her ear. “Good girl.” I want her to shake all over. “Ride me. Don’t stop.”

She obeys. She always fucking obeys.

Her palms flatten on my chest. Desperate, messy rhythm. Her cunt grinds up and down my length. My hands clamp around her hips, greedy, brutal. She’s wet, slippery, perfect. Her pussy slides up my cock, bare skin to bare skin. She grinds, helpless, all instinct and desire.

I fucking love it.

She rides me, gasping, tits bouncing, sweat sticking hair to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted. Whimpers hit my ear, and I want to swallow the sound. I want to crush her.

I keep her moving. My cock throbs. She leaves a mess every time she rolls down, cunt catching the swollen head, dragging it over her clit again and again.

She shudders and digs her nails into my shoulders. That’s good. I want her marked. I want her aching for it every time she walks tomorrow.

“Fuck, Brody,” she moans, clinging to me. Beautiful. Ruined. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

I cup her tits, hard, fingers squeezing them together. She whines and rotates her hips, greedy, desperate. My palm slips between her legs. Two fingers rub her clit while she rides my cock. Pressure. Stroke. I know exactly how to torture her.

She squeals, forgetting about being shy. “Oh, my god, yes, yes, right there…”

I want to tear her open. Devour her. But not yet. I force patience down my spine.

I talk to her because she likes it filthy. “Love how you grind on my cock, Bambi. Look at you. So pretty. So desperate. This fucking pussy belongs to me, do you hear me?”

She nods, blue eyes blazed out, completely lost. “Yours, yours, only yours.”

That does it. I almost lose it. My vision tunnels. I grind her down, rub circles on her clit at just the right speed. She shatters. Her back arches, tits shoved in my face. Her pussy clamps down, spasming, dripping all over me. She gasps my name. 

I hold her through it. I make her ride it out, keep her pinned when she tries to squirm away. “Don’t hide,” I growl. 

She trembles. More cum leaks out, drenching my lap. Her thighs quake. I could do this for years and never get bored.

Then I slow it down, gentle, just rocking her in my arms. She melts against me, limp, boneless. Hair messy all over her face. 

I kiss her, slow this time. Possessive. My tongue slides deep. I cradle her, arms locked tight around her waist. She buries her face in my neck. Her tits mashed against my chest, bare skin on bare skin, perfect. 

I don’t even know my own name anymore. There’s nothing left but her.

Her thighs are shaking. She’s still grinding, soft and wet against me, making tiny noises that slice straight through my backbone. Every inch of her is mine. I don’t think. I barely breathe. I just hold her tighter.

“Brody,” she whispers. Scared, but not really. Mostly shy, mostly ruined by wanting.

I tangle my fingers in her hair. Pull her back so I can see her face. Lips swollen, cheeks streaked red, eyes glassy and glazed. She looks wrecked, but happy. There’s nothing prettier.

“You okay?” I run my hand up her spine.

She nods, all nerves. “Yeah. I just… I never…”

She doesn’t finish. Her mouth opens, closes. Blue eyes, huge and hopeful, blinking up at me like she’s waiting for me to shatter her again.

“You never what?” I ask, softer this time.

She sucks in a breath. Her palms flatten on my chest, clutching. “Nobody ever made me feel safe and crazy at the same time.” Her voice is small. Real.

I could eat it. Devour her whole, keep her hidden away so nobody else could even try.

“Good.” I whisper it right into her ear. “I don’t want anybody else touching you. Ever.”

She laughs, nervous. “Nobody would dare, Brody.”

I look at her. Really look. “You like it when I get possessive?”

She nods, bashful, lips caught between her teeth. “I’d freak out if you weren’t.”

I grin. “You’re mine. All fucking mine.”

She melts. Literally. Like she’ll fall to pieces if I let go for one second. I wrap her up, haul her into my lap, and cradle her with both arms. I could hold her all night. Maybe I will.

I rest my cheek on the crown of her head. She is my everything. “Are you tired?” I run my thumb down her back. Her skin is so soft.

She hums. “Maybe a little. You wore me out.”

I snort. “Didn’t even fuck you yet, Bambi.”

She giggles. It’s a real laugh, a light in the darkness. “There’s always next time.”

I squeeze her ass, playful. “You’re impossible.”

She pokes me in the ribs. “You’re obsessed.”

I am. More than she’ll ever know.

14

LOLA

I lose track of time.

It starts small, like it always does. Keys not where I left them, a favorite lipstick gone, a mug turned so the chipped handle faces the wall instead of the door. Stupid things, easy to blame on myself. I’m tired, I’m careless, I’m losing it again. Maybe it’s the drugs, or the sleepless nights. Maybe it’s Marcus, shifting things when he’s angry, silently punishing me for slights I can’t remember.

But the feeling lingers. The prickling on the back of my neck when I cross the living room at midnight, every muscle tight, waiting for a voice to cut the dark. The way the air feels heavier in my bedroom, like someone’s just slipped out as I step in. The silence that presses in after.

I keep busy. That’s what survivors do. I run errands for Marcus, ducking my head, pretending not to notice the way his friends watch me. I clean the kitchen twice, three times, until the smell of bleach stings my nose and makes my eyes water.

I snap at my reflection in the hallway mirror, “You’re fine, Lola. You’re not crazy.”

The mirror doesn’t answer. It never does.

Tuesday night, I find my phone on the windowsill, screen open to the camera app. I don’t remember putting it there. There are photos. Blurry, low light, the outline of my own sleeping body curled in bed. My stomach flips, cold and empty. I scroll back. The file info says 2:41 a.m. I don’t wake easily. Whoever took these had time.

I think about showing Marcus. My fingers hover over the door to his study, but I stop. He’ll blame me. He’ll say I left the window open, that I invited trouble, that a girl like me should expect to be watched. He’ll make me pay for it.

Deleting the photos, I turn the phone off and wrap it in a T-shirt at the bottom of my laundry basket. I won’t sleep tonight anyway. The next morning, I find a single black rose on my pillow. There are no words, no note, just petals, crushed and velvety, staining the white case with faint bruises.

I stare at it as my brain scrambles for logic. Marcus doesn’t waste time with flowers. He likes gifts you can’t throw away. Handcuffs, silk scarves, bruises that last for days. Someone was here. Someone close enough to stand over me while I slept.

I don’t tell Sophie; she has her own problems. I miss her. I miss the way she used to laugh, the way she’d make popcorn at midnight and drag me out of my nightmares with stupid movies.

Now I’m alone with the darkness, and it’s getting harder to pretend it isn’t alive.

I keep moving. I go to work. I pose for a new set of photos, the kind that make me feel like a cardboard cutout with tits. The photographer is new, hands rough, eyes bored. He doesn’t talk much; that’s almost a relief.

When I come home, the living room smells different. Like smoke, sweat, and a stranger’s aftershave. I pause in the doorway, heart pounding. The air is cold, the curtains shifting in a draft I can’t find. I push the window shut, lock it, check it twice. I check the bathroom: nothing. The kitchen: the same. My bedroom: bed made, pillow fluffed, black rose gone. I blink. Did I imagine it? Was it ever really there? I feel stupid for even wondering. My mind is a maze, and I’m lost somewhere in the center, walls closing in.

The next morning, there’s a note slid under my bedroom door. No envelope, just paper. Square, thick, expensive.

I see you.

You’re never alone.

My hands shake so hard I nearly drop it. I crumple the note and stuff it into my makeup bag, beneath the powder I never use. My lips feel numb, the room spinning around me. I check the locks again. Every window, every door. I want to believe I’m safe, but the feeling won’t go away. Someone is watching. Someone is waiting.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel breath on my skin, a weight at the edge of the mattress. I wake with my heart pounding, nails digging into my palms, sheets soaked with sweat. The dark feels crowded.

On Thursday, Marcus calls me into his study. He’s in a mood, suit crisp, cologne sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when I enter.

“Sit,” he says, voice flat. I sit, knees tight together, hands in my lap. He finally glances up. His eyes are black, unreadable. “You’ve been distracted lately, Lola. That’s not acceptable.”

I force a smile. “Just tired. Long week.”

He watches me, cold and slow. “Don’t lie to me. If you’re seeing someone, if you’re hiding something, I’ll know. You know what happens if you keep secrets.”

My pulse stutters. “I’m not hiding anything.”

He lets the silence stretch, a leash wrapped around my throat. “Good,” he says at last. “Because I’d hate to have to remind you what happens to bad girls.”

I nod, throat tight. When he dismisses me, I walk out on jelly legs. I check my phone; no new messages, nothing from the unknown number. I almost wish there was.

That night, the messages start.

The first one comes at 2:11 a.m. My phone vibrates under my pillow, loud enough to wake me from a tangle of nightmares. I blink blearily at the screen.

Your window is open. I could touch you if I wanted.

I bolt upright. The window is shut, locked. I can see my own reflection, mouth open, eyes wild with fear.

A second message.

Close the curtains. You’re prettier when you’re scared.

My hands shake as I fumble for the curtain cord. I yank it down, cloth whipping against the glass. I want to scream, but I press my fist to my mouth and swallow it. Marcus will hear. Marcus will punish me.

I try to call Sophie. The line rings, rings, then goes to voicemail. I don't leave a message. I check every room again. Bathroom, kitchen, living room, hallway. Nothing. The silence is heavier now, as if the house is holding its breath.

I sleep with the lamp on and dream of hands around my throat, of eyes in the dark, of a voice whispering my name over and over. In the morning, I find a lock of my hair on the nightstand. Cut clean, wrapped in a black ribbon. I press my hand to my throat and count, desperate to feel alive.

I consider calling the police, but what would I say? “Someone is watching me. Someone is inside my house.” They’d ask for proof. I have none. Just a thousand tiny wounds, invisible and bleeding.

I text Sophie:

Are you awake? Something’s wrong. Please call me.

No reply. I try again. Nothing.

I shower with the door locked, the steam suffocating, my skin crawling. When I dry off, there’s a new message on my phone.

Red suits you. You should wear it more.

The only red I own is a dress, shoved in the back of my closet, too tight, too short; Marcus’s favorite. I stare at it with my hands shaking. I don’t wear it, opting to wear black jeans and a hoodie, and hope for invisibility.

Night falls slowly.

I sit in the living room, knees hugged to my chest, watching the windows. Every time a car passes, my muscles lock. Every time a branch scrapes the glass, I flinch. There’s a knock at the door and I freeze. It’s late, too late for visitors.

Another knock. Harder.

Tiptoeing to the peephole, my heart pounds in my throat. The porch is empty, no footsteps, no shadow. Just the wind shivering through the dark.

I back away, pulse racing. There’s a sound in the kitchen. A click. I grab the nearest thing; a heavy glass candleholder, and creep toward the noise. The back door is open, just a crack, but enough. I know I locked it. I know I did. I stare into the night, breath fogging the air. A shape moves in the garden. Tall, broad-shouldered, all darkness and threat. My skin goes cold.

“Who’s there?” My voice wavers.

I drop the candleholder, it lands with a dull thud. The shape is gone, the garden empty. The door swings wider in the wind, but I slam it shut, lock it, and jam a chair under the handle. My hands tremble so bad I can barely move. I stagger back to the living room, heart hammering wild. The phone buzzes.

You’re not safe. You never were.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to tear my skin off, to run, to disappear.

But there’s nowhere left to go.

I try to call Marcus. The line is dead. I try Sophie again. Still nothing. I drag a chair into my bedroom, and wedge it under the doorknob. I close the curtains, lock the window, turn the lamp on bright. Curling up in bed, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, shivering.

I stare at the door, waiting. I don’t sleep. I can’t. My thoughts spiral. Who is it? Why me? I replay every interaction from the past month, searching for clues. A man on the sidewalk, a face in a crowd, a laugh behind me at the grocery store.

It could be anyone. It could be everyone.

I count the hours until sunrise. The house is cold, silent, waiting. When the first light creeps through the curtains, I stagger to the bathroom. My face in the mirror is pale, eyes ringed with blue. I look haunted. I look hunted. I turn the shower on hot, steam filling the room. I scrub my skin until it burns, until I’m shaking.

When I step out, there’s a message written on the fogged-up mirror.

Soon.

My knees buckle. I sink to the floor, naked and shivering. I want my mother. I want Sophie. I want to wake up in a world where monsters only live in stories.

But I know better. In this world, monsters live next door. Sometimes they live in your house. Sometimes they live inside you.

I pull my knees to my chest and rock, silent, until the steam fades. I am not safe. I never was.

Once the tiles become painful, I make my way back to the bedroom. Walking over to the window, I reach forward to open the curtains. There is a feeling in my gut telling me that someone is near. To my horror, a man stands on the front lawn. He is wearing all black, a skull mask placed on his face. He stares up at me, and suddenly my feet are frozen to the spot. Is this the person who has been sending me these messages?

Before I can process the sight in front of me, a wave of fog rolls in. I blink. The fog passes, and he is gone. Like a ghost in the night.

15

LOLA

I need this to get through the day. Don’t judge me, momma.

That’s what I tell myself as I stand in the bathroom, hunched over the counter, snorting cocaine. It’s been a coping mechanism since momma died and Brody left me in the dark. I still can’t get the picture of her crushed body out of my head.

“Mom! Oh my god, are you okay?”

The wind whistles. The birds sing. The sun still shines. But, my mother does not answer. There is blood trickling out of her mouth and head, and her body is positioned at an awkward angle. One arm is bent backwards, one leg is bent sideways. Her eyes are staring straight ahead but the light has been swallowed, and there is no reaction. 

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please don’t leave me alone with him.”

My sobs are loud, it echoes throughout the land. She does not wake up. She does not reach her hand up to caress my face and tell me that it will be okay. She just lays there. Silent and still. 

It was supposed to be a fun day. A mother and daughter day trip. Hiking in the mountains. It was supposed to be a distraction. 

It became the worst day of my life.

I bend down and close one nostril, then snort the powder up the other nostril. I close my eyes and inhale the burn. There is a tingling sensation that makes me dizzy, then numb. Thankfully, I know how to put on an act. Marcus will not know that his perfect daughter is on drugs. 

Lately, I’m on edge from paranoia. It grips me like a hungry predator. Ever since I received those ominous messages, I can’t relax. Someone was out there watching me, it horrified me.

I walk out of the bathroom and smooth my hair down, taking one look at myself in the hallway mirror. The reflection staring back at me is a stranger. Empty eyes. Lost. Gone. I touch my face. The skin is cold, as if I am already dead. Maybe I am, and this is my own personal hell.

Today are the days I dread. Modeling shoots, being so vulnerable and exposed in front of shady men is a risk. But it’s a risk I have to take if I want to survive my own personal hell living with Marcus. 

My bruises are fading. I can easily apply makeup and look brand new. Like a pretty doll. That’s what Marcus says. The mirror is cracked, smeared with old fingerprints. I look at myself, eyes too wide, pupils blown. The top is still barely covering me.

I hate this. I hate who I am when I do this. I hate how guilty I feel when I think of my mother’s face and the life she wished for me.

Sorry, mom. You crushed your skull when you fell during our hike. And I am left with the hungry beast. Your husband. 

My phone buzzes, a dull little vibration against the counter.

Unknown number.

I swipe it away, heart pounding. For a second, I think of Marcus. Maybe he’s checking in, making sure I’m not about to let the whole thing collapse.

My skin goes cold. I picture his mouth, twisting around the words I can’t make myself forget. “Don’t disappoint me. You know I only punish you to make you better.”

I fight the urge to throw up into the sink. Instead, I fix my lipstick, dab the sweat off my cheeks, and tell myself it’s only forty minutes until I’m done. I take the bag of cocaine out of my bag and snort some up my nose. Just something to get me through the wandering eyes. 

A knock on the door, a voice rising: “Let’s go, gorgeous!”

I smile at my own reflection. A fucked up thing. 

Back in the warehouse, someone has turned the thermostat even lower. I can feel goosebumps racing up my arms, between my legs, and over my chest. I cross my arms, but that just pushes my boobs together. The men notice.

They always notice.

Gary or Greg or whatever gives me a new prop. A silk scarf, deep blue, like drowning. “You mind tying this around your throat? We want a little more edge for the last set.”

Of course. Always the throat. They want to imagine their hands here, squeezing until my eyes water.

I wrap the scarf slowly, like a snake. My fingers tremble, but I act like it’s sensual. The camera likes that. Someone in the back mutters, “Fuck, that’s hot.”

I hate them. I hate that I’m good at this. Being watched, being consumed.

The rest goes by in a blur. I move where they tell me. I smile, pout, look afraid, look hungry. Sometimes I am hungry. Not for them, for anything but them. For Brody’s mouth on my neck, for Sophie’s gentle touch, for sleep that doesn’t end in screams.

The final shots come quickly. The assistant brings me a water bottle, I drink half of it in one gulp even though it tastes like plastic. The room empties around me. Most of them are already packing up, talking about dinner, about getting drinks, about what they’d do if they could “have a model for just one night.”

I get paid $400 cash, shoved into a cheap envelope. The rest goes to Marcus. No one looks me in the eye. I walk out into the parking lot, the sun is gone, just a bruise of purple and gold at the horizon. My car sits under a flickering streetlight, all alone, like me. The other cars are gone. Even the van from the studio peeled out already.

I hustle across the lot, keys tight in my fist, purse clamped against my side. I don’t look over my shoulder, not until I’m in the car. My hands shake as I unlock it and slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door, lock it. I shove the key into the ignition, twist.

Nothing. Just a weak cough from the engine, then a pathetic grinding sound. I try again. Harder. Even though I know it’s pointless. The same. A sick little whine.

Out of habit, I check my phone. Sophie’s name is at the top of my recent calls. I hit it. It rings, and rings, and rings. No answer. She’s probably out with friends. Or maybe she’s just sick of being my emergency contact.

I text her anyway:

Car’s dead @ studio, can you call me? xoxo

I wait a minute. Nothing.

Looking up, I scan the parking lot again. There’s a weird emptiness now, a flatness. Something crawls along the skin at the back of my neck. The kind of feeling you get when a man is about to do something awful, and you know nobody will help you if you scream.

I know that feeling all too well. 

I scroll my contacts. There’s only one number I know will pick up, even if it’s just to tell me I’m a fuckup. My thumb hovers over Brody’s name. Last time I saw him, he barely looked at me. But people like Brody, they don’t just vanish. 

I dial.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Bambi.” His voice is ice and velvet, even through the phone. The old nickname fogs the inside of my head.

“I need a ride, I’m having car trouble,” I say. I sound tired, even to myself.

He doesn’t ask why. “Where?”

I tell him the address. There is a pause, like he’s already there but wants to make me sweat. “I’ll be there soon.” He ends the call. No goodbye.

I sit in the car and stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at the makeup smudged under my eyes, at my chest straining the fabric of my shirt. He’ll see it, too. He always did.

I try Sophie again. She still doesn’t answer. Minutes pass. I can’t stop tapping my foot, chewing the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

A black car glides into the lot. Shiny, expensive. Brody’s taste, always high-end. It stops right next to me and the window slides down. His eyes are the first thing I see. Blue-gray, hungry. They pin me in place.

I get out, slam the door of my dead car, and walk over. He’s already out of his seat, walking toward me with measured steps like a predator in a suit.

I try to act casual. “Thanks,” I mumble. “Car’s fucked, obviously.”

He ignores me, pops my hood, leans over, and runs his hands over the engine like he’s going to rip it open with his bare hands. I watch the way the muscles move under his shirt, like he’s barely keeping it together. He glances over his shoulder. His eyes don’t let go of me, not even for a second.

He straightens, wipes his hand on his thigh. “You need a tow.” There’s a flicker of something in his voice. Amusement? Disdain? He pulls his phone out and makes a call. His voice goes low. “Need a tow at the address I gave you. Now.” He hangs up, turning back to me. “NorthLine is sending someone.”

I nod, like I know what that means. He studies me for a moment, eyes sinking down to my chest, lingering.

“Nice shirt,” he murmurs, like it’s a mockery, not a compliment.

There’s nowhere to stand that doesn’t feel exposed. I cross my arms tight over my tits, but he just smirks. We get in his car and wait. It smells like him. I remember pressing my face into his neck back when we were teenagers, inhaling that smell. 

Brody sits close, so close I can feel the heat coming off him. My bare leg almost touches his thigh. I try not to shake. He stretches one arm behind me, his hand gripping the headrest. There’s a tension in him. It’s a coiled menace.

“NorthLine. You ever heard of them before?” He says it casual, but nothing about Brody is casual.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

He watches my face. I feel him searching for something under my skin, like he could see right through me if he tried hard enough.

He leans in a little, his breath warm in my ear. “They work a lot of shady jobs for rich assholes. You should stay away from guys like that.”

His voice drags across my nerves. I stare ahead, jaw tight. “I don’t pick my mechanics based on their morals, Brody.”

He laughs. “You never did.” His hand shifts closer, grazing my thigh. I feel his pulse through the fabric, hard and relentless. He glances at me sideways. “You should be more careful where you park. Not everyone’s safe at night, Lola.”

His words don’t feel like a comfort. In fact, they feel like a threat. Like he is taunting me. 

I whip my head around. “This isn’t my fault.”

He smiles, too cold, too hungry. “It never is, right?”

Heat flares between us. I turn away, fist clenching on my purse. “I can take care of myself.”

He snorts. “Sure. That’s why you’re here, dressed like that, begging me for a ride.”

I look down at myself. The top, the way my boobs look obscene under the dim car light. I want to disappear.

“I didn’t ask you for a commentary on my outfit.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are devouring me. “You dress to be seen. You always did. I just didn’t realize you liked an audience so much, Bambi.”

I tense up. “Don’t call me that.”

He leans closer. “What, you want ‘good girl’? Or do you only answer to whore now that you’re a model?”

The slap comes before I think about it. My palm cracks against his cheek. He doesn’t flinch. Just blinks, like it amused him. His hand closes around my wrist before I can move it back. Tight enough to hurt, tight enough that I gasp. Before I can react, he yanks me onto his lap. 

He brings my hand to his mouth, presses my knuckles to his lips, then lowers it onto his thigh, keeping it there. His grip doesn’t loosen.

He murmurs, “You can hate me all you want. You still want it just as bad.”

I could scream. I could claw his eyes out. Instead, I hold perfectly still and stare him down. “You don’t know anything about me anymore, Brody.”

He tilts his head, gaze flicking from my mouth to my chest to my eyes again. “Liar.”

I can’t breathe.

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re lying about something. I know you are. You’ve got that look. Same as you always did when you were hiding something from me. You want me to dig it out of you?”

I jerk my hand free. “I want you to fuck off.”

His hand is on my thigh again, this time closer to the edge of my panties. I feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my skirt.

He looks at me, really looks. His lips brush my ear. “If I got you under me right now, you’d beg for it. You’d scream my name so loud the whole block would know you’re still mine. I’d make you cum so fucking hard, then I’d leave you like you left me.”

He’s hard. I can see the outline pressing against his zipper. I’m wet, I hate that I’m wet, but I am. Despite how cruel his words are, I’m still wet. He slides his hand up, cups my tit, thumb hard over my nipple through the lace of my bra. I gasp.

“You want to be fucked like a slut, Bambi? Or do you want to pretend you’re still better than that?” He squeezes, hard enough to leave marks.

I rock my hips against his lap, desperate and furious. “I hate you,” I hiss.

He laughs, deep in his chest. “Liar,” he repeats. His mouth crushes to mine. It’s not a kiss, more like a claim. I bite his lip. I grind down. He slaps my ass. “Ride me, Bambi. Show me how much you missed it.”

I do, fuck, I do. My skirt rides up, his hands bruising on my thighs, fingers kneading my tits until I’m dizzy. I rub myself against him, my panties soaked through. One of his hands slips under my top, rips the bra down, and my tits spill into his palms. He sucks a nipple, bites it, sucks it. His tongue rolls around the nipple, then bites again. Pleasure spikes, and the motion of his mouth sends electricity towards my cunt. 

I moan, a high-pitched sound. 

“Just like that. That’s what I fucking missed. Not your mouth, not your lies, this. Your pussy soaking through for me. That’s all I ever wanted, Lola.”

Brody grinds up into me. I’m so close to falling apart. I hate him, I hate him more than anyone, and I want him like I’m dying. I hold his head to my tits and roll my hips, putting as much pressure as I can onto him. I want to cum. I need to cum. I haven’t cum from actual pleasure in so long. Anytime I cum, it’s always forced from Marcus. 

Cum, you fucking whore, or I’ll hit you again. I want to see you cum on my cock.

Please, Marcus! I can’t, my body hurts.

I said you need to fucking cum!

A slap from his hand. Fingers rubbing. Eyes closing. Dissociating to a place where it is Brody fucking me and fingering me, not Marcus.

Good girl, I knew you could do it.

Headlights flood the car and another car swings into the lot, engine idling. We freeze. He looks at me, cocky and wild, and my tit still in his hand.

I slap him again. “Don’t touch me.”

He lets go; I scramble off his lap, yanking my skirt down, fingers shaking. I fix my bra, and shove my hair back. The spell wears off, and now I’m a dirty whore again. I side-eye Brody out of the corner of my eye.

Is that all you wanted?

The tow truck is here. NorthLine. The guy climbs out, doesn’t even look at me. Brody rolls down his window, barking orders. His voice is steel now, professional. The real Brody, the one who never cracks.

The car is hitched up, ready to go. Brody tells the guy to deliver it to some shop. I don’t listen. My ears are still ringing from what just happened. When it’s over, Brody turns back to me, watching every move I make. He drives me to my place. The silence is heavy, explosive. I stare out the window, tears threatening but never falling.

As we pull up, he locks the doors. His hand snaps out and grabs my chin. He glares at me.

“You’re hiding something from me. I’ll find out what it is, Lola. Even if I have to tear it out of you.”

“You don’t get to threaten me anymore.”

He stares for a second longer, then he lets me go. I stagger out of the car, almost trip over my heels, running for the door. He watches, eyes hot and vengeful, promising this is far from over.

Inside, I crumble to the floor. My fingers are bruised, my tits sting, and between my legs I ache for more.

I hate him. I hate how much I want him. I know he’ll come for me again.

Brody Voss doesn’t know how to let go.

16

LOLA

I am buried deep in darkness. It consumes me, and I do not want to wake up. I could lie here in the dark for hours. I could let the day slide through my fingers until Marcus barges in and drags me out himself. That would be worse. That always goes worse.

But, the day always calls for me, and I cannot keep Marcus waiting for long. The house is cold when I step out into the hallway. Downstairs, Marcus is sitting at the table. I say nothing when I enter, keeping my head bowed, lips zipped, eyes on the floor.

He lifts his coffee, studying me. “Well, well,” Marcus purrs. “Didn’t expect you up this early in the morning. I thought maybe a ghost would make it down first.”

My stomach sinks. I know better than to answer. He’s in that mood again. Hungry for weakness. He scans my makeup, the way my fingers tremble on the mug. His eyes dig right under the powder, seeing straight through every trick. I stiffen. Don’t let him catch a flinch. Don’t let him know it hurts.

He spreads a napkin on his lap, careful, precise. “You have errands today. Stop at the bank, the jeweler, my tailor. Ask for Mark. Don’t waste time, don’t lose receipts.” Every word is cold. “If you fuck around, I’ll hear about it. I always do.”

My mouth goes dry. “Yes, Marcus.”

He leans in. Slow. Coldness shining in his eyes. “And you will be home by six.”

I nod. There’s no right answer. He’s already made up his mind. A little god at the head of a dead breakfast table.

I stand and move. Don’t let him see you flinch. I gather my purse along with the little list he shoved into my palm. Bank. Jeweler. Tailor. Simple, right? But nothing is ever simple. Every door out of this house leads right back to him.

The air burns cold when I step outside. My knees almost buckle, but I keep moving. I always do.

I get in the car and lock the doors. My hands shake on the wheel, too weak to grip. When I check the rearview, I see a face I don’t even recognize. Blue-black makeup settling in a bruise beneath one eye, foundation barely covering it. Dead-girl lips. A fucked up doll.

Drive. Try not to look back, but I always check the mirror. Always. There’s that same black car from earlier. Parked on the wrong side of the street. Engine running. Probably nothing. Probably just my brain unraveling with fear.

I pull out. The car waits two beats then follows. Slow. Obvious.

Fuck.

First stop is the bank. I don’t make eye contact with the teller, just slide the slip under the glass and wait for the cash. She looks at my ID and then at my face. I smile the way I’m supposed to. Sweet and blank.

She hands me the envelope. Thick, heavy. It’s not my money, not my name. I tuck it in my purse like a bomb. When I glance out the glass, the black car is there. Creeping through the drive-thru, one lane over. I see a flash of white. A man’s arm, sleeve rolled up. Then a baseball cap. The window’s up, but I can feel his eyes. I bail as fast as I can, nearly tripping on the curb.

Groceries next. I don’t wander. I stick to the list. Eggs, cheese, coffee. Milk for him. Soup for me, just in case he lets me eat. Everywhere I move, I feel watched. Eyes move down my back, linger on my chest. The men in the aisles see only the parts of me they want to own.

I catch a man in a hat by the self-checkout. He pretends to look at gum, but it’s me he’s watching. I clutch my bag and run for the exit, heart hammering. I try to text Sophie. Just a string of letters. Help me. I’m scared. But my thumb deletes it before I can hit send. Marcus checks my phone. He always knows. He always finds out.

I want to cry, but there’s nothing left.

Outside, the black car is across the street. Waiting. Always waiting. Next is the dry cleaner. In and out. Nobody speaks. At the crosswalk, I freeze, because there, leaning against a streetlight, is Brody.

He sees me instantly. No smile, no hello. Just those wolf eyes, pinning me open, picking me apart from forty feet away. I want to look away but I can’t. It’s like gravity. Brody’s eyes, cold and endless. I feel it all up and down my spine. That deep, sick thrill of being seen by the one man who doesn’t blink.

I cross the street anyway, keeping my chin up, shoulders back, ass tight, like he’s not the only predator watching. Black car is idling three spaces up. I can hear the low drone of the engine. I walk fast, the world spins around me.

Finally, I pull into the drive. The house is exactly the same, except now it’s full of him. Marcus. I feel his shadow in the bricks before I step inside. When I do, the stench of aftershave hits first. Then coffee. It’s a mask. Everything here is a mask.

Marcus sits in the living room with two men. All suits, all hungry. I don’t know their names, and I don’t want to.

He gestures at me with something that isn’t quite a smile. “Come in, Lola. I was just telling our guests about your little job today.”

I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk slowly, knees nauseous, and make sure my skirt doesn’t ride up too high. He likes to punish me for that, if there’s an audience.

Marcus snaps his fingers. “Coffee for the table, sweetheart.”

I fetch it and pour, steadying the cup on the tray even when my hands want to shake. When I lean over to set the cup on the glass table, one of the men stares straight at my tits. Not even subtle.

Marcus sees. Of course he does. His hand finds my arm, right above the wrist, and squeezes.

His smile never falters. “She’s my pride and joy,” he jokes. “Always so eager to do what she’s told. Aren’t you, Lola?”

He twists my wrist and I nearly drop the coffee. My voice shakes, but I keep it steady. “Yes. Always.”

The men laugh. It’s not human. Just noise. They talk about money, expansion, the usual Marcus crap. Sometimes they reference me by name, but never for anything real. Just the shape I make. Their greed augments. And underneath it, another feeling. Hunger. Like I’m meat, and they’re just waiting for the signal to bite.

The men talk numbers, then logistics. I stop listening. I slip out of myself, float up to the ceiling. They don’t need me here. Not really. Only Marcus does. He watches the men. Watches me. His gaze licks along my skin, cold and bored, pretending I’m nothing at all.

Then it’s over. Chairs scrape, hands shake, goodbyes barked rough. The men drift out, fumble sloppy with the door, coughing and laughing, back to whatever rut in the city they crawled from.

Finally. Silence. For one moment, I choke on relief.

Marcus sits, back rigid, waiting for the echoes to die. I stand in the doorway and wait for the next order. He cocks his head, not looking. “Clear this up,” he barks like I’m a robot or a pet.

I do it. Stack the plates, wipe crumbs. I don’t even taste what’s in the bowls. I could eat the soap instead. When the table is clean enough he gestures. Time for dinner. We sit together at the big, cold slab of a table. Just us. The worst part.

Lights are too bright overhead. My skin prickles under his stare. I pick at a baked potato, push shredded meat around my plate while my stomach squirms.

Marcus cuts his steak into perfect, even cubes; each motion is exact. I force myself to swallow a forkful. My gut protests. My ribs pulse under the turtleneck. He watches me chew, watches my throat work. Every swallow is a performance. Halfway through, I give up. My stomach’s collapsing inward.

“You have to eat more than that,” Marcus says, voice flat. “People notice if you lose too much weight. It doesn’t photograph.”

I nod, pick up the fork again and shove a cold lump of potato in my mouth, trying not to gag.

He finishes first, as always.He stands, chair leg squealing against the floor as he wipes his mouth. “I’ll be in the office. Don’t bother me.”

His footsteps vanish down the hall. The door closes shut. I don’t move for a long time. Eventually, I make my way to my bedroom. A bathroom is connected to it, one of the many bathrooms we have. I wonder why we live in such a big house. It feels unnecessary to have all these rooms.

Especially since it is just me and the monster.

I peel my clothes off and step into the shower. The heat of the water burns at first, making my bruises swell and scream. Then it subsides, and I am numb in the heat. The water cascades, and I wish I could float here forever. 

Staring at the wall, I think of Brody. How good he made me feel. How being with him felt like this shower. Warm, safe, secure. 

Now I am just a cold body drifting away. 

Once the heat of the water runs out, I step out and redress myself in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. It’s cold in my room. I can’t stop the shaking in my hands. It won’t go away. I try to breathe. I can’t.

The house is too quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. The kind that prickles the back of your neck and makes you want to dig a hole and hide. I drift from the bathroom to the door, checking the lock three times, even though I never used to bother. Not until him.

Down the hallway, darkness pools around every corner. I keep my feet light on the cheap wood floor. I listen. There’s a low rumble outside. Not thunder, more like an engine idling. Then it cuts off. Doors thud. Heavy boots clack on the driveway.

Fuck.

My heart lurches into my neck. I duck to the window and peel up one corner of the blind. I see nothing but the drag of headlights across the curb. But they’re here. Someone’s here. More than one.

I back away, stomach flipping over itself. I run to check the locks. Front door, checked. Then the kitchen. Twist the deadbolt until my wrist aches. My ribs spasm with every move. My phone is in my hand and I text Sophie. “Just checking in,” I type, thumbs clumsy and numb. Nothing comes back; the bubble never moves.

I call her. Maybe she’ll answer. Just a ring, then dead air. It shouldn’t be dead. Why is it dead?

My jaw tenses. I try the home phone. The line is flat, hollow, no sound at all. Panic swarms. Crawling, gnawing, biting me up from the insides. I grip my phone so hard I feel it crack. 

Then there is a loud crash. Glass or wood breaking. A flood of footsteps follow, fast and heavy. Shadows slither across the walls. Men. At least two, maybe three. Black masks. Gloves. They don’t hesitate. I scream, or at least, I try, but there’s leather slammed over my mouth before a sound escapes. Someone yanks my arms, wrenching them up behind my back, sharp zip of tape at my wrists. 

I thrash, I kick, I claw backwards. They pin me face-down on the floor, knee in my side, one fist grabbing my hair until my scalp feels like it’s on fire. Rough hands shove something over my face. Linen hood, thick. I can’t see. I can barely breathe. I want to bite my tongue off.

In the distance, Marcus shouts. The voice is less a word, more a roar. “What the hell is this? Who the fuck sent you?”

A crash. Desk overturns. Silence. Sick, total silence. All the air gets sucked out of the room. My whole body is filled with terror. Worse than when Marcus gives me punishments.

This is the kind of fear that makes me wonder if I am about to join my mother in the grave. I never felt like that with Marcus, because I know he does not want me dead, despite his cruelty.

But now? I do not know what is going to happen next. 

I want to disappear into the floorboards, but the masked men don’t give me a chance. They wrench me up, rough hands everywhere, gloved fingers digging into the soft parts of my arms, my ribs. I try to scream but the linen hood smothers everything. I gag, choke, swallow a mouthful of my own spit.

They drag me. Slam me into every corner, every rough edge in the hallway. My shoulder cracks against the doorframe. My knees scrape tile. My wrists are useless behind my back, throbbing under the tape.

Can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

One of them yanks my head back so hard my neck snaps. My body slams into a wall. My face bashes into cold glass. My cheek splits. I want to retch, but I keep it down.

The front door swings open. Night pours in, frigid air bites through my sweat-soaked skin, burning every exposed inch. They haul me across the porch, down the steps. My heels scrape against concrete and I hear one snap, plastic splintering. I fall, knees skid on ice. They pick me up by the armpits like I weigh nothing.

The neighborhood is dead. No lights, no faces, just the static of my pulse and their boots hammering the sidewalk. I kick. I scream into the hood. It’s worthless. The air gets colder, thinner.

Van. I can smell it before I see it. Old oil, dust, cherry tobacco. Someone opens a sliding door and shoves me in. I land on my stomach. Hard, cold metal digs into my hip. Blood floods my mouth. I spit, try to breathe through my nose, but it’s stuffed up, running. One of them shoves my ankles together and wraps tape around them. Tight. Too tight. My skin tingles, then goes numb.

They’re arguing. Voices thick under the mask. I can’t make out words, just the sound. Frantic. Threatening.

“Watch the fucking house, idiot.” “You left a trail.” “Doesn’t matter, she’s ours now.”

I try to scream. It comes out as a thin whine.

The van slams shut. I’m alone in the back, wrists and ankles stuck, rocking on every bone. My ribcage scrapes metal. My jaw throbs. Another set of hands search me. Pat me down. My bag, my phone, it’s all gone. Nothing left but skin and fear.

The engine roars to life. We jerk forward so hard I slam into the wheel well. Something cracks. My vision fuzzes with pain. I start to cry; I can’t help it. Hot tears bleed down my cheeks, under the hood, smeared in blood and snot.

The van peels out, cornering at high speed. I’m tossed from side to side. Every bump sends agony up my spine.

I beg somebody to save me. I beg Sophie. I beg Brody.

Nothing. My thoughts splinter. Dizzy. Dizzy.

How are no cops pulling us over? I know we must be going over the speed limit. The van jerks. Pain blooms. My arms twist behind me, useless, taped tight, and my breathing is wet under the hood. I can’t brace myself. I can’t even twist away. My scalp burns where one of them grabbed my hair. My wrists are already going numb. Ankles are worse.

I whimper. Try to swallow the noise but it creeps out anyway. The men in the front argue with each other, voices chopped and warped by the cage.

It’s dark. I glimpse through the fabric of the hood. No city lights anymore. Just black trees, pale swipes of snow on the edges of the road. Streetlights thin, then gone. The van’s headlights are the only glow and it makes the snow look like bones.

I want to puke. My stomach clenches so hard I taste acid at the back of my throat. Every jolt hurts. My vision pulses, white at the edges. I can’t see faces. Just shadows. Black gloves, black masks. I could scream and nobody would come.

How far are we going? How long until I disappear?

They take a turn sharp enough to throw my cheek against the wall. I want to scream. I want to die. I want someone to save me, to make this stop, even if it’s with a bullet.

Out of the thin view, I see snow, heavier now. The street is swallowed by white and gray. Trees crowd up against the shoulders of the road. We’re leaving the city. We’re almost in the woods.

The men start shouting. Something’s wrong. Tires squeal. The van skids. Hands grab me just before⁠—

Impact. All air crushes out of my chest. There is sound, but it’s not human. Screaming, metal bending, bone snapping, a howl like a dying animal.

My ribs ache. I lose time.

When I blink back, the world is split open. Everything tilts. I’m upside down, ropes of blood in my hair, cold air rushing in. The men are cursing, one of them sobbing, and glass is everywhere. My brain sparks and fizzes.

The doors rip open. Not the same men; different. More shouting. Hands close around my ankles, then under my arms, yanking hard. Concrete, then snow, bites through my clothes. Nothing but cold and pain and boots slipping on ice. Rough hands grip me, holding me like I’m a bag of meat, then tosses me down, face down in the snow. Blue-black, freezing. The dark envelopes me. 

Rough hands clamp around my arms; whoever’s dragging me doesn’t say a word. 

I try to scream, but it’s muffled by fabric and panic. All I can hear are my own ragged breaths, the scuffle of boots behind me, and the crunch of ice beneath my knees. My legs give out and I’m half-carried, half-dragged across the darkness. The night is split by distant screams. Until even that fades, and there is nothing left except the silent dark. The moon hangs heavily in the sky, watching, soundless. 

My body aches, a thousand bruises blooming beneath my skin, but it’s the fear that hurts most. We stop. The hands tighten. I twist, desperate, but I’m pinned, unable to fight or run. Something cold presses against my neck. I barely register the prick before a burning numbness blooms under my skin.

A voice—low, distorted by the mask—whispers in my ear. I can’t make out the words, only the command in them. My eyelids flutter. The world tilts and shrinks. I try to fight, to hold on, but my limbs turn to water.

I hear the masked man breathing, close and steady. He lifts me, holds me against his chest for a split second—almost gentle, almost safe. Then everything fades. The sky spins above me, dark and endless, and I tumble down, down, down into blackness.

The last thing I feel is the snow melting beneath my body, the sting of the needle, and the certainty that I am lost.

17

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 18)

It’s after midnight. The house is silent, but I can’t breathe. Marcus’s voice still echoes in my bones. My mother is useless when it comes to Marcus. She doesn’t know what kind of sick monster he is. 

My mind flashes back to earlier this night.

Steam curls around me in the bathroom. I let the hot water burn my skin, hoping it’ll wash off the night. Eyes closed, I can almost forget where I am.

The door creaks open. I freeze.

Marcus steps in without knocking. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, eyes dragging over me through the foggy glass. Too long. Too close.

My hands shake. I wish I could disappear into the tile. “Can you go?” My voice is small, brittle.

He smirks. “Hurry up, Lola. You’re hogging the hot water.” But he doesn’t leave right away.

When he finally does, my chest aches. I rush to get out.

Wrapped in a towel, I find my mom in her bedroom. She’s folding laundry, humming like nothing’s wrong.

“Mom,” I say, voice shaking, “Marcus came in while I was showering. He stared at me while I was naked. It was weird.”

She sighs;.doesn’t even look at me. “You’re being dramatic, Lola. I’m sure you’re imagining him looking at you, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Stop trying to get attention.”

I want to scream. I close my eyes and press my lips together until the sting fades. She never believes me. Not about anything.

I curl on top of the covers. My phone is a cold weight in my palm. I text Brody:

You awake?

Seconds pass. The clock blinks 2:17 a.m. My hands shake.

His reply is instant:

I am now. Come over. Door’s unlocked.

Relief cracks through the panic. I grab my phone. Quiet as a ghost, I step past my mother’s room. Outside, the grass is cold. I run next door, where his porch light is off. I find the back door, push it open.

Brody waits in the dark kitchen, arms crossed, eyes hungry but soften when he sees me. With no words, he leads me upstairs. His room is warm, safe. He sits on the bed and pulls back the blanket. I crawl in beside him, and he wraps an arm around me.

My eyes sting, but Brody doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t have to.

For now, I’m safe. For now, I’m home. Marcus can’t reach me when I am with Brody. Brody will never let anyone else touch me. I know it. 

I curl tighter against him. His chest is bare, warm under my cheek. He smells like sleep and salty skin, like the nape of a neck just after a fight. I breathe him in slowly, like maybe I can keep the monster away if I just drown in the scent of Brody Voss.

“You okay?” His hand weighs heavy on my ribs. Possessive. It roots me in place—I don’t want to move, not ever.

I nod, but the truth aches hot behind my eyes.

I am so fucking tired of being scared. Of walking on eggshells. Of Marcus’s shadow in every room. Of never having a moment that’s actually mine. 

I push closer, threading my arm across Brody’s waist. He tangles our legs under the blanket and I shiver. Not from cold, but from the way his thigh cages me in, the way he always makes me feel little, safe, contained. I want to tell him everything. All the things Marcus does. All the ways he watches me. All the times I want to scream but nobody listens.

Brody’s fingers slip under the edge of my shirt. Just barely. He drags his nails in lazy lines over my stomach. I tense, then melt.

My voice shakes. “You ever wish you could just…disappear? Like, poof. Gone. Nobody can find you?”

He grunts and squeezes my waist. “Sometimes. But then I remember you’re next door. I can always find you, Lola. I’d hunt you down if you ever tried to run.”

It should scare me, but it feels like a blanket. Heavy, soft, wrapped around all my dark edges. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Sometimes I wish you’d just steal me. I wish you’d just take me and never bring me back.”

He turns. I feel his eyes on me, even in the dark. That wolf look, like he sees right through every lie I ever told.

“Nobody’s ever gonna take you but me.” His voice is molten, low. “You know that, right?”

My breath skips. I want to cry or laugh or scream. Instead, I roll up and straddle his thigh. My hips grind down slow, shaky, desperate. I don’t care. I want him to see.

His hands grip my hips. “What are you doing, Bambi?”

I smirk, even though my hands are trembling. “Shutting you up. You think too much.”

I kiss him. It’s not polite. Not sweet. It’s a crash of mouth to mouth; I want to eat him, bruise him, lose myself for a second. He moans, deep in his chest, and fuck, I feel it everywhere.

I don’t stop. I don’t pull away. I kiss him like he’s air and I’m drowning.

He gives in. He always does. His kiss is hard and hungry. I let him take it. I want him to take it. His hands are all over; big, rough, moving fast, moving everywhere. I climb onto his lap and fully straddle him.

Brody yanks my shirt up. He watches the way my tits bounce free, his eyes feral. Greedy.  He palms my tits, both hands, squeezing like he’s never going to get enough. My nipples harden under his touch, tight and stinging. It’s all I can do not to whimper out loud.

“You sure?” Brody murmurs, just a flicker of sound against my ear. His thumb circles my nipple, not gentle, not waiting for permission. I grind down on his lap. His cock is rock hard under his boxers, thick and pressed up against me. Every time I move, I feel the whole length of him. All I want is to get closer.

He tilts his head, watches my eyes, like he’s reading every secret I try to swallow down. “Does it feel good, Bambi?”

I nod. I can’t talk. The words are melting. I lean forward and kiss him, begging him to keep going. I want him to ruin me. I want him to break me open and leave marks all over my skin.

His hands slip down, grab my ass, fingers digging in so hard it hurts. "Keep grinding," he whispers. I rock my hips against his cock. I love the way he loses control when I do it. I love the growl at the back of his throat, the way he shudders underneath me.

Brody pushes my sleep shorts down to my knees. My panties are soaked. He stares at the wet spot, then at me, smirking. “You’re filthy, you know that?”

He slides two fingers along the crotch of my panties, rubs the fabric right against my clit. I bite my fist to keep from screaming. My body goes wild. Legs shaking, hips jerking, cunt pulsing for more.

“Take ‘em off,” he says, his voice barely human.

I do it. I kick the shorts and panties away. Now I’m straddling him bare. The head of his cock is pressed up against my pussy, and I grab it and rub it along myself, slow. Just the friction. I almost lose it, right there.

He groans. “Fuck. You feel that, Bambi? That’s how much I want to be inside you.”

I want him, too. So bad I’m going to die from it. I open my legs wider, roll my hips on his cock, tip to base, over and over. My tits bounce with every movement. He latches onto one, sucks hard. It hurts and I love it. I’m shaking so much I can barely think.

Every time I move, every roll of my hips, the skin of his cock drags over me. It hits just right, right where I want it, right where I ache the most.

His hands close around my tits, hard, greedy, not gentle at all. I whimper and arch my chest into his grip. I want him to be rough, want him to leave marks, want to feel the aftershocks every time I look in a mirror.

“Good girl,” he growls.

He moves me faster, like a doll, like something he owns. I let him. I want to be owned. I want to be seen this way, desperate, ruined, grinding my pussy wet and open on his cock like I need it more than air. My thighs burn from the effort. I don’t care. I want to be good for him. I want to impress him. I want him to want me more than anyone else in the fucking world.

“You look so fucking pretty, Bambi,” he says, eyes gleaming in the blue dark of the room. Hands tight on my waist, he holds me exactly where he wants. “Nobody gets to see you like this. Just me.”

I nod, head fuzzy, mouth open. I can’t talk. It’s too much. I am losing myself. It should embarrass me, but it doesn’t. I want him to know exactly how wet he makes me.

His cock rubs against my clit. Over and over. It’s torture, sweet and endless. I claw at his chest. He likes it, I can tell. It makes him shove his hips up, grinding harder, making me ride him like a filthy little slut.

He jerks my hair with his other hand, yanks my head back so I have to look at him. His mouth wears a dark smirk, eyes black with want. “Look at you,” he growls. “So fucking desperate. My filthy girl.”

He brings my nipple to his mouth and bites it. The shock of pain makes me gasp. My cunt convulses, sending sparks white-hot behind my eyes.

“Brody—” I choke, legs shaking. “I’m gonna, I can’t, I’m gonna⁠—”

He doesn’t stop. He rocks me on his cock, grinding up so I ride the thick head. His fingers flick my clit faster. I come so hard my vision goes black.

Collapsing on top of him, he holds me there. He doesn’t let go. Not even as I twitch and grind on him, wringing every last drop of pleasure until it’s almost pain. He strokes my back, kissing away the hot tears on my cheek. His hands never stop moving, never stop hunting. His cock jerks under me, so huge, so hard, leaking all over his stomach.

He grabs my jaw, forces my head up. He wants me to see the mess I made. “You want it?” I nod like a fucking maniac. My whole body screams for him. But he waits. He makes me writhe. He makes me beg. “Say it,” he snaps.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He turns me onto my back, spreading my legs, pressing his mouth between my thighs.

He licks me gently at first. Slow, teasing, licking stripes up and down my cunt until I feel the wetness drip onto the sheets. My hands tangle in his hair. His hair is so soft but messy, dark and wild, perfect for grabbing. I pull him closer, like that will save me. He moans into my cunt. The vibration lights me up. My clit throbs; I think I might die if he stops. His tongue circles, relentless, and my whole body tightens, straining, begging.

“You taste so sweet, Bambi.” He looks up at me. His eyes hold hunger and an intensity so immense, it makes me speechless. I bite my lip and rotate my hips, begging for more. Brody chuckles. “You want it that bad, huh?”

I nod and lay my head back, moaning while he continues to lick up and down in a teasing motion. He pulls off again, and I whine. Brody shakes his head and gets off the bed.

“I want you to cum when my cock is buried deep inside of you.” Brody yanks my legs towards the edge of the bed. He stands in front of me, jerking his cock, slow. Taunting.

He stares at me as if I were a platter of juicy meat. I love it. I hate it. My body goes hot, then cold, then hot again. His cock is perfect. Bulging, thick. I can’t stop staring at it. That’s how much he wants me. It should scare me, but my thighs just squeeze tighter. My body aches for it.

“You want it?”

I nod, head dreamy, lips parted. He rubs the head along my pussy. Up and down, the length hot and smooth and sticky with arousal. My clit throbs. I almost gasp, but clamp it down.

We don’t want to wake anyone in the house.

“Look at you, Bambi,” he murmurs. “So wet for me. You need it that bad?”

I blink up at him. I’m shaking. “Nobody’s ever… Nobody’s ever touched me there. Not like this.”

He grins. “I know. I can tell. You’re tight as fuck.”

He lines his cock up. Hands on my knees, prying them apart, spreading me open wide, like he wants to see everything. He does. Then he pushes, and I yelp. It’s not supposed to hurt this much. The sting is intense, ripping through my core.

He slows instantly, and I can see the panic in his eyes. “Hey. Bambi. You okay?”

I nod, fighting for breath. “I just… It just surprised me.”

He strokes my thigh, then leans forward. Kisses my cheek, my jaw, every inch of my face softer than I thought possible. “First time is rough, babe. Tell me what you need.”

I squeeze his hand on my thigh. I want him inside me. I want to be ruined. I want to belong to him, only him.

“Just… Slower?” I say.

Brody hisses through his teeth, then does it slower. He pushes again, this time letting me stretch. The pain is there, but not as bad. It’s a fullness, a burning, a splitting. 

But I want it. I want him to break me open.

He watches my face the whole time. Pure focus. His hands shake as he holds me still, groaning when he finally goes inside. My pussy is tight. So fucking tight. I feel every ridge, every throb of his cock moving through my walls. He keeps it slow, and the pain fades. 

I go soft. Melting into the bed, moaning just a little, because I can’t help it. It hurts, but it feels right. Like his cock was meant for me, only for me.

He thrusts in. My back arches. Fuck. I blink and see stars.

He groans, low, hungry. “Shit, Bambi. So fucking tight.” His lips brush my throat, jaw, mouth always greedy for contact, for skin, for taste. One hand fists in my hair. The other claws at my hip, anchoring me open for him. I grip his shoulders. Nails dig, helpless. My thighs shake with the effort, my whole body tense with pain and wanting. 

He moves again. Not all the way out, not all the way in. Shallow thrusts at first, careful, like he’s teaching my body how to take it. My pussy spasms, clutching him; every inch he pushes, I choke out another little sound. Sweat drips down my ribs, pooling under my tits. I’m already gasping, desperate for every scrap of air.

His mouth latches on my nipple. He sucks, bites, lets it go with a wet pop. “You okay?” he mutters.

I can barely nod, but I do. “Yeah,” I whimper. “More. Please.” I sound destroyed. I love it.

Brody’s hips stutter. He wants to lose it, wants to ruin me for good, but he forces it slow for a few more strokes. Each thrust is torture, burning through pain into something better. Every time I think I’m at the edge, he presses deeper, grinding his cock against my clit, making me shatter with the friction.

I’m so fucking wet. It leaks down my thighs, drenching him. My cunt milks him, makes these nasty noises, every bit of me wide open and exposed. He watches my face, drinks down every gasp, every broken plea.

I wrap my legs around him, desperate for more pressure. His cock pounds in, harder now, relentless. My bones rattle. I want to scream, but I bite his shoulder instead, stifling the sob. 

He likes it. I can feel him shudder, cock twitching inside me.

His hand covers my mouth, muffling every cry. “Quiet. Everyone’s asleep.”

Humiliation hits, hot and dizzy. His family, right down the hall. I could die if anyone found out what we’re doing. I don’t slow down, though.

He holds me down so tight I can’t move. “Take it, Bambi. That’s it. Let it hurt.”

I take it. I grit my teeth and let it rip me open.

The first time, you always hear stories. Girls say it hurts, or sometimes it doesn’t hurt at all, or sometimes you bleed buckets and scream. Nobody ever tells you that it feels like your whole body is being rebuilt from the inside out. Destroyed and rebuilt.

He continues to hold me down, one palm clamped flat over my mouth, the other tangled so hard in my hair it stings. I love that it stings. I love being pinned. I love the sick sound of skin slapping, of my wetness squelching as he rocks in and out of me.

Brody leans in close, mouth on my ear. Too rough, too deep. “You’re so fucking tight. I can barely move in you, Bambi. You’re squeezing the life out of my cock.”

All I can do is nod and take it. Take everything he gives. My nails rake down his back. I feel his muscles flex. The rhythm picks up, harder, faster. He slams me into the mattress, making the bed creak. 

I wonder if anyone will hear us. I hope they do. I hope his parents wake up, or the sister down the hall, or anyone in this ugly world who thinks I belong to someone other than Brody Voss.

He owns me now. He carves it into my skin. He fucks me like I’m his only salvation and his only ruin.

He shoves my legs up, knees smashed against my chest. Opens me all the way so he can go deeper. I whimper. My cunt grips him so tight I can feel every vein, every throb.

“Take my cock,” he growls, voice rough, breath ragged. I hook my legs over his shoulders.

His grip is bruising as he yanks me closer, burying himself inside me, and fucking me hard, fast, relentless. My nails sink into the sheets, legs shaking, my moans broken and desperate.

His cock slips out, wet, then he shoves it back in. Fucks me slow for a second, then snaps his hips again. His eyes are locked on where we’re joined. I watch him—veins popping in his neck, jaw clenched, sweat rolling down his chest. The sight of him fucking me sends a rush of goosebumps over my skin. I shiver, helpless, so fucking full.

He slows, rocking his cock in, filling me deep, making me feel every inch. Each thrust tortures me.

I look up at him, my whole body trembling. “I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, still rolling his hips. I rake my hands through his dark hair, moaning soft, feeling every thick inch drag inside me. 

He looks up at me, like I’m art, then drops his mouth to my tit, sucking hard, biting my nipple until I gasp. His hand finds my other breast, pinching, rolling, making my cunt squeeze tight around him. He goes back and forth. Sucking, biting, tugging, making me whimper as he fucks me slow and deep.

Then he sits back, grabs my legs, spreads me open wide. “I’m not done with you yet.” His voice is dark, playful. He slams into me again, faster. His cock hammers my pussy, slapping wet and loud. 

I’m moaning, begging, gone. Every thrust hits the spot, perfectly. His lip is caught between his teeth, eyes glazed. His finger rubs my clit. I lean up on my elbows and watch him as he fucks me and rubs me. Our eyes meet again. Magnetic. Hot. Filthy. I moan as I gaze at him, my eyes glazing over with heat. 

“You want to cum on my cock. Bambi? I want to feel you let go.” Brody demands, rubbing faster, fucking me faster. 

My body moves with the force of him. His eyes lower to my tits and watches them as they jiggle. My head falls back as I clench around him. A building pressure ignites within me. Building. Building. Building. I am hot all over. He doesn’t stop rubbing my clit, and it burns so good. 

“Brody… oh fuck. Don’t stop.” I moan out, my breaths coming out uneven. The pressure rises higher, like a volcano. It’s right there and suddenly I am bursting, imploding, exploding. 

My body becomes jello. My legs shake uncontrollably, and I can barely breathe as the orgasm crashes over me. He never stops fucking me as I cum around him. He groans and watches me through it.

“Fuck. That is so fucking hot. I’ve dreamt of you coming on my cock. Feeling you clench around me. Fucking milking me. Oh fuck, you’re perfect.” His words jumble out, making me even more aroused.

I lean back and try to catch my breath from the mind-blowing, full-body orgasm. “That felt so good, Brody.”

He pulls out. Grabs his cock, pumping it. “Get on your hands and knees.”

I flip over, ass high, back arched. I hear him hiss behind me. His big hands knead my ass, then slaps it. I cry out.

“So fucking hot,” he groans, grabbing a handful of my ass and jiggling it. He drags his cock along my soaked slit, rubbing my clit with the swollen head. 

I push back, needy, desperate for him.

He buries his cock inside me, fucking me from behind. His hands grip my ass, holding me steady as he pounds into me, deep, wet, making obscene, filthy noises. 

He slaps my ass again, harder. “You love this, huh? My cock pounding your pussy?”

I can barely get the word out. “Yes. Fuck, yes.” Moans choke me, stars exploding behind my eyes.

He leans forward, palms my tits from behind, pinching my nipples, twisting them until I whimper. 

I shove my ass back against him, greedy for every rough thrust. He leans back, yanks my head by the hair, fucking me harder, cock smacking my ass, every slap echoing in the room. His breath comes fast, uneven. His rhythm gets wild, desperate. He pulls out, strokes his cock, growling, and I feel the hot spray of cum land on my back, sticky, warm.

“Fuck, that was good,” he says. 

“Yeah, that felt amazing.”

Brody hops off the bed and goes to the bathroom. He comes out with a rag and wipes me down. Gently. Sweetly. Once he’s done, we redress and get into bed with each other. I snuggle against him. His arms wrap around me. 

“I’m glad I am your first,” Brody says, looking down at me with affection shining in his eyes. 

I close my eyes. Head on his chest. “I’m glad too. You’re all I want.” 

His arms squeeze around me in response. I know I shouldn’t fall asleep. I need to get back to my room before Marcus notices I’m gone once the sun rises. But, maybe for a few minutes, I can hang onto this warmth and feel safe. 

I smile.

Nothing can break us apart. This is going to last forever. Him and I. We’re made for each other.

18

LOLA

The darkness is everywhere. I am floating in it. I am fading, fading , fading. I wonder if my mom is with me, here in this darkness. I wonder if I can join her. 

But, my mother is not here. Only the endless cold. Skeletal creatures reach out from the void, grasping at me. I scream, but nobody hears. Only the dark answers, and its presence crushes me. 

I run as if I am being hunted. There is no way out. This darkness is all I can see, all I can feel. I have become nothingness in this black, vast space. 

The darkness shifts.

Not like light. Light doesn’t exist here. It’s heavier than that. The void thickens, presses into my lungs, and I can’t tell if I’m breathing or if I’m just remembering what breathing feels like. My legs move anyway. I run because running is the only thing my body knows how to do when it’s scared. When it’s trapped. When it’s already too late.

The cold bites deeper. It doesn’t touch my skin. It goes under it. It seeps through my bones and turns them hollow.

Something skitters behind me. I don’t look back. I never look back.

I push forward, blind, hands out in front of me, fingers catching nothing but air. The darkness has no walls, yet somehow I still slam into one. My shoulder hits something solid, and pain blooms, real enough to make me gasp.

The void laughs. Not an actual laugh. Not a sound. It’s the way the darkness answers when you beg it for mercy. It stays. It tightens. It makes you understand you’re alone.

I whisper, “Mom.”

My voice disappears as soon as it leaves my mouth. I swallow and taste metal. My throat burns. Like I’ve been screaming. Like I’ve been fighting. Like I’ve been calling for someone who never comes.

I blink and the darkness changes again. It ripples, and for a second it isn’t nothingness.It’s a face. Not my mother’s. A man’s face, half in shadow, eyes bright and flat like glass. Familiar in the way nightmares are familiar. In the way you can hate something and still know it by the shape of it.

Brody.

My heart kicks once, hard enough to hurt. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out.  I try to step back but my feet won’t move.

The darkness grows hands again. Skeletal fingers curl around my wrists, my throat, my ribs. They don’t pull me under. They hold me in place. They force me to look.

Brody steps closer in the dark.

I want to hate him. I do hate him. The hatred lives in my chest like a second heart, beating harder than the first. But something else lives there too. Something that makes me want to reach for him even while I’m trying to spit in his face.

Brody’s eyes don’t blink. His hand comes up, cold fingers touching my cheek. I flinch as he leans in. I feel his breath against my mouth, and the cold turns into heat so fast it makes me sick. I hate that my body remembers. I hate that it responds.

His voice finally breaks through the void, low and clear, like he’s standing right next to my ear. “Wake up.”

My eyelids snap open. I suck in a breath and choke on it.

The air is different. Cold and stale. Like old wood and damp concrete. My lungs burn like they’ve been asleep too long.

My head pounds. My body feels wrong. Like I’m wading through wet cement.

I stare at a ceiling I don’t recognize. It’s low. Rough boards. One bare bulb hanging off-center. The light is off, but moonlight leaks in from somewhere, pale, carving a rectangle across the floor.

I don’t move for a second. I don’t even blink. My brain tries to place me, like if it can name the room, it can name the rules, and if it can name the rules, it can survive.

This isn’t my bedroom. This isn’t Marcus’s house. This isn’t Sophie’s. This is… nothing. A nowhere place. A place that doesn’t belong to anyone who lives a normal life.

My stomach turns. The room tilts slightly, then steadies. I push myself up on my elbows, and pain shoots behind my eyes. Nausea climbs my throat, thick and fast. I clamp my mouth shut and breathe through my nose until it passes.

My wrists ache. I look down; there’s a mark on my arm, like someone grabbed me too hard. My hand shakes when I touch it. My fingertips are cold, the skin under my nails looks pale.

I swing my gaze around. Concrete walls. Unfinished. Cracked in places. A few shelves with nothing useful. A thin mattress on the floor. A blanket that smells like dust. One small window near the ceiling. It’s the only opening. Frosted at the edges. Outside is pure snow and black tree shapes, and the moon hangs there like an eye.

No road. No house lights. No signs of anything. My pulse starts climbing.

No. No, no, no.

I scramble off the mattress and my legs almost fold. I catch myself on the wall, fingers digging into the cold concrete. My body lags behind my panic like it’s not fully mine yet. Someone drugged me. The word lands and my mouth fills with bile.

I stumble toward the stairs. There are only a few, leading up to a door. The door is thick. Old. There’s a heavy latch and a deadbolt that looks new. I grab the knob and twist. Nothing. I twist harder, my arm shaking. Still nothing.

I slam my palm against the door once, then again. The sound is loud in the basement, like I just hit a drum.

“Hello?” My voice cracks halfway through. I swallow and try again. “Hello!”

Silence. No footsteps. No voice answering. Nothing but the soft hum of the cold. My chest tightens as I press my forehead to the door and breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

Think. Lola. Think.

Where am I?

The last thing I remember is snow. A van. Hands grabbing me. My body going dead. Darkness swallowing me whole.

Someone took me here, but who would do this? I know Marcus has enemies, but I am not Marcus. I am just his trapped step-daughter. His puppet. If someone has a problem with Marcus, they should go to Marcus about it.

“Is someone out there? Let me out of here!” I bang on the door. Whoever took me has to be out there still. Surely, they did not leave me here to die?

After a few minutes of begging, I huff in frustration and walk back to the mattress. I pull my knees up to my chest and wait. Alone in the silence. It is suffocating. My eyes dart everywhere, watching the shadows on the walls. Lately, I have been wishing to be alone. To be away from Marcus. I got my wish in a cruel way that feels like a death sentence. 

I didn’t know how fast one cage could turn into a worse cage. 

I became lost in the abyss of my thoughts, until finally, the door opens. A tall, and broad figure stands at the doorway. Just staring. He tilts his head and watches me.

Leaping up on my feet, I storm towards him. “Hey! I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you need to let me out of here. My step-father is a powerful man and I know he will be looking for me. You’re a dead man when he finds me.”

The man only chuckles, then walks down the steps towards me. His face is hidden behind a skull mask. Despite the situation, I clench between my thighs.

I always had a thing for men in masks. 

The man steps closer. So close to where I can feel the rage radiating from him. “Oh, I know exactly what kind of man he is. And I know what kind of woman you are, Lola Bloom. He won’t find you here. I am going to keep you here and I am going to fucking destroy Marcus Bloom. Even if it means ruining the one thing he holds dearest to his heart. You.” 

I widen my eyes. I can feel the rapid pulse of my heart, how it is beating out of my chest. I wonder, does he hear it too? Is he getting off on it? 

“I don’t know what Marcus did to you, but I can assure you that I am not involved with anything that man does. He is a monster. That’s all he is to me.” I try to stand my ground and look like I’m not about to shit myself. I gaze at him and stare through the holes in his mask. I can just barely make out his eyes.

Glimmering with fury and hunger. 

The man holds eye contact. “Marcus took away everything good in my life. He ruined me. Whether you’re with him or not, I’ll make sure he knows I ruined you in return.” 

I gulp. He could mean anything. 

“How will you ruin me?” 

He chuckles again. It’s a low, dark sound. He walks closer, and I back up. My back hits the cold wall, my legs trembling. He takes my wrists and pins them against the wall, leaning in close, his breath by my ear.

“Oh, darling, you don’t want to know. I’ll have you fucking begging to be released out into the cold.” He pushes against me harder, and I can feel a hardness growing in his pants. I feel sick. This is turning him on. “I’m going to make you squirm, make you cry, make you ache, make you wish you were anywhere but here.”

I want to scream.

But part of me remembers this. Remembers the wolf and the woods and the shape of a man who wanted to break me open, devour me, taste all the soft inside parts. That same electric rush, the same sick, sick craving.

The skull mask presses into my hair. His body crushes me tighter. My ribs spark with pain and something else. He grabs my wrists, spins me to the mattress. I shove at him, but I am nothing against his weight.

I try to roll away but am rewarded with his cruel laugh. “You scared, pretty thing?”

Of course I am. Every inch prickles. I want to dissociate, float away, become boneless. But I can’t. The fear holds me to the world.

“What do you want from me?” My voice comes out shredded, bloody at the edges. Not loud, not strong. A pathetic sound.

He barks a laugh. The skull grins. “You’re not getting rescued, Lola.”

My name, in his mouth, slices me up. He didn’t ask. He knows me. I try to swallow the scream.

I twist, but he just presses my arms up harder. My ribs grind against concrete, and my jaw aches. His shadow eats the whole room. “Let me out of here. I’m worth nothing to you. I’m a problem. You’ll regret this.”

“Not a chance.” He tilts his head. I see the glimmer in his eyes behind the mask, endless and sick. “You’re the only leverage that matters.”

He shifts his weight. The rest of his body pins me in place. I feel every inch of muscle, every inch of threat. My heart wants to punch through my ribs. It hammers so stupidly loud I know he must hear it. Can predators smell panic? Can they taste fear on your tongue? I bet he can. He probably lives for the flavor.

The pressure of his grip gets meaner, less careful. “You can beg, if you want. Or you can scream. Nobody’s coming.”

He does not say Marcus can’t find me. He says nobody. He means it.

I want to scream in his face. Instead, a whimper leaks out. I hate myself for giving him that little scrap of weakness. I see the satisfaction ripple through his shoulders. He loves it; I know he does.

He drags his thumb along my jaw, his hand is gloved and cold. My skin breaks out in fire and ice, prickling up my spine.

“Play nice, and it goes easier,” he purrs.

He lets me go, sudden, brutal. I lurch away, knees buckling. Crashing to the floor, I scramble towards the mattress, but it’s pathetic. He doesn’t even try to hold me down. He stands over me, still and silent. The skull is inescapable.

“You belong to me now,” he says.

I press my back into the freezing wall and curl up. He watches me again; he likes to watch me. I glare at him. Without another word, he leaves. The door shuts, and the darkness takes over again.

19

LOLA

Time does not exist here. The window’s just a square of dirty glass, moonlight now replaced by washed-out morning. Snow leeches all color. 

My body aches from the mattress, if you can call a slab of foam a bed. My mouth is still dry, my wrists throb, faint bruises blooming where he pinned me down.

I’m alone. But I’m not alone.

I listen for footsteps. For breath. For the scrape of boots outside the door. Nothing. Just the hum of cold, and my own pulse thrumming too loud in my ears.

When the lock finally turns, I flinch. I can’t help it. He fills the doorway. Skull mask, broad shoulders. He watches me. Always watching.

He carries a mug and sets it on the shelf. “Eat.” That’s all he says. I don’t move fast enough. He stalks over, grabs my chin with rough fingers. My jaw aches as he makes me look up at him. The black hollows of his mask swallow all the light. “You do what I say, or you get nothing,” he murmurs. Low and patient like he has all the time in the world to break me.

I glare, lips pressed tight, but my stomach betrays me. I snatch the mug, gulp the weak coffee, hands shaking so hard I spill some. He watches every movement. I hate that I feel it, hate how my body sparks when he stares.

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough for heat but leaving just an inch of space. His knee brushes mine, and I freeze. His gloved hand drags a line up my thigh. Not enough to be gentle, just enough to remind me he can. “Are you scared?” he asks. “Or do you like being caged?”

I choke on a laugh. “You’re sick.”

He leans in, mask almost grazing my ear. “Not as sick as you, Lola. I know the truth. You like it when someone’s in control.”

My face burns. I want to spit in his eye. I want to beg him to touch me. I do nothing. He stands. grabbing my jaw again, thumb pressing into the bruise he left. “Good girl. Stay obedient. Maybe I’ll reward you.”

I’m shaking, breathless, ruined. Every nerve is alive and screaming. I hate him. I hate whoever he is. I hate how much my body wants to obey.

“Fuck you. I don’t belong to you.” 

He grabs me by the chin. Violently. “You do belong to me. There’s no one left but us. Get fucking used to it.”

“Yeah, in your dreams. How about you take off the mask and show me who you really are.” I challenge him, hoping he gives in.

He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know who I really am. What I’m capable of.” His finger makes a path from my chin, down to my chest, then to my hips. His grip is rough. “You’re trembling. That’s fear, isn’t it?” His other gloved hand slides to my throat, stopping at my pulse. “Or is it something else?” I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m trapped between his breath and his heat. I am drowning in it. “You want to know who’s behind the mask? Too fucking bad. I’m in control, and you will obey.” His tone becomes cold and dark. It reminds me of Marcus. 

“You know, you sound just like him. Marcus. Don’t act so high and mighty when you and him are on the same level.” That seems to get a reaction.

He forces me into the wall, erupting with anger. “You’re wrong. I am nothing like that fucking bastard.” His chest heaves, and I can imagine him snarling underneath the mask. His gloved finger hooks in the waistband of my pants, tugging, possessive. “Take it off.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Fucking take it off. I will show you a glimpse of who I can be when you say shit like that. How fucking ashamed I can make you.”

He waits. Silent, towering, unmovable. He wants a show. Humiliation burns my cheeks, but the fear is hotter. I peel my shirt over my head, arms shaking, and let it fall to the floor. I wait.

He cocks his head, watching every motion. “All of it.”

My fingers fumble with my pants. I’m still wearing the same pajama bottoms from when they took me. I force them down, panties too. I step out, naked and shivering, skin prickling in the cold air and from his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t touch. Just watches me. Hungry, silent, claiming every inch of me with his eyes behind the mask.

“Turn around,” he orders. I do. I feel his stare on my ass, my thighs, the bruises blooming on my hips from Marcus. Shame crackles in my blood. “Good girl,” he says. “You know how to listen, don’t you?”

I clench my fists, furious at myself for obeying, for needing his approval. I hate how my nipples harden under his stare, how my legs tremble not just from fear. He moves closer. His gloved hand skims down my spine, stopping at the small of my back. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grope, just claims with one slow, possessive touch.

“You obey me, and I’ll take care of you,” he whispers. “Fight me, and I’ll break you.” He stands so close I feel his breath on my neck. The skull mask grazes my skin. His other hand fists in my hair, tilts my head back until my throat is bared. “You understand your place yet?” he murmurs, voice shivers down my spine.

I grit my teeth and nod, cheeks burning. His gloved hand moved from my back to my front where his finger grazes my clit. One touch and I melt. He rubs that spot again and groans in my ear. This is so wrong. I should not be getting aroused while my kidnapper touches me. But, here I am. Getting fucking wet for him. 

But, to my disappointment, he lets me go. “Put your clothes back on. But remember, every inch of you belongs to me. Don’t forget it.”

He waits, watching as I dress. I can barely look at him. My limbs shake as I pull my panties up, then pants, then shirt.

When I finish, he moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I like you better this way. Helpless. Honest. Don’t make me remind you again.”

He leaves, the lock clattering shut, and I sink to the floor. Burning with rage, shame, and a twisted ache that won’t go away.

20

LOLA

The cabin basement feels as if there is a cold wind blowing, as if snow is piled atop my body. I have not stopped shivering since the mysterious man took me here. My fingers are numb, but that doesn’t stop them from trembling. I hate that I tremble.

But I am just a shivering creature, waiting for the butcher.

The space around me is hollowed out, stripped bare. Just crumbling concrete, wood beams, and that window: one block of pale, bruised daylight that never reaches my bones. Above me, floorboards creak, and every sound echoes. My legs are knotted up beneath the scratchy blanket he left me, but the cold threads through it, a promise. No matter how many times I wrap myself tighter, there’s no escaping the frost in my marrow.

He hasn’t come back since he brought me down here and left me with the echo of his masked laughter. The skull face is etched into my memory, more myth than flesh.

I don’t know how long I’ve waited. Time stretches weird here. Maybe it’s been an hour. Maybe whole nights have passed and I just haven’t noticed. I try to sing to myself, but it’s useless. The cold eats every noise. My voice disappears before it even leaves my mouth.

I run my hands over my arms, trying to summon heat, comfort, anything. The skin there is patchy—old bruises from Marcus, fresh ones from the van, the men who held me down and taped my mouth shut. I trace the shape of the pain, let it ground me. I remind myself: you survived him, you can survive this.

Somewhere above, a door slams. My whole body goes rigid, my heart is a drumbeat. The door at the top of the stairs unlocks. He wants me to hear it. He wants me to wait for the threat.

The skull mask appears in the doorway, white and grinning, hungry with darkness behind the eye holes. He fills the entry. Tall, broad, the kind of body that blocks out all the light and makes you feel like prey. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just watches me, head tilted, like a collector appraising a rare piece of meat.

My pulse gallops as I force my chin up. “What do you want?” My voice cracks, but I make it loud. “You think you’re some big man, hiding behind that mask?”

Silence.

The mask tilts further, and I can sense how amused he is, even without seeing his face. He moves down the stairs, step by step, heavy boots echoing off the concrete in a slow, measured rhythm.

He stops at the bottom, just out of reach. “You don’t get to ask questions,” he says. The voice is warped, lower than I expect, hoarse with something that sounds like contempt. He leans in, the mask inches from my face. “And I’m the one who owns you now.”

I ball my fists. I want to scratch at him, bite, anything. “You don’t own me. I’m not afraid of you. You’re just another pathetic man playing dress-up⁠—”

He lunges. Cold gloved fingers close around my throat, sudden and hard, pinning me back against the wall. The pain flashes hot, then white, all the blood in my head screaming. My feet kick out, useless against his bulk.

“You think you can talk to me like that?” His voice is a ragged snarl in my ear. “You think you’re still in control here?” His grip tightens until my vision pulses with stars. I choke, clawing at his wrist. I can’t breathe, and panic flares. He leans in, skull mask so close I can feel the plastic scraping my cheek. “You’re not in control. You’re not safe. You’re not even a person in this room, Lola. You’re a thing. My thing.”

He lets go. I collapse onto my knees, gasping, my chest burning from my lungs howling for air. He circles me. I feel his eyes on every inch of me, measuring, stripping me naked. He crouches in front of me, gloved hand in my hair. His fingers knot tight at the roots and he jerks my head back, exposing my throat, making the bruises from Marcus stretch and ache.

“You’re going to learn what happens when you fight me,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost gentle. “You want to act tough? You want to act like you’re still untouchable?”

I twist in his grip. “Fuck you. I’m not scared of you, you sick fuck. You want to be Marcus so bad? Is this how you get your dick hard, by hurting someone who can’t fight back?”

He snarls, hand tightening in my hair, yanking my head until my neck screams. His other hand rips the blanket off me, baring the thin t-shirt and panties I wore to sleep. I lurch, try to push away, but he’s faster, meaner, hands everywhere, pinning me by the crown of my skull.

“Don’t compare me to that piece of shit,” he hisses. “Marcus breaks things so he can call it love. I break things because I want to. That’s the only reason I need.”

He shoves me back, hard enough that my shoulders slam the wall. I try to scramble away on my hands and knees, but he’s on me before I can move, one knee in my back, weight pressing me flat. His hand finds the waistband of my panties and snaps them up, digging the elastic into my flesh, painful and humiliating. He tears them down, rips them half-off my hips, then lets them dangle at my knees.

I scream, like a feral animal. I try to buck him off. I twist and claw, nails scrabbling at the cold floor. He pins both my wrists behind my back, grinding his knee into my ass.

“You want to fight?” he growls. “Fight all you want. It only makes me harder.” He lets me struggle, lets me waste my strength, then flips me over in one brutal motion. I’m sprawled on my back, panties twisted at mid-thigh, legs splayed. His masked face looms over me, all skull and hunger. “Look at you,” he murmurs, mocking. “Not so tough now, are you, princess? Not so mouthy when you’re on your back.” He stands, looming over me. His hand goes to his belt. He unbuckles it slowly, savoring the moment. “You want to run your mouth? I’ll give you something to put between your lips.”

Panic flashes, but so does something else, something I hate, something that makes my thighs clench in shame even as I brace myself. He undoes his zipper, pulls his cock out—thick, heavy, already hard, veins bulging along the shaft. The sight of it makes my mouth go dry, but I glare up at his mask, defiant, hands balled into fists.

He grabs a fistful of my hair and hauls me up onto my knees. My scalp burns as I try to jerk away, but he clamps a hand over my jaw, squeezing until my lips part. The gloved thumb digs into my cheek, forcing my mouth open.

“You bite me, I break every bone in your fucking hand,” he says. “Understand?”

I don’t answer. I just glare, but his grip tightens until I whimper. He shoves his cock in, rough and sudden, splitting my lips, filling my mouth.

He fucks my face. There’s no other word for it. Brutal, merciless, grinding deep until the head hits the back of my throat and I gag again.

“Keep your eyes open,” he orders. The mask stares down at me, white and grinning, as he uses my mouth. “Look at me. I want you to see who owns you now.”

I can barely breathe. My jaw aches, lips stretched wide, nose mashed against the rough zipper of his jeans. He thrusts in and out, fucking my mouth like he owns it, like it’s not a part of me at all.

“Good little slut,” he grunts. “Now you’re learning. Nothing but a mouth to be used.”

He holds me too tight, controls every breath, every whimper, every inch I try to steal back. He pulls out, long enough for me to gasp a ragged breath, spit and drool stringing from my lips, then slams back in, even deeper. My throat convulses. I try to cough, but he just laughs, rocking his hips.

“Is that the best you can do?” he taunts. “After all the men you’ve fucked for Marcus, I thought you’d be better at this.”

The words are cruel. I sob, but the sound is muffled by his cock, my humiliation complete. He fucks my face harder, brutal, relentless, using me like a doll. Spit and tears drip down my chin, onto my bare thighs. My knees ache against the cold floor. My jaw feels like it’s splitting apart.

“Take it all,” he growls. His hands force my head down, bury me to the root. I gag, nose pressed to his pubic bone, unable to breathe, vision sparking as the world fuzzes black at the edges.

But, despite it all, I’m wet. Why am I wet? When Marcus would do this, I never got wet. But now, I am dripping down my thighs. I want to rub myself so badly.

At the last second, he pulls out, jerks himself with one hand. Hot, bitter ropes of cum splash across my face, streaking my cheeks, lips, chin. He makes sure to aim high, smearing the mask of himself over me.

“Keep it there,” he commands, voice is ruined, breathless. “Don’t wipe it off. I want you to remember who owns you.”

I collapse back on my heels, coughing, face burning with shame and sick, twisted want.

He stands over me, cock still hanging thick and spent, skull mask gleaming in the dim light. He tucks himself away, zips his pants, nothing but contempt in the tilt of his head.

Leaning down, his gloved fingers trace the mess he made across my face, rubbing it in, marking me as thoroughly as any brand. “Cry if you want. Scream. It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s coming for you.”

I glare up at him, shaking, tears mixing with the mess on my cheeks. I make myself hold his gaze, even as every part of me screams to run, to hide, to die rather than let him see me so broken.

“That’s better. I like you better like this.” He turns and heads for the stairs, boots thudding. At the door, he pauses, looks back. “Remember this lesson, Lola. Here, you’re nothing. Here, you’re mine. Mine to fucking keep. They wanted to take you away, to hurt you, to make you disappear. I couldn’t let that happen.”

I collapse, shuddering. The cold eats at me, inside and out. I am nothing but a thing in the dark.

I shiver, and the wind in the basement feels colder than ever.

And still, I do not stop shivering.

21

LOLA

I am a broken doll, the fragments of my body are chewed up and spit out. I sit in isolation, awaiting the arrival of the man in the skull mask. Last time he came in here, he fucked my mouth. I can still envision the black and empty eye sockets of the mask.

Those sockets haunt every inch of this concrete box. The silence here is gnashing and grinding, always hungry. He hasn’t come down yet, but I feel him everywhere. The stench of his leather gloves, the echo of his boots on the floor overhead, the aftertaste of him coating my tongue.

Fighting back would save me, but I learned what happens when I do that. Marcus embedded it into my skull. Good girls take what’s given to them. Bad girls who fight back get punished.

I pace, then crouch, then pace again. I try not to touch my lips, try not to feel the phantom ache in my jaw. My hands shake, and nausea runs through me. I want to vomit, but there’s nothing left inside except bile, and memory, and the knowledge that I’m not alone down here, no matter how empty the room looks.

The door at the top of the stairs rattles. My heart jolts so hard I think it’s going to burst out of my chest and splatter against the wall. I hate how my thighs clench, how my skin prickles with dread and something worse, something that pulses between my legs against my will.

He comes down, patient, every step a statement: I control the pace. I control the world. I own this space and everything in it. Including you.

I scramble to my feet, back pressed flat against the wall, chin high because that’s the last thing I have left. Defiance, even if it’s just a brittle shell. In reality? I’m helpless. I wish my mom could come back and save me. I wish she would come out of her grave and hold me tight.

Please, momma, give me a sign that I’ll make it out of here alive.

Only the darkness responds, silent and foreboding.

The mask appears first, pale, eyes voids carved into death. He fills the stairwell, broad-shouldered, monstrous.

He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t have to. He closes the door behind him with a sound that says there is no escape. Then, silence.

The man approaches, boots leaving dark prints in the dust. He stops inches away. His breath comes out heavy, I hear it through the mask. It sounds like hunger, like anticipation. I stare at the sockets, daring myself not to look away.

“On your knees,” he says.

I hesitate, and a flash of rage passes through his eyes. He grips my hair, yanking me down. My knees slam the floor, bruising instantly. I hiss, but I don’t resist. What’s the point? He likes it when I try to fight, but he likes it even more when I break.

He lurks behind me. His presence is a storm pressing down on my neck. The mask leans close to my ear. “You remember what happens when you don’t obey?” I shake my head, just a little, the movement trembling. He fists my hair tighter, forces my face up. “Open your mouth.” I clamp my lips shut, just for a second. I want him to hit me. I want him to do something that makes me feel real. Instead, he laughs. “Open,” he says again.

I obey, because what else can I do?

He presses gloved fingers between my lips, shoving them in deep, tearing at the corners of my mouth until my eyes water. “That’s better,” he purrs. “You look good like this. Broken. Used.”

I gag on the leather, spit leaking down my chin. He doesn’t care. He drags his fingers out, wipes my saliva on my shirt, then grabs my jaw, squeezing until my teeth grind.

“Is this what you want?” he asks. “To be nothing? To be a hole I can use when I get bored?” I don’t answer. I don’t blink. He laughs again, meaner now. “You’re learning. You’ll thank me for this, eventually. You’ll forget you ever belonged to anyone but me.”

His hand slides down my spine, stopping at the waistband of my pants. I flinch, but he holds me still, thumb rubbing circles on my lower back, pretending tenderness. “Tell me what you are,” he whispers.

I glare up at him, lips trembling. I want to bite his hand. I want to scream that I’m not his, I’ll never be his. But he’s waiting, patient, the mask tilted, silent.

“I’m nothing,” I whisper.

He lets go, shoving me forward. My hands catch on the concrete, scraping skin from my palms. He kneels behind me, knees bracketing my hips. His hands roam over my body with a possessive roughness. He tears at my shirt, rips it up and over my head. I’m bare from the waist up, shivering, nipples tight. The air stings. Shame stings worse.

He palms my breasts, squeezing, bruising, pinching my nipples until I gasp. He leans close, the mask grazing my shoulder. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers. “You like being owned.”

I shake my head, desperate. He slaps my tit, hard, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

He unbuttons my pants, yanking them and my panties down in one harsh motion. I kick, squirm, but he pins my thighs with his knees, holds me splayed like a carcass on a butcher’s block.

“Keep still,” he growls. “Or I’ll tie you down and leave you here for days, bleeding and hungry. You want that?”

I freeze. My heart is a snarl of panic and humiliation and something blacker, something that feels like acceptance. My body stops fighting. He owns me. I am nothing. He presses a hand between my legs, rough and unkind, forcing my thighs wider. He rubs two gloved fingers along my slit, then fast, not for my pleasure, just to see if I’ll react.

I don’t, but my body betrays me. I feel myself get wet, it gathers against his fingers. I hate myself. I want to scream.

He feels it. He laughs. “Filthy little slut. You act like you hate it, but your body gives you away every time.”

He shoves two fingers inside me. I jerk, pain flaring bright in my belly. He twists, grinds his palm into my clit, working me open as if I’m not even human, as if I’m just a new toy to be stretched and broken. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.

He thrusts, harder, faster, until I’m gasping, fighting for breath. Shame and sick heat coil together in my gut, winding tighter with every brutal motion.

Leaning closer again, his breath is hot on my neck. “You’re mine now, Lola. There’s no Marcus, no pretty-boy boyfriend, no world outside this room. Just you and me, and the things I’m going to do to you.” He pulls his fingers out, sticky and glistening. He wipes them on my thigh, marking me. “Get on your hands and knees.”

I hesitate, and he grabs my hair, yanking me into position. My arms shake, my knees burn on the cold floor. He opens his belt and unzips his pants. I don’t look back. I don’t want to see what he’s about to do. But I feel it. The thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He teases me, slides up and down my cunt.

“You want to say no?” he asks. “Say it.”

He waits, as if some part of him needs consent. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not because I’m too scared to speak, but because some dark part of me wants it. But, I’m too ashamed to admit that. Something about this man sets me aflame. His hands, his cock, his power, his demeanor that feels brutal but hot in a filthy, dominant way.

And I think he senses that, because he shoves in. He holds my hips, pins me in place, thrusting deep, grinding bone against bone. Each thrust is violent, erratic, out of control but never letting go. He pounds into me, hips slapping flesh, breath ragged.

I moan, gasping, face smashed into the floor. He grabs my neck and squeezes, not tight enough to choke me out, just enough to remind me he could.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s what real power feels like. You belong to me.”

He slaps my ass, the sting echoing up my spine. He fucks me harder, faster, until the pain blurs with something twisted, something hot and shameful. He pulls out, flips me onto my back. My body flops, it’s limp and ruined. He kneels between my legs, mask staring down at me.

He enters me again, rough, relentless, driving me into the concrete. His hand finds my throat and squeezes, leaning down, the mask inches from my face. “Look at me.”

I force my eyes open. The void in the mask swallows me whole. His free hand grabs my breast.

Why does his touch remind me of Brody?

He fucks me until I break. Until my body shudders beneath him, torn between agony and sick pleasure. I close my eyes and use him as a substitute for Brody. When he comes, he doesn’t slow. He buries himself deep, groaning, shuddering, spilling inside me. I feel it sliding out between my thighs. He pulls out, stands, and tucks himself away. He looks down at me, and laughs. “Clean yourself up.”

He tosses my torn shirt at me, then turns, boots stomping up the stairs. The door slams. The lock clicks. I lie there, shaking, cum and shame pooling beneath me. My body aches, almost as excruciating as the grief within me.

I am a broken doll, fragments scattered, never to be whole again.

I curl in on myself, clutching the shredded fabric to my chest, and weep. Quiet. Helpless. Alone.

The skull mask is gone, but his presence lingers.

I know, now, that there is no rescue coming. No end to this room. Only hunger. Only hate. Only the sound of my own desperate breathing, echoing in the silence—proof that I haven’t died yet, no matter how much I want to.

Please momma, save me.

I weep in the silence, feeling like I’m stuck in a bad dream. It’s cold, and I just want to crawl in my momma’s bed.

I’m scared of the dark.

22

LOLA

He has rules. No running. No fighting. No asking questions. I am simply a hole, a thing to be ruined. He wants to break me. And I let him. I am not allowed upstairs yet. He says I need to be a good girl, and if I am, then I will get rewarded.

Marcus says the same thing, but it’s different with this man. I can sense the emptiness in Marcus, there is nothing human inside of him, and that is what I truly fear. This man? He is human, I can see that. Just angry and erratic.

The basement is my world now. The only warmth comes from my own breath, fogging in the morning light that creeps through the sliver of the window, and even that feels stolen. The cement floor bites into my knees, my shins, my hips. I keep moving. If I stop, I might freeze solid, turn to a corpse before he’s done using me.

He has a new rule today: No food until I ask for it. And I have to ask the right way.

My stomach is twisted, knotting itself around hunger, but I refuse to beg. Until he comes. The lock clatters. Every time I hear that sound, something in me shrivels. My mind flickers through all the punishments I know, all the ones I don’t.

His boots hit the stairs. He’s carrying something. The clatter of plastic. I already know what it is before I see it.

A dog bowl. Stainless steel. He sets it on the floor and nudges it with his boot until it rings off the concrete. He crouches, so the skull mask fills my vision, all empty eyes.

“Hungry?” I say nothing. He stands, arms folded, waiting. I feel his stare, invisible through the bone-white mask. “Say it,” he says. “Tell me what you are. What you want.”

“Please…” I can barely force it out.

He tilts his head. “Please what?”

I stare at the bowl, at the slop inside. Oatmeal maybe. My pride is slowly melting. “Please, can I eat?” I whisper.

He steps closer. “Not enough. Beg. Beg like a whore. Beg like the thing you are.”

My stomach caves. I feel my cheeks flush, but I do it. “Please—I’m nothing, I’m just a hole, I’ll do anything, just let me eat, please⁠—”

He nods, satisfied. “That’s better.”

He pushes the bowl toward me with the toe of his boot. I crawl to it. That’s the rule. No hands. Lips to metal, like an animal. My mouth fills with bitter, salty shame. The food is cold, tasteless. I eat anyway, because hunger always wins.

Cold splatters up my chin, drips down my neck. He watches in silence. I try to hate him, but there’s too much of me missing now, stripped away by days of this.

When I’m done, he tosses a bottle of water after me. It rolls, clattering, but at least he lets me use my hands for that. Small mercies that he’ll probably take back tomorrow.

He circles as if waiting for me to break again. I can feel his eyes, the heat of his body. I want to curl up, disappear, become the nothing he keeps telling me I am.

“What do you say?” he asks.

I swallow. “Thank you.”

He laughs. “Good girl. You’re learning.” The gloved hand cups my chin, tilting my face up. The mask is inches from my mouth. “You want a reward?”

The cold in his tone is familiar now. “No,” I whisper.

He laughs again. “Wrong answer.”

He’s on me before I can blink, hauling me to my feet, his grip bruising and cruel. He drags me to the center of the room, where he left the bucket. The reminder that I’m not even worth a toilet. He yanks my hands behind my back, tightens thick zip-ties around my wrists. The plastic bites deep. I freeze as he pushes me to my knees.

“Open your mouth.”

I shake my head, earning a slap. Not hard enough to knock me over, but enough to send lightning through my jaw. “Open it, whore.” I open my mouth begrudgingly. He shoves two fingers down my throat until I gag, then lets me go. “That’s better.”

He stands, looking down at me, breathing hard behind the mask. I stare at the floor, waiting, waiting. The next sound is the scrape of something metal, knife, I think, but the blade never faces me. Instead, I feel the hard, cold handle pressed to my lips.

“Show me how good you can be,” he says. “Suck it.”

The steel is freezing, making my teeth ache, but I suck the handle like it’s him, like it’s what he wants. He moves it in and out, slow. My lips burn, my tongue numbs.

“You only exist to be ruined,” he whispers. “Say it.”

My throat trembles around the metal. “I only exist to be ruined.”

He pulls the knife back, dragging it down my neck. I flinch away, and he laughs cruelly. “You’re afraid. You should be.”

He steps behind me, one hand twisting in my hair, forcing my head back. With the other, he presses the cold handle against my cunt, through the thin cotton of my pants first, then inside, tearing the cloth aside. The hardness splits me, frigid, merciless. I whimper. My body tries to close, but he holds me wide, the zip-ties cutting my wrists behind my back.

“Look at you. Nothing but a hole.” He fucks me with the knife handle, slow, twisting, spreading me open. Each thrust is cold and brutal. “Not until you beg like a whore,” he says. “Beg for more. Tell me you want it.” Tears burn down my cheeks. I shake my head, but he twists my nipple, pinching until I gasp. “Say it.”

“Please, more. I want it. I want to be ruined.”

He keeps going, faster now, the cold searing into my core, the shame drowning me. I can’t tell where pain ends and need begins. I hate myself for the heat that pools between my legs. I hate him for knowing. It burns, but in a way that makes me crave more.

Am I deranged like him?

He stops, suddenly. My body clenches around nothing. He kneels in front of me. “You want to come?” I bite my lip as he grips my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. “Say it. Beg. Promise you’ll touch yourself for me, exactly how I say. Or I’ll leave you down here, wet and shaking, until you forget your own name.”

I nod, desperate, broken. “Please. Please let me. I’ll do anything. I’ll touch myself, I’ll be your whore, I’ll do whatever you want⁠—”

He unzips my pants and pulls them down. My hands are still bound behind me. I can barely move, but he positions me, legs spread, knees pointed out. He cuts the ties. Freedom, but it comes with a price.

“Show me,” he says, voice rough. “But only when I say. Only how I say.” I reach between my thighs, fingers trembling. I’m soaked, humiliated. He palms himself through his pants, the outline hard, thick. He strokes himself, slow, as he watches me. “Just two fingers. Small circles. Slow. Pretend you hate it.”

I obey, sliding two fingers over my clit, slow, trembling circles. The pleasure is laced with shame, with the memory of the cold knife. He watches every twitch, every gasp.

“Look at me,” he orders. I meet the empty eye sockets of the mask. He unzips, pulls his cock out. It’s huge, leaking already as he strokes himself in time with my movements. “Faster,” he says. “But don’t come. Not yet.”

I speed up, breath going ragged. My body betrays me, hips moving, thighs shaking.

He kneels, strokes faster, eyes devouring me. “You’re so fucking filthy. Say it. Say you’re nothing but a hole.”

“I’m nothing but a hole,” I whisper.

“Now beg me. Beg me to let you come.”

“Please. Please, I’ll be good, I’m your whore, I’ll do anything, just let me come⁠—”

He groans. “Do it. Now.”

I rub harder, and the orgasm tears through me, all the pain and terror washing out in one blinding wave. I sob, my body convulsing, legs quaking. He strokes himself, faster, rougher. His hand is a blur, the mask inches from my face.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

I do. He presses his cock to my lips and jerks, hot, bitter cum pouring into my mouth, over my tongue, dripping down my chin. He keeps going, filling me, smearing it over my cheeks, my nose, my lips.

“Lick it,” he says. “Clean it up like a good girl.”

I lick his cock, my own tears and his cum mixing, choking me. He holds my head, guiding me, making sure I don’t miss a drop. When he’s finished, he tucks himself away, standing over me as I kneel, ruined, cum smeared across my face, my body shaking.

He bends and wipes a thumb over my cheek, pressing it into my mouth. “Swallow.”

I obey.

He steps back. “Good girl. You’re learning.” He kicks the bucket toward me. “Go ahead. That’s where you piss. Remind yourself. That’s all you are. Mine.”

I crawl to the bucket, humiliated, every inch of my skin burning with shame and used-up pleasure.

He leaves, boots echoing up the stairs, the lock sliding. I am alone again, shaking, sticky, filthy. I curl up, knees to chest, the taste of him in my mouth.

The cold creeps in, but I can’t feel it. All I feel is him.

23

LOLA

The door swings open with a bang. He fills the doorway, skull mask looming in the dark. I sit up on the mattress, blanket clutched tight, forcing my chin high even though my hands are shaking.

He stomps across the room, all violence and silence, and grabs a chair. Dragging it across the floor, he sits, legs wide, elbows on his knees. Watching me.

“Get up,” he says. My heart thrashes against my ribs. I wonder how he is going to use me today. He points. “Sit there.” He wants me on the floor at his feet. I hesitate, but he tilts his head, voice dropping. “Now.”

I sit. My knees bump the chair leg, and he leans in, close enough to taste my panic.

“I want answers, Lola.” His voice is deadly calm. “Tell me about Marcus. Tell me what you do for him.”

I try to sound bored. “Why do you care? You’re the one who dragged me out here, not him.”

He ignores that. “How deep are you in his shit? Are you just a puppet, or do you help him with the dirty work?”

I force a laugh, but it comes out brittle. “You think I’m his partner? Please. I’m just a body he uses.”

He shifts, boots planted wide. “You’re not that innocent. I know you’re not.”

“Why do you even give a fuck?” I snap. “What, am I supposed to believe you’re some kind of avenging angel? You’re just a freak in a mask.”

“You want to know why I care? You want the truth?” His voice cracks, rage pulsing beneath it. “I care because Marcus killed my mother.”

I go still. All of his anger suddenly makes sense.

He’s breathing hard. “You were there. I know you were. He sent you. Or you let it happen. You were the reason she died.” The world tilts. My mouth works but nothing comes out. I see his fist clench, the way his shoulders shake. He lets go of my face but doesn’t move away. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Lola. I want to hear you say what you did.”

I swallow, fury and fear tangled, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re insane. I had nothing to do with your mother.”

He slams his hand down on the chair, making me jump. “You were there. The night she died. You. Marcus. All his fucking people. You know what happened.”

He’s losing it. I can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the way his breath stutters. He almost looks broken. Silence chokes the room. My heart hammers asI stare up at the mask, searching for answers in the black holes where his eyes should be.

“You’re going to tell me everything. Or I’ll make you beg for mercy.”

I hold my head high, but his words get under my skin like poison. I don’t dare look away. He paces, boots grinding into the floor. He looks huge, unhinged, dangerous.

“You think I don’t know a liar when I see one? You always were good at pretending, Lola. Always so fucking good.” He stops, looming over me, chest heaving. “You know what Marcus did. You know how he works. You know how people disappear. You know who he destroys. So why don’t you stop fucking lying and tell me what happened the night my mother died?”

The words cut me. I flinch, even though I hate myself for it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper.

“You were there. You think I’d forget? You think I’d let it go? You think I can’t see you in my head every night, the blood, the screaming?” He crouches, the mask inches from my face. I can feel his breath, hot and shaking through the holes.

“Why do you care so much?” I spit, desperate, angry, afraid. “Why does it matter what happened to her? Why does it matter to you⁠—”

He jolts back, hands shaking. “Because she was my mother, Lola. Because your fucking family took everything from me. Because I loved you and you let them ruin me, ruin her, ruin everything. Because you’re the reason I wake up every day wanting to kill someone.”

His voice is splintered, wild, nothing like the monster’s voice at all. It’s a boy’s voice, furious, grieving, undone. My mouth goes dry. I know that voice. I know the shape of that pain. My brain tries to catch up, to make sense of the impossible.

He rips the mask off.

For a second, I can’t breathe. My heart stops, then slams back to life, too hard, too loud.

My Brody. The boy who used to look at me like I was his whole world. The boy I ruined. The boy who left.

“Brody?” I whisper. It barely comes out.

The room spins. I stagger back, but he catches my wrist, holds me captive in his stare. All the secrets, the pain, the obsession. It’s all right there in front of me.

He voice comes out shattered, “Now you know. You don’t leave until I get the truth. Not until you finally fucking pay for what happened to her.”

My whole world crashes down. Brody is here. My monster. My only salvation. My punishment.

And now there’s nowhere left to run.

“I don’t understand. You kidnapped me? You planned all of this? What the fuck, Brody?” I raise my voice and push at his chest. Now that I know who it is, my fear lessens. 

But, he gives me a reason to keep feeling terror.

Brody’s face hardens when he takes my hands in his. His grip is so tight, I am afraid he might crush my bones. “How does it feel to be betrayed? Sucks doesn’t it? I found out about you being taken. That wasn’t my plan, it was my father’s. I overheard and intercepted. You’re mine, Bambi. Mine to have, mine to ruin, mine to destroy.”

There’s a pulse in my ears. Not even a heartbeat. Just static. I look at Brody and there’s nothing there except cold, savage hunger. Everything inside me curls, shrinks. My mouth is open, waiting for a scream or maybe a laugh because this has to be a joke. But Brody’s eyes are wild and furious.

I yank my hands but he doesn’t let go. My wrists ache in the clamp of his fingers.

“That’s not possible,” I say. “You’re not like this. You can’t be like this. You were supposed to be different.”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. Hands tightening until I feel bones grind. “I was never different. You just looked away.”

He’s too close. I can feel his anger. I can feel my own shame, rising off me like heat. His grip jerks me off balance. I tumble to the floor, knees banging against the edge of the cot. He stands over me, not even winded. Like it cost him nothing to wreck me. Like he could do it forever.

I try to catch my breath. “Brody. Please. Let go. We can talk about this.”

He crouches. “You’re not getting it, Bambi,” he says. Velvety, smug. “There’s no talking. You don’t get a voice anymore. You just get me.” A pause, like he’s savoring it. “Just like always.”

It’s too much. I want—I don’t even know what I want. For this to stop. For him to touch me and never stop. To kill me. To hold me. All at once.

I want my sweet Brody back. 

He drags me to my feet by the wrists. My legs fold. He presses me against the concrete wall, harder. “This isn’t you,” I try again, softer, pleading. “I loved you. You can’t hate me like this. You can’t.”

“I told you. I don’t do half-measures.” His hand fists in my hair. He yanks my head back and I see stars behind my eyelids. “You ruined me, Lola. I’m just paying you back.”

I’m crying but not the normal way. No hiccups. No sobs. Just water leaking out of me, silent, endless.

He touches my jaw. Tender at first, then mean. His thumb rubs my bruised skin. “You’re scared of me?” I shake my head. Of course I am. He sees the lie and his smile widens. “You should be. I’m not the boy you remember. I’m what’s left.”

His fingers dig into my neck, just above the pulse. I can’t breathe. My legs kick but it does nothing.

He shoves me to the mattress, and the world stutters. I hit the mattress so hard my ribs shriek and the springs bite into my back. Brody stands over me, cloaked in shadows, nothing left of the boy from my past. Just a monster in a man shape, eyes so stormy they’re almost ice, almost dead.

I can’t breathe.

He’s on me in an instant. Hands on my wrists. Pinning me down, shoving them overhead like I’m a specimen and he needs every inch exposed. His weight crushes my knees open. My thighs tremble, heat and horror knot together in my stomach.

He leans in close. The mask is gone, but his face is a mask now. Blank and beautiful and ruined. “You remember how this feels?” His voice is a wreck. “You used to beg for it. Not so tough now, Bambi.”

I kick out, catch nothing but air. His knee jams my thigh, clamping me flat. The hand not on my wrist slides down my bruised throat. He traces the marks Marcus left, then bruises of his own doing. He presses until I almost black out, then lets go, just enough to make the next breath sting. He wants to murder me and fuck me at the same time.

“Why’d you let him do it, Lola? Why’d you let him wreck everything?” He shakes me like he wants to break my neck. “You should have fought for me. You should have fucking died for me.”

My whole body shakes under his weight. My body remembers him. Worse, I want him. I want his mouth and his hands, even as I want him dead.

He shoves my shirt up, tearing straight through the fabric, and exposing my skin, belly, ripped bra. I try to claw his hands but he pins me harder. My breath comes in wet gasps and his palm covers my mouth.

My nose flares. I choke, panic spiking. My nails scrape desperately at his arm, but he doesn’t flinch. He grinds against me, cock hard through the thin pants. I can feel it, hot where everything else is cold. I try to buck him off.

There’s no mercy here.

“Tell me the truth.” His words sink into my pulse. “Tell me or I’ll tear you apart.”

I want to hate him. I want to love him. I squirm. He likes how it looks. The choke in my body. The fear. The memory of old wanting, spoiled and left to rot inside me.

Brody drags his hand up my ribs, flat-palmed and mean. His thumb circles my bruised skin, the way a wolf might savor blood on fur. He waits for me to flinch. I always do. He grins, his mouth gleaming in the shadows. The same mouth I used to kiss, to dream about.

Now they’re just another monster’s lips, waiting to bite me in half.

“Fuck off, I don’t know you. You’re not my Brody, you’re not him,” I say. Wrecked and ruined.

Tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. He yanks my jaw, making me look at him. His eyes have gone dark, no softness, no light. Not my Brody. Not anymore.

“You miss the way it used to be?” He tilts his head. “You miss the boy who loved you? Or do you like this better?”

I press my lips together. Don’t scream. Don’t give him that. But he sees it. The way my body trembles. The way my breath comes in quick, tiny little sobs. He breathes it in. He loves it.

He grabs my wrists, pins them over my head, his hand covering both. His fingers dig deep. He can hold me with just that. The other hand goes to my jaw, squeezing until it aches. Forcing me to look at him. His face. My Brody. Dark eyes, wild, cracked with pain and craziness.

“You want to hate me? Fine. Hate me. But you will never forget me. Nobody will ever own you like I do, Lola. Not Marcus. Not your clients. Not those men you let paw all over you. Just me.”

I shake my head. I can’t speak. 

He moves his hips. His cock grinds against my crotch, hot through the thin pajama pants, the ruined panties. My body remembers him. It leaks. It throbs and aches for him. I wish it would stop.

He lifts my chin, thumb bruising the side of my face. “Tell me what happened to my mother,” he growls. “Now.”

My body jolts. I almost spit the words at him.

“I don’t know!” The truth rips up from my chest. I don’t even know if it’s true. I’ve lied so long I can’t taste the difference. “Marcus deals with his enemies. Girls like me, we don’t get told anything. I swear to fucking god, Brody, I didn’t even know she was gone until weeks later. Marcus kept me locked up. He always kept me away from that shit.”

His eyes bore through me. No mercy. “You’re lying,” he snaps. “You were there. You were in his house the night she died.”

I’m shaking. “He never let me leave my room. He told me if I was good, nothing bad would ever happen to me.”

Brody’s fingers are digging into my jaw, bruising me all over again. My words hang in the air, desperate and helpless. I can feel him registering them, the way a wild animal registers the tremble of prey. Some part of him enjoys my fear, some part of him frantic to hear something else.

He shakes his head, lips curling cruelly. “You want me to believe that? You want me to think Marcus locked you away out of kindness? You were always his favorite. His little project. His little fucking spy⁠—”

“I wasn’t,” I gasp, voice trembling, salt stinging my lips. “I wasn’t, Brody. I swear. He never let me out. I was just…a thing he kept. I never knew. I never knew⁠—”

He rears back, breathing hard, eyes glassy and haunted. Rage flickers there, but beneath it something falters. Doubt. Only for a second. Then he slams the mask of anger back in place. “Liar,” he bites out, but it breaks as he says it. His grip loosens imperceptibly. “You’re always lying, Lola. You lied the night you left me, you lied when you let him ruin us⁠—”

A sob claws up my throat. Tears spill, silent and hot. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know what he did to her. I didn’t know she was gone until weeks later. I would have told you, Brody. I loved you. Even when you left, I never stopped⁠—”

He flinches, the word love hitting him like a blow. For a moment we just stare, both trembling, the air between us thick with all the rot and ruin of what we used to be.

He softens, barely. “You’re saying you didn’t help him?”

I shake my head, dizzy, broken. “I didn’t. I hated him. I hated what he did. I wanted out, but he owned me. He owns everything.”

Brody’s jaw works, his hands still holding me as if letting go would send us both crashing through the floor.

Outside the wind screams. Inside it’s just us, ruined, stripped, exhausted.

He lets go of my wrists, and sits back on his heels, breathing like he’s run a marathon. For a moment he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, searching my face for a crack, a tell, a sign of guilt.

I wipe at my cheeks, too tired to hide the tears. “You can believe what you want. You always did.”

He stands abruptly, something fractured in his movements. He paces to the far wall, shoulders squared, back heaving. He looks like he wants to punch through the concrete or collapse to the floor, or both.

I curl up, bruised and humiliated, cold to the core. The ache inside me is bigger than fear. It’s grief, for him, for myself, for the girl I used to be.

He turns, agony twisting his face. “I want the truth, Lola. I want to kill him for what he did. For what he took from me. From you. My father seems to believe you’re guilty. My father wouldn’t lie. My father fucking saved me. He has to be right. Otherwise, this is all for nothing.”

I jump up, voice ragged. “Let go of your pride and ego for once! I’m still your Lola, your Bambi. You’re forever.”

The words hang in the air. Bloody, desperate, true. Something in Brody’s eyes changes. For the first time since he ripped off the mask, I see the boy I loved flicker through all the violence.

It’s gone again, just as quick.

He grabs the mask, jaw set. “Get some sleep. We’re not done.”

He leaves me there, ruined and wrung out, the mattress cold, the storm pressing against the walls like the future itself. And I know, in the hollow of my gut, that nothing between us will ever be the same again. Not after tonight.

My Brody is my tormentor. I think about everything he has done to me since he took me here and I suddenly feel the urge to vomit. I never thought Brody would touch me like that, or talk to me like that.

But I never thought my mom would die and leave me alone with a monster.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths. Brody isn’t Marcus. I remind myself. Brody is my first love. Brody is not a monster.

Even as I tell myself that, though, I think about his recent actions, and I wonder: Have I ever been safe with him? Or was I too young to see that darkness in him? Is the mask new? Or am I the blind one?

It would be ironic if I’ve been terrified of Marcus for years, wondering if he will kill me, when Brody is the one who might finish me.

My first love. My first heartbreak. My monster.

24

BRODY

There’s something loose in my head. Every hour down here, it rattles louder. Rage, hunger, confusion. All fused together like wires sparking under my skin. 

I barely remember anything from the other night, I was so fucked up on drugs and alcohol. I blacked out completely. 

I pace the hall. The urge to destroy something—her, myself, the world—swells and surges until I can barely breathe.

Everything is fucked. Nothing lines up the way it should. I tell myself I’m in control, I remind myself why this has to happen. Keep her caged, make her talk, make her crack until the truth spills out. I need it. I need to know if she’s just another fucking liar or if she really is poison. If Marcus used her, if she was in on it, if she killed my mother by just existing.

But every time I see her—shaking, ruined—I feel the power slip. I want to make it all make sense. I want to own her, break her, make her beg. I want to hurt her so bad she finally admits what she’s done. Or maybe so she finally forgives me for being a monster.

I can’t tell the difference anymore: love, hate, control, mercy. It’s all just noise.

If I let go, if I stop, I’ll drown. If I keep going, maybe I’ll finally feel clean. She’ll give in. She has to. I’ll make sure of it.

When I found out that Richard was planning on having his men take her, I snapped. I would never get her back if that happened. She would be gone for good. I know what kind of techniques Richard uses for torture or revenge, and there is no way in hell I will let him touch her. If anyone will get the truth out of her, it’s me.  So, I intercepted the van, killed the men, and took what’s mine.

The memory stains my hands. Everything I do, I do for her. Everything I wreck, I wreck for her.

I pace the halls. Sometimes I listen to her in the basement. The little noises she makes. Sobbing, sometimes. Sometimes nothing at all, and that’s worse.

I want to go down. I want to see fear in her eyes. I want her to feel the way she made me feel. Alone. Torn. Useless.

Every thought circles back to Marcus. The way he destroyed my mother, destroyed everything good, and got away with it.

He thinks Lola is still his. I know better. He never earned a fucking thing. He only took.

I hear Lola breathing. The heater kicks on. Somewhere, the wind howls. The daylight is covered by a sheet of gray snow. Nobody knows where we are. Not even a god.

I go down to her. The basement air is cold. The steps groan under my weight. I want her to be scared. I want her to know I could snap her in two if I wanted. The thrill of it is a poison I keep swallowing, again and again.

She’s curled on the mattress. New clothes cover her body, but I know what’s underneath. Her skin. The bruises. My marks.

Her eyes go wide when she sees me. I stand over her, fists clenched. She pulls the blanket tighter, but it doesn’t matter. I see right through her.

“You get it yet?” I say. Quiet. Enough to echo. “You understand what you are down here?” She doesn’t speak. Her shoulders shake. She’s so easy to ruin. “I’ll spell it out for you,” I say. I’m closer now. Voice lower. “You’re nothing, Lola. You’re mine. You wake up when I say. You piss when I say. You don’t even get to breathe unless I allow it.”

Her jaw shakes. She tries to look at anything but me.

“You still want to run?” I demand. She’s silent. “I saw you, you know,” I say. “Saw the look in your eyes when you bolted for the door. Did you want me to chase you? You did. You always want me chasing you. Pathetic.”

She shakes her head. Just the tiniest bit.

I grin. Wolfish. “You think you’re so strong. You’re not. I can break you any second I want.”

I reach for her, and she flinches. I like it.

I grip the back of her neck, her pulse hammers under my palm. She’s fever-hot. “You ache for it, don’t you?” My grip gets tighter. “You want to be owned. You want to know I’m in control.”

Tears start to slip. They glisten on her face, making her prettier. Her eyes shine, wet and blue as bruises. Little trembling pearls down her cheek. I want to lick the tears off, taste the fear, swallow it and make it mine. I want everything. I want too much.

Always have.

I run my thumb under her eye, smearing it. Nothing gentle. “Good,” I say, too soft. “Let me see how weak you are.”

Lola clenches her jaw, bites through it, still trying to pretend there’s any fight left.

She’ll never win.

I crouch in front of her, eyes locked on her. The way her collarbones jut, but I still want to press my teeth to every inch. “You ever gonna tell me the truth?” My words echo. “Or do I have to break you for real?”

She doesn’t answer.

I grab her by the chin, force her head up, and slam it back into the wood. Not enough to split, but enough to shock. She gasps. Color rushes up her neck.

“You get cute ideas, down here in the dark?” My voice is just a snarl. “Think about lying to me again? You think if you keep your mouth shut, I’ll just stop asking?”

I never stop.

I lean in until I can taste her breath. Cinnamon and coffee. Fear, under all of it. “You want it easy, Lola? Talk. Otherwise, we do this the hard fucking way.”

Her pulse throbs under my fingers. I squeeze, not letting it go easy.

She chokes on a laugh. “You think I’m scared of you?”

I want to shake her. I want to split her open, see what color her fear is inside.

“You should be,” I whisper, dead cold. “You should beg me to play nice. Because all you have is what I allow. If you behave, you get food. You get warmth. Maybe even get my hands or my cock or whatever makes you feel less empty. If you want to be a brat? Then you get nothing.” Nothing means nothing. I want her to picture it. To taste it. “No light. No water. I’ll leave you down here until you starve. I’ll rip out every inch you think you own, just to hear you cry.”

She tries to hide it, but I see the flick in her gaze. She hates the way my threats get to her. She hates that her body tenses, legs clamped together like she’s holding back not a scream—but a moan. That sick wanting, buried somewhere even she can’t kill.

I let go of her jaw. Let her head go limp. “You only get what you earn from now on. You want the good shit, you make me happy. You play games, you pay for it.”

If I let myself, I could almost feel sorry for her. For me. Monsters in this little tomb, gnawing on old wounds.

“Start talking,” I tell her. “Tell me everything about Marcus. Tell me what you do for him. Don’t leave anything out.”

The moment she tries to lie to me, it’s in her eyes. It’s always in the eyes. The way her chin tucks, shoulders round, like there’s a secret burning holes in her tongue and she thinks if she swallows it fast enough I’ll just let her go.

Not a fucking chance.

I want the truth. I want every memory, every humiliation, every hour Marcus poisoned her head and used her body and made her less than human. I want it all.

She tries to breathe. Tries to gather herself. I don’t let her. I close my hand around her throat, just hard enough for her pulse to leap under my thumb. She gasps; color flushes up her jaw. She’s still pretending to be strong.

I squeeze tighter. “Talk, Lola. Tell me about Marcus. Tell me about his fucking network. The men. The clients. The jobs.”

She chokes, but the tears don’t fall yet. “He keeps me hidden. I’m just a pretty thing for him to parade when it helps him close a deal,” she stammers. “Sometimes he sends me as bait. Sometimes for photos. Sometimes for worse.” Her lip trembles. “I don’t remember all the names. I never got to know them.”

I watch her, searching for lies. Fuck if I’ll let her off easy.

“For worst. What does that mean?” I keep my voice low.

She flinches. “It means whatever the fuck they want. Sometimes I just have to dress up and flirt and let them stare. Sometimes it’s more. Dinner parties. Hands on my legs under the table. His men watch. If I fight, he gets mean later. He tells me it’s all business. That I’m an asset.”

I want to punch a hole in the wall. 

She keeps talking, voice cracked, words spilling out between shaky breaths.

I lean over her, close enough to see every twitch. “That’s it?” My voice is empty. “That’s all he did?”

Her fingers twist in the blanket. “No. Sometimes he’d tell me to—” She stops. Swallows. “Sometimes he’d watch. Make me sit on men’s laps. Let them touch. Not always. But enough.”

I see red. My knuckles ache. I want to slam my fist into the fucking wall.

“Did you like it?” I ask. I need her to hurt. “Did you ever want them?”

Her eyes snap to mine. Wide and furious. “No. I hated it. I hate you for asking.”

I clench my jaw. I want to believe her. I don’t know what’s real. My mind stings. “Don’t lie to me, Lola. I’ll know.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not lying. I swear. You don’t know what it’s like.”

I don’t. I never will. I pace once, twice, then crouch back down, hands trembling. “He ever mention my mother?” I say angrily. “The accident. Did he ever say a word about her?”

She shakes her head. “No—never. He only talked about business. Control. He never said her name.”

I watch her. I want to rip the truth out of her mouth. I want to believe she’s clean, and I want to prove she’s filthy. I don’t know which I want more.

“I’m telling you everything I know.” Her hands, free, clutch the blanket tight. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I stare at her. The anger is a fever. The ache to control, to possess, to finally know. I can’t kill it. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if I’m saving her or breaking her for good.

“I keep my promises,” I say, rough. “You talk, you get something. That’s the deal.”

She nods, wary, desperate.

I reach behind me and grab the food. An apple, half a sandwich, bottled water. I toss them beside her on the mattress. My hands shake. I can’t look at her. “Eat,” I mutter. “Rest. But don’t get comfortable. We’re not done.”

She snatches the food, shoves a bite in her mouth with shaking hands. I watch her swallow, watch her eyes close in relief. For one second, I hate myself for giving in.

I back away, turn, and leave her alone in the dark. My mind’s a fucking war zone. Nothing makes sense. All I have left is this fire consuming me.

25

LOLA

I wait until the shadows start to stretch, until the cold in my bones is crippling. I’ve stopped crying. There’s nothing left to squeeze out.

I need to escape, I need to get away from here. I don’t like being trapped. I can’t stay here with Brody circling me. He is a beast that has been swallowed, chewed up, then spit out by the boy I love. 

It’s heartbreaking.

Finally, the door opens. Brody, no mask this time, just the face I used to trust, carved now with new edges. He stands in the frame, arms crossed.

I swallow down everything I want to scream, and instead let my voice go soft, pleading. “Please, Brody. I need a real bathroom. Just five minutes. I’ll freeze to death if I stay down here. Please.” I don’t know if the tears on my face are real or not, but I let them fall. He stares and I push a little more. “You remember, right? Our first summer together, when you swore you’d always take care of me? When you said I could trust you with anything, even the ugly stuff?” My voice cracks. “I just want to be clean for once. For you. For… for us.”

That does it. The flicker in his eyes. A ghost of the softness I used to know. He sighs, jaw tight, and unlocks my wrist, fingers rough around my arm. “Don’t try anything,” he growls. He leads me up the stairs, his palm heavy at the back of my neck. The hallway is dim. He points me to the bathroom. “Door stays open.”

“I can’t pee with you staring,” I whisper, small. “Just a minute.”

He hesitates, then relents. “One minute.”

I shut the door, hands shaking as I lock it. I breathe, counting heartbeats, plotting. The window is too small, too high. Only one chance. I pee, I flush, run the water, keep my ear tuned to the hallway. When I open the door, I do it fast.

Brody’s just outside, arms folded. I throw my shoulder into him, as hard as I can. He stumbles, not expecting it, and I bolt.

Sprinting down the hall, my feet slide, my heart pounding. The front door is ahead. My only shot. I wrench it open, a blast of icy wind slamming me in the face. Snow is everywhere, thick and blinding, but it doesn’t matter. I run. My lungs seize. The snow is up to my ankles, wet and numbing, slicing into my skin. I’m in nothing but a t-shirt, pajama pants, bare feet shoved into shoes that I found in the basement. 

The night is black, the world swallowed up. I run until my legs stop working, until the cold eats up all the feeling in my hands and feet. My body collapses into the white drift. 

I curl up, shaking, teeth chattering so hard I think they’ll splinter. The darkness presses in, heavy and kind. I close my eyes. Let it end. Let the cold take me. Let me dissolve into the snow and never come back.

My ribs throb with blue cold, my ears roaring with static. My head is a hollow thing. My chest is empty but it hurts anyway. I wish it would stop. The night pins me down, palms my hair, shoves my face in the snow. I shudder. I want to sleep. I want to black out. I want oblivion.

I think about my mother. The sound she made, right before the end, more silence than scream. I bet the snow remembers it, too.

Brody’s voice is still in my head. Not a boy anymore. Not my boy. He says I ruined him. He says I was always made for the dark.

Maybe I am.

I stare at the sky until it goes gray at the edges. The cold isn’t cold anymore. It’s just… gone. I feel everything and nothing. My whole body hums with panic, but it can’t move. The cold is a better cage than Brody ever built.

I blink. There’s no sound. No cars, no footsteps, no shouting.

I think I’m fading. That’s all I ever wanted. To fade. To become a smear in the snow, a rumor.

Let the cold finish me. Let Marcus spin his lies about how I disappeared. Let Brody tear his own heart out searching for me. Let them choke on the aftermath of what they tried to make me into.

But the world won’t even give me that.

I hear him.

Footsteps thunder behind me, crunching through the drifts. Arms seize me. Hard, furious, hauling me up. 

Brody’s voice, loud and angry. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Lola? You want to fucking die out here?” I thrash, weak, but he’s relentless. He throws me over his shoulder, not caring if I scream. “You want to freeze? You want to make this worse? You stupid, reckless—” His words are clipped, rage trembling in every syllable.

He drags me back inside, slamming the door behind us. The warmth is sudden and searing; my skin burns as the blood tries to return, needles stabbing under my flesh.

“You don’t get to run. Not from me. Not ever again. You have no idea what I’d do to keep you here, do you? If you try that again, I’ll make sure you don’t even get to see daylight, Lola. I’m done asking. You belong to me now. You hear me?”

His grip bruises, his eyes wild. I shiver, not from cold this time, but from the terrible certainty that there’s nowhere left to run. The snow melts off my skin, dripping down onto the tile. I stare at the puddle, wishing I could sink into it and disappear.

But Brody won’t let me fade. Not now. Not ever.

I choke on panic. The cold from outside is nothing compared to his grip. I must look pathetic. Shivering, wet hair, shirt sticking to my tits. He loves it. I see how he drinks me in, sick satisfaction on his face.

“You try that again, and I’ll chain you to the fucking wall,” Brody growls. “Try it and see. You’ll wish you’d just laid down and died in the snow.”

His hands are everywhere. Crushing my wrists. Shoving my shoulder. Pinning me in place with just a thumb to my throat, pressing the pulse so it jumps wild.

Fuck.

I’m hot and cold all at once. The panic, the shame. The want. Like he’s injecting it straight into my veins with every next cruel touch.

He drags me into the main room. Throws me toward the mattress. The impact numbs my legs. I stumble, barely able to stand. He doesn’t care. He paces. A caged thing. A storm about to break the fucking windows.

Slam.

His boot hits the chair. It topples, skittering across the floor. “Thought you could outsmart me?” he barks. “You thought I wouldn’t catch you?” There’s madness now, fracturing every word. “I always fucking find you, Lola. You belong to me. That’s the only truth left.”

I try to shrink in. As small as possible. Like I could disappear into the cracks of the floorboards. It doesn’t matter; his attention seeps through everything. Watching me. Mapping every twitch. He stalks to where I sit, hauls me up by the roots of my hair, and yanks my head back. My body loses all fight.

“You know what happens now?” That low, mean voice is right in my ear. “You pay for trying to run. This is your world now. Me, and this room, and my rules.”

Gone. The sweet boy. Dead and buried. Just this: Brody, the monster, all rage and violence and want.

He pins me with his body, his hand fists at the back of my neck. My ribs scream. My heart skips. He wants me to panic, he wants my fear fed to him mouthful by mouthful.

I try to twist away. Stupid. He’s twice my size. Stronger than a nightmare.

He growls. “Run all you want. I like the fight.” His fingers clamp my jaw. He digs his thumb under my chin, forcing my lips open. “Gonna talk back again, Bambi? Or you wanna see how fast I can make you beg?”

I choke on silence. My mouth trembles. He drinks it in, hungry. He always was a wolf. I just pretended not to see. He shoves me to my knees. Hard, rough, fast. I hate how it makes my thighs clench.

“You look better down there. On the floor. Where you belong.”

My face burns. Every inch of me coils, trying to hide and display at the same time. There’s no dignity left. Just this sick, dizzy fear and the want behind it.

He stalks around me. “I let you get away with too much,” Brody mutters. “Made the mistake of thinking you still loved me. That you’d be obedient, grateful. That you’d remember who you belonged to. You want to die?” He crouches in front of me, face inches away. “Or you just want to get punished? You want pain, Lola? You want it piled up so high you never forget who’s in charge here?”

He grabs my chin and squeezes. My skull rattles. I am shivering and helpless. I’m supposed to be strong. I hate that he’s winning.

“I told you what would happen if you ran. Guess you don’t listen.” 

He goes to grab some rope, then he crouches in front of me again. Before I can stop him, he takes my hands and pins them together, and wraps the rope around my wrists.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I scream, trying to pull away, but he is stronger.

He checks the knot, yanks on it, then picks me up and carries me to the mattress before throwing me down. 

I shake, wild, flush burning up my chest. He wraps both hands around my ankles, pins my legs open. “This is how you’re going to learn. You’re going to lay here, take it, and not fucking cum.” His lips are a sneer.

He straddles me, knees on either side of my hips. I am so fucking trapped, splayed open, rope burning my wrists, every inch of my body screaming in terror and hunger. He yanks my shirt up. All the way. Hands rough over my exposed tits. They perk up, it’s humiliating, soft prey for the predator leering above me. His eyes eat me alive.

“You’re insane,” I snap at him and thrash beneath him. 

“Keep looking at me like that. Go on. I want to see the hate.”

His hand shoves the hair away from my face before shoving my pants down. Yanks them off, and my ruined panties along with them. My T-shirt bunches at my throat, leaving me naked and open. My cunt is soaked, and I just want to disappear.

Brody grabs my thighs, spreads them wide, not caring how pathetic I look. Shirt bunched at my neck, tits out.

His pupils are black. There’s no softness. Not anymore. Just that monstrous hunger.

He drops to his knees by the bed, leans in, fingers digging into my hips like he wants to snap the bone. My body jerks. I can’t control the twitch or the whimper. One hot breath. A single stripe of tongue. I almost black out.

I bite my lip to keep from screaming.

He eats me like he’s starving. Mouth wide, lips dragging everywhere, tongue rough and greedy. Always in control. Never letting up, not for a second. It’s torture. My brain fuzzes out. The whole world is my helpless, shuddering body, pinned to a mattress, fingers scrabbling for a hold. I can’t even cover my face, can’t hide the way I arch and tremble and beg with every silent little sound.

He laughs, low, dark, against my skin. “Don’t cum.” The words are a lash. “Not unless I say.”

I nod, frantic. My hands are useless, tied above me. Every second he pushes harder. Sucks my clit into his mouth, bites down. I see stars and feel myself getting close, building so fast I want to sob. I almost say his name, but I bite my tongue, shake my head. I want to obey. I don’t want to be punished again. But my body doesn’t listen. My hips grind hungry against his mouth.

He pulls back, lips shining. Cold air hits me. I gasp. He slaps my thigh, hard enough to sting. “Too close,” he says. “Didn’t I tell you not to cum? Are you that stupid, Bambi?” My whole body throbs. Need, humiliation, rage. I shake my head, desperate, wanting to explain, but he climbs up and grabs my chin. “You keep trying to run,” he says. Words soft and venomous. “Even your pussy can’t behave. Maybe I should leave you tied up, dripping and desperate, until you learn how to listen.”

I try to speak. Only shudders come out.

He shoves two fingers deep inside. Slow, wicked. His eyes never leave mine. I squirm, the friction is perfect. I can’t stop. I can’t stop. My whole body is vibrating, desperate, clawing for the edge, begging for permission to cross it. He knows, too. It’s in the way he breathes when my thighs jerk and spasm. The way his nails dig so deep into my hips, I think he wants to hang me up by them. It hurts. I love it. I hate it.

Brody tortures me. His tongue is everywhere, mouth hot and wet, lapping up every filthy drip. He talks to me with his mouth on my skin. Don’t cum. Don’t you fucking dare, Bambi. His lips are smiling against me when I whimper and arch, mindless.

My cunt pulses. I am leaking down the inside of my legs, splattered on his cheeks, filthy. He wants it. He makes a noise in his chest. I almost black out.

try to squirm away, but he just slams my ass against the mattress harder. He groans. “Look at this. You’re so wet, I could drown.”

I can’t breathe. My head lolls back, and I let out a sound. Not human. Nothing left of me except frantic, shaking bones and this sick hunger. My wrists burn from the rope. My tits shake with every tortured breath. I want to scream. I am going crazy.

Brody loves it. He studies me. He knows what he’s doing to me. He wants me to suffer for him.

This is what he wanted. This is what I wanted.

Even now, even after all the hate. I want him to eat me alive. I want it to hurt. I want him to ruin orgasms for me forever, so I never forget who put me back together.

He drags two fingers up my slit, slides them inside. I clench so hard around them I almost sob. I’m fucking close. I can’t help it. My legs spasm. My hips buck. I start to sob.

Brody’s mouth moves up to my clit, and he sucks it in, hard, like he wants to rip it off and keep it as a trophy. My eyes roll back. I can’t see, I can’t talk, I can’t think. He feels it. He pulls away, just before I go. The world crashes down.

“No,” I croak, desperate.

He slaps my inner thigh. “Did I say you could cum?” Cold. Controlled. He wants to see me beg.

I can’t breathe. I would do anything. I would sell my fucking soul for it.

He does it again. Licks me, sucks, drives me right to the edge, then rips it away. Again. And again.

I am shaking, not even human, just a mess for him to use. Wet, pathetic. My wrists are purple with bruises. Brody’s voice. Dark as the void. Reminding me of what I can’t reach.

Suddenly, he sits up, and yanks his pants down. His cock springs free. I want to look away but I can’t. My cunt clenches, dripping, and I hate that he sees it.

My wrists burn. Rope bites deep. My tits bounce with every shudder-breath. I am splayed out and he knows it. He makes sure I know it. He crawls over me. Knees on either side of my hips, the mattress caving. His hands plant on my thighs, pushing them so wide I worry I’ll rip apart. 

My body trembles. Every inch of me is jelly and fire. He strokes his cock, letting the precum bead and drip onto my stomach. He wants to make me watch. Make me beg.

He drags the thick head up and down my pussy. I’m already leaking. He paints it on my clit, up and down, not giving me relief. Every time the head of his cock rubs my clit, I jerk, toes curling. But he pulls away before I can get there.

Brody watches my face. He watches the way my whole body arches like I’m starving for it. I am. Shame swells in my throat. All the words I want to say fail in my mouth. His cock is arousing. The way he taunts me with it.

“You’re not going to cum,” Brody says, his voice like a fist under my jaw. “You don’t get to cum. Not tonight.”

I blink. Tears burn, but I bite them back. “Please.”

He smirks. The kind of look that says he’d rather break me than fuck me. “Not after you tried to run. You get what I give and nothing else.”

He grinds against my cunt. Slowly. I feel every inch of it. The head rolling against my clit, the shaft sliding along my cunt. It’s torture. My body begs, hips lifting, mindless.

He slaps my thigh. “Lay. Still.”

I freeze. My whole body is on fire. He likes how pathetic I am like this, legs shaking, wrists useless and bound above my head. My cunt aches from the sick frustration that never stops building. He slides the head along my pussy again, but doesn’t push inside. Just teases, over and over, until I feel like I could scream from the pressure alone.

He grins down at me, pride and hunger and hatred all tangled up. “Look at you. Fucking mess. So greedy for cock and you haven’t earned it.”

He leans in. Grinds harder. Rubs the swollen head against my clit, slow circles, tight, relentless. He watches the way my hips twitch, my lips part, my eyes roll back. He drinks it in.

I am nothing but ache. Every touch is a pulse of lightning. But he never lets me have it. Never lets me finish. He pulls away, leaving me empty, useless. The air goes cold instantly, his weight gone, the mattress groaning as he stands. My legs fall shut, trembling, desperate for friction, for anything. I whimper, a small, broken sound, but he doesn’t look at me.

Brody wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, fixes his pants, tucks himself away like nothing happened. I’m left spread open, thighs wet and shameful. He watches for a moment, just to make sure I see the finality in his eyes.

“You don’t get to cum,” he repeats. “Not until you remember who you belong to.”

He grabs the rope, unties my wrists only to re-tie them in front—rough, fast, so I can’t fight back. I’m shaking so hard I might fall off the bed, but he just drags me to my feet, half-carrying, half-hauling me across the room. The cold bites at my skin.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I stumble down the stairs, feet numb, heart pounding wildly. He shoves me back into the basement, into the dark that’s colder than any snowdrift. He finally takes the rope off, then leaves again. The door slams and the lock clicks.

For a long moment, I just stand there, legs still shaking, cunt throbbing with need and humiliation. My skin burns with the memory of his mouth, his hands, the ache he left behind.

I crawl to the mattress, and curl up tight. The darkness presses in, silent and wide. My body aches for something. Release, comfort, anything. But Brody’s gone, and he took the last scraps of warmth with him.

I bite my lip and choke on the emptiness, the want, the humiliation. Alone, again. Alone with the ache he built in my bones, with nothing to do but shake and wait and hope the dark swallows what’s left.

And in the silence, there’s no escape. Just the drip of need, the gnaw of shame, and the echo of his voice. But, he must still have a heart, because I awake from sleep to see a fresh pair of clothes folded beside me. 

That is enough to give me a tiny bit of hope.

26

LOLA

Nights here are relentless. They press up against these thin, splintered walls, and claw at the fogged glass. The moon hangs like a sick pale eye above the trees, watching me, judging. This cabin is not a home. Not tonight. Not ever. Just a cage in the middle of nowhere. The wind screams. Floorboards tremble with every gust. Shadows pile in corners.

I pace the short hallway, up and down, around the warped table. I can't sit still. It’s so fucking cold I can feel it under my skin. Every sound sets me off. Groans in the roof, branches knifing the siding, frost ticking its slow death over the window. Breath fogs in front of my face. My feet ache against the bare wood, numb already, but I move anyway. 

Brody hasn’t come back. Three hours? Four? Maybe more. Time here is elastic, stretching and convulsing around pain. He left in the slush and dark, with something monstrous in his eyes. He told me nothing. Just stormed out, boots like gunshots on the porch.

The world outside is nothing but moonlight and snow and branches clawing at each other. I keep looking through the glass but all I see are skeletons and ghosts. Sometimes I think I see a shape moving in the treeline. Sometimes I pray it’s not him.

Then I pray it is.

He’s the only thing worse than being alone here.

Wind hits the cabin, and the windows shudder. It’s like something is trying to get in. Or maybe something wants to get out. Shadows slide over the floor, black bands that stretch and twist with the moon. Each time I pass the window, I catch my own face staring back. Eyes wide, blue, made for surrender. I want to look away but I can’t. I look haunted. Maybe I am.

I wrap my arms around myself. My sweater is too thin, useless against the hunger of this place. I walk. I freeze. I listen for footsteps that never come.

Thoughts spiral. Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. He would never let me out of his sight this long. He’d be watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce the second I breathe wrong. Maybe Brody’s with him. Maybe they’re the same, two monsters in different skins. My stomach knots. I want to puke.

Sudden silence. Even the wind has stopped. I stand in the dead air, holding my breath, my heart thumping harshly.

Then the front door explodes open, so hard it cracks against the wall. White-out blizzard rips through the entry, snow hurling across the floor, and Brody fills the frame. Too big, shoulders wedged in the glow, skull mask loose around his neck like a warning.

He looks at me. Not with eyes. With hunger. With rage. He moves in stutters. Sweat streaks down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead. He staggers but never loses balance, just pivots, scanning for enemies that aren’t there.

His smell hits first. Vodka, sweat, and something beneath. Not weed. Not cigarettes. Something that stings inside my nose, gets into my sinuses and burns. He slams the door behind him, so hard the window rattles in its frame, so hard the whole place seems to shudder with fear.

“Lola!” he screams, voice shredded, echoing off the walls. He barely sounds human.

It spikes something in my chest. Panic, old and familiar. The kind that makes me want to fold into nothing, hide under the bed, block my ears.

He kicks a chair; it flips into the cabinets, splinters flying. He shoves the table sideways into the wall; plates and glasses crash, one shattering, spraying the tile with glittering shards. His hands twitch, fists flexing and unfurling, nails biting his own palms. He doesn’t even blink. Just fixates on me, blue-grey steel gone bloodshot. He paces like a wolf, restless, untouchable, making little half-muttered growls under his breath.

I back up. Careful steps. My heels hit the far wall. The cold seeps in, up through the soles of my socks, gnawing at my bones. He lunges. I don’t even move. Fear pins me to the spot.

Brody catches my wrist in both hands, yanking hard. Pain jolts up my arm, the way Marcus used to do, just to show me what’s coming. There’s no warmth in his skin. Only pressure. He could break me if he wanted.

He drags me close, breath hot and rotten on my face. The drugs, the liquor, the sweat. The mask dangles against my chest, the hard plastic grinning with its empty sockets.

He yells at me, words I barely recognize. Words that melt into spit and curses and tangled questions. “Where were you? Who did you see? Who’s here?” Over and over, words melting together, accusations and demands. “You lying? You fucking lying to me, Lola? You make a call? Who—who’s out there, who’s hiding⁠—?”

I shake my head, stammer out a denial, but he isn’t listening. He sees only what the chemicals show him.

He shoves me, then pulls me back. My head snaps. The pressure bruises. He rips his shirt off and slams it over my head. It blinds me, smothers me, his hands holding it tight. I claw at the cotton but he’s stronger. He just laughs.

He’s not Brody. Not anyone human.

My ears fill with the sound of my own heart. I can’t see. I can barely breathe as he yanks me upright, choking me with the shirt. The world narrows to darkness and his grip. I’m a ragdoll, legs scraping across carpet, then the burn of cold tile, kitchen, then hallway, then front door.

The night howls in. I feel the wind before I hear it, slicing through the wet shirt, through my skin. My feet slip on frost. My toes are numb already.

He manhandles me out the threshold. Then, light. He rips the shirt from my head, and shoves me. I tumble into the snow, knees buckling. The last thing I see is him, face hollow, eyes inkblot black behind the mask.

He slams the door. I blink, but can’t make sense of anything except the pain. At first it’s just cold, and then it’s something else, agony’s dull shadow, the kind of ache that eats you from the inside out.

I gasp. Breath explodes out of me and hangs in the dark. The moon is the only witness. Pale, distant. No light from the windows. Brody shut the world in with him. All that’s left for me is the blue-white drift, deeper than my ankles, blowing into my eyes. I can’t even see the edge of the woods.

I stumble toward the door, half-blind. Skin on fire, then nothing. I slam my fist against the wood, hard enough to crack it if I could. “Brody!” It’s a scream, inhuman, ripped out of my belly. I bruise my hands on the door. Over and over. “Brody, let me in! Brody!”

There is no sound from inside.

Tears start but freeze before they can slide off my chin. Every inch of me shudders, begs for relief, even if it’s just another punch. I drop to my knees in the snow. It swallows me, numbs my skin. I try to breathe but can’t; it’s like the cold has frozen my chest. Light spots. Noise in my head. The world closes in. My field of vision shrinks to the black behind my eyelids.

Nothing helps. Not the air, not the sky, not the jagged memory of Brody’s hands. I’m spinning, clamped in place by terror and cold. The panic attack is a star collapsing, blank and endless. I can’t move. Can’t get up.

Is this what dying feels like? Lonely. Small. I want someone—anyone—but there is no one.

Only the snow, the moon, the mute cabin.

I curl forward, clawing at my hair, at my shins. Heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. Can’t slow it down. I don't want to. Every second outside is an eternity. I count them, but lose track.

This is how I’ll end. Out here, pathetic, freezing, salt and ice on my face. Just another victim. Maybe I was always meant for this.

But, the world breaks open. A blade of yellow light stabs the snow, burns lines into my eyes. I shrink from it, useless hands covering my face, but it finds me anyway. 

The door swings wide, slams into the siding. My name spat into the night. “Lola.”

The word is guttural. He comes out, huge, unstoppable, skull stretched tight over his face, eyes burning from the black holes. Not a man. Not my boy. He’s a fucking reaper.

He’s on me in half a second. His hands are biting into my arm, yanking me up. He hauls me onto my feet, snow cascading off my hair, burning my shins, numbness popping and fizzing up my legs.

I try to stay up but my knees fold. He drags me anyway, up the steps, slamming me into the warmth so fast I can’t even make sense of it. He throws me down, flinging me onto the rug by the dead hearth. I curl in on myself, desperate to get small, to disappear. Behind me, the door slams shut. The sound vibrates through the floor. He locks us in.

Brody is pacing like a beast, the skull mask on his face makes him unreadable, untouchable. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He mutters to himself, pacing the length of the room, tripping over broken glass. Sometimes he barks a word—"liar," "mine," "safe," "fuck, Bambi, fuck"—and sometimes it’s just a low growl.

I shrink tighter, not wanting to look at the mask. The mouth, empty sockets. No way to see if he’s angry or empty. I can’t even guess if he wants to hurt me or cradle me.

When he storms past, I flinch. Every time. My brain lights up with memories: Marcus with his belt, Marcus whispering calm after the storm, dragging me out of the closet, calling me “sweetheart” even when he had blood on his knuckles. I see other men, too. The ones who liked to make me cry, who liked to watch me shake.

Brody’s silhouette blocks everything. Sometimes he stops in front of me, stooping low, breath hard and threatening. Sometimes he stares, sometimes he stalks away, rattling the table so more glass hits the floor. I can’t tell what version of him I’m getting. The protector or the monster. Maybe there’s no difference.

Curling up, my skin prickles where the melting snow soaks my clothes. My jaw aches from shivering, and every inch of me hurts. Knees, wrists, ribs. My mind flickers, short-circuits, shows me old punishments and the promise of new ones.

He could kill me here and nobody would know. Nobody would care.

Brody stops, looming over me. I try not to breathe, but my body betrays me, wet, hiccuping, panicked. He tilts his head, the mask a dead thing, and just watches. I expect a touch. A slap. A shove. Instead, nothing.

It’s worse than violence. The waiting, the not knowing.

Abruptly, he spins and slams his fist into the wall so hard I expect blood. More muttering floats from him.

I count my breaths. One, two, three. Every time he moves, I brace for the blow. My heart climbs higher in my throat. Part of me wants him to leave. Part of me wants him to peel off the mask and just be Brody again. Maybe there is no Brody left.

Maybe there never was.

I’m not sure if he’ll smash my skull or curl me into his lap and tell me I’m safe. Maybe both. I’m not sure which is worse.

I pull my knees to my chest, shrinking down, so small, so pointless. More memories leak in. Marcus’s voice, “good girl, stay still,” the way he’d pet my hair with one hand and hold a cigarette in the other. I remember being left in the cold before.

My tears won’t stop. I think about the woods, about wolves tearing me apart, maybe that’s the better option. At least their hunger is honest.

I close my eyes and continue to count the breaths. Each second ticking by until he makes the next move. Bone-deep dread crawls in my marrow.

In the dark, with the mask watching, I can’t tell where he ends and the monster begins. Maybe there are no more lines. Maybe the boy I loved, the boy who protected me, the boy who loved me, is gone.

27

BRODY

The rage inside me is an inferno, and I am drowning in the flames. I see Lola lathered in red, in black, in bruises. The visions won’t leave my fucking mind. It’s like something broke inside of me, and all these pieces are scattered. Fractured.

I slap my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

Bitch. Whore. Fucking snake.

I slap my head again and scream.

No. Not my Lola. She couldn’t have betrayed me. Not possible.

But, my father made it so clear that Lola is working for Marcus. Lola knew about my mother’s death. All these voices mingle inside my head until it gets too much. My hands shake as I drive the needle further into my skin. It doesn’t help the rage, it only augments this festering storm inside of me.

I throw a chair across the room, it crashes against the wall. The skull mask is sitting on the nightstand. My legs take me there before I can think, and the mask is on my face. My hands yank the door open. My skin is buzzing, and my skull pounds inside of my head.

Make her pay. Make her pay.

It’s all I know, it’s all I can do. I do fucked up things too, I’m not innocent. I know that. In fact, I’m more of a monster than her. That doesn’t matter, though. All that matters is the blood rushing through my skin. The need to break Lola, to claim her, to keep her.

The stairs creak under my boots, every step is a countdown. The mask is soaked into my face as if I have become the monster. The old boards moan like they know what I am, what I’ve become.

I stop at the basement door, palm flat against the wood. My hand shakes. I twist the deadbolt and let the cold rise from below like a grave yawning open. The light down there is barely a vein. Just a gray bruise in the dark.

My hand finds the switch, I don’t flip it. Why should she have light? Why should she have comfort? Let her suffer in the dark. Let her see what it’s like to be nothing, to be a shadow, to be an animal trapped where no one can hear her scream.

I descend, savoring every step. I want her to hear me coming, want her to feel the dread sharpen until it splits her open. She’s huddled in the corner, knees up, arms wrapped around her shivering body. She looks up. Her eyes are pits of blue ice, bruised and swollen from crying or not crying—doesn’t matter. She’s nothing but a mess now, ruined by the cold, by fear, by me. Especially me.

She sniffs, and I see her jaw clench. Still defiant. Still pretending she has something left.

The mask lets me speak without my own voice. Lets me be the thing I am, the thing I was always meant to be. I crouch near her, just out of reach, and let her swallow the silhouette of me—skull, black jacket, gloved hands.

“You cold, Lola?” I say. “You hungry?”

She doesn’t answer. Her lips tremble. Her hair is greasy, stuck to her cheeks, her hands shaking.

“You know what happens to bad girls, Lola? They get forgotten. They get buried.” My voice matches the mask. “You know what it’s like to be starved for days, for weeks? You know what it does to your mind?” I pace the perimeter, boots grinding grit into the concrete. She flinches every time I move too fast. I stop at the shelf with the dog bowl, and pick it up, turning it in my hands while watching her eyes. “You want to eat?” I say. “Beg for it.”

She presses herself tighter into the wall. Doesn’t speak. I throw the bowl at her. It skitters across the floor, clangs against her ankle. She jumps, but doesn’t cry out.

“You want to play martyr?” I growl. “You want to be the pretty little victim? A perfect little doll? Fine. You’ll eat like an animal, then.”

I stomp back up the stairs, slam the door, lock it, and listen. I can hear her breathing below—ragged, shallow, like a dying thing. I want to go back down, want to drag her out by her hair, want to make her see the world the way I see it: black, endless, filled with rot. Instead, I go to the kitchen.

Cold air howls under the door. I open the cabinet, stare at the shelves, and grab a can of dog food. I break it open, and dump the food into the dog bowl. I don’t need her to like it. I don’t even need her to finish it. I just need her to understand: she eats what I feed her, or she eats nothing.

Back down the stairs. The mask is tight, suffocating, but I need it—need the permission it gives me to do what comes next. She hasn’t moved. Just shivers, knees hugged to her chest.

I set the bowl in front of her, the mug beside it. “Eat,” I say. “Now.” She stares at me like I’m not real. I grab her by the hair, yank her face to the bowl. “Eat,” I snarl. “Eat, or I’ll make you.”

She shakes her head, but I force her face down. Her hands come up to push me away, but she’s weak, pathetic. I can hold her in place with one hand.

I press her face into the mush. “You want to be a bitch? Fine. Eat like one.”

She whimpers. I let her up when she starts to choke. She spits it out onto the floor and glares at me, lips trembling.

“You’re not in charge here, Lola. You don’t get to decide when you eat, when you sleep, when you piss. I decide.”

She glares at me. There’s fire left in her, small and sad. I want to snuff it out.

“I hate you,” she whispers, voice cracked.

I crouch, mask to her face. “I’m not here to be loved.”

I stand, pace, fists clenched so tight my gloves creak. The drugs burn through my veins, make my thoughts skip and stumble. Every time I blink, I see Marcus’s face, smirking, his hands on Lola, on my mother, on everything I ever loved.

Rage boils over. I want to break something, someone. I want to make her scream, make her beg, make her hate me so much she forgets him. I want her to know she’s mine, down to the marrow, down to the part of her that screams in the dark when no one else can hear.

Dragging a chair to the center of the room, I sit, mask on, legs spread, arms draped over my knees. “Stand up,” I order.

She hesitates. I drum my fingers on my thigh impatiently. She stands, unsteady, swaying. Her eyes flick to the door, to the window, to anything except me.

“Walk,” I say. “In a circle. Don’t stop until I say.” She stares, but she does it. Bare feet slapping the cold floor, arms wrapped around her chest. I watch her, let her feel the weight of my gaze, the way it strips the skin from her bones. “Faster,” I say. “I want to see you run.”

Stumbling, she starts to run, awkward, pathetic. Her breath comes sharp, too fast, and she’s panting after a minute, sweat shining on her forehead.

“Keep going,” I say. “Don’t stop.”

She runs until her legs shake, until she trips and falls, knees hitting concrete. She cries out, tries to get up, but I’m there before she can, grabbing her by the hair and drag her back to the mattress.

“You’re weak,” I say. “You’re nothing. You were always nothing. Even when you were mine, you were just a thing to be filled, to be used.”

She sobs, fists pounding my arms. I let her. Let her burn out the last of her fight. When she’s limp, I let her go.

I stand over her, breathing hard behind the mask. The anger is a living thing, clawing at my insides, demanding more, always more. I want to hurt her, want to make her feel what I feel every fucking day—lost, abandoned, betrayed.

I go to the shelf, grab the roll of duct tape, and tear off a strip, putting a strip over her eyes. I turn on the radio—static, white noise, nothing but the sound of a thousand broken screams. I let it play for hours, let it eat into her brain, let it drive her as mad as I am.

Leaving her in the dark, I head upstairs, listening to her sobs echo through the floorboards. I pace the cabin, every window black with night, every mirror reflecting the mask back at me. I rip it off, throw it against the wall, and sink to the floor, head in my hands.

Her face is everywhere. I see her as she was—laughing, alive, the only light in this fucked up world. I see her now—broken, ruined, mine. I want to bury my fists in the drywall, want to smash every plate, every cup, every piece of this place until there’s nothing left but splinters and dust.

Reaching for the bottle from the counter, I down three swigs, feeling the burn coil in my gut. I slam it down, shatter it against the sink, glass spraying across the tile.

My heart is a storm. My mind is a graveyard.

I remember my father’s voice, cold and smug: “She’s just a tool, Brody. Use her or lose her.”

I sit in the dark and listen to the wind scream around the cabin, listen to Lola scream below, and wonder which one of us is going to break first.

I lock the door, and shoot up again. The world goes soft around the edges, colors bleeding into each other, anger melting into hate, hate melting into want.

I sit in the dark, mask on the floor, blood on my knuckles, and wait for the storm to pass.

It never does. It never will.

28

LOLA

I dream I am burning alive in that house of horrors. Marcus is there, in the dark flames, laughing. My mother is screaming. Red walls crumble, lights flicker. His porcelain smile is crackling, Mother’s flesh is vanishing. The ceiling is falling, chandeliers breaking. 

Blackened lilacs float through the flames, and my solemn tears spread like spilled blood. The sun is vicious and black, and my soul is a fallen bird. Falling into the black. 

I wake, startled and jumpy. Sweating. Shaking. I sit up and I can’t catch my breath.

The mattress is damp, my skin is cold, but somehow burning. My head thrashes with a weird kind of pain, all pressure, like someone put my brain under a boot and decided not to let up. I blink. My lips are stuck together, my tongue is so dry I could peel it from the roof of my mouth.

My hands shake as I reach for the bottle of water Brody left. The plastic fumbles out of my grip. I bend to grab it and my forehead almost hits the goddamn concrete.

Fuck.

I drink, but it doesn’t help. Water runs down my chin because my hands won’t stop trembling. I taste nothing. Not even the ghost of the apple from last night. Just sickness.

My chest aches. Everything inside of me aches.

I’m so cold one second, then the sweat hits a high and it’s too much, like my blood’s turned to acid. My jaw chatters, then it locks. Then it chatters again. My whole body is shaking. I try to curl up tighter, but it’s pointless. The shivers claw through anyway. My head... god, I wish it would just crack open and end.

Fever.

It’s so obvious and I still ignore it. I tell myself maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe it’s nothing. Delusional. I’m delusional. I can see the little hallucinations at the edge of my vision, shapes moving that aren’t there, breaking off at the corners of the room, settling in the ducts and shadows. Watching me.

Brody’s still in the house. That’s a bigger fever than anything burning out my insides. I feel like I’m on fire, then I’m freezing. Then I’m just empty, cooked dry, nothing left but a sick, spastic need. I want him gone. I want him here. Either way I want it over.

Hours pass. My breathing gets worse. Wet, useless, little gasps. My chest is heavy. My body crackles all up and down the spine, fever light switch, on-off-on.

Everything aches. My memories, my mistakes, my skin. The bruises Marcus left are old news now. It’s what’s inside that’s rotting me from rib to rib.

I try to get to the bathroom bucket, but my legs don’t want to go. My knees buckle. I lay on the concrete, barely able to see for a moment, vision black at the edges, stars falling, white static, a hundred snowflakes eating the world. I want to sleep. I want to lie down and let the cold finish me off.

But it won’t. Nothing ever does.

The lock clicks.

Him.

He stands in the doorway, arms folded. Skull gone. Just flesh, stubble, eyes resembling a midnight storm. He comes closer, just watching. I try to sit up. Fuck, no. My head slams sideways. Static bursts. Spots. World spins⁠—

I gasp, clamping my knees up, pretending for half a second I’m fine. I’m always pretending. It’s all I have. He stands there, watching me clutch the blanket, shaking so hard the shivers snap up my arms and lock my whole body in place.

“Sit up,” he growls.

I do. My body doesn’t listen, though. My spine goes limp. Wet, cold sweat drenches the new shirt, sticks it to my chest. My skin is fire and ice, my lips so dry they could crack.

Don’t look weak. He loves you weak.

But there’s nothing else left.

“What’s this?” His voice is less controlled. “You sick, or just playing for sympathy?”

He’s close now, his shadow falling over my knees. His hand is at my face before I can hide. He grabs my chin, hard, twisting my jaw so I have to look up.

The world breaks up into slices of color. His eyes. The concrete. The white echo in my vision. I try to spit out a word, but the only thing that comes up is bile. I turn my head and retch onto the floor. Thin, burning. I cough and gag and cough again and he watches it all, stone-faced.

Shit. Shit. This is pathetic.

I wipe my mouth with my wrist. My hand shakes, feeling like a bird with broken wings, flapping, useless. My chest rattles.

Brody touches my forehead. It shocks me more than the yell. His palm is so cold I almost sob. I think I do, a little. It hurts. It hurts in a weird way I don’t have words for. His fingers stay tight on my face, thumb hooked at my jaw, eyes boring holes into me.

“You got a fever?”

I breathe in. Out. My ribs seize. “I’m fine.” I try to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go.

He presses his hand harder to my cheek, not believing me. His jaw ticks, and his face does this thing I hate, this crack of worry so fast I almost think I made it up.

“You’re burning up. Fucking hell, Lola,” he hisses.

I try to smile. “Don’t tell me you care.”

He grabs my throat. Just for a heartbeat. Not to choke, just to feel the pulse. It jumps wild under his thumb. He rips the blanket away. My body shivers itself off the mattress. It hurts. My skin crackles. I’m burning up.

Brody claws the blanket off me. I hear the wild hitch of his breath, that punched-up sound in the dark. His hands are on me, rough, searching for proof. His palm flattens against my ribs, then my stomach, then up to my throat. He’s mapping the fever like he hates every second.

“Fucking hell,” he spits. I feel the fist of it, the dread. He’s angry, but not at me. Or yes, maybe at me. At the world. At the way I’m falling apart right in front of him. “You couldn’t just stay put, could you?” His grip is mean, but there’s something rattling in it. He yanks me upright, shakes me once. My vision is just static, white and blinding, his face breaking up at the edges. I sag forward, useless. He cups my face, thumbs digging into my jaw. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”

There’s a demand in it. A panic buried under the snarl. I try. My eyelids scrape open. He’s a blur. Wild hunger, anger mixed with worry. I know that look. I hate that I love that look.

He rubs his thumb along my lower lip, almost absent. “You’re fucking sick.”

Yeah. I could’ve told you that.

He stands up so suddenly the blood in my ears roars louder. He paces, shadow zipping back and forth. A caged animal deciding if he’ll eat me or die trying to save me.

He mutters, but I hear the words. “Fucking stubborn. Why now? Why this…” His boots thud the floor. Then he’s back, looming over me, pulling me up like a doll. “We’re not doing this here,” he growls. “You’ll die in this shithole.”

My bones rattle in his grip. My legs don’t work. He half-carries me up the stairs, holds my body like a sack of something he never wants to drop. I shiver in his arms, hating that my face presses his neck, that I can breathe him when all I want is air.

Brody lays me out on the couch in the living room. Stripping the sweat-soaked shirt from me, he drops it on the floor before his hands peel away the rest—pants, panties, everything. I want to bite him. I want to bite my tongue first.

He leaves me shivering to rifle through cabinets, slamming doors. Angry, frantic violence in every gesture.

When he returns, he’s got water, painkillers, and a cold pack. He sits behind me, props me against his chest. The touch is all business, but I feel the tremor in it. He hates needing this. Hates needing me.

“Open your mouth.” He shoves the pills between my lips, pours water after.

I gulp it down. My throat aches when it hits. I barely get the pills down without choking. Maybe I do choke, actually, a thin string of water coughing out the side of my mouth. I wipe it away on the back of my hand. My skin is so cold it burns.

Brody holds me propped against his chest. Not a comfort, not a gift. Just because he wants something: compliance, a pulse, another day to interrogate me. He’s a fucking furnace behind me, and still I’m shivering, shaking so hard I can hear my bones rattle.

The world is smeared from fever. Faces bloom at the edges of my eyes: Marcus, lips twisted in disgust; my mother, mouth frozen open mid-scream; Brody’s face, carved from stone, eyes burning with loss and want.

I can’t get them out. My head is a trap. I’m spinning. I’m nowhere and nothing.

His arms tighten around me. I think he’s worried I’ll snap in half or spill everywhere. “Stay awake,” he rasps. He shakes me like I’m a bad dog. “Not done yet.”

I want to laugh in his face. I want to smack him. But I can’t even lift my hands. My wrists are limp against the curve of his arm, fingernails digging useless little moons into his skin.

He stuffs a cold pack under my armpit. The shock is so severe I nearly yelp and try to wiggle away but he clamps me tighter. My sweat goes freezing, a layer of ice on burning flesh.

“Knock it off,” he growls. His breath is right at my temple. “You wanna fucking die? You want to go back to Marcus and let him finish what he started?” He leans in, voice splitting with disgust. “Pathetic. You’re nothing like the Lola I remember.”

I can’t stop the tears. They come out before I’m even aware of them. Just water, slipping down my jaw, soaking his shirt. I hate that the shirt smells like him. I hate that I still want to disappear under it.

He hates me for making him care. He hates himself more. Every time I blink, I see the pulse in his jaw, the splinters running up his hands, barely restrained violence. It should scare me, but nothing scares me anymore.

I try to swallow but my tongue is thick. “I didn’t want this,” I mumble. I don’t even recognize my own voice. “I just want to go home. I just want to go back.”

Brody laughs. Though, it’s a dark and humorless sound. “You don’t have a home. You never did.” He grabs the water and puts it to my lips again. “Drink.” I do, because what else is left.

The cold pack squeezes deeper into my armpit. Another one lands on my forehead, stinging. I try to squirm but his hands dig into my hips, pinning me to his lap. I twist but it doesn’t fucking matter. He crushes the ice pack closer to my skin. It burns, but I barely feel it. My whole body is lit up and empty at the same time. Every cell aches.

Brody wants control. He wants me desperate and docile, even now, while I’m sagging against him. The heat of his chest. The bones of his claws through my ribs, his chin digging into my hair. 

He makes me drink again. “Open. Swallow.”

My lips are numb, but I do it even though my brain is full of fog and fire, and things I never want to say out loud. The world slips off its rails. The room is a smear; his voice, the only thing that cuts through.

I shudder so hard the couch rocks beneath us. I almost fall, but he bears down, locking my body to his. The habit is possession. He never lets go. Not even when he hates what I am.

He shakes me again. My eyes roll back but I force them to stay open.

“I never wanted Marcus. Not ever. I wanted you. That night…” My voice splinters.

The world tilts sideways. Words bleed out and scatter.

That night. I can still see it. The memory floats. Slippery, bright, burning like a coal in water. I see myself at the edge of the dance floor. Stupid. Hopeful. Wanting to call him. Wanting to run. My phone is cold in my hand, my chest hollow.

But he wasn’t there. Brody. My boy. Gone.

I want to tell him. I want to tell you everything. 

The trap, the lies, the way the drugs made my hands float, made my dress slip, made the room throb brighter than my own thoughts. The hands of multiple boys at that house party. None of them were you. 

I want to say you were right. I want to say you left me, but I never let go, not really. I needed you.

My body vibrates in his lap, shivers so hard he has to anchor me tighter. My head tips back, and I feel the shape of him, the arms, the hands, hot and furious under the skin. I want to melt into that. I want to fade.

He shakes me. Hard, like I’m a doll that might fall to pieces if he doesn’t catch every scrap.

“Lola. Which night?” His breath is rough in my hair, right up against the fever leaking out of me. “Talk.”

But I can’t. My tongue is on fire. My cheeks are wet and my ribs are empty cages. I huddle in close, hiding my face, but there is nowhere to hide. Not from him, not from the truth, not from the shame that beats against my chest like a bird trying to die.

That night. The night everything split. The night Marcus made sure I’d never be free again.

I don’t give him the words. My mouth won’t form them. The memory slides in sideways, and I choke down the bile rising to my lips. My hands clutch at his shirt.

Brody rocks me back and forth, more like he’s fighting to keep me alive with pure force of will. I can feel the pulse in his jaw, the panic hiding under the anger. His hands dig into me, not careful, not soft. Just stubborn.

He calls my name. Once. Twice. Each time rougher. “Lola. What happened? Tell me.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be like that. I was good. I tried to be good. He said, he said…”

My eyelids scrape down. I see stars. I see nothing. I see Marcus’s face, the flicker of disgust when I hesitate, the way the world went still.

Brody squeezes me. “Don’t you fucking leave me. You stay here.”

I laugh, or maybe I sob. It’s the same thing. “Doesn’t matter. He owns me. He always did.”

The room slides away from me. Spinning sickly. I’m weightless.

I float there, half in the dark, half crushed into Brody’s chest. My head spins, the fever screaming, every thought a loose thread tangling around the next. I can’t hold onto reality. I can’t hold onto him. I can’t hold onto anything.

He’s shaking me now, voice clawing through the fog. “Lola. Goddamn it, Lola—look at me. Stay here. Don’t you fucking pass out.”

I want to dissolve into the couch, into his hands, disappear into the black where nothing hurts and nobody owns me. I twitch, a gasp shuddering out of me.

My body is jelly, draped over him, sweat and spit and tears soaking his shirt. I stare at the ceiling, eyes barely open, just enough to see the light smear and fracture.

He curses under his breath, words blurred. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not now.”

Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to bite him. Mostly, I want to sleep.

He lifts me again, rough, desperate, cradling me against his chest like I’m something breakable he’s determined not to drop. I hear the panic scraping the edges of his voice. He’s lost, as wrecked as I am.

“Stay awake,” he growls again, hauling me up. “You don’t get to check out. You don’t get to fucking leave me.”

I try to speak, but all that comes out is a cough, wet and ragged.

Brody pulls the blanket tighter around me. His palm finds my forehead again, cold and relentless. “You hear me, Lola? You’re not allowed to die on me. You’re not allowed to make this easy.”

“Wish I could,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. Not for you. Not for me.”

The world pulses, black at the edges. I want to fall, let the ache swallow me, let the fever burn out whatever is left. But his hands are iron, locking me in place. He takes a breath, and I feel it in my own lungs. Like maybe if he breathes hard enough, I’ll remember how.

“Tell me what he did,” Brody demands. “Tell me, Lola. Don’t go back under.”

My lips barely work. “He… he took everything. He made me say I was his. Made me forget my name. Made me forget you.”

It’s not enough for him. It never is. He squeezes me tight, like he can wring the secrets out, like he can keep me from floating away. Rage and panic boil off him. He wants the truth, he wants control, but all he gets is the sick, shuddering mess in his arms.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, not sure if I mean him or myself.

He doesn’t answer, just holds on tighter. His cheek presses to my hair, breath hot and desperate.

The fever drags me under again, heavy and wet, but his arms are there, a cage and an anchor, holding me to the world. I drift, half-dead, half-breathing, aching for something I can’t name.

I hear my mother in the dark. Come to me sweetheart, I’m here. 

When I wake again, it’s night. The fever’s broken, but the ache is still there. Brody is gone, or maybe just a shadow at the edge of the room. 

I don’t call for him. I just lie there, shaking, empty, and alive.

The house is quiet. I realize I survived. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is forgiven. But I’m still here.

29

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 19)

I am slipping. I can feel it in my bones, a pull towards the deep. The waves are crashing over me, a darkness calling to me from the vicious trenches. Since my mother’s death, nothing is the same.

Marcus is crueler. Brody is more possessive. I am emptier. I overflow with need and nothing fills me. I spill out grief and loneliness and want. It coats everything. The kitchen table, the fake flowers at the corner of my room, the insides of my mouth. I cry and it does nothing. I sleep too much, but the tiredness is always there, gnawing at the backs of my eyes.

The world goes gray. I walk in circles through the hallway, touching the smudges on the wall where Mom’s hands used to go. I pick up her perfume bottle; there’s barely any left. I dab it under my chin anyway, even though it makes my head spin. 

I am only nineteen, and I have no real parents left. 

The only thing worse than losing her is watching how fast Marcus fills the empty space. He invites himself into my room. Doesn’t knock. Never did. Never will.

I sit on the end of my bed, knees to my chest. My phone glows in my palm, but nobody texts. Nobody calls. Marcus leans against the door frame, watching me. His suit is perfect, not a crease out of place. He takes off his watch with a careful flick. That look in his eyes. Hungry, like he found a crack in my armor and he’s going to burrow in deep.

“Why are you hiding in here?” His voice is smooth, almost gentle. It slides under my skin. “Come out and eat with me. There’s no point sulking alone. Family is what you’ve got left, Lola.”

I want to scream. I want to throw my phone at his head. But I’m cold inside. My bones are little shards rattling around, and I can barely keep my teeth from chattering.

“I’m not hungry.” I sound stupid. Small and tired. My pajamas are two days old; my hair is a tangle. He likes me weak. I can see it.

Marcus crosses the room and sits beside me, pressing close. Heat blooms through the thin cotton of my shirt. He reaches out, his hand lands heavy on my knee. Squeezing. “You need to take care of yourself, sweetheart. Your mother failed you in the end, but I won’t. I’ll never leave you alone. Never.” His thumb circles, and I shiver. He leans in so close I can smell his aftershave, bitter and cold. “Cry all you want, Lola. Scream if you need to. But you always come back to me, don’t you?”

I try to shrink away but his hand clamps harder. My pulse stutters under my skin.

“She left you, but I never will.” His words coil, tight. “You don’t have to hurt, not when I’m here.”

His hand travels from my knee to my thigh. All slow, squeezing, like he’s testing how much space there is to fill, how much damage he can do before I crack. I don’t flinch. I don’t breathe. I just burn quietly under the mask I spent three years learning to wear.

He expects it.

So I let him touch me. I let the ache spread. I let him smother me with the weight of his words, breath thick as syrup in my ear. “You’re mine now, Lola,” Marcus says. “You always will be.”

He keeps his hand there, digging through cotton to mark what’s his. I want to disappear. I pretend I’m air, dust, nothing. The only thing worse than his touch is what happens if I fight it.

My phone buzzes. A tiny, pathetic sound in the dark. I look down at it, desperate for an excuse. Anything to pull me out of his orbit. He snatches the phone from my hand, glances at the screen. I see the name: Sophie. He studies it too long. 

“Go on, then,” he says, handing it back. “But I expect you home by curfew. Don’t make me come looking.”

The way he says it is a spike through my spine.

I mumble, “I won’t.”

He stands and watches me rise, eyes tracking the curve of my ass, my trembling legs, my fucked-up everything. “By the way, there’s a party coming up soon. I want you to attend. It’ll be a good way for you to reveal yourself and show off your attributes for future opportunities.” 

His voice stops me in my tracks. 

“Who is hosting this party?” I ask. I don’t want to go to a party. But, if he demands it, then I have to.

“A friend of mine. Don’t worry about it. You just need to show up for reputation and business control.” Marcus watches me carefully, waiting for any negative emotion to strike down. 

But, I don’t give him anything. I want to leave, so I will please him. “Okay, Marcus. Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

He nods.

I hurry down the hall, his gaze on me, even when I hit the stairs. Even when the front door slams behind me and I’m outside, cold evening air is biting my cheeks.

I walk fast. I run. Wet leaves stick to my sneakers. His smell, his warning words, still coil around my neck. I’m sick from it, actually sick, like I might puke from the taste of him in my mouth. I don’t stop until I reach the house next door. Brody’s house. Sophie’s. It’s second nature where my feet take me. It’s always here, when I can’t stand the inside of my own skin.

The porch creaks under me, moaning like a haunted thing. I ring the bell, shaking all over. Maybe they’ll see it. Maybe they’ll pretend they don’t.

Sophie answers. Her face is all wild hair and concern, purple polish chipped at the nails. She sees my eyes and doesn’t say a word, just pulls me in and wraps me in a hug that’s too tight, too much, almost enough to keep me from unraveling right there on the welcome mat.

I want to cry but nothing comes out.

Brody’s at the top of the stairs, hands fisted in his pockets. He’s in sweats, no shoes. He tries to scoff, but his eyes go black and furious when he looks at me.

“What’s wrong?” His voice shouldn’t matter, but it does. It makes me want to lie down at his feet and sleep for a thousand years.

Sophie drags me onto the couch, tucking my bare knees up.

I shrug. “I just needed to get away from Marcus. He can be suffocating.”

Brody comes over to me in an instant. “Did he hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, just harmless words.”

How can I tell Brody that Marcus raped me the night of my mother’s funeral? The guilt is all-consuming. It’s not like I consensually cheated. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want Marcus. But, that does not matter to Marcus. He takes what he wants. 

Brody’s jaw clenches but he does not push me on the subject. I stare down at my hands. The skin is pale, child-like. Not mine at all. My heart beats in odd little bursts, like it might quit any second.

He sits next to me. Not just next to me; he wedges himself in until our knees touch, until his thigh pins my leg to the couch. There’s no space even for breath. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel his heat, furious and wild.

Sophie perches on the armrest. Purple chipped fingernails wrap around a ceramic mug. Steam coils out, sweet and herbal, and the smell reminds me of weekends that never belonged to me.

She bumps my shoulder with hers.

“You’re freezing.”

I hadn’t noticed. She tugs the throw blanket over my lap. Her kindness feels like a paper cut, easy to ignore until it isn’t.

“I’m okay,” I mumble. A lie, but easy enough to swallow.

Brody’s hand lands on my knee. Anchoring. Like he’s afraid I’ll float off or slip between the cracks in the cushions.

“You sure Marcus isn’t being a dick?” Sophie gives me her big-sister look. Concern that’s too much, all sugar, no edge. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

I shake my head. “He’s just… intense. Not dangerous. I’m fine.” My voice is stupid soft, like maybe I believe it.

Brody snorts. He digs his fingers into my knee, not enough to bruise, but enough to say, liar. Sophie doesn’t buy it, either, but she lets me have my secrets.

“Want tea?” she asks. “We have, like, seven kinds. Chamomile. Mint. Something with actual dried flowers in it. Fancy.”

I almost smile. I’m starved for comfort. “Chamomile is good.”

Sophie lights up like she’s won something. She slides off the armrest and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear her hum. She always does that; I used to think it was for me, but now I know it’s for her. So she doesn’t go crazy.

Silence. Just the sound of Brody’s breathing and the ancient clock ticking on the wall. I focus on the sound, steady and fake-safe.

Brody doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he slides his hand up under the blanket, palm heavy on my thigh. He squeezes. “You can tell me if he hurts you. I’ll fuck him up.”

“I know,” I whisper. The ache inside me is so big it spills over. “But it’s better if I just listen. If I do what he wants.”

His thumb rubs tiny circles under the blanket. I almost flinch, but I’m too tired. Too empty for fear. Let him touch me. I don’t care.

Brody stares at the TV, volume muted. Some dumb commercial plays; a happy family eating spaghetti, a lady with bright white teeth. So fake it makes me sick. My mom used to talk and laugh like that, just for show.

Sophie comes back and hands me a mug. “Careful, it’s hot!” I take it and sip slowly, enjoying the burn that it gives me. Sophie kicks my foot gently. “Hey, I heard you got accepted into that art contest. The one with the gallery in the city. Is that true?”

My stomach twists. “Yeah. I guess.”

Brody smirks. “She didn’t tell you? She got second place, Soph.”

Sophie lights up. “Lola, that’s amazing!” She leans in, her hair a wild halo. “You have to let us come see it. Seriously. All those snobby art people, and we’ll just embarrass you.”

“You won’t embarrass me,” I murmur. My voice is too small, but the smile on Sophie’s face is real.

Brody leans closer. He grabs a pretzel, eats it in one bite, all brute efficiency. “What did you paint?”

I shrug. “Just a landscape. Abstract.” I don’t want to talk about it—the edges of color, the way the brush shook in my hand, the twitch in my chest. But they wait, staring. “It was blue,” I say. “Blue and black. Like a storm.”

Brody grins. “Figures.”

Sophie kicks his foot. “Don’t be mean. It sounds beautiful.”

It’s quiet for a second. My head pounds. The house smells like cinnamon and dust and something boiling on the stove. It’s too warm here. Tiredness clings to my hair and my spine. A door creaks. Footsteps. Their mom stands in the entryway, her robe cinched, slippers making sad squeaks on the wood. 

She looks right at me. “Oh, honey,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry about your mother. If you need anything, anything at all, you just ask.”

I nod, staring into the chipped mug. My hands are shaking. I hide them in the heat and steam.

Sophie glances at her mom, soft eyes all extra worry, but barely says anything. She just scoots closer, thighs pressed tight to mine, like she can glue the pieces back together if she holds me hard enough.

“It’s really okay,” I whisper. “You don’t need to treat me differently.” The lie is sour.

Their mom lingers, arms crossed, robe tied too tight. She’s pretending not to scrutinize me. She wants to come sit beside me on the couch and touch my hair, maybe say that I’ll be fine, time heals, all that fake comfort. 

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, “I’m making lasagna. You like lasagna, Lola?”

Sophie beams. “She does! She loves anything with cheese. She told me.”

The mug is unsteady in my hand. I sip, careful not to slosh. I nod, again. “I do. My mom used to make it sometimes. With bread, too.”

Brody’s body goes tense beside me. I sense it. The shift in the cushion, the way his knee is locked against mine. I don’t look at him. 

Sophie leans in. “I can make garlic bread, too,” she says. “We’ve been getting really good at it, right, Brody?”

He shrugs. “I do the cutting. Soph burns the edges.” His eyes flick to me and then away. He wants to ask what Marcus did but he holds it in. Maybe he already knows.

Sophie pokes him. “Liar. He eats most of it before it even hits the table.”

I almost have to smile. The dumb arguments. The warmth. Their house is loud, even in silence. Every spoon on the kitchen counter, every step on the floor upstairs. It feels alive.

“Is it okay if I stay for dinner?” My voice is small, already expecting a no. I stare at the mug, the brown whorls on the inside lip.

Their mom waves it off, already moving for the kitchen again. “Of course, sweetie. You’re always welcome. Stay as long as you want.”

Sophie yanks the blanket higher on my knees. “We’re having a movie night, too. Brody picked the last one, so now it’s my turn to choose. No killing, no blood-obsessed detectives, just something dumb and sweet. You have to vote with me, right, Lola?”

I nod. She grins, wild and bright.

Brody snorts, mouth twisted but not unkind. “You’ll put them both to sleep.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Sophie says, smug. “It’s self-care. Not trauma bonding over horror flicks.”

I glance sidelong at him, and my pulse goes unpredictable. Brody’s arm is splayed out behind me, dominating the couch, close enough to smell the warmth on his skin. For a second, I forget about the world outside their living room. That thin membrane of safety, the way laughter and garlic and soft lamplight can almost keep the dark out. 

My head tips toward Brody’s arm, just for a second, like if I get close enough I can borrow some of his solidity, some of that wolfish rage he always carries like a weapon.

But the quiet eats at me. I hear the ticking clock. The oven timer. My own unsteady breath, the way it catches every time the door moves, every time the wind shifts, every time I remember Marcus’s hand on my thigh and the way my mother’s perfume fades more each day.

Sophie starts the movie. I let her tuck me in as Brody’s leg press solid against mine, a wall I could break myself against if I wanted. I try to watch, try to laugh when they laugh, but the film blurs at the edges, all pastel colors and canned laughter that never really reaches me.

Brody glances at me, eyes searching. I know he wants to fix it. I know he can’t. He brushes his knuckles across my knee, like he’s promising something he shouldn’t promise. Like he wants to be my anchor but isn’t sure I’d let him.

Halfway through, Sophie falls asleep, forehead pressed to my shoulder. Brody nudges her, but she just groans. Brody and I are left watching the credits, the room breathing that sleepy, haunted quiet only grief can make.

He leans in. “You want to stay the night? I’ll tell my dad. Sophie’ll make up the cot in her room.”

I want to say yes. I want to stay. I want to carve out some piece of this normal and keep it forever. But something in me is already retreating, already thinking about Marcus waiting just across the lawn, the phone calls, the curfew, the threat in the word ‘mine.’

I shake my head. “He’ll be angry if I’m late. You know how he is.”

Brody’s jaw clenches. “He can fuck himself.”

“Yeah,” I say, but it doesn’t sound like me.

He stands to walk me to the door, careful not to wake Sophie. Their mom calls goodnight from upstairs, voice warm and tired. At the door, Brody stops me with a hand at my wrist. The porch light flickers, dust motes spinning in the yellow air. 

I look up at him and for a second, it’s just us. It’s summer nights and secret grins, hands on backs under the stars, before everything cracked open.

“If you need me, you call,” he says, voice careful. “I’ll come get you. No matter what. You hear me?” I nod, not trusting my voice. He leans forward, presses his forehead to mine. “I mean it, Bambi.”

I slip out into the night; the air is colder now. The leaves stick to my sneakers as I walk home fast, head down, arms wrapped around my ribs to keep them from splitting open. Lights are on in the house. Marcus is waiting, always waiting. I can feel the hook in my chest, the leash around my neck, the ache in my bones that says this is not over. Nothing is ever over.

But for a few hours, I remembered what it felt like to belong—to a family, to a friend, to myself.

30

LOLA

I wake up shivering. My body aches, my mouth is dry. For a moment, I think I’m alone but then I feel his presence like a storm behind my eyes.

He sits in the chair, skull mask gleaming in the watery morning light, elbows on his knees, watching me. Watching, always watching. Brody—except not Brody, not the boy I loved, but some colder thing. A shadow in a mask.

I try to sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest. My head spins. “What do you want?” My voice is raspy, unfamiliar.

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares. The mask gives nothing back, just a bony, black, endless eyes. Even sick, even weak, I feel hunted under that gaze.

Then, finally, he speaks. “What did you mean last night?”

My heart thuds. I blink, remembering flashes of fever: my mouth running, secrets slipping out in the dark. “I don’t—what?”

He leans forward, the mask inches from my face. “You said you never wanted Marcus. Not ever. You wanted me. That night. Don’t lie. I want the truth.”

My lips part, mind scrambling, searching for something safe. There’s nothing. Just memories and regret and the pounding of my own heart. “I hated him,” I say, voice trembling. “He was never what I wanted. I just—I wanted out. I wanted something real. You were the only thing that ever felt real.”

He laughs, joyless. “Yeah? You could’ve fooled me. You ran right back to him. You left me with nothing.”

My hands curl tighter around the blanket. “You left me. After that night, you disappeared. I had no one.”

He stands, fast and violent. The chair scrapes against the floor, and suddenly, he’s towering over me, mask close, breath fogging between us, every inch of him a threat. My pulse is a terrified drumbeat.

“Don’t try to twist this, Lola,” he growls. “You think a fever confession changes anything? You think I’ll forget what you did?”

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what happened.”

He grabs my chin with rough hands. “Then tell me. Tell me what the fuck happened. What did you do?”

My voice cracks. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

His grip tightens, then he shoves me back, hard enough that my head knocks the pillow. “No, I wouldn’t. You’re just like him. A liar. A little actress.”

I swallow the sob clawing up my throat. “I’m not like him. I’m not.”

He paces, fists clenched at his sides, rage vibrating off him. “If you wanted me—if you ever did—why did you let him take everything from me?”

I can’t look at him. I stare at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “I wanted you,” I whisper. “But you left.”

The sentence hangs between us. He towers over me, all rage and hunger. I see his fists, the way blood pulses in his throat. He doesn’t even flinch. Just stares, mask splitting the light, jaw set like it hurts to be alive.

He laughs. “You didn’t want me. Don’t fucking lie. If you did, you would have fought. You would’ve crawled bloody across the floor before you let him take you.”

I look down, too tired to fight. My hands shake in the blanket. I just want him to stop. I just want him to come closer.

“You don’t know,” I say. Quiet, bracing for the pain. “You don’t know what it was like. You could never know.”

His hand yanks my hair back tight. My chin tips up, tears streaking down my throat.

He leans in, skull to my cheek. “I know you’re a fucking coward. I know you’re a traitor. You let him have you. You ran back to him. Not even a week after you were in my bed.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t want to go.”

He lets go and my head knocks the wall. Stars flash in my vision.

Brody paces, boot scuffing the dirt, shoulders huge. He’s unhinged, rattling with hate and something worse. Maybe grief. Maybe just need.

I wait. There’s nothing else I can do.

He wheels back, snatches my jaw in his hand, squeezing so tight my teeth grind. “Don’t freeze up now. Tell me the truth. You want him? You want to be his little prize? Or do you want me, Bambi? Because the way I remember it, you spread your legs for him easy enough.”

I could scream. I could bite him. I just let it slide off. “He never asked what I wanted,” I say. “He just took.”

“I don’t care,” Brody snaps. “You should’ve fought. You should’ve clawed out his fucking eyes. You should’ve died before you let him touch you.”

His voice cracks. The only thing that still feels real. My cheeks are wet, but I’m done pretending. I let the tears fall. I let them wash over us. “You didn’t come for me,” I whisper. My heart shreds on the words. “You never came.”

He jerks away, wild. I see it. How my words splinter him open. For a second, there’s something softer, some old ache that almost gentles his lips. I can feel the heat rolling off him in bitter waves. I’m half-curled, half-defiant, heart pounding so hard the world blurs. I think he might hit me. Or maybe pull me in and make me beg. I can’t tell which is worse.

He just stands there, mask splitting the morning, all control and violence and something shattered underneath. His breath shakes as he says it again, softer, but it cuts deeper: “Don’t put that on me. I would’ve killed for you. I would’ve burned this whole world for you, and you—” His fist tightens in the blanket, knuckles bone-white. “You broke me. You fucking broke me.”

I pull the blanket up, shaking hands, and hide my face. Maybe if I go small enough he’ll forget I’m here. But he doesn’t. I hear his breath. The chair scrapes back. Boots on the floor, walls closing in. There’s nowhere to go.

He grabs my jaw. The skull mask floats above, like a nightmare. My pulse flares.

“You don’t get it?” His voice is poison in my ears. “You never did. You let him take you. You let him fucking ruin everything.”

“Not what happened,” I rasp. “You don’t know. You left.”

He snorts. “I left? No. I was forced out. Because of you. Because of that night.” He leans in, skull inches from my temple. I feel the heat in his words. “You could have come. You could have bled for me. But you didn’t.” I want to hit him. I want to curl around myself and never speak again. He shakes my head in his grip, like trying to rattle the truth out of me. “Tell me what you did. Say it. Say you liked it. Say you took him because you wanted to hurt me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears break free, spilling warm over my jaw. I breathe, in and out. “Nothing like that. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want him.”

He lets go, my head flings back and hits the headboard. There are black spots in my vision. The mask stares, empty, awful. Brody is in pieces. He wants to glue himself back together with every scream, every shameful memory. He wants to eat my heart and spit it out.

His hands flex at his sides. Knuckles white, arms trembling with violence. “You’re a fucking coward,” Brody says. “You always were. Always running. Always hiding behind your pretty little lies.”

I clench my fists under the covers. My skin is buzzing with fear, shame, and something worse—a black hole where love should be.

“Do you want the truth?” I snap, voice gone. “Here it is. You scare me. You scare me more than anything. You tear me open every time you look at me.”

“Good. Maybe you like being afraid. Maybe that’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.”

“You don’t know what makes me alive.”

I can’t look up. If I look up, he’ll see every ruined thing inside me. He’s moving. Pacing the room, boot scraping concrete. Each pass, he gets that much closer. The blanket falls. My skin prickles with cold and panic. I don’t think. I move.

My feet hit the floor; I duck under his arm before he can react. My shoulder slams the corner of the bed. Pain spikes but I keep going. My body is on flight or flight mode, and terror is taking a hold of me.

The windows are thick with snow. I can’t see out, I can barely see anything but shadows and the blurred shape of the door. My lungs burn. I stumble toward the kitchen. Cabinets, table, stove. No exit. No escape. Only dark.

The lights snap off. The storm outside groans. The room goes black.

My heart stutters. The dark is absolute. I freeze. My breath clouds the air in shivery bursts. The only sound is the wind and my pulse in my ears. Then I hear him. The skull mask gleams when the clouds drift past the moonlight, then vanishes. 

Brody doesn’t run. He doesn’t have to. He calls into the dark. Calm and terrible. “I am going to find you, Bambi. I always do.”

I choke on a sob. My hands fumble along the wall. I knock something over, it shatters at my feet. I flinch. He’ll hear that. He hears everything.

Crouching behind the table, my knees shake. The storm rattles the cabin, shrieks through the seams. The dark is thick, pressing against my face. My vision swims with fear as his boots scrape closer. Not rushing. Taking his time. Enjoying it.

“Keep hiding,” he says. “It won’t matter. You know how this ends.”

I press my fist to my mouth. I want to vanish. I want to become the shadow. But I’m just a trembling, broken thing behind splintered wood. I squeeze my eyes shut. He is everywhere. His presence coils through the room, fills every crack.

There’s a crash. He kicks something aside. The table shudders. I press myself smaller, breath frozen in my chest. The room tilts but I can’t tell if I’m shaking or if the world is. Something brushes my hair. Fingers, gloved and cold. I scream.

Brody grabs my arm, yanking me up. My legs buckle. I claw at his hand but he’s too strong. He pulls me upright, chest-to-chest, mask inches from my face. I scream again, louder. It echoes in the black.

He shoves me against the wall and holds me there with his whole body. His breath is ragged. I feel it through the mask, hot and cruel. “Told you,” he says, voice all ice and hunger. “I always find you.”

I thrash. I try to bite him, punch him, anything. He laughs. It’s an awful sound. I sob. My chest aches; terror slices through me. Shame, too. And something sick shaped with hunger. 

He leans close. The mask presses my cheek. “No more running,” he whispers.

The lights flicker, then die for good. The storm screams. The cabin is a tomb. He drags me, still fighting, back through the dark. I can’t see, can’t breathe. All I feel are his hands, the heat of him, the weight of the mask against my skin.

My scream shreds the silence, but he doesn’t let go.

The dark swallows us whole.

31

LOLA

All I can see is the white of his skull mask gleaming in the dark. 

The rest of the world is gone. Just him and me, breathless and cold. The wind screams against the cabin, the windows groan under the weight of snow. I can’t see the walls. I can’t see the door. Only that mask, floating, watching, hunting.

My chest heaves as I stumble backward, and hit the edge of the bed. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t have to. His boots scrape the wood. He wants me to hear every step.

“You thought you could hide?” His voice is low and deadly calm. “You really think I’d let you disappear, Bambi?”

My fists clench. “Let me go.”

He laughs. The sound is empty, echoing in the dark. “Say it again. I want to hear you beg.”

I turn, shoving past the chair, feeling my way along the wall with shaky fingers. The dark is thick, pressing against my skin, choking me. I hear him move behind me. Slow, controlled, closer.

“Run if you want.” The mask flashes closer. “I know every inch of this place. I know you, Lola. I always find you.”

The storm continues to punch the windows. The power is out, nothing but night and madness. I keep going, heart in my throat, into the kitchen. I bump the table, knock something over. Glass shatters. My breath turns shallow. I crouch, desperate, trying to make myself small. I can’t stop shaking.

He’s coming. I hear it.

“You never learn, do you?” His voice is a mockery. “You want to play games with me in the dark? Fine. Let’s see how long you last.”

I lunge sideways, hands out, searching for anything. A weapon, window, hope. I find a drawer. Silverware. I grip a knife. My palm sweats around the handle. Brody stops just behind me. I feel the weight of his gaze through the bone-white mask. I twist, knife raised.

He laughs again, cruel and hungry. “You gonna stab me, Bambi? Go on. Do it.”

I hesitate for just a moment. He grabs my wrist, and squeezes until my fingers go numb. The knife clatters to the floor. I scream, helpless, voice bouncing off the cabin walls. He spins me around, pinning me to the counter. His breathing is harsh behind the mask. His hands clamp down on my arms, firm, unbreakable.

“You can’t hurt me,” he growls. “You can’t hurt anyone. You just run. You just hide. You just lie.” His words slice me open. I fight him anyway, thrashing, kicking, cursing his name. He doesn’t let go. “You want the truth? Here it is.” His face is inches from mine. I can feel the heat of him, the storm in his voice. “You belong to me. Out here, in the dark, there’s nothing but us. Nothing but the mess you made.”

My sobs pour out. “I never wanted this⁠—”

He shakes me. “You did. You love this. You need it. You need someone to chase you, punish you, break you open.”

The cabin is shaking. The storm is furious. The dark crawls inside my mouth, my eyes, my head. He drags me back toward the bedroom. I dig in my heels, but he’s too strong. He throws me down, standing over me, a shadow with a skull for a face.

I scream. I scream for Sophie, for my mother, for God, for anyone. The storm swallows the sound.

He kneels close, voice ragged. “Nobody comes for you but me.”

I sob. My body shakes. Fear, hurt, something deeper. My heart beats so fast I think it might explode. My fingers rip at the mattress. The dark is everywhere. His voice slices through it.

He grips the edge of the bed. The wood shrieks and I scramble back, off the other side, feet hitting the floor, hunting for anything solid to put between us.

A crash. The chair spins, slams into the wall. Loud. Thunder rides the roof. The world is noise, fury, wild energy. The chair splinters against the baseboard.

I flinch, but Brody doesn’t. He wants this. The destruction and the intimidation. “You hide, you scream, but you never fucking speak the truth,” Brody says. “You never answer me.”

I see the lamp topple. He grabs it and hurls it to the floor. Glass explodes, a spray of stars at my feet. Shards sharp as fangs. I stumble away, almost falling.

“You’re insane.”

He never hesitates. He’s a machine wound up tight. Everything is rage. The mask shines bone-white. I can’t see anything behind it.

“You want to call me insane?” His voice is louder. “I lived in hell because of you. I burned for you. I would have killed him, Lola. I would have burned your stepfather down to dust. And you still went with him. You went back.”

Another crash. Plate, bowl, it doesn’t matter. Ceramic ruins the quiet. Sharp things lie scattered on the floor now, just like in my head.

I spit the words. “Like you gave me a fucking choice? You left me! You didn’t even ask. You just vanished.”

I’m shaking. My body doesn’t know fear from fury anymore. His boots scrape closer. I back up, my feet skid on the wreckage. It cuts me, stings. I don’t care. I’d bleed to get away.

“Don’t rewrite history,” he snaps. “I saw you. I saw you with those men through the window. You never even bothered to explain. I waited for you to reach out. I did, but you never did. You are the one who fucking vanished. That’s the last time I saw you before I came back. Getting gang groped and fucked.”

The words hit me. Dirty memories. Rage so hot it could melt the fucking walls. Brody towers over me. His fists are shaking. His chest heaves with something worse than violence.

I can’t breathe.

“That’s not how it was.” I whisper it. “You don’t know. You never knew.”

He doesn’t hear a single word I say. He doesn’t want to. He’s pacing, boots chewing up the floor. The broken lamp, the glass everywhere, the pieces of me all over this filthy room. My lips sting from biting down every scream.

He smashes his hand into the door. The whole thing rattles. “Liar. I saw it. I fucking saw you.”

He isn’t listening. He never listens. He only wants to choke me with his version of the story. The one where I am worse than Marcus, where I am dirty, sick, a traitor.

I fight for air. For dignity. For anything to keep me from just shattering right in front of him.

“Nobody touched me like that.” I’m shaking. “I was drugged. I never wanted them. I never wanted anyone but you.” My brain slips sideways, memory crackling, a house party, too many faces, too many hands. “I was trying to get away. I wanted you. I wanted to call you.”

He ignores it. He takes two steps, grabs my cheeks, squeezes. My eyes water. “You were begging for it, Lola. You spread for them and fucking smiled. Is that what he taught you? Is that what you wanted?”

I want to throw up. I want to spit in his face. I do nothing. I take it, helpless, because I don’t have enough left to fight. Tears burn down my throat. Not just shame. Not just fear. But anger, too. The kind that eats you alive after all the other feelings die.

“That’s what Marcus wanted you to think.” I choke on it, my body stiff, trembling, stupid. “He set it up. He wanted you gone. He wanted to own all of me, but I still wanted you. I just couldn’t get to you. You were already gone. You left.”

He laughs; it hurts to hear it. “You think I’d believe that? You could’ve crawled to me. You could’ve killed them all, if you cared.”

“I tried.” My voice breaks. “I tried, but he locked me in that room and you never came. I waited. I waited for days. I kept hoping you’d come, but you never did.”

He crushes my jaw, holding my head so tight I think the bones might snap. I can see the sliver of his real eyes behind the mask. Blue and gray. Murderous.

“You want me to believe Marcus? You want me to buy your fairy tales?”

He shakes me, hard, skull mask blurring into shadow. I see stars. Black sockets boring into me, unblinking, cruel, impossibly close. The mask. Inches from my face. My own reflection in the bone, wet and shaking, pupils blown wide.

I try to look past it, but there’s nothing but Brody behind it. The dark pumps around him, heavy and savage. Like he’s death and want and punishment, all for me.

His hand fists at my hair, wrenches my head back, almost breaks my neck. I gasp. The sound is pathetic, small. I don’t even care. The pressure on my scalp is so sharp it cuts through the rest. My jaw cracks open. There’s no room for air.

“You want to keep lying?” His voice is mean. No warmth. Nothing gentle. Just a threat. “You want to sit there and play innocent? You think I’m fucking stupid?”

I whimper. He hates that. Or he loves it. I can’t tell. My lips tremble around the words.

“Stop,” I say. It’s a whisper. Not even a real plea. “Brody, please. Just listen.”

He slams me back against the wall so hard my skull rattles. The plaster cracks. I hear it, deep. The whine in my ears makes the world flicker. He shoves his knee between my legs. Wedges it there. Cold denim, pressure, pinning me. I can’t close my thighs, can’t hide the wet soaking through the thin fabric. He knows. Of course he knows.

I fight. I try to twist away, hands slapping at his wrists, at the mask. His gloved fingers snap around both my wrists, trapping them over my head. He forces them into the wall, holds me with one hand. He’s so much stronger than me without even having to try. My nails scratch useless on the wood.

“Little coward,” he spits. “You only know how to run and hide. Fine. Let’s see how you fight when you can’t even move.”

His other hand yanks my shirt up. My tits bounce free, cold air on them, nipples hard. I want to cover myself, but of course. he doesn’t let me. His palm slaps across my chest, fingers digging in. Bruising. “You fucking like this,” he says. “You want to act scared, but your body remembers. It remembers who owns you.”

The heat under my skin is panic, humiliation. My cunt is soaked, aching, desperate. It’s disgusting. It’s fucked. I hate that I want it. He’s brutal. He shoves my thighs wider with his knee, then grabs at my waistband. Yanks it down, everything, rough. The air hits the mess between my legs and I want to die. He jams two fingers inside, dry. I scream, it rips the edge of my throat.

“Take it,” he snarls. “You always take it. You always wanted it rough.”

He fucks me with his hand. Every pump sets my brain flashing, pain and pleasure and shame scrambled together. My hips jerk. I try to twist, but his grip just bruises deeper. Unforgiving. He wants me humiliated. Pinned and used. There’s an ache under my skin, not pain, just a wild sick heat. 

He’s breathing hard behind the mask. Skull-white, grinning, black eyes swallowing all the light in the room. He wants to see me shudder. He wants to see me break myself for him.

I can’t stop grinding on his fingers. I can’t stop leaking for him. My body is a traitor. I am soaked, desperate, sick with need even as the shame burns red up my ribs. I clamp my jaw. I want to fight. He doesn’t care. He just moves his hand harder, fingers curved up to drive me out of my mind.

My toes curl on the floor. My knees nearly buckle. Brody rips my head back by the hair, forces my mouth open. The mask hovers inches from my lips. “Look at you. Fucking mess.”

I just moan. Wet and wrecked. Hips flexing on his wrist, chasing the filth he shoves inside me. He drops my hands only to slam them back to the wall, wrist above wrist. The pressure sets my chest heaving. My pussy clenches around his fingers, fighting to milk every last inch, even as the humiliation chokes me.

All I see is the mask, white smeared with red, jaw gaping over me.

My feet lose the floor. Brody hoists me up, pinning me to the wall. My thighs split wide around his hips as my back arches, tits out, neck bared, nothing hidden. He crams my wrists together overhead, one-handed. His other hand tears at his jeans.

He spits a grunt, and then the thick head of his cock is crushing into me. He forces every inch deep, splitting my cunt open, and starts to fuck. It’s violence. That’s all there is. The pounding of hips against bruised skin, the sound of breathless fury. He pushes in and out, never slowing, never hesitating, just taking and leaving nothing for me but the mess he makes. My mouth is open, panting, moaning for him even as my brain scrapes NO NO NO across every splintered neuron.

He loves it. It’s written in the clutch of his hands, the way the mask leers. I hate that I’m soaked. I’m leaking down my thighs. So close. I feel it. Pressure and shame rising so fast it almost blinds me.

He slaps my thigh. “Don’t you dare. You don’t get to fucking cum unless I say so.”

His hand clamps on my throat. The skull mask eats up all the air in front of my face. My body jerks, desperate and out of control, but he just holds me there and fucks into me. The wall jumps with every thrust.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I am split open. He slams in deep, punishing. My wrists are trapped above my head in his grip. My mouth hangs open. I hate him. I hate him. He fills me all the way. My body stains itself for him. I squeeze my eyes shut and see stars. His hips are relentless. The wall shudders as he drives his cock deeper. Over and over. Nothing sweet, nothing soft. He wants me pinned, helpless. I am. Fuck. My cunt chokes on him. I can feel every inch. My toes barely touch the floor. I hear myself, my moans. I want to stop. I can’t.

“Fuck Bambi, grip me just like that,” Brody huffs against my ear.

His free hand rips my shirt all the way up. My tits bounce every time he slams forward. His fingers grope my nipples, twisting and circling. The mask covers his face. No human left. Only hunger. Rage. He owns me. 

He pushes my legs wider around his hips, knees stretched, cunt bare and dripping, soaking down my thighs. He watches every twitch, every silent shudder. My brain is gone. My body takes over. He shoves two fingers in my mouth, making me gag. Slobber drips down my chin. He loves it. His cock hammers into me. My body clings to him, shaking, wet, hot. The skull mask stares down into me. That’s all there is. That face and the darkness and his dick breaking me open. He hisses in my ear. “You feel that? That’s mine. All this mess, all this sweet cunt, it belongs to me.”

His cock pounds deeper. I choke on every thrust. Any second I might explode, but somehow I don’t. He holds my jaw open, thumb splitting my lips. It burns. My tits ache from the roughness. My nipples go hard as stone. 

Brody starts to groan. It sounds like hate. Or hunger. My hips try to run but he just fucks me harder, pins me up until my heels float. The only thing real is his body controlling mine. On and on. My pussy grabs at him. The wet is cascading. I can feel his cock bulging inside, pushing the air out of my lungs.

He moves me how he wants. Bent over. Legs spread. Pussy leaking. It’s sick. It’s so good I want to scream, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. He already owns every sound I make.

Brody’s hand fists in my hair. He yanks my head back. “Fucking slut,” he says. “You squeeze me so good. Fucking helpless and bent over. Just for me.”

He grabs both my hips. I drop my hands to the wood, braced. I tremble, my whole is body burning. He fucks harder, holding nothing back. Each time he bottoms out, I feel my cunt clench so hard I nearly black out.

He fingers my clit, fast, hard, just to fuck with me. Almost enough, then he stops. My body bucks, desperate. He laughs.

He drags it out, taunting me. “Want to come, don’t you?” His words are hate. “You want to cream all over my dick. Not tonight. You don’t get that until I say.”

I force myself not to beg. He fucks me deeper. His grip is cruel, fingers digging into my flesh. He uses me. Over and over. Sweat breaks out all over my neck and chest. My knees buckle, but he doesn’t stop.

He slaps my ass. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

I bite my lip to muffle the noise, but it still comes out broken. Every thrust. Every endless, thick inch. He wants to break me, make me beg, but I won’t give in.

He leans in. “You ever let another man touch you? You’d never walk again. I’d ruin you. You hear me?”

I nod, silent. He fucks me so hard the wall shakes. He drives his cock deep. My pussy pulses shame and heat, clinging, desperate. He holds me by the hips, spreads me wide, pounds in from behind. The slap of skin on skin is filthy, echoing in the dark, drowning out the storm outside.

He’s relentless. Short, brutal thrusts. Every slam sets my tits swinging, my jaw scraping the glass. He grunts, the skull mask leering down on me. “You feel that? How deep I am? How fucking wet you get when I break you?”

I whimper. Wetness drips down my thighs, pooling on the floor. I can’t hide it.

His hand slides down, finds my throat, squeezes. I choke, my vision sparking. His cock thrusts harder. “You like this. You need it. You need my cock splitting you open, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The word is a gasp. Nothing but need. I hate myself for it.

He drags his fingers between my legs, finds my clit. Rubs circles again, rough, fast, cruel. My body bucks. He growls, “You come without permission, I’ll leave you here, dripping for me. Begging.”

I shake, tears tracking down my cheeks. I’m so close I could scream. My cunt milks him, muscles fluttering, desperate for release. He pulls back, lets his cock slide almost out, then slams back in. My whole body jolts.

“Say it, Bambi. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He spanks me. The sound cracks the air. My pussy clenches so hard I nearly come. “Louder.”

“I’m yours. Please, Brody, I’m yours.”

He groans, hips snapping faster, cock punching deep inside. 

I sob, fingers clawing at the glass. My knees threaten to fold. He doesn’t let me. His hands are everywhere—fisting my hair, squeezing my throat, smashing my hips back to meet every thrust.

He drops his hand to my clit. Circles. Pinches. I scream.

“Beg for it, Bambi. Beg to come.”

“Please.” I’m shaking, tears and spit everywhere. “Please let me come. I need it. Please, Brody.”

He growls, deep and filthy, “You want to cream on my cock? Show me. Fucking show me.”

He keeps rubbing my clit, brutal, never letting up. My body convulses. Pleasure explodes. My pussy clamps down, pulsing, choking his dick. I scream, sob, shake so hard I nearly collapse. He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, dragging every last spasm out of me until I’m nothing but wet, ruined heat.

“Good girl.” He snarls it, pride and cruelty tangled. “That’s it. Milk my cock. You’re so fucking desperate for it.”

He pulls out and shoves back in, faster now, wild. He grips my hip, yanks me upright, presses my back to his chest. Fisting my tits, he pinches and rolls my nipples between his fingers. “You think about anyone else when you touch yourself? You ever pretend it’s someone else fucking you like this, Lola?”

“No. Only you. Only ever you.”

He groans, savage, fucking me harder, losing control. His hips slam. I hear him pant, heat burning my neck through the mask.

“I’m going to fill you.” His voice is a graveled promise. “You want it? Want my cum inside?”

“Yes. Please. I need it.”

His cock swells inside me. He slams deep, holds, trembles. He comes, spilling hot, flooding my cunt. I feel it leaking out already. He keeps me pinned, one hand on my throat, one palm smashed over my tits, forcing me to feel everything.

We stay like that, shaking, ruined, breathless.

When he lets go, my legs buckle. I slide to the floor. He stands over me, mask gleaming white in the dark. His cock is still hard, shining with my wetness and his cum. He strokes himself, daring me to move.

I look up at him.

He laughs coldly. “Remember this, Bambi. Remember who owns you. Remember who you beg for in the dark.”

I nod. I can’t speak.

Brody crouches, grabs my jaw, forces my mouth open. Smears his thumb over my lips, inside, making me taste us both. He stands, fixes his jeans, mask never lifting. I am left on my knees, cum dripping down my thighs, empty, used, and desperate to be filled again.

The storm pounds outside. The whole world shakes.

Inside, it’s just him and me. Just the dark. Just his hands and his hate and the twisted, filthy need that owns us both.

32

BRODY

THE PAST (AGED 19)

Sunlight gnaws through the crack in the curtain, slicing my eyelids open. I blink. Sheets twisted from dreams I can’t remember. My pillow still has her scent, but it’s barely there. Vanilla. Some kind of shampoo only she uses. Faint, but enough to punch my chest open with wanting.

Hope. I hate the word. Hate that it can exist even for a second in a place like this. But today it dares. Creeps up my throat so I almost smile. Idiot.

Downstairs, the house is already in motion, everyone making sure not to cross into each other’s orbit. I hear Richard’s voice, slicing through a call. He’s always angry, or irritated, or neutral. Rarely happy. 

Sophie’s shoes make no noise on the tile, but she’s there, always watching for the first sign of a storm. She pours herself oatmeal, looks at the spoon, looks at the clock, looks at me. Eyes darting. 

Wolfing down a protein bar, I stare out the window. Lola’s house. Curtains drawn, but I know she’s in there. Alive. Waiting. I check my phone. No message. Not yet. I go back upstairs. Every muscle in my body is tight, wired, primed. I could run ten miles. Or tear a door off its hinges. My mind just goes to her. Skin, lips, curves. I want her here. I want her now.

I text her. Come to the back door. I will let you inside.

I walk back downstairs to the back door and wait. After a few minutes, I see her. She knocks exactly how I like—two short, fast raps, barely making a noise. Smart, careful. Better than me.

I open the door. There she is, cheeks flushed, hair tangled wild. Blue in her eyes like nothing else. She grins and I want to fucking devour her.

Pulling her in, hard, she laughs, but it’s not soft. It’s hunger. Bambi, my Bambi, all trembling wrists and hips that beg to be bruised. 

I slam the door shut behind her and drag her upstairs. The world is just me, just her, the way it’s supposed to be. We don’t even talk. Don’t need to. Mouths find each other, hands everywhere. It’s desperate, every time, because we never know if this is the last one. I slide my hands under her shirt, obsessed with the way her ribs shudder when I touch her. She’s laughing into my mouth, clawing at my back, her thighs clamped around me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go. 

I rip her jeans down to her knees, drag my palm up her bare thigh, greedy, rough. She moans. I want to split her open, pour everything inside her so she can’t ever be empty. She’s wet for me, always is. I slide two fingers inside, thumb teasing her clit, and her head thumps back against the mattress. I fucking love it. I could die like this, her body trembling, begging my name. Mine.

We move fast. It’s never enough time. She yanks my sweats down, hand already working my cock. She knows every inch. I roll over, pin her underneath me, my teeth on her collarbone. Her hands in my hair, tugging, gasping. I slam into her, rough, and she cries out.

I cover her mouth so my father doesn’t hear. I want her screams. I want to drown in them. Her legs lock around my waist, nails in my back. I grab her jaw, making her look at me while I fuck her. Eyes wide, lips swollen. She whispers she loves me. Over and over. 

She cums hard, clenched around me, shaking. I can’t hold back either. I follow her, spill inside, bite her shoulder until she whimpers. Heaven. Hell. Both.

We stay tangled, sweaty, marked up. For a sliver of time I feel almost normal. Like this is what people live for. But she’s not relaxed. I notice too fast. She keeps peeking at the clock on my nightstand, tensing when she hears footsteps on the stairs. She flinches when I brush her hair off her cheek.

I kiss her again, softer this time, trying to melt the tension off her. She lets me, but her eyes never stay closed for long.

“What’s wrong?” I finally ask, voice low. I brush her hip, circle her with my arm.

She shakes her head, giving me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing. Just—can’t stay long today. Marcus is meeting with the Russians or whatever, but he always checks on me after.”

There’s a shadow in her voice. Something colder. I don’t like it.

“He’s not going to catch you. You’re safe here.” I mean it. I’d kill for it to be true.

She shivers. “You don’t know him. He always knows.” She cuts off. Her gaze goes somewhere far away, past the walls, out into the void.

I try to force my brain into gear. “Hey.” I pull her tighter, force her to look at me. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here, and as long as I’m here, nobody will fucking hurt you. I know you’ve had a lot going on, especially since your mother died, but I’m still here.”

She’s silent, then a long sigh releases. “She’s dead, Brody. She slipped on those rocks and her head… It was fucking everywhere. I can’t get the picture out of my mind.”

My stomach clenches. I remember the funeral. The mess Marcus made of it. The glassy look in Lola’s eyes ever since. Everything changed after that day.

I stare at the ceiling. “You don’t have to talk about her.”

She nods, but she’s already pulling her clothes on. Hurrying. Zipping her hoodie, tucking her hair behind her ears over and over like if she makes it perfect, none of this happened. I want her to stay. I clench my jaw; if I say the wrong thing she might run. If I say nothing, maybe she already is.

She pecks my cheek, squeezes my hand.

“Text me?” I say, even though it’s stupid, even though I hate how needy I sound.

She flashes a quick, sad smile. “Always.”

I watch her vanish out the window, light as wind. Maybe this is normal for other people. For us, it never is.

It’s fucking quiet after. I shower, scrub the sweat and her perfume off my skin, but it never leaves. I leave the water running hot until it scalds, but I can’t shake the image of her crying, the way her body went rigid when I touched just right.

I text her. Nothing. I text again. An hour passes. There’s a hollow grinding panic in my chest, twisting my guts tight.

Ten more times. No answer. I call but it goes straight to voicemail. Dead.

Something’s wrong. I know it. The old obsession comes back. I pace my room, nearly break my phone when I slam it onto the desk. Sophie asks if I’m okay through the door. I don’t answer.

It’s late when the message comes. An unknown number. Plain, no bullshit.

Go to this address. Look at what your girl is up to when you’re not around. You can’t trust her.

I read it three times. Part of me wants to believe it’s a prank. The rest knows it isn’t. I punch the address into my phone. I know the street. Trash everywhere. Burnt-out streetlights, houses stacked too close, boarded-up windows. 

Fury. Cold, clean. My hands don’t shake as I take my keys, get in the car, and drive without thinking. I park two streets down, killing the engine. I walk the rest of the way, scanning for any sign of trouble. Predators know predators.

The house stinks of piss and wet cigarettes. Laughing echoes inside, men’s voices. Shadows flicker through stained curtains. I find the side window, off the alley. Grimy but see-through.

And there. There she is.

Lola.

My fucking Bambi.

She’s on her knees, lips parted, eyes glazed but open. There are hands on her, one gripping her hair, another squeezing her breast. She’s fucking moaning. She doesn’t fight it. She leans in. She wants it.

The men—three of them, all older—surround her, crowd in, taking turns using her mouth, her cunt. Her dress is pulled down, tits out. She takes a cock in her mouth and another in her pussy. She rides them, bucking like she can’t get enough.

She’s awake.

She’s smiling.

Sick. Filthy. My heart claws at my ribs, desperate to tear itself out. This can’t be real. I watch for proof but there’s nothing. She wants them. Not me.

I taste bile. I nearly break the glass. Someone says her name—Lola, baby, just like that. She laughs, leans in harder, sucks him deeper.

I want to die.

Pulling away from the window, I nearly trip. My body is on fire with rage and revulsion. I want to kill them. I want to kill myself. I want to drag her out and make her explain. But I can’t move. My legs are rubber, draining out all the blood I ever had.

I run—sideways, backwards, blind. Get to my car, slam the door, drive until the world blurs past, unsure of where I’m going.

I end up at a liquor store. Neon light burns my eyes. I use a fake ID and buy the strongest bottle I see. The cashier doesn’t even blink. He knows broken men when he sees them.

I park by the river, kill the lights. I rip the seal, drink straight from the bottle. Burns all the way down but doesn’t numb anything. I keep seeing it, over and over. Her mouth, those hands, the way she looked at them. Happy. Gone. Like I was already erased.

A scream twists up my throat. I smash my fist into the dash, split my knuckles, but don’t feel it. I drink until everything goes gray at the edges. I want to forget. I want to drive into the water, or crush the bottle against my skull, or just sink into dirt and rot.

Hope is dead. Love was a fucking joke. I was a joke.

But the urge to see her again is still there. Even now. Even when everything inside is ruined.

I stare at my trembling hands. If I could rip my heart out, I would. If I could forget her face, I would. But she’s still there, burned into my brain like a brand.

I drink until I can’t see straight, and when I finally close my eyes, her voice is all that’s left.

Lola. Lola. Lola.

What the fuck did you do?

33

LOLA

I curl tighter in the blanket, eyes burning from the cold and from last night. Brody paces behind me, boots heavy on the warped floor.

He throws another log into the stove with a bang. “Jesus, would you quit fucking shivering? You sound like a dying animal.”

I glare at him over my shoulder. “Sorry I’m ruining your fucking peace and quiet. I didn’t ask to be here.”

His jaw flexes. “You never ask for anything, do you? Just play the victim. That always worked for you.”

I force myself not to look away. My lips are numb, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me small. “Better than playing the monster. Is that how you get off now, Brody? Making sure I know who’s in charge?”

He stalks closer, fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild and ravenous in the gray dawn. For a second, I think he might hit the wall or me. “You think you’re some kind of victim? After everything?”

I fling the blanket off, forcing myself to stand, body trembling. “You kidnapped me. You threatened me. You fucked me like you hated me. And now you’re pissed I’m cold?”

He’s inches away now, face close to mine. “I’m pissed you act like any of this is my fault. Like you didn’t lie. Like you didn’t sell yourself to the highest bidder the second I was gone. Yeah, I’m fucked up, but I thought the worst of you.”

I slap him, hard, hope and malice in one broken motion. “Fuck you. You don’t know what I did. You never even asked.”

His head whips to the side. For a terrifying moment, he’s silent. Then he turns back, voice shaking. “I saw you, Lola. That’s all I needed.”

My voice cracks, high and desperate. “You saw what they wanted you to see. You saw what Marcus made happen. You didn’t even try to save me!”

He grabs my arm, not hurting, just trying to keep me there. “Save you? You didn’t look like you needed saving. You looked pretty fucking comfortable.”

I wrench away, stumbling. “Because I didn’t have a choice! I was alone, and you fucking left!”

He slams his fist into the wall, the sound like a gunshot. I flinch. He bites out, “I came back for you, and all I found was a whore working for your monster of a father!”

I want to scream. My whole body shakes, but not from the cold. “You don’t get to call me that. Not after what you did to me!”

He laughs, but it’s empty. “Yeah? Tell me what I am, then. You think I wanted to be this? You think I wanted to be the kind of guy who drags you out of hell just to throw you in another one?”

Tears threaten but I blink them away, voice hoarse. “I never wanted you to be a monster. I just wanted you to come back. I just wanted you to believe me.”

He’s breathing hard, fists tight at his sides. “I don’t know how to believe you. I don’t know how to stop hating you.”

I drop down by the fire, shoulders shaking, not caring if he sees me cry now. “I hate you too,” I whisper, voice small.

He stands over me, shadowed, silent. Finally, he speaks, voice choked and soft but still hard as stone. “Good. Maybe hate’s all we have left.”

We sit in the frozen silence, broken and burning. The fire crackles, throwing weak orange light. I curl into myself again, shaking so hard I can barely breathe. My fingers have gone stiff and blue. I try to rub them, but it’s useless. There’s no warmth left in me.

Brody paces. His breathing is ragged, fists flexing, jaw clenched so tight it must hurt.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I want to disappear, but my body just keeps betraying me. A violent shudder wracks my shoulders. I fold deeper, biting my lip to keep from begging for help.

There’s a sudden rush. A heavy movement. Brody kneels by my side. The thick quilt slams onto my back, then his hands, rough and hot, wrapping the blanket around me like a straitjacket. 

His palm lingers, heavy, pressing me close to the fire. His voice is a growl in my ear. “Stop being stubborn. You’ll lose a fucking toe.”

I can’t look at him, but I can smell him. Dark, angry. The blanket is heavy, trapping the heat and his scent. I shiver harder, the violence of it almost tipping me over.

His hands stay on my shoulders for a heartbeat too long. He pulls me closer, just a fraction, until I’m pressed into his side.

For a split second, I let myself lean into him. I feel the moment he snaps out of it. His muscles tense. His hands go cold and careful, then vanish.

He stands, sudden and stiff, like he’s been burned. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters. “You’re not my problem.”

Moving to the other side of the cabin, he turns his back, arms crossed, face gone hard again. I tuck the blanket tighter, but the warmth he left lingers, more agonizing than the cold.

I watch his silhouette in the gloom. So close, but so fucking far. My heart hammers. I want to scream, to beg, to break something. I remember how he fucked me last night. It’s so different from when we were together back in the day. I hardly recognize him. 

I can’t stay here. I need to go. 

“Did you drive here? Could you go into town and pick up supplies? Please? We don’t know how long the power will be out,” I pleaded, hoping he might leave so I can try to make my escape. There must be a road nearby. I can find someone to let me in their car.

He shakes his head. “We have enough. I parked a few miles away. You think I didn’t plan ahead? I brought everything we’ll need. You’re stuck here with me. There is no fucking way I am leaving you here alone. You’re my prisoner, remember? Fucking act like it.” 

“What do you mean; you planned this?”

He takes a moment to answer. His jaw clenches, and his hands shake. He looks at me, almost as if he’s bleeding from the inside out. “I heard my father talking. He hired men to take you somewhere. He wanted to use you as leverage or revenge.” He takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t have him take you away, I would never see you again, so I planned to intercept. You’re mine to break, Bambi. Mine.” 

I blink in surprise. My head feels like it’s stuffed with snow and static. I stare at Brody, the words echoing so loud I wonder if the cabin will split open. “Your father set this shit up? Oh my god.” 

I hold my head in my hands. The men that took me. They were hired by Richard? The same Richard that allowed me to eat family meals with them. The same Richard that allowed me to go on beach trips with them. The same Richard who sat at the table and asked about my grades. The one who smiled at my mother and poured her wine.

I can barely force out a whisper. “You’re telling me your father is the reason I’m here. That he… what? He sent people after me like I’m a thing, not a person?” I laugh, wild, but it dies in my throat. “What the fuck, Brody? Why?”

He paces, rubbing his face hard enough to leave red streaks. For a moment, I almost see the boy I used to know, lost, desperate, but then he shuts down again, a shadow hunched against the wall.

“He’s not who you think he is,” Brody says quietly. “He’s not just a lawyer. He’s something darker. Powerful, cruel, obsessed with control. When my mother died—when she was killed—he swore it was Marcus’s people, that Marcus wanted her gone because she was getting too close. Or maybe he wanted me gone. He’s been at war with your stepfather ever since. I got dragged in whether I wanted it or not.”

A chill sweeps through me that has nothing to do with the cold air. “You think Marcus had something to do with your mom’s death?” My voice is barely more than a croak. “I didn’t know. Brody, I swear, I never knew any of this. Marcus keeps everything in the dark. He always has. I’m not part of any of it. I’m not⁠—”

His glare slices through me. “Don’t. Don’t play innocent. Not after everything. You lived in his house. You did his jobs. You let him—” His voice breaks, jagged and angry.

I feel the sting in my eyes again. “Let him? You think I had a choice? You think I ever wanted any of this?” My hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms. “You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. You don’t know what he’s done to me.”

He stares at me, searching my face for lies. I see the war flicker in his eyes. He wants to believe I’m just another piece on the board, another traitor, but something cracks at the edge of his mouth.

“What did he do?” he asks, voice rough.

I flinch. “You want all the details? He’s kept me locked away for years. He puts his hands on me in ways that fucking shatters me. He controls where I go, who I see, what I wear. If I step out of line, I pay for it. He says I’m his, that I should be grateful he didn’t break me worse. I’m not part of his war, Brody. I’m just a casualty.”

He sits down, hard, as if the confession knocks the breath out of him. For the first time, I see doubt in the set of his shoulders, the way his fists unclench, knuckles white. He looks smaller, folded in on himself.

Silence fills the room. The fire pops. The wind claws the window frame.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asks, voice thin. “Back then. Why didn’t you let me in?”

I swallow. My throat aches from all the words I’ve never said. “Because he threatened to kill you if I did. Because he made sure you’d never come back. Because he made me say things, do things, so you’d hate me enough to stay away.”

He shakes his head, but it’s not denial. It’s disbelief, world-shattering. For a long time, neither of us speak. I stare into the fire, wishing I could crawl inside the flames.

Brody’s voice is low, almost lost in the storm. “I thought I could hate you forever. It was easier. Safer. But if what you’re saying is true—if you really never had a choice⁠—”

My voice is shaky. “I never did. I’m still fighting to have one.”

He doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around himself, looking everywhere but at me. For the first time, I see him uncertain, hollowed out, not the monster he plays for my benefit but someone wounded and tired and just as lost as I am.

The dread in the cabin thickens, but something else swirls beneath it: the beginning of understanding, or at least the end of blind hatred.

“Tell me the rest,” I say, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “Tell me what your father is, what you’re part of now.”

Brody’s eyes are black, haunted. “Richard will do anything to win. He keeps files on everyone. He makes people disappear. Threatens, manipulates, buys loyalty or ruins lives when he can’t. He taught me how to survive, how to fight dirty, just like Marcus did with you.”

I let the words sink into the silence. 

“We’re both just property. Two people trapped in a cage,” I whisper. 

He laughs, but the sound is cracked. “Not to me. Not anymore. I don’t know what you are to me now, Lola. But you’re not nothing.”

Rain rattles on the window. The fire eats the last of the wood. Our shadows stretch longer, ragged and thin, reaching for each other across the frozen floor. We sit together, not close, not touching, but the distance between us is different now. Not hate. Not quite trust. Just two people, broken by the same hands, waiting for the next blow to fall.

34

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 19)

Tonight, I’m supposed to be impressive.

Marcus picks the dress. Tight in the hips, high in the hem. He stands in my doorway as I model it for him, his face blank.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he says. “You’re representing the best. My best.”

He adjusts the neckline with two fingers, pressing the fabric down until I feel exposed. The look on his face says, ‘Remember you’re property, not a person.’ I nod, eyes on his shoes.

I shave my legs twice and put on the lipstick shade he likes: deep red, makes me “pop.” My hair stays loose around my face because Marcus said “it softens you.” I hate how obedient I am. I hate that I barely recognize myself in the mirror, except for the eyes. Eyes too blue, too easy to read. Weakness.

He gives me the address. I drive myself, following unfamiliar streets; the city shifts once the sun bleeds out. Streetlights flicker. Everything hums with menace. Houses here crowd together, bricks crumbling, the ground littered with broken glass and crushed cigarette butts. 

I park out front, but no one meets me. They told me there’d be a handler from the agency. He’s supposed to smooth things over. Get me inside, get me out. But the only faces waiting are shadows behind the curtains, judging.

I step onto the sidewalk, hugging my purse like a shield. Two men loiter by the door, smoking, watching. Their eyes scrape over me. One nudges the other. “Fresh meat,” I hear. My cheeks burn. Stomach clenches. I want to vomit already.

Just a party. Networking. I can still hear Marcus’s words. You want to work in this town, you go. You play the game.

The front door swings open. Warm light, music, a pop song that’s already too loud. Someone’s shoes are abandoned on the mat. I walk in and try not to exist.

Inside, every surface is sticky. The couch sags in the middle, empty bottles lie everywhere, glowing like trophies. A girl with smeared mascara leans against the fridge, laughing way too loud. The men here are all middle-aged with expensive watches and hands that never stop moving. They look at me like I’m dinner.

Something is off. Worse than usual. There’s a crackling in my gut, warning on repeat: Leave. Leave. Fucking run.

Too late. My handler is already gone. Disappeared into the crowd. Probably pocketing his fee and bailing. I’m on my own.

A man shoves a drink into my hand before I can say anything. “Industry standard,” he tells me, a smile stretching his lips. I glance down. The cup is filled with clear liquid and melting ice. Something citrus. It smells like Sprite, but too sweet. “Drink up, honey. You look tense.”

I barely have a grip on it. The living room spins with people, their eyes dead. You can tell by how they lean away from the guys, how they flinch at casual touches. A blonde girl sits on a man’s lap, staring right through the wall. No one smiles except the men.

I look for exits. The kitchen window is bolted. The back door is marked “private.” I keep my purse tight under my arm. Every time I edge toward the hallway, a new face blocks me. They herd me back to the main room, like sheepdogs. I don’t know anyone. I don’t want to know anyone.

Another guy slaps me on the ass as I pass. “You’re not even gonna mingle?” His voice slides over me, greasy. “Don’t be shy. Models need friends.” He’s close enough to smell his aftershave. My heart hammers. I try to put the cup down but he picks it up and presses it to my lips. “Drink. Loosen up.”

I take a sip; it tastes like lemon cleaner with a burn in my throat. My stomach flips. I want to spit it back at him, but I swallow.

Someone else grabs my elbow, steering me. “Let me introduce you. This is how you get jobs, babe,” he stage-whispers. His friends laugh. All of them looking me up and down, not at my face.

I keep walking. My shoes stick to the floor while I keep scanning for a way out. I could fake a call, but there’s no signal in here; the windows are covered. The music gets louder. Is that the same song looping? It’s pounding in my skull. Some chorus about feeling alive.

The drink goes fast. They always refill it. The ice melts in my mouth. I lose track of how many times they top it off, or if I ever let the glass go. I don’t even want it. But my throat is so dry, and they keep pushing.

“Relax,” someone says before voices blend together, circling, hands in my hair, on my hip, always too close. It’s not a conversation. It’s a hunt.. “It’s just a party.” “You came here to play, didn’t you?” “You’re famous on Insta, right? Show us your moves.”

I try to say no. I try to step sideways, but my legs are full of water. Numb, heavy. My tongue feels thick, words sticky. I can’t coordinate my jaw. The music keeps getting louder. The lights flicker. My skin gets hot, then cold.

I make for the door, but the knob won’t turn. “Locked for safety,” a man winks. “You don’t want creeps coming in, right?” He stands directly in front of me, his arm blocking the doorway. I stumble back into the mess of bodies.

The air tastes wrong; not enough oxygen. All I feel are hands. Touching, dragging, squeezing. Someone’s palm covers my ass again, another hand snakes under my dress, fingers prodding. My laugh comes out slurred, but I didn’t mean to laugh. I meant to scream.

“There she is,” a voice says. “What’d I tell you? Wild girl.” There’s a flash. Someone takes a photo. My vision blurs bright, then black.

I want to run. I want to vomit. My knees won’t work. I reach for my phone but it’s not in my purse anymore. Someone took it. Or maybe I never brought it. My thoughts scatter and twist.

I tell myself: Don’t pass out. Don’t give them anything.

They don’t care. They press closer, hunger thinning their smiles. “Let’s find somewhere quieter,” one hisses in my ear.

They carry me, my feet barely touching the ground. Laughter everywhere, echoing off the empty walls. A door opens. There’s a bedroom. I see a window, but it’s above the bed, out of reach. Shadows slide across the wall.

The men drop me onto the mattress, my dress riding up. Cold sheets, strange arms. I try to fight, but my limbs flop uselessly. Fuck, I am so slow. My wrists are pinned above my head. Someone holds my thigh, fingers digging in. My head slams back against the pillow. Pain. Stars. A wet mouth on my neck.

The rest are snapshots. I try to clutch them, but they slide apart. I can’t see straight. I can’t focus on anything. The world is a thousand little pictures, slipping out of my fingers, running down the drain.

A hand grabs my arm. Another hand lifts my chin. Hot breath crawling down my neck. I want to scream. My mouth won’t work. Tongue thick, lips sliding. A laugh. It comes out of me, but it’s not my laugh. Too loud. Too lost. I don’t feel real.

There’s a blinding flash. My dress is up. My thighs are spread. I’m not doing it. I’m not. I can barely move at all. A big hand on my flesh. Fingers bruising up my leg. My panties slide down. My hips don’t fight. I think I want to run, but nothing in my body listens to me.

Something heavy pins my wrist above my head. My eyes roll back. I see the ceiling. Stains. Black marks, water damage eating the corners.

Laughter. All around me. Like hyenas. Like monsters chasing meat.

It’s cold in the room. No, it burns. My skin sweats, sticks to the sheets. I can feel my nipples poke through the dress, hard and sore. A mouth seals over one. Sucks and bites. I whimper, but it’s not loud enough. Not even close.

A bottle clinks down. The glass sweats, just like me. Someone’s knuckle shoves into my cheek. I gag, half-choking, liquid running down my throat. Vodka? Lemon. Something chemical. It burns inside my chest.

There’s a hand around my throat. A thumb on my lips. Fingers dig so deep into my face.

My skirt is at my waist, and I know I should close my legs, but I can’t. My knees won’t even pretend. Hands force them wider. I’m open. It’s a show.

A man shoves his cock between my thighs. I feel the slap of it, hot and wet and so wrong I feel my brain try to peel away from my skull. It hurts. Cold air, then heat, then all at once his hips snap forward and I split.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I try to say the word. All that comes out is a sick noise, wet in my throat.

He’s inside me, all the way. More than one. Hands everywhere. Grabbing, pinching, shoving. I want to vomit. I want to die. My body thrashes, but it’s not mine. I’m a puppet in someone else’s game.

He fucks me rough. Hands squeeze my tits. Nails rip my skin. My face is pressed into the mattress and it stinks of someone else, months of sweat and cigarettes and strangers. Another man jams his fingers in my hair, yanks my head up. My jaw is pried apart.

He makes me suck him. My lips don’t close, they just slide open and he’s in my mouth, salty and sour. I gag. He fucks my face anyway.

Everything is blurry. Lights strobe.

Hands in my hair. Hands on my throat. Cheeks stretched, mouth split wide. 

My jaw aches. I can’t breathe. The man at my mouth pushes deeper, grabs my head and makes me gag again. My tongue goes numb. I try to cough but there’s nowhere for air to go. I think I might black out.

Laughter. It buzzes behind my eyes. More hands. Rough, hard, greedy.

My body twitches. Numb. I can’t pull away. I can’t do anything.

The men move me, they bend me over. My face still locked down, wet and choking, spit running out. Someone else is behind me now. His cock shoves in. Dry. I go hollow. My ribs close around nothing.

A moan, not mine. I feel the weight of him, the way he pounds in. Pain. My body stretches, my thighs shake. I try to flinch but he holds my hips still, bruising grip, hands chewing into the flesh.

Something is wrong with the light. It stutters. Faces blur together, melt into mouths and eyes. They switch places. The hand at my neck pulls me up for air.

Slap. My cheek burns. The world jumps. I don’t even know who does it.

I float above, watching the girl in the dress get used. Her head lolls. Her eyes don’t close all the way. Her knees splay further with each push. She’s a hole for them to fill. Nothing else.

Another mouth at my ear. “Don’t pass out, baby. Stay with us. That’s a good girl.”

Hands slap my tits. My chest is naked. Fingers pinch my nipples, twist them, roll them until I whimper. More laughing.

The first man finishes in my mouth. I taste it. It’s hot and bitter. Sticks at the edges of my tongue. He lets go and my head flops forward. 

I swallow, choke, spit leaks down my chin.

A new hand grabs my hair. Forces my mouth open again. Another cock. He slides in easy, fucks my face like it’s a toy. My head bangs against the mattress. 

I gag. My lips crack at the edges.

The man behind me pulls out. Something runs down the back of my thigh. 

They switch. Over and over. I am tossed, mouths and cocks and hands everywhere. My mind goes numb. My body is sore, holes leaking, skin on fire.

I disappear somewhere. Float above it all. I watch my own body go limp, just cargo for them to pass around. I can’t cry. I can’t scream. I am just a thing.

At some point, someone slaps my cheek. “Still awake?” I blink, but my eyes don’t work. It hurts less, now. Maybe I’m gone.

Blankness. Blackout.

I come to with my face mashed into the carpet, and no idea how I got there. My thigh pulses with pain. My dress is twisted around my waist. My hands tremble as I pull it down. Every part of me hurts.

There’s silence; the party must be over. The couch in the living room is splattered with makeup and cheap perfume. The lights are still on, but everything feels sick and gray.

I stand up, staggering. My knees buckle, and I grab the wall to steady myself. My palm leaves a smudge.

There’s a clock above the kitchen, but I can’t read the numbers. The world swims when I try to focus. I think it’s late. Maybe it's morning already. 

I push on the front door; this time it opens. No one is outside except a stray cat tearing into a trash bag. My heels make my ankles scream, but I keep walking, even though I can’t remember where I parked. Wandering up and down the street, I spot my car, relieved that my keys are still in my coat pocket. 

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I breathe. My body feels all wrong. My panties are gone. My thighs are sticky, skin burning. I flinch from my own reflection in the mirror. I just want Brody. I want his arms, his voice, the way he used to call me “Bambi” and make it sound like safety. I need him. I need him now.

But he’s not here. Everyone’s gone.

By the time I get home, Marcus is waiting. He opens the door on the first try, like he was listening for me all night. His eyes scan my body. I pull my dress down, shivering.

“Shameful,” he mutters. “You look like a whore. Did you do what they wanted, or just embarrass yourself again?”

I try to speak. My lips are frozen. He wouldn’t believe me anyways, even if I tried to defend myself.

He yanks my phone out of my purse and scrolls. “You’re on lockdown,” he announces, fingers digging into my shoulder. “No calls, no socials for two weeks. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about disappointing me.” He pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble, catching the banister just before falling.

In my room, I peel off the dress. It sticks to my skin, damp with sweat and something else. I throw it across the room and curl up on top of the covers. The sheets itch. Everything is too bright. My face is hot and wet.

I stare at the ceiling and replay it, over and over: the taste of that drink, the song stuck in my head, the cold press of the couch against my thigh. I try to remember anything good—Brody’s hands, his voice—but the memory slips. 

All I feel is filth.

I lie there for hours. Maybe days. Marcus doesn’t come up, not at first. He never asks if I’m okay. Why would he? I’m not his biological daughter. I’m a product. I’m leftovers. I’m the daughter of the woman he married, who died, and now he’s stuck with me. 

I’m not hungry. I’m not thirsty. I am nothing. Just a shell.

I want to call Brody so bad. Maybe he’d come rescue me. Maybe he’d burn this city to the ground. But I can’t. I have no phone. If I tried to escape, Marcus would find out. His punishments always get worse. Always.

Time blurs. All I have are pieces. 

The sticky rush of soda and vodka, sour in the back of my throat. That song, always that fucking song, vibrating through my skull. The way the men’s hands bruised my arms, hot and rude, leaving fingerprints I can’t scrub off. The freezing texture of the bedroom window, glass shining above me like a silent moon. The blood on my inner thigh, only a little, but the sight of it makes me want to rip my skin off. The words in my head: dirty, ruined, shameful, slut, nobody.

I try to disappear. Sometimes I succeed. I float outside myself, watching my blank face in the dark. Some days I want to smash everything in the house. Other days I just want to die.

What did I do wrong? Was it the dress? The way I smiled? The way I kept trying to be good?

I want Brody. I want him. But there is only the dark, and the smell of that drink, and the sound of the pop song looping forever.

This is how Marcus wins. He shatters me. Leaves me in pieces, and dares me to put myself back together.

I don’t know if I can.

I stare into the abyss, and it stares back at me. The stars do not blink. They burn, and burn, and burn. Light fades. Ghosts drift. Time unravels. Every second is swallowed by the endless dark. 

In the space between breaths, the world narrows to a single ache —

The warmth that never comes, and the stars that keep burning. Indifferent and cold. Until they become nothing but burnt out dust, floating into a suffocating black-hole.

35

LOLA

Night in the woods is a cruel, suffocating thing. No moon. No stars, just the dead black pressing every window, cold wind rattling the cabin out of its bones.

The forest is alive. Not with animals, not with life, but with something waiting. Breathing heavy. Shadows pool in the corners, licking the edge of every wall, waiting to swallow us whole. Inside, it’s just me and him.

My nightmare, my shadow, my last hope. 

We don’t talk. Not for a while. His eyes track the darkness beyond the glass, restless, always calculating. The same way he used to study me. Like I was the only thing that mattered. 

Now, he looks at the door. The windows. Anywhere but my face.

Everything’s been said already. The secrets, the sick bloodlines, all of it spilled on the table and left to rot. Marcus. Richard. The night that broke everything. My complicity. His violence. All the things no one wanted to admit out loud.

Brody sits in the chair by the window, barely moving. Arms crossed, chest rising slow, steady, like a panther waiting to pounce or run. His mask is back on. Black, bone-white, stretched over his face, hiding what’s left of the man underneath.

He isn’t looking at me. He won’t. Not after the way everything exploded. Not after what I confessed.

I shiver, curling my knees up on the cushion, arms locked around myself. The cold is real now. In my joints, in my teeth. My lips have gone numb. But I can’t bring myself to ask him for a blanket. I can barely speak.

If I talk, I’ll scream.

Minutes drag. The wind gets louder, smashing itself against the old wooden frame. A loose shutter knocks, over and over, begging for entry. I try to breathe but my throat feels tight, strange, like something’s twisting inside as my heart batters its wings against my ribs.

Everything is wrong, every cell knows it. The house is too quiet. Brody is too far away. Even sitting ten feet off, he might as well be on another planet.

I whisper, “Are you…are you okay?” No answer. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just keeps glaring out the glass, like he’s expecting monsters to come out of the snow. I try again, lower. “I’m sorry.”

“You said what you needed to say.”

Is that all I am now? 

He’s locked down tight, every muscle clenched, knuckles white. Protective, yeah. But cold, unreachable. If I touched him, he’d break me in half. If I left, he wouldn’t follow. Not tonight. Or, maybe he would. 

I let the silence eat at me, picking at old wounds. The wind moans outside like a lonely animal. My throat aches with words I can’t say, apologies too small for the damage done.

After a while, I try again. “Brody, I… I didn’t know everything. About Marcus. About what he did to your mother. About what Richard was doing to you. I swear I didn’t⁠—”

He cuts me off, voice cracking through the dark. “It doesn’t matter if you knew. What matters is you didn’t run. You didn’t fucking leave, Lola. You stayed there. You looked away, just like everyone else.” His eyes finally flick to mine—ice behind the mask, desperate and wild. “You let him use you.”

I flinch, shame overwhelming me. “I was a kid. I was scared. I thought if I played along, he’d… I don’t know. Maybe he’d go easier on me. Maybe I could save you, or my mom, or⁠—”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so hard I can hear his teeth grind. “That’s the problem. You decided everything for yourself. You could’ve talked to me.”

The words punch the breath out of me. For a moment, I can’t speak, heart thundering in my ears. “I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me.” He doesn’t answer. I wipe at my eyes, blinking back the bite of old tears. “I never wanted to hurt you. Not ever.”

He laughs again, but it’s hollow, a sound filled with years of loss. “Fuck, Lola! I know, okay? I fucking know. You think I wanted to end up like this? You think I wanted to be the guy who hurts everyone who ever touched him? Or who hurts the one woman who he thought he would spend the rest of his life with? I never wanted to hurt you, Bambi. I’m so fucking sorry.”

I look down, fingers twisting in the threadbare cushion. “So much has changed now. I don’t know who I am anymore,” I say, voice small. “All I know is I don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

Brody finally looks at me. His pain is a storm shifting under the surface, but for a second, something soft flickers there. He sees me shivering. 

He stands, all at once. Too sudden. Like he can’t sit still with the poison in his veins. He stalks across the room, fingers drumming on the old wood as he passes.

His voice gets softer. “You’re freezing.” He’s right. I can’t hide the shivers now. I wrap my arms tighter, squeezing so hard it hurts. “There’s clothes in the bedroom,” he grunts. “Top drawer, bag next to the bed. Like I said, I planned ahead. Go before you turn blue.”

I nod, numb. Stand up on shaking knees.

The hallway is darker than I remember. The boards under my feet groan and twitch, warped by years, by cold, by solitude. The door at the end hangs open, black inside, as if the night’s already seeped through the walls.

Go. Don’t look back.

I step in. The bedroom stinks of dust, old wood, and him. The window’s a rectangle of misery, thick frost webbing across the glass. My hands fumble with the hem of my shirt. I peel it off, bra, pants, everything. Skin exposed. Nipples pebbled, thighs shaking, sweat already chilling on my back.

Digging through the bag with clumsy fingers, I pull out a thermal shirt. Soft, gray, too big for me. There are sweatpants too, and wool socks that scratch my palms. I hesitate. Something in me wants to delay, to stretch out this half-second of being nothing. My reflection glints in the frosted mirror.

Then I feel it. Pressure. The prickle up my spine, down the backs of my thighs.

I whirl around.

He’s there. Leaning against the frame, shoulders filling the doorway, mask gleaming in the dark. Skulled, monstrous, silent.

Brody’s chest moves faster than before. His eyes—fuck—his eyes blaze through the mask’s holes, locked on every inch of me. Not blinking. Not looking away. Wild, starved, almost murderous. Like he wants to devour me or drag me straight to hell.

For a long time, nothing. Air buzzes with want, my knees threaten to give out, but I fight it. This is wrong. He kidnapped me. I should be spitting fire.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Look at you.” Brody crosses the room in three strides. I don’t retreat. I just wait, shaking, mouth gone dry, pulse jackhammering. He doesn’t kiss my lips. He drops straight to my throat, burying his mouth at the base of my neck, biting hard. His hands dig into my waist, greedy, bruising, hungry. Fingers splay, covering the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I feel how hard he is, already, through his jeans, pressing at my stomach.

The mask stays on. It grinds against my cheek, cold and unyielding. He mutters, “Mine.” 

His hand claws at my ass, yanking me closer. His mouth traces down my neck, over my collar, biting, sucking. He palms my breast, squeezing, fingers pinching cruelly at my nipple. 

I gasp but don’t recoil. My cunt aches. I’m already soaking, shame and hunger twined tight.

Brody pushes me down, flat palm at the top of my head. I drop, knees crashing to the floor. The boards bite into my skin, rough and splintery. He stares down at me, mask like death. His cock is out, veins bulging, tip flushed and leaking.

No commands. Just expectation. I wrap my lips around him, swallow deep. He fists my hair, dragging me deeper. His hips snap, bucking into my mouth. Merciless.

I gag, choke, spit leaking down my chin. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. The mask stares down, unfeeling, but the heat behind his eyes says everything.

Every time he slams into my throat, I feel myself clench. I want this. I want the way he uses me, the way he can’t fucking control himself.

I stare up as he fucks my mouth. “Good girl,” he rasps. “That’s it. Take it. I want you to touch yourself for me.”

Slipping my hand between my thighs, my finger finds my clit and rubs circles, fast and relentless. I arch against my touch, whimpering around his cock. Every twist of my fingers sends sparks everywhere.

My cheeks hollow out and I tighten my lips around his cock. That earns me a groan from him. I use my tongue to lick the underside, the way he likes it. He pulls out and shoves me onto my back on the bed, cock already glistening with spit. He grabs my tits, wraps his shaft between them, and thrusts between them, wet and messy, sliding up to my mouth. 

He shoves in deep. I gag again, spit bubbling down my chin. His hand’s in my hair, fucking my face, ruthless and demanding.

My head snaps back from the force. I can barely breathe. Then, he slides down, pinning my hips before lining up his cock and pushes himself inside. No warning. 

I cry out. Not in fear. In shock, in relief, in fucking ecstasy.

He fucks me hard, slamming me into the mattress, every thrust threatening to split me in half. The mask never slides. His eyes burn holes in my soul. Angry, needy, desperate.

I claw at his back, hips bucking for more. His breath is ragged. “Mine,” he keeps saying. “Mine, Lola. All fucking mine.”

We’re animals. No, something deeper. Something ruined and perfect and built for this.

He pounds into me, wild, savage, nothing gentle left. My back hits the mattress, legs open, his hips driving me down, hard, again and again. The bed thumps. The old headboard cracks against the wall. Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs. I can’t think. Can’t breathe.

His hand grabs my thigh, yanks it higher, forcing me open for him. I arch, desperate, a moan torn out of my throat.

He’s relentless. His cock fills me, splits me, the pain perfect, the stretch just right. 

The mask stares down, cold and merciless, but his eyes are fire—mad, starved, dangerous. His breath is hot on my neck, every growl vibrating through my skin.

He fucks me faster. The world narrows to the wet slide of him inside me, the smack of our bodies, the sweat dripping between us. Shame, want, fury. Every twisted part of me burns for him. I buck against him, chasing the bruises, chasing the hurt.

“Mine,” he snarls, voice rough, voice wrecked. “You’re fucking mine.”

“Yes—” I can barely get the word out. All I can do is take it. All I can do is shatter for him.

He slaps my thigh. I gasp. He’s ruthless, pounding, driving, using me up. My cunt clenches, greedy, hungry, no space left for anything but him.

He grabs my jaw, squeezes, forces my mouth open. “Say it,” he hisses. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” I pant. “You, Brody. Only you.”

He groans, loses control, and thrusts rougher, deeper. The headboard cracks. The mattress creaks. My body shakes.

I’m close, God, I’m so close. My clit throbs, every nerve ending screaming. He sees it, feels it, fucks me harder, his hand slipping down, thumb circling my clit. Fast. Brutal.

I can feel myself about to…about to⁠—

Then, there’s a noise outside. 

Crunching on snow, heavy boots outside. Voices, muffled but urgent. Maybe five, six, more.

Brody freezes. The tension snaps like a whip. He’s off me in a second, grabs my arm, shoves clothes at me. “Dress. Now. Don’t talk.”

I yank on the shirt, the pants, socks barely making it over my frozen feet. He’s already out in the hall. Low to the ground, scanning, eyes in every direction. He grabs something from under the couch. 

Lights off, he moves like a shadow, near-silent. “Stay behind me,” he whispers, dragging me back from the doorway. “Don’t make a sound, Bambi. Not one.”

I nod, heart in my throat.

Another crunch, closer. Window rattling. Voices, louder now.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, the glass shatters. Windows on opposite sides of the cabin explode inwards. Flashlights slash through the dark, white beams everywhere.

The front door blows open, ripped off its hinges, slamming into the wall behind. Black figures flood in. Masks, boots, rifles. Men, maybe six, maybe eight, moving in formation.

I scream. I can’t help it.

Brody launches himself at them. He barrels into the first man, takes him down hard, slamming the back of his head into the floor. Blood splatters the wall. Next guy, Brody’s on him before he can aim. Fist to the throat, crack, another knife to the gut. Screaming.

But it’s too many. They swarm him. Three, four piling onto his back, battering him down, fists and boots and gun stocks.

Hands grab me. I thrash, bite, scream Brody’s name. A bag is yanked over my head. Darkness, suffocating and wild. Hands on my arms, pinning them behind my back. My feet leave the floor as I’m carried, helpless.

Somewhere behind me, Brody howls my name. “Don’t you stop fighting, Lola! I’ll come for you! You hear me? I will fucking find you, Bambi.”

I hear fighting, bodies slamming into walls. Another scream, then nothing, just savage grunting, boots, chaos.

“Brody!” I scream until my throat tears.

A brutal punch to my ribs silences me. My breath vanishes. The bag tightens. Someone’s dragging me, fast. I don’t know where.

The last thing I hear—Brody’s voice, savage, muffled. Then another bag, maybe over his own head. His shouting stops. Then the hard slam of flesh and boots and silence.

I’m thrown into something. It feels hard, metal, cold as the grave. Hands grope, bind, tape my wrists and ankles. I can barely breathe. Through it all, my ears ring. My heart tries to break free from my chest. The world squeezes in. Boots thudding on the wood, shouts in the distance, Brody’s name on my lips.

They split us apart. He’s gone.

My world shrinks to darkness and fear.

I try not to panic. Try not to cry. I think of Brody. I pray he survives, even if I don't. I curse Marcus. I curse my own weakness.

I promise myself: you don’t break. Not for them. Not for anyone.

Noise fades, swallowed by black. I count my breaths. One. Two. Three. Praying he’s alive. Swearing revenge.

Even as the world goes dark, I don’t let go of him.

36

BRODY

Darkness consumes me. No sound but whirring air vents somewhere behind my head. Then the bite of restraint, steel at my wrists, ankles. Industrial pipe cinched at my chest. Chair welded to the concrete.

My left eye is sticky, vision doubling, then clears. I flex my fingers, but they don’t move. Numb. Hands are splayed on my thighs, skin streaked with something dark.

A warehouse. I know the smell before I even open my eyes. Oil, metal, sawdust. Cold that enters through the skin. The whine of wind outside the loading dock, rattling thin windows. Industrial lights cut through snow-dusted glass, striping the shadows with lines of white and yellow.

I listen for footsteps, for voices. There’s nothing.

Plywood crates stenciled with serial numbers. Pallets stacked with cardboard, blue shrink wrap pulled so tight it looks like skin. Fluorescent ballast flickers overhead. Shadows of motion behind a mesh cage, too far to see clearly. Maybe guards. Maybe just ghosts in the grime.

My tongue probes a torn place in my cheek. I breathe and scan again. There’s a strip of dirty tape on the floor, three feet from my boots. 

Outside the warehouse walls, snowfield. No real soundproofing. I track the howl of wind and the grit of melting slush in the tire ruts. If I really listen, there’s a distant metallic clang. Maybe a chain-link fence, maybe the gate out front. Not close enough for rescue.

None of this matters. Not unless I make it matter.

I keep flexing my fingers until the nerves start to burn. Warmth returns, pins and needles, like a thousand wasps gnawing at my knuckles. It wakes me up. 

A door slams open on from above. Then, I hear footsteps. It’s not enough for Marcus to make an entrance. He needs every eye, every heartbeat, to freeze for him. He comes down the metal stairs. He doesn’t limp. Doesn’t wince from the cold. 

He’s wearing a charcoal suit; expensive, tailored for intimidation. Overcoat slung across one arm. The overhead lights catch the grooves by his mouth, the line of his jaw, carved like he’s been hewn from something harder than flesh. Behind him, shadows. Two, maybe three bodies. One shuffles, heavy, favors his right knee. Muscle. The other’s just a presence, arms folded, head cocked for orders.

But all the oxygen in the warehouse bends toward Marcus. The rest of them are wallpaper.

He stops five feet from me, measures my face, studies the red on my lips. If I’m supposed to show fear, he’ll be waiting.

He smiles. Not a real smile. His eyes never move. “Evening, Brody.”

I stare at him. Let my pulse show, just for a second. Control, always. But not for his sake. He paces a circle, boots echoing off concrete. Palms the back of my chair, cool and measured. Like this is some gallery exhibit and I’m the fucked-up centerpiece.

“You broke into my world,” he says, voice level. “You took what’s mine. Now you pay.”

Shiver starts at my spine, but I clamp down on it. I won’t give him a show. Not when he’s hungry for one.

“What,” I manage. “You run out of little girls to terrorize? Had to drag me out here for fun?”

His hand clamps on my hair, wrenches my head back.  No wasted motion. I feel the pull, the snap at my scalp, but I hold his stare. He leans down, his cologne expensive, but underneath is the sour sweat of someone who never doubts he’ll win.

“Don’t pretend you care about her,” Marcus says. “If you did, you wouldn’t have brought this down on her head. Lola is mine. She was always mine.”

The sound of her name elicits fire in my veins. It’s all I hear. I remember our last moments in the cabin. Her moans. Her body. Her shivering skin. Her vulnerable words in the dark. Her truth. She never willingly betrayed me. 

I twist, but the restraints dig deeper, pipe scraping bone at my wrist. “If you touch her⁠—”

He laughs. Quiet, almost affectionate. “You’re in no position to make threats.”

I try. I really do. I line up the words. But there’s a swelling pressure at my throat.

“I’ll kill you,” I spit. “You so much as lay a finger on her⁠—”

He releases my hair and stands. Brushes invisible dust from his sleeve. “See that, boys?” he says to the men at his back. “He thinks he’s the one in control.”

A fist crashes into my jaw from the side. I hear the pop before I feel it. More blood, thick, iron-rich. I rock with the impact. My head pounds, vision fuzzes.

He waits for the pain to settle, then crouches, eye-level. “What is Richard up to?”

“You’re scared,” I say. “You wouldn’t drag me out here unless you were.”

He doesn’t crack. Not a blink. He glances at his men. The nearest one, the one with the knee, unscrews a baton. It glints in the fluorescent light.

“Answer the question,” Marcus says.

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I don’t give a shit about his plans. I took Lola for my own personal gain. That’s all that matters.”

He sighs, impatiently. “You’re not being reasonable, Brody. You’re not even being interesting.”

The guard slams the baton across my thigh. Hot agony flares up my leg. I choke down the noise, but it claws at the back of my throat. He does it again, lower, close to the knee. Pain swarms my body. Drowns out everything but the white-hot certainty: Lola.

He has her. Close enough to use against me.

Marcus lets the violence cool. He squats, forearms on his knees, and looks at me like a cat considering how to toy with a dying thing. “Last chance,” he says. “What did Richard send you for?”

“Richard doesn’t control me. Nobody does.”

He tilts his head. “You’re wrong. Everyone answers to someone.”

He signals, and the guard belts me in the gut. All the air leaves my lungs. My brain stutters. Lights, darkness, lights again.

I blink, spit a red string onto the floor. I can’t stop thinking about her. Lola. Lola. Lola. Her face, wide-eyed, ruined if he touches her. Her pulse, her body, under his control. The idea is poison. It eats me alive.

“You’re not going to get away with it,” I growl. 

He stands, brushes off his coat. “You’re not listening, Brody. I already have.”

He paces in front of me, measured, like it takes effort not to kill me for sport. “Lola is here. On my property. Safe, if you cooperate.”

I jerk at the restraints. “If you fucking hurt her⁠—”

He steps forward and leans in. His eyes are black and bottomless. “You’ll what? Bleed for her? Die for her? So dramatic. Of course you would.” He steps aside so the light hits his face like a slash. “But you won’t get her back.”

For a flash, something primal almost takes the wheel. I would tear my hands off at the wrists to kill him right now. I would eat the flesh off his face, bite through tendon and cartilage. The hunger isn’t even human.

He circles again. Keeps talking. “You know, your mother wasn’t nearly as stubborn as you are. She stopped fighting. In the end.”

That’s the knife. That’s the edge.

Red blisters my vision. “You killed her. You killed my mother. You took Lola from me.” I can barely get the words out. “You’re a fucking monster.”

He offers the faintest shrug. “Survival of the fittest. And you? You don’t even rate, Brody. You’re just Richard’s garbage. Broken toy.”

He signals the guard, this time a blow to the side of my face. My head rings. Every nerve in my body riots. I try to focus on the warehouse. I try to paint her face on the inside of my eyelids, Lola’s eyes wide, lips parted, maybe terrified, maybe fighting.

I have to believe she’s still in the game. Still herself.

Marcus leans down, voice so soft it’s almost gentle. “You want her so much, don’t you? You’d burn for her. I can use that.” He pauses, letting the words hang. “Or I can hurt her. Tell me, which do you prefer?”

My ribs shudder. I glare at him, all hate. “If you touch her, if you scare her, I’ll rip you apart. I’ll do it slow, I’ll carve you up. You have my word.”

He just smiles. “I like you better when you’re angry, Brody. That’s the real you.”

His shoes click away on the cement. He’s done with me. For now. They leave me in the chair, wrists leaking blood, mind feral with her name:

Lola. Lola. Lola.

Every heartbeat is a promise. I will get her back, or I will die in the process. No in-between.

Snow howls outside. The warehouse sits in its own ice-bound silence, but somewhere close—maybe just a wall away—she’s waiting.

I’m coming for you, Bambi. Even if I have to chew through bone to get there.

Nothing else matters. Not aching hands, nor the blood on the concrete. Just her, hunger, and revenge.

37

LOLA

What the fuck happened?

I come up from nothing, like surfacing under ice, my entire body frozen, and nerves crackling as sensation slams back into me from all sides. Colder than the walk-in at the old club.

I try to huddle deeper, but I can't move; ankles locked, wrists burning. My arms are pulled out along metal, shoulders screaming where they twist against the restraints. Every inch of skin throbs, layered with pain. Dull bruises, cuts, the deep, sick ache of somewhere busted inside.

My clothes stink. My shirt rides up on one side, showing blossoming black-and-blue over my hip. I can see a smudge of blood near my thumb.

The room jerks into focus in strips and starts, like old crime scene photos. Bare concrete. Barred window overhead, dirty glass. The light coming down is sickly white, flickering fluorescent, the kind that gives headaches after five minutes. It’s the only light in here, everything else is shadow.

Metal desk, bolted to the floor. No clock. No sense of time. No sound but my own gasping for air and⁠—

No. That's not right. There's something else.

I go still and listen.

Voices on the far side of the door. Men, talking, low and controlled. Occasionally a static pulse. A radio, maybe. Heavy boots scrape the floor,  I feel the vibration through the chair legs, like machinery running somewhere below, a big diesel engine. 

I try to move, test the limits. The cuffs dig into the meat of my wrists, bloodless and numb at first, then pins-and-needles. I can flex my toes but nothing else. The chair is cold steel. I shift. The whole thing grates, making a noise that feels way too loud.

Behind me, to the right, is the sound of breathing. Not mine. I don't dare look at first, but I already know.

It’s a guard. Woman, I think, but all I can see is the shape. Wider than the door, arms crossed, gun at one hip, baton at the other, keys clipped and swinging. Her face is blank. Not bored, not angry, not even curious. Just somebody built her to be impossible to move.

“Where am I?”

No answer. I ask again, just air.

She walks forward, inspects my cuffs, gives them a yank. Tightens one, just because she can but says nothing. The gun flashes in my periphery, matte black, heavy, waiting.

My voice slides out again. “Please⁠—”

She steps back. A door slams behind her. I shudder, alone again. No, not alone. Never alone. I can’t tell if she's on the other side or if she left. The radio goes again, words cut off by static. 

Somewhere far away, somebody screams. The sound gets under my skin and sets me shaking.

I wait. Time loses meaning. One minute, I’m shivering so hard my bones might crack. Then, I’m numb, floating outside my body, watching the stains on the concrete crawl and shift.

The door opens. Everything inside me tenses, cinched tight.

It’s not the guard this time.

He enters.

Marcus moves through this place like he owns it. Which he does. Suit perfect, shoes shining, and black gloves, tailored to every finger. Nothing is out of place. Not a hair, not a thread. 

He stops and looks. Slow head-tilt, lips curling at the corners. That smile, always a smile, like the idea of pain is just funny to him. His eyes go down me, up, then back again, and there’s no warmth. Just calculation.

For a second, I act like I don’t care. I glare at him, try to square my shoulders, but the restraints make it look pathetic. Weak.

“Look at you,” he says, almost soft. He drags the chair out from the other side of the desk and lowers himself, leg cross, hands folded. “Messy, aren’t we?” He lets the silence hang. “You do understand the situation now, I hope. I presume it took hard lessons, but some girls only respond to pain.” He studies the bruises, the way my jaw swells left of center, the cut above my eye. “Disobedience makes for naughty assets, Lola. It’s unfortunate. I trained you better than this.”

He talks like he’s at a fucking board meeting. All courtesy, no soul.

I hate him.

His gaze flicks to my hands, to the cuffs, then to my chest and up to my eyes. “Sit straight. You still represent my interests.”

I don’t move. I couldn’t if I tried.

He waits. I watch the clockless wall, the flickering light. He’s in no hurry. He wants me to squirm.

He leans forward, voice dropping in pitch, a whisper meant only for me. “I’d hoped to avoid this. Truly. If you’d simply listened, we could have avoided a great deal of unpleasantness. But you had to run, Lola. You had to make it a spectacle.”

Cabin. Snow. Blood in the snow, pain, Brody’s voice and the sound of boots on the porch.

I can’t think about it.

“You forced my hand. I don't like mess. And now look.” He gestures vaguely, at the bruises on my arms as if they’re water rings on a boardroom table. “You compelled me to be harsh. You did this. Not me. I act only as circumstances require.”

Don’t show him fear. Don’t fucking give him that pleasure.

He shifts, hands gloved and still. “Do you want to know what’s become of your little hero?” he asks. “Your Brody.” My stomach lurches. I don’t let it show. “He’s here. Down the hall. Alive, barely. Maybe less so, if you continue these antics.” Marcus drinks in my reaction like wine. “I hear it took four men to contain him. He fights like a beast when provoked. There’s something in him. It’s not strength. It’s stupidity. I blame you for that, too. All that potential, wasted on obsession over a girl who doesn’t know her place.”

He lets that hang. Lets it sink in.

Marcus leans in. “Would you like to hear how hard he bled for you?” I want to look away. I force myself not to. “He screamed for you, you know. All the way out into the snowy dark. Calling your name, begging us to stop. It doesn’t take much to break a creature like that. Just the right lever. And you, Lola—you are the lever.”

He waits for a reaction; watches every microscopic twitch in my face.

“He’s alive?” I say, feigning blankness. I try to sound bored, above it. “If you’re going for guilt, you’ll have to do better.”

Marcus grins, amused. “Deflection. Oldest trick in the book. You always were clever. That’s why I had hopes for you.” He sits back, surveying his work. “Listen. Here’s how it’s going to proceed. I have no plans to waste further resources on your rebellion. If you don’t comply, Brody pays. If you do, perhaps he doesn’t die in agony. Simple.”

He says it like he’s reading a spreadsheet.

“If I sense even one hint of defiance, I’ll bring him in here and make you watch. I’ll break him in front of you. Or maybe, if you’re useful enough, I’ll let you see him, after. Just enough to remind you what you cost him.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. The iron taste calms me.

He leans in again, eyes almost kind, but there’s nothing human in them. “You’re not a person to me, Lola. Not anymore. You’re a weapon. A tool to break my real problem. You’ll help me destroy Brody, whether you want to or not. Even if all you do is scream.”

I want to spit in his face. I want to tell him he’ll burn for this. But all I do is stare, dead-eyed.

“I want to see Sophie,” I say, voice flat. Anything to draw him off script. Anything to disrupt.

His face doesn’t move. “The little charity case? She’s safe. For now. But that can change at my discretion.” His smile says, ‘Try again.’

I push. “I’ll do what you want,” I say, lying so hard I almost believe myself. “Just don’t hurt them. Not Brody, not Sophie. You win.”

“You never learn. There’s only ever been one winner, sweetheart.” He signals and the guard enters. She doesn’t look at me. Just slaps the cuffs tighter, enough to cut off circulation. My hands go numb, tingle, burn as she pushes a wad of something rough into my mouth. Cloth, maybe. Tied cruelly at the back of my teeth. 

Marcus stands, fixes the buttons on his coat. He looks down at me like I’m a broken vase in need of gluing. “I’ll be back soon. You’ll have plenty of time to reflect on your choices.”

He leaves. The door slams and darkness and poisonous air fills the room. I sit, chair freezing under me, legs shaking, wrists pulsing. My mind spins

Stay still and quiet. Never cry. Don’t give them what they want. Don’t break. Don’t break.

From somewhere above, another scream. Shredded, hopeless. I clench my jaw and swallow blood. The light sizzles overhead, strobing my terror.

All I want is to see Brody again. To touch his hair. To know he’s still alive, because of me or in spite of me, I can’t tell. My body shakes with it.

I know I shouldn’t want him, not after he kidnapped me. Not after he put me through hell. But that doesn’t change anything, he’s still the boy who took my heart.

I keep my mind in tight circles. Mantras Mom whispered when the bruises were new. Stay strong, Lola. Don’t show them weakness. 

Where are you now, momma? Why couldn’t you have stayed a little longer? 

The warehouse rattles. Screams echo. The woman stands sentinel.

And me? I sit, silent, refusing to break, staring into cold white light until all I can see is his face.

The Monster.

This is what I am now. A loaded gun pointed at the only boy who ever tried to save me, and all I can do is hope my finger never pulls the trigger.

Please, someone, save him, save me, save us. 

But I know better. Nobody’s coming. Just the cold. Just the blood. Just the awaiting dark.

38

BRODY

Blood. That’s all I taste. There’s no light; I am in the dark, alone with my shattered heart and bruised soul. 

I hang forward in the restraints. My ribs are a mess. Breathing hurts, but I savor it. Every goddamn throb, every stab under the sternum, every wet hitch in my lungs.

They want to keep me lucid. That’s the point of it. There’s a puddle widening under my bare feet, reeking of piss, blood. 

The door squeaks open and Marcus enters. He brings the cold with him, a drop in the air pressure, like the breath before a storm. He doesn’t sit. Of course not. He prowls. Circle, circle, always to my left, then my blind side, then in front. Black dress shoes echo on concrete. 

He pauses and studies me. Not the way a man looks at another man, but the way you’d assess a busted engine or a slab of meat you want to carve. I want to spit at him but my tongue is too heavy, and I know he’ll just have one of his dogs knock my teeth out.

“Disappointing,” Marcus murmurs. He traces a hand over his own cuff, straightening it. “You used to have more fight.”

My mouth jerks into a grin. “Little busy getting my face caved in, old man.”

He ignores the bait and keeps circling. A predator. Above all of this violence, he’s cold and detached. It’s a joke to him. Even worse than my father. He stops directly in front of me, level with my ruined face. My head hangs but I look up through bloody lashes, refusing to drop my gaze.

“Richard sent you. So predictable. I hoped you’d broken free from that pathetic leash. But you’re still a slave, aren’t you?”

“I told you. I don’t answer to him. Not the way you want me to.”

“No, not the way I’d want. But you’re here, aren’t you? And you’re going to tell me exactly what I need.” He signals with two fingers. Guards approach from behind.  “Let’s try again,” Marcus says. “What did Richard want from the transfer? Why the intersection at the cabin, hmm?”

I grunt. “No idea. Wasn’t my op. Probably wanted to take your favorite toy away to see what you’d do. Just like you took my mom away from us.”

Wrong answer. A fist slams into my ribcage, direct and punishing. Something cracks. I lurch forward, bile rising in my throat.

He waits and watches. “You disappoint me.”

I spit blood at his shoes. “You’re not used to that, are you? People telling you to fuck off.”

The blow comes harder this time; kidney shot. My vision blurs, swimming in red. I can barely see Marcus, but I hear his breath, steady and calm. “Your side is losing,” he tells me. “You’re alone. Richard’s plan is broken. I know about the file. I know about the blackmail. But I want to know what he hoped to gain by moving Lola.”

Lola. The only light that still flickers in the dark. I force the words out. “Maybe she wanted to leave your sorry ass.”

He laughs. It’s cold, dry, and leaves ice on my skin. “She belongs to me. Whatever was between you two, it was a game. A childish distraction. You never had her, Brody. She was always mine.”

I see it in his eyes. The pleasure he gets from saying it. The need to remind me who owns her. The same way he’s always owned everything.

He signals again. Hands grab my hair, jerking my head back. My throat is exposed, pulsing, vulnerable. I could bite out my own tongue just to spite them, but that’s not in the script. Instead, they shove my face toward the plastic tub. It’s already filled, icy water, the surface trembling like nerves.

I brace as they dunk me under. Shock, cold, burning in my sinuses. I fight out of instinct, sucking water, gagging, spluttering. Countless seconds. I want to let the water fill me, drag me down, but they wrench me back, and I cough blood and snot and spit across the floor.

Marcus’s voice rips through my screams. “That’s enough. Again.”

They do it again. Each time, I claw at the edge of consciousness, never quite falling. They want me awake for this. When it finishes, I slump, vision gone gray at the edges.

Marcus kneels now. Eye to eye. His hand is steady as he grabs my chin. “You’re going to tell me. What did Richard want? What did he tell you about the accident, the transfer, the cabin?”

“Nothing. I swear.”

Lie. But he doesn’t know which part.

He slaps me. Not hard, just enough to humiliate. “You’re wasting my time.”

“So kill me,” I croak.

His gaze sharpens. “No. I want you to suffer. I want you to know, in your last hours, that you failed at everything. Especially her.”

He stands, pace measured. “Let’s talk about Lola. About that last night. The party. The betrayal. You remember that, right? How she let them touch her. How she fucked you over and you ran away like a dog.”

Something buckles inside me. I want to deny it, but the images come burning back.

Lola, sprawled limp and drugged across unfamiliar bed sheets, eyes glassy, mascara tracks running down her cheeks. Hands on her waist, a stranger’s mouth at her neck. Her head rolling back, helpless.

Me, frozen at the window, fists clenched, bile in my mouth. Blind rage. 

I snarl. I can’t help it. “You set that up. You fucker. You sick piece of shit.”

Marcus’s jaw tightens. Just a flicker, but I see it. He likes that I remember.

“I orchestrated everything,” he says smoothly. “The drugs. The men. The text. You were always so easy to manipulate. Obsessive. Predictable. Like your father.”

I spit again, blood and hatred. “You had them rape her.”

He shrugs. “Call it what you want. Lola needed to learn what loyalty means. Pain is a better teacher than love.”

My wrists twist inside the restraints. I want to gouge his eyes out. I want to rip out his tongue and make him eat it.

“Fuck you,” I breathe. “You’re dead. I’ll kill you. I swear on her⁠—”

He laughs again, closer this time. “You really think she ever loved you? She was loyal. She stayed. She lets me do whatever I want. You were her distraction. Her toy. She grew bored. She came back to me every time.” My heart is hammering. I can’t tell if I’m dying or if this is what real living finally feels like. “She screamed for me, you know,” Marcus offers, voice almost gentle. “She begged. But in the end, she obeyed. That’s the difference between you and me. I understand how to break her.”

Something tears loose inside. “She’s not broken,” I rasp. “Not for you. Never for you.”

He shakes his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

He turns to the guards and gives a jerk of his chin. “Again.”

Fists grab my hair. Water, cold and bottomless, floods my lungs once more. The world shivers and falls away, and only his voice cuts through the dark. “You’re weak. Pathetic. You let her get hurt. It’s your fault. If you loved her, you would’ve protected her. But you ran away. Just like your father.”

He wants me to snap. To break and spill myself all over his shoes.

I choke. I gasp. I come up drenched and wild-eyed, hate boiling in my chest.

He circles behind me now, pacing the way animals do when they know they own you. “Richard is a coward. Hides behind legal threats. Files and rumors. But you, your problem is simpler. You want answers. You want to know why I tricked Lola?” I glare at him. Daring him. He bends to my ear. “She’s an asset. A resource. She goes where I put her. You could never offer her anything but chaos.”

I spit, but my mouth is dry. “She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours.”

He shoves my head sideways. “You can’t even save yourself.” Then, softer, “You failed her. She trusted you, and you threw her away.”

The words rake over my flesh, but now the pain is pure. I stop caring about my body. I stop wishing for the end.

I want to burn him. I want to take everything from him. I see it all now. The setup. The drugs. The fake tip. The staged scene. Rape, humiliation, destruction. My arrival, scripted for maximum trauma.

He wanted me out. He wanted her to be obedient. It was never about love. It was about erasure.

Hatred blinds me and I let it. I let it eat away the old ideas. Love, hope, redemption. There’s only one thing now: vengeance. I’ll make him suffer for every second she whimpered, every time she bled.

I promise you, Bambi. I’ll tear out his fucking heart for what he did to you. For what I let him do to you by leaving town.

Marcus comes back into view. He’s holding something—a tablet, black and gleaming. He wipes a fleck of dust from the screen. “I want to show you something,” he says. “Maybe this will encourage you to be more forthcoming.”

He taps the screen and the video flickers alive. The guards drag a chair so I have no choice. Chin gripped, eyes forced open.

It starts with Lola. She’s on the floor, naked except for a torn slip. Her arms are up, blocking blows. Marcus’s voice, calm and measured, fills the speakers. There’s a belt in his hand, striking her again and again. Each hit lands with a meaty thud, and she wails.

I beg my brain to look away. I can’t.

The next clip: different place, different year. She’s tied to a bed, legs forced apart, face swollen and wet with tears. Marcus climbs over her, says “good girl” and “quiet now.” She doesn’t fight. She just cries, quiet and defeated.

Another. Lola pressed up against a wall, Marcus’s hand in her hair, yanking her head back for the camera. She’s bleeding from the lip. He licks the blood off her cheek and shoves himself between her legs.

Her screams. They’re the soundtrack. Not even words, just these soft, helpless mewls that sound nothing like the girl I loved. Not screams of pleasure, the kind she does for me. No, these are screams of terror. Fear. The kind you do when your life is on the line. 

I sob. It comes out ragged. I try to jerk my head away but the guards hold me fast.

Marcus narrates the whole thing. “See how easy she breaks? All it takes is a little finesse. I secretly recorded all of my interactions with her. To look at later, or use if needed. 

The next clip is worse. Marcus is on top of her. Hitting her. Choking her. She’s screaming. Her legs kick him. She tries to get up. He’s stronger. He takes her body and throws her across the floor. He slaps her again, drags her up by her hair, and pushes her over a desk. Bent over, barely standing. 

He takes her from behind. Pinning her neck down. Holding her wrists behind her back. She’s screaming and crying. 

Stop it! Please! It hurts so much. Please stop! 

Marcus hits her every time she resists.

Something primal erupts inside me. Rage, guilt, horror. All of it. Without thinking, I thrash. I snap the plastic chair and try to slam my head into the guard’s face. I scream Marcus’s name. I curse him, vow I’ll kill every last one of them.

They pin me, giving me a blow to the gut, the ribs. Something in my shoulder tears. I keep screaming. I want it to hurt. I want it to matter.

The video keeps going. Lola, more recent now. She’s older, quieter, but the suffering is the same. Marcus takes his time. Choking her, using objects, humiliating her for the camera after each cut. Sometimes she doesn’t even make noise, just folds up and takes it.

He’s right. He recorded every bruise, every rape, every time he punished her for being too alive.

I want to chew my own wrists off, just to get to him. I want to cut out my eyes so I never see her like this again.

Marcus watches me. He watches every micro-expression, the way my jaw clenches, the way I shake with hate and loss and disgust. “I told you. She was always mine. All of her. You were just a spectator.”

He leaves me like that. Tied up, bleeding, the video still looping. Lola’s cries echo off the cement, burrowing under my skin.

All I can do is watch.

I’m so sorry, Bambi. You were right. I didn’t believe you. I let him do this. I failed you again and again.

But never again.

Now there’s nothing but the promise. My promise.

Marcus, you’re a dead man. For every second she whimpered, for every bruise, every shiver of dread, every lie you ever spun, I will see you shredded. Kneeling. Begging.

I’m coming.

The chain creaks as I strain against it. Muscle tearing, something in my arms giving way. My vision goes black at the edges, I don’t succumb to looking away. Not even when the pain becomes everything. Not even when my body collapses and I’m left gasping on the floor, eyes glued to the screen.

The screen keeps going. Lola’s voice—her screams—are the only sound in the world. They loop, over and over, stitched into my muscles, into the marrow of my fucking bones.

I want to die. I want to kill. Which comes first, I don’t care.

Lola’s body on that screen twists, folds, submits. Sometimes she tries to fight, and that’s when it’s the worst. That’s when Marcus hits her harder. That’s when she cries out for help—my name, almost, sometimes, before it’s choked off. I failed her. I failed her even when I wanted to be her savior.

I see her flinch, shatter, go silent. I see her dead inside, long before the bruises fade. The pain inside me isn’t human. It’s something older, blacker. I want to tear free. I want to rip my own arms off if that’s what it takes. The chair groans under my weight as I thrash.

Her screams never fade. They’re everywhere. In the walls. In my chest. In my head. I can’t breathe. 

I’m sorry, Bambi. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I should have believed you. I should have come sooner. I should have burned him the first time I saw you cry.

The video jumps. Lola’s knees buckle. Marcus drags her up by the hair again, again, again. I can’t look. I can’t look away.

My body shakes, convulses. The restraints bite deeper. The video loops again. I focus on the screen, memorizing every detail. I want this pain to last. I want to carry it into the moment I rip his heart out.

“I’m coming, Bambi,” I whisper, voice turned to gravel. “I swear to you, I’m coming.”

Your world is ash, Marcus. I’ll watch you choke on it.

Lola’s cries fill the air. 

The hatred for Marcus keeps me alive, and the need to see Lola again, so I can show her how fucking sorry I am. 

Darkness closes in, and I fall into it.

39

LOLA

Nine paces left. Nine paces right. I keep moving. If I stop, the ache in my ribs spreads and the defeat creeps in.

I watch the shadows, hunt for cracks, count my breaths: one. two. three. four⁠—

I stop, turn, and sweep the door with my eyes again.

My body aches everywhere. My shoulder, still hurting from being thrown here. My cheekbone is red, thighs burning from the struggle.

Snatches of memory haunt me: the way Marcus looked at me before he left. That flat stare. Eyes that promised more pain, or worse. The absence of it, that dead-eyed neutrality that drains you until you’re nothing but a thing in his collection.

He is a dead thing walking. A cruel, demonic being. 

I hear movement outside of the door. I know it’s him; it’s that sense of panic I always feel when his presence is near. Like how an animal freezes when they sense a predator. My nails bite my palms and my heart stutters. Not with fear, but with the readiness that only comes before violence.

The door kicks open so hard it hits the wall. I don’t flinch. Not this time. I square my shoulders and meet the monster head-on.

Marcus.

He enters with a slow demeanor. That inhuman calm, the kind only men like him master. 

Marcus surveys the cage like he’s shopping for furniture. His gaze brushes over the cot, the cracked sink, the battered chair. He sets his sights on me last.

He sits in my chair without asking, filling the space so completely it’s like he brought the outside world in here to smother me. He crosses his legs, leans back, and grins.

Showtime.

I roll my eyes. “Didn’t think you were bored enough to come visit your favorite asset yourself.” I force the words through cut lips, add a lilt, make it sound like a joke.

He smiles, barely. Not impressed. “Favorite? You overestimate your value, Lola. You’re just the only one who needs this much maintenance.” He rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “Trouble. Always trouble.”

“Trouble keeps you young,” I shoot back, bracing my fists at my sides. “Or is this really about me? Thought maybe you’d have your guard do the babysitting. But here you are. Alone.”

He glances at the guard and shrugs. “I like to handle my investments personally when they pose a risk.”

“Let me guess. You’re worried. You’re losing grip. Brody’s lighting matches in your empire and you’re too old to keep up.” That does it. His eyes narrow, just a fraction, but it’s there. A hairline fracture in the perfect mask. I press. “You wouldn’t be down here unless you were scared. Or did Brody embarrass you again? Maybe he’s already outplaying your entire crew.”

Marcus doesn’t bite. He lifts one eyebrow. “You’re not as clever as you think. Distraction won’t work on me.”

I lean forward, plant my feet. “Distraction? You mean like putting me in a fucking cell while you hope the world forgets Brody exists?”

He laughs harshly. “Brody. Brody. Brody. That’s all you think about, isn’t it?”

I let him see my disgust, let my lip curl. “If I’m thinking, congratulations. You failed again. Newsflash: locking me up won’t fix your fuck-ups.”

He rolls his sleeves. “You want to know what is happening to your little pet project?”

I swallow, but don’t look away. “I want to know where you’re holding him. Or did you have to put him in a different room because you’re afraid he’ll come for me?”

Marcus loves every second of this. I can see it in the way he lets my words melt into the air. Like a cat with a mouse, testing the edge of my panic. He stands, circles. Steps so intentional they puncture the silence.

“I’m not afraid of Brody. But you should be,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “He’s being moved north. Far north. Remote. No heat, no help. No one finds that place. Not even him. He disappears, like he should have years ago.”

A tremor runs through me. I clamp down on it. Don’t show him. Don’t.

Marcus comes closer, looming. “You want details? He’ll be straitjacketed in the woods, left for the snow. No more witnesses. No more threats. No more Brody.”

The blue bulb flickers. I imagine Brody; hands bound, eyes wild with hate, fighting the dark alone. Sickness washes over me in waves.

“Do it yourself, then,” I spit. “If you want something erased so badly, finish the job with your own hands. Stop hiding behind your pet goons.”

He leans in, so close I can taste his aftershave and the bitter rot of his breath. “Careful, Lola. You don’t get to dictate terms.”

I push him, my hands flat on his chest. “You’re a coward. You only come after the people I care about because even you know you’ll never really have me. You can break my bones and sell my name but you’ll die knowing you never owned me.”

He laughs. A real laugh, loud, then⁠—

His hand whips out. The smack hits me across the face, so hard my ears ring, my lips split. I hit the floor, knees scraping, breath gone. Before I can rise, his boot finds my chest, pinning me to filthy tile. Pressure makes my ribs want to crack. My lungs spasm, desperate for air.

Marcus bends close. “You still love him. Even after everything. Foolish girl.”

I claw at his ankle as black dots fill my vision. “Go… to… hell,” I rasp.

He barely shifts. “You’ll never see him again. But that’s not what should scare you.” He presses harder. “Your mistake was thinking you could keep anything from me.”

My fingers slip. I gasp, my vision is dizzy. Still, I glare at him, channeling every ounce of venom and hate.

He crouches and grabs my hair before dragging me up like I weigh nothing and shoving me against the chair, face-first. My cheek burns; tears spring to my eyes. He yanks my legs apart. Cold air on bare thighs. His fingers force their way between. He wants to humiliate.

“You belong to me,” Marcus whispers, lips brushing my ear. “Your body. Your thoughts. Even your filthy daydreams. Brody’s shadow lives in you, so I’ll rip it out.”

He shoves two fingers deeper, grinding into nerves that sting with pain, not pleasure. “Pathetic. You’re not even wet.” He curls his hand, so violent I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

I shake my head, nails digging into the arm of the chair. “You can’t⁠—”

He slaps my ass. “What? Tell me again how that animal makes you feel. How you ache for him while I bury you alive?”

I am not present. I am running, far, far away. I picture Brody. His hands, his mouth, the safety he never gave me but I pretend, just this once. I am not in this room. My hips jerk, desperate to end it.

It makes Marcus furious. “You fucking bitch. Even now, you think you have a choice. You dream of him, don’t you? You touch yourself at night and whimper his name.”

His grip is iron. Each thrust punishes me for every slight, every tiny rebellion. He twists relentlessly, forcing my body to flicker with unwanted sparks.

“Come for me,” Marcus demands. “Right now, or I’ll go and gut him myself.”

Tears slide down my face. I clamp my eyes shut, dig for anything left in me that can survive this.

Brody. I think of him. Not the boy I lost, but the boy who stared at me like I was the only living thing in his world. I picture his hands, larger than life, clutching me, keeping me tethered so I don’t blow away.

I do it. My body betrays me, a hot wave surges through my hips, and my legs tremble. I cry out, a feral-sounding noise, because Marcus forces it out of me.

He feels the finish. Grins, victorious, like he just won a war. “See? Doesn’t matter who you think about. In the end, your body obeys.” He wipes his hand on my thigh and lets me fall forward, crumpled and shaking. He stands over me. “Behave, or Brody gets worse. Next time, I’ll bring pictures. Maybe I’ll let you watch.”

“Go ahead. You’ll never kill what’s in me.”

He turns, already bored.

I press my bruised chest, heave in a ragged breath. I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. He can break my face. Break my bones. He can ruin my body, again and again. He will never own my hate.

I stay on the ground, watch the ceiling bulb stutter, and imagine snow, and Brody, and freedom so cold it burns.

I will outlast. I will. I will. I promise myself, with every beat of my fucked-up heart.

I will.

40

BRODY

I don’t know how long I’ve been in this room. Minutes. Hours. The flickering bulb overhead gives nothing but shadow and sickness-yellow.

My arms are strung behind the metal chair, wrists cuffed hard enough to grind flesh.

Footsteps echo outside the steel door. My body tenses. The door groans open, hinges shrieking. I flinch, but keep my eyes up. Marcus enters, flanked by two of his men; Cal, the silent wall, and another brute with hands like shovels. They drag something between them. Someone.

Lola stumbles, wrists bound in front of her with black cord, ankles hobbled enough to make her shuffle. There’s blood on her cheek and the collar of her shirt is torn half off her shoulder. She won’t look at me; her eyes are fixed somewhere inside herself, hollow as a kicked-in door.

Marcus’s hand fists her hair, yanking her head up. “Look who came to join the party.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, then cracks them open, searching for me. When she sees me—tied, battered, helpless—her face crumples. Shame, terror, something deeper. Something that makes me want to kill the world.

Marcus shoves her forward. She lands on her knees, inches from where I’m bolted to the floor. He stands behind her, hands on her shoulders, smiling like a snake.

“Family reunion,” he croons. “Don’t you two look sweet? Like matching trash.”

I strain against my bonds and spit blood. “You touch her again, I’ll bite your fucking throat out.”

He laughs. “Always the animal, Brody. Always talking about what you’ll do. Look at you now. All bark, no bite.” He leans down, mouth at my ear. “You’re going to watch, and you’re going to beg, and you’re going to break. That’s your purpose now.”

He straightens and nods to Cal who walks behind me. Thick fingers crush my jaw, wrench my head to face forward. I can’t move, can’t look away.

Marcus crouches beside Lola, strokes the broken edge of her jaw with mock tenderness. “You’ve been a difficult girl, sweetheart. Running. Lying. Fucking. All for what? This?” He jabs at me with his boot. “You think this piece of shit was ever going to save you?”

She shakes her head, wordless, tears catching in the grime on her face.

He glances at Cal. “Make sure he sees everything.”

A slap comes. It’s a white-hot crack across my skull. My vision swims, but I blink the blood away. I won’t look away. I owe her that.

Marcus turns to Lola. “Come here, darling.”

She shakes her head, wild with terror. “Don’t—please—Marcus, please don’t⁠—”

He grabs her by the hair and drags her to the center of the room. She sobs, fighting, but he’s immovable. He yanks her to her knees, fingers twisted in her scalp. He looks at me. “You want her, Brody? You think she’s yours? Let’s see who she really belongs to.”

He yanks her top down, baring her shoulder, then her chest. She whimpers, arms crossed, trying to shield herself, but he slaps her hands away. “No hiding.” He wrenches her arms behind her back, binding them with a zip tie. Her nakedness blazes in the pale light.

I scream behind the tape. Fury, shame, desperation. The men laugh.

Marcus circles her. “Look at you. You thought you could run. That you could hide from me. That you had choices. Let’s remind Brody what you are, hmm?”

He shoves her face to the floor, forces her onto all fours. She sobs, cheeks streaked with spit and tears. “Please, please, please—don’t⁠—”

He crouches behind her, palms her ass and spreads her open with casual cruelty. “You see this, Brody?” He looks right at me. “This is what property looks like. This is what happens when someone forgets who owns her.”

He slaps her again, hard, enough to make her cry out. “Tell him who you belong to.”

She shakes, chokes on her own breath. “No—please—don’t make me⁠—”

He squeezes her jaw, yanks her head up to face me. “Say it.”

She looks at me, eyes pleading, begging for mercy I can’t give. “Brody⁠—”

He backhands her. Blood beads on her lip. “Say it.”

She sobs, voice strangled. “I—I belong to Marcus.”

He grins. “Louder.”

She screams it, broken, humiliated. “I belong to Marcus. Please—please stop⁠—”

He laughs, stands, unzips his trousers.

My vision whiteouts. I thrash, scream, strain against the ropes until my bones crack. “Don’t touch her! Don’t fucking touch her! I’ll kill you⁠—”

The tape muffles everything. Marcus ignores me. He looms over her, cock out, stroking himself, making a show of it. “You see, Brody, what you tried to steal? You thought you could take something that wasn’t yours. Now you’ll watch as she remembers her place.” He rubs himself against her cheek, smearing her with pre-cum. “Open your mouth.”

She refuses, lips clenched, eyes wild. He pries her jaw open, forces himself between her lips. “Bite me and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

She gags, tries to choke it down, tears streaking her cheeks. The men watch, hungry, laughing. I scream so hard my throat tears.

He fucks her mouth brutally, using her face as a hole. “This is what you’re good for, Lola. This is what you were made for. Tell Brody how much you love it.” She sobs, choked, unable to speak. He pulls out, slaps her again. “Say it.”

Blood drips from her mouth. “I love it,” she whispers, voice dead.

He grins, zips himself up. “Good girl. Now, crawl to Brody. Beg him to forgive you.”

She crawls, naked, broken, shivering, tied and bleeding. She kneels before me, eyes red, snot dripping. “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry, Brody—I⁠—”

Marcus yanks her back by the hair, dragging her to her feet. He spins her, exposing her for all of them to see. “You see this, Brody? This is what hope looks like—gone.” He turns to his men. “You want a taste? Go ahead. She’s not going anywhere.”

The men laugh as they crowd in. Hands grope, pinch, bruise. One shoves her face-down on the table, spreads her legs. She screams, tries to kick, but there are too many hands.

I lose my mind. I lunge, chair scraping, muscles tearing, but nothing gives. I scream until my lungs give out, until I hear nothing but my own pulse.

Marcus steps back, lights a cigarette, and watches it all with bored detachment. “This is what happens when you forget who you are. When you try to take what isn’t yours. There is no escape. No happy ending.” He glances at me, smoke curling from his mouth. “You want it to stop, Brody? You want to save her?”

I nod, desperate, tears streaming down my face.

He smiles. “All you have to do is confess. Admit you never loved her. That she’s nothing. That you only ever wanted to own her. Say it, and I’ll make them stop.”

I choke, the words burning in my throat.

He waits, patient, cruel. “Say it, and it’s over. Or watch her become nothing but a hole for my men.”

Lola screams, blood on her thighs, face mashed into the table. “Brody, please—please⁠—”

I can’t. I can’t. But I do.

I scream it, sobbing, broken. “I never loved her. She’s nothing. She’s just a thing. Just a fucking hole. Please—please stop⁠—”

Marcus laughs, pure delight. He gestures to his men. “Let her go.”

They drop her and she collapses to the floor, a heap of bruises and shame. He crouches beside her and whispers something in her ear. She flinches, then sobs harder.

Standing, he wipes his hands, surveys the carnage. “Consider this a lesson. There is no escape. Not for you, Brody. Not for her.”

He gestures. The men drag her back out the door, away from me. There’s nothing left but the dark. And Marcus’s laughter, echoing in the ruin of everything I ever loved.

41

BRODY

It starts with the needle. I’m on my knees, ankles chained to the ring in the concrete. The warehouse is all light and glass, cold as a morgue, every corner watching.

I hear them behind me. Boots, laughter, the zip of a duffel. Then Marcus, calm as ever. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t need to.

A hand fists my hair, yanking my head back. My mouth opens in reflex, but the gag is already in. Filthy, soaked with someone else’s spit. I can’t even curse.

Someone grabs my arm, peels my sleeve back. I thrash, but it’s pointless. The men are too strong, too quick. The needle bites, fire under my skin, and I can feel the world getting slippery.

My vision pulses. Every sound sharpens, every color blurs. The rage is still there—white-hot, wild—but my body is turning useless.

“Good boy,” Marcus purrs. He crouches, his face inches from mine. “That’s compliance. That’s all I ever wanted from you.” He’s wearing a suit, perfect as always. He could be at a board meeting. He could be at a funeral. He could be the one digging the grave. “Bring her in,” he tells his men.

The door bangs open. Lola; she’s half-carried, half-dragged; hair wild, wrists zip-tied. There are black marks on her neck where the collar went yesterday, her lip swollen from the last round.

She’s barefoot, shivering in nothing but a tank top and torn shorts. Her eyes find mine and I feel the world snap.

I try to say her name. The gag turns it to a grunt.

Marcus stands, spreading his arms like a conductor. “Look at you both. My favorite broken things.” He signals. The men dump Lola at my feet. He circles us. “You know what I love about this generation, Brody? Everyone’s always watching. Everyone’s always recording. Everyone’s so desperate to see someone else suffer just a little bit more than they are.”

He gestures. Two more men roll in a tripod, camera already live. There’s a laptop, a red “REC” light. “Smile. Richard will be watching.”

The drug is doing its job. The world feels dream-thick, my limbs rubbery. But the terror is real; it’s a wolf gnawing my spine.

Marcus leans in, caresses Lola’s cheek. She flinches, and he smiles. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re about to be a star.” He snaps his fingers. The men haul me upright and wrench the gag out of my mouth. The spit runs down my chin. I can barely keep my head up. Marcus faces me, voice low and cold. “Today’s lesson: love is a weapon. If you hesitate, she suffers. If you obey, you suffer. There is no escape. You get to choose.”

Lola is gasping, trying to crawl closer, but the men shove her down, grinding her cheek into the concrete.

“First choice,” Marcus says. “Who gets the prod? You or her?”

He holds up the cattle prod; it crackles, the stink of ozone. I spit blood at his feet. “Me.”

He nods to his men and they jab it into my ribs. Electricity detonates in my chest. I buck, scream, bite my tongue. My teeth feel like they’re breaking. I piss myself, heat flooding my pants. I hear Lola sob. The camera whirs.

Marcus checks his watch. “Good. Next round. Lola, your turn to choose.”

He hauls her up by the hair, forcing her to look at me. “I want you to say the worst thing you can imagine. Or I’ll let these men break every finger on Brody’s hand.”

Lola’s eyes are huge, black with terror. “Don’t—please⁠—”

He nods at his men. One grabs my hand, bends the pinky until it creaks. Lola screams, “Stop! I’ll do it!”

Marcus smiles. “Go on.”

She sobs, voice shredded. “Brody, I wish you were dead. I wish you’d never come back. You ruined everything. I hate you. You’re a monster. You’re disgusting. You make me sick.”

She’s shaking, her voice dissolving. The words are brutal, but I know who’s holding the handle.

Marcus claps, delighted. “Beautiful. Authentic. Richard will love that.”

He turns to the men. “Strip them.”

Gloved hands tear at my shirt, my jeans, rip them down my legs. I don’t bother fighting; the drug has me moving in slow motion. My cock shrivels in the cold, but it’s nothing compared to the humiliation burning my skin.

Lola’s naked too, skin mottled with cold and shame. Her arms try to cover her breasts, her groin. The men force them down, splaying her open for the camera.

Marcus moves between us, holding a new syringe. “Performance enhancer, Brody. For your father’s benefit.”

He drives the needle into my thigh. Liquid fire follows, and I gasp, my blood turning to ice and gasoline. My cock starts to rise against my will.

“Now, for the main event,” Marcus purrs. “You want to protect her? Show me. Fuck her. Or watch me let my men ruin her.”

The room howls. I’m shaking, resisting, but my cock is rigid, the drug turning my arousal into a weapon against both of us.

Lola is crying, shaking her head. “Please, Marcus, please don’t⁠—”

He laughs. “Brody, you have thirty seconds. Or I start carving her up on livestream.”

I crawl over. My body moves without me; it’s like being trapped behind my own eyes, forced to watch as my hands grab her hips, forced to listen as she whimpers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry⁠—”

I press inside her. I want to die. She’s dry at first, then my body’s betrayal makes her wet. The men jeer. The camera’s red eye is a mouth, swallowing us whole.

Marcus narrates, voice smooth and venomous. “Look at the camera, Lola. Let Daddy Richard see what a whore you are.”

She can’t. I can’t. My hips buck, the drug pushing me faster. I want to pull out, to stop, but the men’s boots stomp closer. One grabs my hair, jerks my head up to make me look at Marcus.

“I want you to say it,” Marcus hisses. “Say she’s nothing. Say she’s a whore. Say you love this.”

I spit, but my mouth moves. “She’s nothing. She’s a whore. I love this.”

Lola shudders, sobbing. “Brody, it’s not you, it’s not you⁠—”

Marcus grabs her by the jaw, forces her mouth open, and spits into it. “That’s your place, Lola. On your knees. On camera. Suffering.”

He jerks me off her, throws her down, and shoves my head between her legs. “Eat her. Lick her until she screams for Daddy.”

The men hold me there. Lola is limp, shivering. I lap at her, tears mixing with her sweat, her blood. She moans, broken, not pleasure but despair.

Marcus paces, watching the feed. “That’s right. You’re making history. Richard will never recover from this.”

He signals; a man steps forward and hands me a knife. “Now, Brody, time for you to prove your loyalty. Cut her. Or I let them rape her.”

My hands shake. The world floats. I try to drop the knife, but the men seize my wrist, forcing my hand down to press the blade against Lola’s thigh.

“Do it,” Marcus says. “Or I’ll take her tongue.” The knife bites her skin. Blood wells up as Lola screams. The men cheer, Marcus grins. “There you go. Love is pain. Suffering is obedience.”

He orders the men to piss on us. The hot stream hits my back, Lola’s hair. The humiliation is total. The camera whirs.

Marcus kneels, grabs Lola’s face, smears her tears with his thumb. “This is forever, darling. Every man in this room owns you now. Every man in this city will know what Brody Voss did to his Bambi. And Richard? He’ll know what happens when you cross me.” He stands, signaling the men. “Time for the final act. Brody, if you want her to live, you’ll choke her until she passes out. If you refuse, I cut out her eye with your knife.”

I stare at Lola, my hands trembling. She nods, silent tears, and I wrap my fingers around her throat. I squeeze. She gasps, clawing at my hands, eyes rolling back. I loosen, terrified, but the men slam my arms down, forcing me to keep going. Lola’s face turns purple.

“Enough,” Marcus says, bored. “Let her breathe. We can’t ruin the product.” He signals again. The men drag us apart, cuff us to opposite walls. Marcus stands in the center, arms wide. “Send that to Richard. Live feed. I want him to see what his failure has wrought.”

He crouches in front of me, cold eyes burning. “This is just the beginning, Brody. I’ll keep you alive as long as you’re useful. As long as you can hurt. As long as you can break her.”

He stands, dusts off his suit, and walks out. The door slams. The camera’s red eye blinks and blinks. I float above my body now. The pain is distant. The shame is infinite. All that’s left is the sound of Lola’s choked sobs, echoing through the darkness, a lullaby for the end of the world.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can only watch as Marcus’s men pack up the bloodstained props, the ruined clothes, the spent syringes. I hear laughter. I hear someone say, “He’ll never recover from this. Richard will fucking break.”

They turn off the lights. In the blackness, all I have left is the memory of Lola’s eyes—pleading, terrified, forgiving, ruined.

I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But in this place, even the walls know that sorry is just another lie.

42

BRODY

I must look like something out of a horror show, strung up for their sick amusement. Shirtless, ribs a mess of bruises, skin splotched in black and blue and rot. Wrists tied above my head. 

This must be the universe punishing me for how I treated Lola. I deserve this. I’m a monster, and she is the thing that used to tame the darkness within me.

It didn’t help that I was using drugs when I had her kidnapped. There were some days, I didn’t even remember what I did to her. I know now I was having some sort of fucking psychotic break.

How could I treat her like that?

My father made me believe that she is the enemy. He made me believe she deserves pain and terror. I will make Richard pay for brainwashing me, I will avenge Lola.

She must hate me for how I acted.

They keep the room cold. My skin is pebbled, teeth chattering in my head, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. Won’t bend for these fucking animals. Just dangle, counting heartbeats, counting shadows.

Everything comes in flashes.

A guard’s fat fist, lodged in my ribs. Hard enough my lungs seize. Another man behind him. They rotate every hour or so, never alone, never letting me slump. If I start to sag, the first man props me up by the hair, cranking my neck back.

The handler’s in the corner. Lean, silver-haired, arms folded. Never blinks. Always watching the guards work, making notes on a battered clipboard. 

There’s a shock collar around my neck. Fuckers wrapped it around my throat, snapped tight. The first time, I screamed. Not from pain, but surprise. Electricity bites harder than any fist. Second time, and every time after, I bite down. Ride the pain, grit and bear it.

They want a show. 

I give them blank eyes, breathing deep, letting my head loll forward like I’m about to pass out.

They switch to water. Next guard, arms like clubs, hauls a freezing bucket over my head. Glacial shock. My nerves burn. I gasp. They love that. They wait until I’m shivering hard, then manacle my face, fingers in my jaw, and jam my head into the waiting barrel.

Water rushes up my nose, in my ears. Panic comes at first, the instinct to fight, to breathe. Every cell is screaming. They hold me down till the black creeps in, then wrench me out. I vomit all over their boots. They hit me again, for the mess. All part of the routine.

Flashing bright lights are aimed straight at my eyes. My head cracks back; I can’t blink. They shout in my ears, loud, senseless, overlapping voices. “Hey, fuckhead, you still alive?!” and “Break his fucking teeth, I dare you.” The handler never yells; he doesn’t have to.

When the light gets too bright, everything goes white. I float. Not far, just to the inside of my head.

Lola. Always Lola. I picture her face, that little dent between her eyebrows when she’s worried. I pretend she’s watching. I want her to see I never quit. Never beg.

One guard carves a slice into my forearm, just below the elbow. Thick blade, serrated, like something they’d use to butcher livestock. It’s a messy cut. Blood spills from parted flesh. It hurts, but nothing new. I laugh at them. They look confused, angry, then satisfied when they pour clear alcohol right into the gash, and that’s when it burns. 

They want to see me convulse, see something break open in my eyes. “That all you’ve got?”

They up the ante. Next time, a switchblade at my groin. Cold steel. They don’t actually cut. They don’t have the balls. They just threaten and pretend. The guard pushes it against the seam of my jeans, hard enough to threaten skin. “You want to talk now, big man?” I spit at him. They slap me until my ears ring.

They take Polaroids.

Fucking Polaroids. White frame, perfect snapshot of each new wound, each bruise, each red stripe across my chest. They hold the photos up, show me. “Smile for the lady.” Flash. “Maybe she’ll keep these for her scrapbook.” 

The thought of Lola getting those photos—it should kill me. It doesn’t. Just sharpens something inside, makes everything focused and clear.

They don’t know about the blade.

I snagged it three days ago, or maybe less. Time is dead here. Tiny shard, edge sharp enough to fillet a finger, hidden under the waistband of my jeans. I wedge it deeper every time they haul me up, let it bite my hip.

It’ll be worth it.

Every hour, same routine. Beat, water, light. Scream in my face. Sometimes they take turns; sometimes, I think they bet on what will make me howl.

I never howl.

Once I’m clear, I’ll hunt every one of them down and return the favor, piece by piece.

At some point, I lose track. The world gets blurry. Maybe they drugged me, maybe it’s hypothermia creeping in. Skin’s purpled over my ribs, frost starting along my collarbone. My mouth is cut and swollen. My hands feel numb, except where the chain bites so deep I can feel my own pulse.

Night comes. Someone shoves a bag over my head and unlock my hands. I drop, legs too weak to hold my weight. They barely catch me before my knees hit the cement, then drag me across the puddles of the floor. My heels leave streaks of blood and dirty water.

A loading dock. Too-bright lights, snow blowing sideways, wind loud enough to cover any scream. They hustle me fast. I hear the supervisor behind, maybe a gun cocked, just in case. They want me alive, for now. For her.

The van is reinforced. All steel, no windows, metal bench coated with old stains. They cuff my hands in front, zip ties biting into skin already cut open. My clothes are soaked. The air inside is colder than outside. Ice is on the floor, black and filthy.

The guard shoves me down but stays with me in the back, his boots on my knee to keep me from kicking. He says nothing. Another man up front, driver, nervous, fingers drumming the dash. I hear the click of a handgun shifting on the seat beside him.

My hood comes off for a second, causing blinding pain from the overhead light. The driver leans over, pokes my face. “Still breathing? Don’t want him dead yet.” He has wolfish eyes, pale and glassy. I memorize them.

The rear guard’s thumb digs into the back of my neck. “He’s fine. Let’s go before he pisses himself again.”

The van lurches forward. Back in the darkness, I keep my head down, eyes half-closed. Feigning gone, feigning broken.

All the while, the blade in my jeans presses against my skin, burning cold.

The driver and rear guard talk, just loud enough for me to catch snatches. “Drop him off north, out past the private road. Keep his hands tied. If he starts shit, dump it in the woods. The boss won’t care as long as he’s dead.”

The “it.” Not a man, just a thing to be erased.

That means they won’t expect me to fight.

Snow makes the road a deathtrap. The van swerves, tires struggling for grip. Every time we turn, every rut or pothole, I memorize the pattern. The way the driver lets the speed drop, the twitch of the wheel, the curse under his breath.

I start working the blade at my wrist. I can’t see, but I feel the bite of the plastic strips at the skin with every sawing motion. Hurts like hell. I cut flesh before I cut the tie, but I keep going. The pain is fuel. Each slice is a piece of the future I want.

The van hits the worst stretch of road. Suddenly, the rear guard shifts, bracing a hand to the wall. His balance is off. The second the tie weakens, I snap my wrist free.

And lunge.

With the blade up, I slam it straight into the softness of his neck. Warm spray, all arterial, coats my knuckles. He tries to yell but only gurgles, blood pooling in his mouth. I slam his head back against the wall, twice, three times, until his skull cracks. He slumps.

The driver yells, fumbles for the gun. I seize the guard’s body, using it as a shield, and crash against the wire divider. The mesh buckles, metal biting into my shoulder, but I break through.

The driver's arm is shaking. He lifts the gun, but I’m faster. I grab his wrist, wrench it sideways. Bones crunch. He screams. I bite his ear, ripping a chunk out, and spitting it on the dash.

Blade to his throat, grinding against his jaw, I bark, “Where is Lola?”

He’s shuddering, fighting to breathe. Eyes roll whites-up. “She’s—fuck—office wing, back building, she’s still on the compound. They’re holding her there, I swear, please⁠—”

“Are you guarding her?”

“N-no. Just transport. Two men, sometimes three. The boss might be inside. That’s all I know, I s-swear⁠—”

“You tell anyone I got loose?”

He shakes, blood spattering the steering wheel. “No, I swear, not me—just moving you⁠—”

I don’t waste another word. Blade across the throat, hard and deep, air and blood hissing out at once. I hold him until the light dies from his eyes. No hesitation. I wipe the blade on his jacket, strip his coat and boots, and toss his body onto the snow, face down.

I check the van. Glove compartment, driver’s pockets—pistol, half-clip, another knife, van keys, radio set. I pocket everything. My hands are wet with blood. Every movement leaves a trail, which the snow covers in minutes.

The wind out here is brutal. It howls straight through the bones. I don’t stop. Even limping, bleeding, body shredded, nothing slows me down.

I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. I need to save her. My Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola.

The compound looms ahead. Lights distant, yellow slashes between the trees. I taste the promise of Lola—of her survival—like a fever in my mouth. Every drop of my blood on the snow, I promise I will paint these people’s walls with their own.

“I’m coming, Lola.”

Stay alive. For me. 

The storm closes in. It fills my ears, stings my eyes, buries everything—van, corpses, the shape of me carving a path towards redemption. 

Nothing can stop me now.

43

BRODY

The night breathes violence and hunger, swallowing every shape. The compound crouches like an old God, faceless and immense, exhaling cold that needles bone. Shadows pool and stretch, black, twitching with the pulse of unseen watchers. The air is soured by old blood and machinery grief. 

Somewhere inside, violence coils and waits; the walls themselves seem to shudder with memory, and the promise of pain. Each footstep brings me closer to her. 

Lola. It’s always her. Even now. Especially now. Every step I take is to get closer, every slide of my body along the fence, every stab of cold up my spine. She circles my mind.

Two guards power-walk the far perimeter, thick vests under navy jackets, boots caked in salt and slush. One swings a flashlight like he wants to hit someone with it. The other just stares at his phone, not even pretending to care. Idiots. They’re not watching the breach points. They’re not watching me. They’re not watching what’s coming for them.

I count their seconds. Seven between each pass, off by a beat here, a beat there. Cigarette pinched between trembling lips. Radio hissing on one hip, volume twisted too high. I could be standing in front of them and they wouldn’t know until I ripped their throats out.

I pick the gap by the loading dock. The chain-link is already sagging, too loose, easy to slip under. I go flat on my chest, slice the snow with one boot, shove my shoulder through. Ice laces my jacket, but that’s background noise. 

Everything is background except the pulse. Lola. Lola. Lola.

I move tight to the wall, pausing by the access stairs. Metal steps, each one corroded and stained, leading to a service platform. A guard rounds the corner. He’s alone, bored.

He’s dead.

I catch him mid-step. No sound. I launch, fist over his mouth, blade deep into his neck, up and under the jaw. Warm spray hits my wrist, coats my glove, leaks fast and heavy through fibers. He jerks, tries to scream, but I squeeze until his eyes bulge. He’s too surprised to fight back. The gurgling is thick, almost wet. His boots slide, scrape once on the step. He twitches in my grip. Then nothing at all.

I haul him under the stairs. Dead weight, all loose muscle and leaking heat. I strip the vest, unclip the pistol. Tossing the wallet, I keep the keys. Radio next, earpiece still damp from his sweat. 

I jam it in my own ear. Static bursts. Shouts, laughter, lazy dispatch. They don’t know. They’re all fucking stupid.

Blood stains the snow black-red. It spreads, pooling under the body in a sluggish mess. I wipe my glove off on his vest and let his head loll. His eyes roll up, gums still bubbling. Not my problem.

I stay low and move toward the maintenance door at the north face, marked with a rusty sign. I fit the key in, wait for the lock’s click. Inside, the floor is wet with melted snow and mud. Walls peeling, spattered with something that might be old paint or something that bled once.

Blind spots are everywhere. I mapped the cameras already; they sweep, but not well. Cheap system. I stick to the seams. Shadow under a pipe, line of lockers, the blind angle at the junction. Never show more than a second of movement.

Down the corridor, a second man stands stiff by a junction, hands jammed under armpits for warmth. He doesn’t hear me. I’m behind him before he breathes. One arm locks his head back. My hand covers his mouth, my other hand hooks his chin and jerks. Angle and force, pure mechanics. The snap echoes off the concrete. He goes limp. I drag and drop him on a folding chair by the wall, tilt his head up.

I watch the patrol paths in my head, then move. Perfect. No wasted energy.

The junction splits. East and South. Voices in the East corridor. Closer than I’d like. I unsheath the backup blade, thumb the grip, press flat against the wall. Two more guards appear. I hear them laugh about something, boots scraping, then they split up. One comes up the hall, swinging keys. He looks left. Never right.

I slice him open at the base of the skull. The blade sinks in, soft and fast, then finds bone. I shove him against the wall as he trembles, arms flailing, head twitching to get away. It’s pathetic. 

He pisses himself before he even drops. I let the body sag; blood spatters up the cinderblock.

The other hears it and they call out. He doesn’t want to check, so I make noise, letting him feel brave. He rounds the corner and his eyes widen. I rush him. He gets a punch off, brushes my jaw, but I shatter his nose with a forearm and slam him onto the pipe by the ceiling. 

Once, twice, until the skull splits. Gray matter leaks, mixes with the blood, chunks dripping onto my sleeve. He’s spasming, but not alive anymore. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, spit out the blood he left in my mouth.

I take his shotgun. Heavy, loaded, twelve gauge, eight shells. I rack it, check the chamber. He’s got a keycard around his neck. Good. I pocket that and search him for ammo. Two boxes in his vest. I double-check the corridor for eyes.

None. Just mess.

Dead silence greets me before the next ripple. I move to the next blind spot, footsteps soft on the cold floor. The earpiece hisses—“Patrol, report in—” tense voice, static, someone finally waking up. They’re getting nervous. Two at once now, converging from opposite halls. I can feel the panic in how they move. Fast, erratic. Voices higher, pitching up with fear.

I set up behind a heavy file cabinet, shotgun raised, body tight. The first guard bolts around the corner, gun raised but wild. He yells. I shoot him in the kneecap. It explodes; bone, meat, pink mist. He howls, drops and I stomp on his face, heel grinding cartilage and skin until the windpipe mushes under my boot. 

He convulses, then nothing. My favorite part. 

I ram the shotgun stock into his teeth. Teeth shatter, blood jets. He goes down gasping, hands up to protect his face. I don’t let up. I beat him with the stock again, again, until the skull caves. Eyeball ruptures, jaw splits. He shudders and pisses himself.

I take a pulse. Nothing. These fuckers die like rats.

Checking their weapons, I discover there is nothing worth taking, except another box of shells and a set of handcuffs. I keep moving. Every step leaves a wet print.

Alarms up are now—red lights strobe, radios barking orders. “Security breach—level two—intruder in south corridor—” They’re coming, but not fast enough.

One tries to take a shot from behind glass. I don’t hesitate—I blast the window, glass and blood spraying outwards. He chokes on it, clutching his throat, and goes limp in seconds.

At the final checkpoint, a man double my size aims his shotgun leveled at my chest. His hands are shaking; he thinks he’s going to live. I don’t give him time to pray. 

I rush him, blade out. He gets a round off, but it hits the wall. I slit his throat, deep, ear to ear. Blood jets, then he’s trying to push it back in, hands shaking. Fucking idiot. He collapses, blocking the doorway. I kick him aside, his dead body leaves a blood trail across the tile.

I pause, panting. The corridor stinks of slaughter, blood everywhere. Smeared in handprints, pooling under bodies, streaking the walls. The lights flicker; everything is red, black, blue. My breath fuses with the cold as it escapes.

Her name still pulses behind my eyes. Lola. Lola.

I move forward. Reinforced steel door waits at the end, the guard window cracked. No one on the other side, though. Only shadows. I press my blood-soaked palm flat against the door. She’s in there. I know it. I want to claw the steel apart with my teeth. My brain is nothing but static, nothing but hunger.

Find her first. Kill Marcus after.

I load the shotgun, gripping the blade in my other hand. No more obstacles. No more time wasted.

She’s in there. She belongs to me. I will rip the world open to get her back.

I brace myself, shoulder to the door. Sweat runs down my neck, chills in the cold. The scene burns behind my eyes. I’m a missile. I’m a weapon. She is the only thing worth surviving for.

One more door. All I have left of love is annihilation. I let my body turn feral. I go in.

44

LOLA

I count the seconds since the screams stopped. Maybe it’s minutes. My perception of time is gone, trapped in this windowless box, the stink of piss and bleach, my own sweat turning cold on my skin. 

My hands are shaking so hard I dig my nails into my thigh just to anchor myself. There’s a camera in one corner, a red light blinking. I stare at it and dare someone to come through the door.

I want it to end. I want to get out. I want to die, maybe, or kill someone with my bare hands if it means I can walk free.

The world tilts. The lights above me flicker, then surge on, harsher than before. I hear footsteps coming at a crashing pace. A body slams against the other side of my cell door.

Brody.

Blood is all over him, splashed up into his hair. His chest heaves, ribs visible even beneath layers of black. His eyes—fuck, his eyes—burn through the room. Unhinged, savage and alive.

For a second, I don’t think he recognizes me. His hands are curled into claws at his sides. His lips are peeled back from his teeth like an animal about to sink them in. The look on his face. Terror and violence, violence and violence, and then⁠—

He sees me. All at once, the rage flickers out, replaced by something hungrier: pure possession, worship, heat. He’s crossing the distance before I can draw breath like a hurricane intent on swallowing me.

He grabs me, pulls me up off the cot, and crushes me to his chest. His arms lock around me so tight I can’t move. Bone against bone, blood against skin.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m suffocating on the shock of him, on the drumming of his heart against mine. He’s real. He’s really here. I’m not hallucinating, not this time.

I choke on his name. “Brody—” It comes out a whimper, a gasp, part sob, part prayer. His body shakes against mine. “You’re here.”

He shakes his head, presses his cheek to my hair. Warm breath fans my ear. “Baby, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” Every word is shredded, heavy with emotion. “I came back for you. I came back to kill these fuckers and save you. And to tell you I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for all the pain I caused you. I should’ve fucking listened.”

My legs go soft. I sag into his arms, pulse roaring so loud it drowns out the world. I’m dizzy with relief, with horror, with whatever acid is running through my veins right now.

I try to speak, but all that comes out is, “Thank you—oh my god, thank you—” I want to ask how, I want to ask if it’s over, if he’s hurt, if he even knows what he looks like right now. 

The blood, the bruises, his lip split open, the wild light in his eyes like he’s been resurrected just to tear this building apart for me.

His hand comes up, thumb stroking my cheek. It’s gentle. Unbelievably gentle. The pad of his thumb smears away something wet from my skin. Blood, I realize, not mine. 

He cradles my face in his palm, studies me like I’m a miracle. Then he shakes his head again. “No time, Bambi. We have to go.” His voice is fierce, a growl spat between clenched teeth.

He yanks me through the open door. Hell waits on the other side.

The hallway is lathered with blood, a river pooling down the walls and across the tile floor. Bodies everywhere. It's impossible to tell how many. Men are draped over each other, faces caved in, throats opened up from ear to ear. Eyes wide and glassy if their heads are still in one piece. Some of them leak red foam from between their teeth. Some are missing pieces. Black holes in their guts, exposed rope of something gray and pulsing, bone shards splintered through skin. Some skulls are so crushed in, they don’t even look human anymore. 

The stink. Rot and copper so sour it makes me gag. Vomit crawls up my throat; I choke it down.

Brody keeps me close, one arm banded around my waist, body shielding me from god knows what else. Every inch of him is vibrating with tension. I feel the heat rolling off his skin.

“Don’t look,” he says. Voice flat, lethal, barely above a whisper. “Just stay with me.”

But I see everything. I can’t not see. It’s everywhere.

My shoes slide in blood, my foot almost skidding on a chunk of meat. I don’t want to know what it was. Brody’s grip tightens, steadying me, moving us forward. He never hesitates. Never sidesteps the bodies. He walks straight through the horror, taking me with him.

Another corner. Something moves, a guard, gun raised, hand shaking. He’s yelling, but I can’t hear the words. It’s all static in my skull.

Brody lunges, faster than the gun. He tackles the man, drives his knife into the guy’s stomach, over and over. The guard screams, then gargles. Brody’s blade slices up, then across the throat. Blood explodes, spattering my shirt, my arms, flecking my lips. Warm and viscous. 

I stagger back, bile scorching my tongue. My hands tremble in Brody’s.

Another guard tries to run, yelling for help. Brody draws a pistol and puts a bullet in him. The man drops, twitching. Brody’s boot comes down on his skull, hard enough to split it open. Wet crack, then nothing. Bits of hair and bone spatter the floor.

I want to scream, to hide from Brody, from all of this, but I meet his eyes and there’s nothing but love in them. Something obsessive and consuming. The kind that kills. The kind that would set the world on fire just to make space for me.

Every corpse on the ground—every torn throat, caved-in eye socket, gut leaking filth—he did that for me. For me.

My knees lock. My stomach caves in. I can barely breathe, but I don’t let go of his hand.

He leads me through the next checkpoint, where another man waits, gun leveled. Brody grabs him by the back of the head, shoves his face into the concrete wall so hard the skull cracks, like stepping on a rotten melon. The man goes limp, leaving a smear of blood and hair behind.

Brody turns to me, eyes black and shining, “Nobody will ever touch you again. I swear to you. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

Something in me shudders. I believe him.

Brody’s already dragging me faster, down another hall, through a steel door that opens up into the freezing dark.

The air hits me like a shock. Brody doesn’t slow down. He keeps me tucked under his arm, hauling me through a wreckage of corpses, trailing footprints and blood all the way out. My mind is static. All I see is red.

We reach a parking lot. Vans line up like blank-faced sentries. Every one probably belongs to the men who wanted to keep me locked away and broken. Brody fishes a ring of keys from his pocket, could be off one of the dead. He picks a van, wrenches open the door, and shoves me into the passenger seat.

He’s breathing hard, shaking. Blood is everywhere. All over him, all over me. His hands tremble when they touch the wheel.

He looks at me—one split second—and it’s worship, it’s hunger, it’s everything at once. “We’re almost out. Just a little further.”

The engine throbs to life. Behind us, the nightmare blares and howls, alarms etched into the bone of this place forever. 

In front of us: night. Cold. Freedom, maybe, if we can make it.

As we peel away from the scene, my mind stutters and trips. I glance down at my blood-soaked shirt, the smear on my arm, the mutilated bodies sprawled behind us. 

I glance at Brody, at the monster—the angel—who ripped the world apart just to reach me.

This is love. This is violence. This is what it means to matter to a man with nothing left to lose. I don’t know if I want to cry, or kiss him, or jump out of the moving car.

Instead I just grip the edge of the seat until my knuckles turn white, and let him drive us into the dark.

Blood dries sticky on my skin. Brody’s hand never leaves mine; I stare at our tangled fingers. I will never be the same. I am grateful, and horrified, and I don’t know how to let go of either. Brody saved me. He killed for me. He loves me so much it could burn me alive.

I sit in the freezing van, the engine roaring, my heart a dead thing and a new thing in my chest, and I wonder if this is what it means to finally belong to someone.

Not sure if I hate it. Not sure if I love it. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s always been both. Or maybe it’s my body being in shock from all the trauma, and reality hasn’t caught up to me yet.

45

LOLA

Brody drags me faster, faster, through the snow. The wind is shoving ice down the back of my neck, the world is white and black and red. I don’t feel my fingers. I don’t feel my feet. Only the panic.

We stumble through a field of broken weeds and animal tracks, nothing but endless gray sky, and death-cold blizzard around us. The only light is the orange smudge of a barn half-buried by snow. 

Brody curses under his breath, shoulders splintered boards aside, and throws us in.

Old hay, crumbling into yellowed dust floats in the air. My eyes blur. Spiderwebs and rusted metal, the skeletons of tools. There’s a ladder up to the hayloft, but it looks ready to collapse. In the far corner, a pile of splintered crates are stacked, frostbitten, gnawed by rodents.

He slams the door shut and jams a rusty bar through the latch before kicking a broken feed bucket aside. He checks the windows one by one—boards, frost, spidered glass. Then he paces, all muscle and hunger, he appears caged and rabid. 

His coat is torn, salt-stiff with snow and blood. His face is bleeding down one side, jaw smeared. His eyes flick to me, then away. Always watching for a threat.

My legs give out. I fold onto a mound of hay, and shivers take over my whole body, down to my bones. Teeth knock together; my breath whistles through them like wind through a ruin. I curl up, try to hold myself still, but it’s impossible. My body won’t obey anymore.

I close my eyes and it all comes back. 

The gunshot. That wet, choking sound. A man’s gurgle, his lifeblood pouring out in a hot spray as he fell. Brody’s hands. The wildness in his face. The look in his eyes as he buried a fist in another man’s throat. How calm he was afterward. How careful when he wiped the blood off my cheek with the back of his hand. 

The mess left behind us, red and steaming on the perfect white snow.

I can’t stop. It rewinds in my head, over and over. Blood. Bodies. Brody’s hands, Brody’s violence. Violence for me. Always about me. I remember his violence in the cabin. How terrified I felt. How terrified I still feel. He saved me, but that does not erase what he did to me.

What is wrong with me? I should be running. But I cannot run away from him, no matter how badly I want to.

He’s in front of me before I realize he’s moved. Brody’s coat, heavy with ice, lands over my shoulders. His hands, bleeding and shaking, yank it tight around me, hard enough to bruise. 

He crouches, knees popping as he starts checking me. Ribs, arms, shoulders. Squeezing, prodding for breaks. His fingers are rough, but the shake in them is more fear than anger.

He grabs my jaw, just like that, his whole hand closing around my chin and cheek, squeezing until I look right at him. His eyes are black, endless. Obsession instead of empathy.

“Did Marcus hurt you?” he grinds out. 

I want to laugh. 

“Which time?” My lips are numb. “Take your pick.”

He flinches. Barely. Only the little ripple in his jaw, the cold narrowing of his eyes. I know what I’ve done to him, how deep it goes.

Brody’s voice drops. It’s all fury now, nothing soft. “I’m ending him. For everything. He manipulated every fucking thing. If it weren’t for him, my mom would still be alive. We might still be together.”

His hands move off me as he stands and begins pacing, wiping his own blood on his jeans. Shoved up against the wall, he peers through the slats, scanning the white. 

Those words ring through my head. We might still be together. He’s right. We could’ve been happy, but Marcus wanted me all to himself. We were both caged to someone else, we were both manipulated and conditioned.

If only we realized it earlier, if only. We could have avoided so much pain. Conditioning runs deep, unfortunately. Once you’re in it, it’s hard to dig your way out of the reality that is set up for you. It was all a lie, but how were we to know?

“The van’s tagged. Marcus will know you’re missing already, and his crew will see the bodies. He’ll figure out I took you the second he finds the blood. He’ll come.” Brody cracks his neck, like he’s warming up for war. “He’ll want to make me suffer before he kills us.”

The words slide into my bones, cold as the air. I can’t stop shaking. I know what Marcus does to people who disobey. I know the kind of pain waiting on the other side of the door. Brody doesn’t care. He prowls the room, checking every angle, every shadow. If he’s afraid, he doesn’t show it.

“He’ll find us. He’ll make me pay. But I’m going to take him out, or die trying. For what he did to you, to us.”

Brody crouches in front of me again. As if the rest of the blizzard isn’t even real, like nothing outside this dirty, reeking barn matters but the truth.

My hands fists in the ruined coat, my knuckles blue. My jaw spasms, but it’s not just cold now. It’s fear.

Survival. Nothing else.

I know Brody is hinting at the night it ended. My voice is shattered. “I was drugged. That night.” It hangs in the air. “I didn’t choose it. I couldn’t remember, not enough. I couldn’t reach you after. I was trapped. He made sure of it.”

I force myself to hold his gaze. If I look away, I’m weak. If I don’t say it now, I never will. All the years of guilt, clinging like rot. All the shame. It’s out now, and I can’t take it back.

Brody goes stone-still. Not one muscle moves. Even the blood at his temple freezes, thick and black. He doesn’t speak. He just stares, through me, through the wall, through the years we lost. His fists are tight enough to crack bone.

He turns, like he might put it all through the wall, then stares back at me. “You never had to prove anything to me. I should have known. I should have burned the world down for you sooner.”

My voice comes out a ragged whisper. “I thought you’d hate me.” The rest is just breath. “I thought if I told you, you’d hate me.”

Brody’s not listening to that. He kneels, grabs my face in both hands and put his forehead to mine. Skin to skin, eyes to eyes. His hands are big enough to blot out the world.

“I don’t hate you. Not anymore. I hate him. And I hate myself for ever believing it was you. For walking away.” He takes a deep breath. “You survived what would’ve killed anyone else. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you then, but I fucking swear, no one’s ever touching you again.”

He pulls me in. There’s nothing left to hold back. His chest is all heat, and I press my face into the fabric and just let go. The tears are silent; I can’t breathe around them. I tremble in his arms, breaking apart, but Brody just holds tighter. Like he could squeeze the poison out of me.

He smooths my hair back, fingers shaking, blood and snow and tears mixing together. His mouth is at my ear. “My Lola. My Bambi. Mine.”

He kisses me. It’s not sweet. It’s what’s always been between us, the violence and the heat and the need. He wipes my cheeks with his thumb, then checks the gun again. He’s bleeding worse than before, but he pays it no mind.

I can see through a crack in the wall, out into the blue-black dark.

Brody holds me there, both arms tight around my ribs. Nothing gentle. Nothing safe. Just the promise of ruin.

“You’re my Bambi,” he says into my hair. “My eternal light. The only good thing in this rotten world.”

His arms stay locked around me, so tight I can’t tell where the bruises end and the comfort begins. I can feel his breath, rough against my ear, his body trembling with the violence he’s holding back.

Outside, snow rips sideways across the world. Obliterating all traces of blood, tracks, what we were before this moment. Inside, we are the only thing left alive, two animals clinging to each other, desperate and wild.

He pulls back just enough to stare down at me, his face a map of pain and hunger and longing. Blood spatters his cheek, matting his hair, but there’s nothing human in his eyes. Just that endless dark, the look of a man who would burn down heaven for a single taste of salvation.

I reach up, tracing the bruise at his jaw, fingers shaking. “You’re hurt,” I whisper.

He catches my wrist, presses my palm to his mouth. “Not enough to stop me. Not for you.”

I want to tell him to let go, to run, to save himself. I want to tell him he’s become everything I feared and everything I craved. But my mouth won’t open. The words die, strangled by hope and terror both.

Brody’s hands wander. Over my throat, my collarbone, my ribs, as if checking for breaks again. As if making sure nothing has been taken from him. He kisses the hollow of my neck, teeth grazing, tongue rough.

“You’re mine,” he chokes out. “I will never let him touch you again. I’d kill a thousand men before I ever let you go.”

The heat of him devours me. I pull him closer by his shirt.

He crushes his mouth to mine again. His kiss is savage. I kiss him back like I’m starving, like I’ve been dying for this all my life. His hands slip under the coat, palm flat against my bare skin. I gasp, not from cold, but from the way he holds me. Possessive, worshipping, as if he could anchor himself here and never drift again.

He drags his mouth over my throat and bites down hard enough to leave a mark. “I should have killed him sooner,” he says, voice breaking. “I should have burned this world for you.”

I arch into him, trembling. “You did. You’re here.”

He shudders, his whole frame wracked with it. “Nothing will hurt you again. Not while I breathe. Not while I’m alive.”

His hands find mine, our fingers lacing together, tight enough to hurt. Our bodies tangle, desperate, hungry, as if we can make something holy out of all this devastation. He buries his face in my neck and I feel the wetness of his tears, the weight of all those years lost. For this moment, there is no one but us. The rest of the world can drown in snow and silence. Only Brody’s voice matters.

“My Bambi. My Lola. Mine.”

I believe him, because loving him has always been an act of survival, an act of damnation. A darkness I’ll never outrun.

We don’t talk about what Marcus made us do, and what he did to us in that warehouse. We don’t need to. Those memories will be painted into our skulls for the rest of our lives, and we have to live with it.

But, we are free, and that’s what matters.

Outside, through the broken boards, a pair of headlights knifes through the darkness. Closer, closer. Twin points of judgment, crawling across the snow.

Marcus.

I bury myself harder against Brody’s heart, and wait for the end.

46

BRODY

Black pulls up slowly. A monster’s SUV, paint still wet from the last job. Gravel splits under the tires, crackling out a warning. Snow thickens the air, white under the headlights, the world howling cold.

Marcus steps out first, striking the ground like he owns it. No coat, just a tailored suit, charcoal and cutting. His eyes scan the dark, hungry for a show. Two slabs of muscle follow. His loyal men, thick necks, cut knuckles, heat and hunger leaking from their fists.

Breath mists. Flash-freezes. It’s bright in the cone of headlights, but beyond that? Black as a dying vein.

He yells for me, not bothering to hide his voice. I hear my name, drawn out, twisted: “Come out, Brody. Let’s not waste time.” He’s laughing, almost.

Smug bastard believes the world will bend when he says so.

I count footsteps, watching from the broken edge of the ruined building, shadow on shadow, invisible unless you know where to look.

Lola. She’s huddled in the dark, far back, eyes wide and hollow. She’s not supposed to watch, but she can’t look away, either. I can feel her heartbeat from here. 

Mine’s a bomb; hers is a trapped bird.

They’re moving forward, Marcus leading, the dogs flanking. Arrogant, sloppy. I slip left, behind a pillar. Safety off, finger on the silencer’s trigger. The world shrinks to the point of contact: my hands, their bodies.

The first dog never sees me. Suppressor coughs. A wet pop. Skull and bone burst open, red misting the snow. He hits the ground, face first, blood pooling fast and black against white.

The second guy jerks, stunned. Training kicks in, but I’m faster. I run towards him, slamming my elbow into his throat, crushing cartilage, then knife to the gut. He grabs for me, desperate; I twist. Steel rips soft meat. His belly opens, steaming pink in the cold.

He drops, twitching. Red everywhere. Hot, slippery, and stinking of iron and shit. I step back, surveying what’s left. Marcus stands alone, outgunned, and out of moves.

He tries to bolt, maybe fight. I close the gap, hands on him before he finishes turning. Driving my knee into his gut, he folds, gasping. My fist cracks his jaw sideways, teeth snap, blood spurts. I catch him by the hair, slamming his skull into the SUV’s fender. Once. Twice. He sags, drops like wet trash to my boots.

He’s out, a pathetic heap. I spit, wipe blood from my glove. Lola is still watching. I feel her in the periphery, shaking, hiding, wanting. I drag Marcus’s dead weight up and over my shoulder. and into the abandoned building. Hollow, decrepit, windows broken. No witnesses. The concrete floor is as cold as death.

I prop Marcus on a bent metal pipe, arms behind his back, duct tape, zip ties, thick plastic bites into his flesh. Ankles bound. Blood drips from his mouth down his shirt, pools on the frozen slab under him. He’s still limp, head lolled sideways, breathing shallow.

Leaving him to move the dead bodies outside, I drag the first guard past the edge of the lot, toss him behind a dumpster, then pack snow over his face. Second one follows, leaking blood, limp as a doll. The shed door groans but I wedge him inside, out of sight.

I circle the building, checking for headlights, engines, any sound. Nothing. The night is still, except for my lungs burning and the wind screaming at the door. Lola hasn’t moved. She’s broken from what she saw, but curiosity wires her nerves, pins her in place. She stares at the carnage, at me. A fucking monster.

I exhale and step back inside.

Marcus is groaning now, blood peppers his lips. He tries to lift his head, but I palm his hair and force him upright. His eyes flicker open. The look—ha. I’ve seen real fear before. He tries to spit at me, words, blood, anything. All that comes out is a wheeze.

“You don’t get to own her anymore.”

“She’s mine,” he rasps, choking. “You’re dead, you twisted fuck.”

I hit him before he finishes; fist cracks his nose. Cartilage squelches, blood jets out, fountains down his chin. He gags. I hit him again, breaking the jaw this time, hot snap, teeth scattering like gravel on steel.

“This is for everything you did to her,” I say. I mean it. All of it. Nothing left unclaimed.

I go for his ribs next. Precision. Two, three, four punches. Cracking sounds, he tries to scream but his mouth is already a red pit, filling with blood. The knife comes easy. I drag the blade down his arm. Then deeper. Through fat, through muscle. I want him to feel every inch. Blood wells up, thick and dark, spills onto the floor.

He thrashes, shrieking. The echo bounces off the tin roof, wild terror. I don’t stop. I cut again, perpendicular, carving lines. A crosshatch, like cattle marked for slaughter. He howls, voice shredding.

“Look at that,” I murmur. “Not so fucking tough now.”

I force his jaw open, rip at the lips, shove two fingers deep and fish out his tongue. It flaps, trying to curl away. I take the knife and hack it, rough, fast, through meat and membrane. 

He gags, chokes, blood gushing everywhere, thick spray across my hands, his collar, the chair. He convulses, eyes wide, tears streaking down.

“No more lies,” I say. “No more poison.”

He tries to pull away, but the zip ties dig in deeper, biting to bone. His hands are trembling. I force the left one to the pipe, fingers splayed.

Taking the blade, I chop. Once. Twice. Bone grinds, tendons snap. Fingers scatter like fat white grubs onto the floor. He tries to pass out. I slap him, waking him up.

I’m not finished.

I hack off the rest of the hand. It’s gory work. The blade slips; I use the butt of the knife to crush the knuckles, then tear flesh with my fist. Blood fountains, splatters the concrete, mixes with the piss and shit leaking from his pants.

“No more hurting. No more touching her.”

He’s sobbing, moaning, can’t say words. Can’t even meet my eyes.

His lap is next. He sees it, the blade, and realizes, then he screams.

I unzip his pants and pull out the shriveled cock before slicing it off in one clean motion. Blood sprays, hot and wild, across his thighs. He loses his mind, thrashing, shrieking, nearly pulling the chair off its legs. I drop the ruined meat on the ground and flick open my lighter. Old, silver. I set his cock on fire. Watch it shrivel and blacken, stink rising. 

He howls, but it’s muted now, more gurgle than scream.

He’ll never touch her again.

Lola is there, just beyond the threshold. Eyes huge, face white-blue in the dark, lips parting as she watches me work. Horror, yes. But relief too. Something blacker. She wanted this.

Marcus is going, fading. Blood loss, shock. He slumps, drools red, mouth split and oozing.

I lean close, knife in my hand, heart pounding like a war drum.

“No second chances,” I whisper. “She’s free.”

I drive the blade through his chest. Hard, up under the ribs, twisting until the heart pops. He jerks once. Twice. Then sags, dead for real.

The silence is absolute. Just the sound of dripping blood, my breath, her breath.

I stand over him, shaking. All I see is red. My pulse is gone, replaced by this hollow, echoing triumph.

Lola steps forward, shaking, trembling. She steps out of the dark and into the bloody ring of ruin looking at me, taking in every piece. Broken man, broken monster.

I wipe my hands on his jacket and stare at her.

“It’s over,” I say, voice wrecked. “He can’t hurt you now.”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares at the gore, the wreckage, the thing I became for her.

We stand in the silence, covered in blood and frost.

47

LOLA

Everything is black. Everything is silent, except for the dying rasp of the fire. Breathless, I stagger back from the body, boots slipping in the mud.

My legs almost give out asI clutch my arms around myself, trembling.

I look down at my hands. Smeared with red, cut up, half frozen. My shirt is torn, dotted with a spray of pink and brown, the color of blood mixed with dirt. Blood stains my neck, my thighs, the inside of my wrists. 

Marcus. What’s left of him.

I can barely make out his face, flesh burnt, skin sloughing away. A ruined red mess. There’s a hollow where his mouth used to be, blood oozing from the corners. His eyes are still open—glassy, almost human—except they’re staring at nothing. 

He’s not moving. Won’t move again. One leg sticks out at an impossible angle, and he’s open from the belly down, guts leaking out in strings, half-cooked, steaming in the arctic air.

I fixate on his hands. The same hands that cuffed me, bruised me, dragged me back home, held me down. Now curled, broken, fingers blackening in the heat.

No more. No more. No more.

My jaw clenches. I think I might vomit, but I won’t. Not now.

It’s snowing outside. Thick flakes drifting past the barn window, catching the moonlight. The sky is blue-black, endless. I can feel the wind even in here. In the space between darkness and blood cooling, there’s just Brody.

Brody, standing over the body.

Blood gloves his hands, arms painted scarlet, red up to the elbow. Chest bare, breaths coming in deep, snarling gulps. His face is cut up, bruised, eyes wide and wild. Alive in a way I’ve never seen, not even before.

His mouth moves, lips torn and dark, but he doesn’t say it yet. He just stares at what he’s done. At what I’ve let him do for me. Savage satisfaction, gleaming where mercy should be.

For a long second, neither of us speak. The only sound is the popping of burnt hair, the sucking noise of blood pooling under Marcus’s ruined head.

I force my lungs to work, force my legs to stay standing, numb to the pain in my ankle, my ribs, my battered face. Something in my chest twists. The horror is still there, churning up my insides. But under it. Awe. Relief. Sick, dizzy relief.

I say it before I can stop myself. Voice hoarse, shredded by smoke and terror. “I’m free.”

The words hang in the barn.

Brody looks at me then. Real, truly looks. His gaze devours me. Neck, mouth, hands, the blood on my skin. The part of him that was always hunger and violence, finally unmasked. There’s nothing human left in that stare except a craving for me. 

He steps over Marcus’s body, leaving a trail of red footprints behind. When he stops in front of me, his hands are still wet, fists shaking, breaths loud.

He cups my neck, smearing blood on my jaw, tilting my face up. “I can’t promise I’ll ever be the Brody you fell in love with,” he says, voice so low it’s barely real. “But I can be the man you need now. The man who can love you. If you’ll have me. I can’t undo what I did, but I can make it better by ending the monster that took you from me.”

He waits, like the world might crack open if I don’t answer.

My heart splits. I see him. The boy I loved, crushed under years of pain, learning to kill for a father nearly as monstrous as mine. I see regret eating at him. I see darkness sweeping the rest away. The cost of every drop of blood that’s just hit the floor. Blood for me. 

My voice is gone, but I find it. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

Brody’s eyes shine wet, like a ghost. He swallows. Steps closer. The snow outside falls heavier, sticking against the glass. It's cold everywhere. Except here, where Brody’s body is a bonfire.

I walk into his arms. He wraps me up, hard, clutching like he’ll never let go. His hands dig into my back, over my ribs, tasting every bruise, every cut. His heart beats so wild I feel it in my own chest.

We kiss. Fuck; we crash together.

I open for him, blood and need, wanting to be devoured. Wanting to be wrecked by someone who at least knows my name.

We bite. We claw. I rip at his pants, his belt, the ruined jacket with its shredded sleeves. He tears my shirt off in chunks, dragging his mouth over my shoulder, my collarbone, my tits. The cold doesn’t register. There’s only heat. Pain, pulse, living.

He lifts me, slams my back against the barn wall, fucks his hand between my thighs. Two fingers, thick, rough, deep enough to make my whole body spasm. I arch against him, crying out. I don’t care if anyone hears.

I want the world to know Marcus is dead.

Brody grinds me down to the dirt, the hay, the red-streaked ground. We’re sliding in red slush, old straw matted with blood and snowflakes. Filthy and perfect.

Marcus’s corpse is right there. Inches away. Face open, eyes open. I flinch, just for a second. The dead gaze needles into my skin.

Brody notices. His mouth is on my jaw, his hand squeezing my thigh so hard it leaves bruises. He follows my eyes, then he pulls away, calm, almost cold. 

He picks up his knife, moving over to the body, where he presses one knee into Marcus’s chest, and with one smooth motion, he saws through the neck. Blood spurts up. Marcus’s head rolls away, eyes staring at nothing. Finally gone.

Brody drops the blade. He comes back to me and grabs my face in his bloody hands and kisses. “He can never touch you,” he snarls into my mouth, “You’re mine, only mine now.”

Marcus’s eyes are gone. Brody’s eyes are wild, anchoring me, putting me back together.

I can’t breathe.

There’s so much of him, everywhere. His hands on my face, his hips shoving me against the barn wall, his lips biting mine. 

I see Marcus’s head, lolling in the corner, eyes open, lips peeled back in a dark red snarl. I can’t look away. I want to look away. Brody’s knee spreads my thighs. The dead man’s name slams through my head.

“Eyes on me, baby,” Brody says, forcing me to look at him. 

Brody drags his mouth down my neck, leaving bruises. He rips my shirt the rest of the way off, palms my breasts, squeezes until my vision flashes white. Each bite, each twist, hurts. I want it all. I want worse than this.

His hand between my legs. Fingers rub rough at my clit, then push in, fast, mean. I’m already wet. Ready. Ruined, but burning for it. I can’t stop shaking.

He grins into the cut of my jaw, blood streaking his lips. “You’re mine,” he growls. His voice is gravel and hell and worship. “They can watch. All of them. You belong to me.”

I gasp, arching for the next touch. My nipples crush against his chest. I rake my nails across his back, and he doesn’t flinch. He wants it. He wants my marks everywhere.

He fucks two fingers up inside me, driving deep, curling and pounding, filthy and violent. My cunt clamps down, desperate and greedy, clinging for more. 

He wrenches my head to show me the corpse. Marcus’s dead face, skin melting away. Staring. Watching.

Brody shoves his cock inside me. It’s thick, brutal, filling every inch. I can’t think. My back arches, banging my skull against the splintered wood.

He fucks me, wild, relentless. Each thrust sends me up the wall. My thighs burn, coated with our blood. Sweat drips down my chest, stinging the claw marks he left. The barn echoes with the wet slap of skin, and Brody’s savage breathing. He bites my neck, crushes my tit, hand twisting at my nipple. Pain blurs into pleasure. I moan for him, for everything he is and everything I’ll never get back.

Dragging my face to the right, he holds me with one big hand knotted in my hair. “Look,” he growls, voice thick, savage. “See him? That’s what I did for you. That’s what I’ll do to anyone who ever tries to take you again.”

My eyes go wide. Marcus. There’s nothing left but a head, staring, mouth gaping, blood pooling, skin curling away in the heat. And he’s watching me. Watching us. Watching Brody ruin me, own me, fuck me until I’m nothing but noise and bruises.

I can’t speak. I can barely breathe. My clit throbs. Each slap of Brody’s hips lights me up, burns every thought out.

He lets go of my hair, grabs my chin in his blood-slimed fist, and smears red across my lips. He kisses me shoving his tongue down my throat while fucking me harder.

His. Always. Forever.

The noise in the barn is breathless. Our bodies are wet and greedy, skin peeling, everything trembling with need. I can’t look away from Marcus. His dead eyes. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. I want him to see what victory looks like, what it means to lose. 

Brody’s voice is gravel. “You love how filthy you are. You love fucking me in front of him. Don’t you?”

I nod, shaking. My tits bounce with every thrust. My nipples are so hard they ache. I reach down, rub myself fast and cruelly while he slams me against the wall. He snakes a hand around my throat, squeezes. My eyes blur black at the edges. I love it. I love it. I could die with Brody’s hand on my neck and be happy.

He grins as he shifts, pulling out. I whimper, clawing at his back, trying to drag him back but he’s faster. He lays me flat on my back in the slime and hay and blood-soaked earth. Cold air gnaws at my skin.

Brody kneels between my legs. He shoves them open, so wide my groin throbs. My thighs tremble, knees to either side of his ribs, completely exposed, every ruined, filthy part of me on display.

He stares, eyes molten, dark. He drags two fingers through my wetness, smears it over my clit. 

“You look so fucking good like this,” he growls, voice dropping like a stone.

He notches the head of his cock at my hole. My breath stops.

He pushes in, one hard thrust, all the way to the hilt. Too much. Too good. My pussy stretches around him. It hurts, the best kind of hurt.

He slides out. My body arches off the ground, chasing friction, chasing him. He shoves back in, brutal. I scream, and he covers my mouth with one hand, not to muffle me, just to own me, fill every hole, force everything I am to orbit him.

Brody fucks me like an animal. Like the last man left alive. Kneeling over me, hands on my hips, he pounds into me, driving me down into the cold, the filth, until I don’t know where my body ends and his begins. The angle—it’s deep, merciless. Every thrust slams my back against the dirt, hay scraping my skin, but I want more.

He yanks my legs up, throwing them over his shoulders. My ass barely brushes the ground. I’m exposed, wide open, stretched so full it sparks under my skin. He leans into me, cock drilling in and out, hips snapping.

Grinning down at me, his lips peeled back. “Touch yourself,” he rasps. His voice is rough, straight to the core. “I want you to play with your pussy while I fuck you. Make yourself cum for me.”

My breath shatters. I reach down, fingers shaking, soaked already. I circle my clit, just the way I do when I’m alone and thinking of him. It’s shameful, so dirty, but right now, that’s all I want. He watches. Eyes glued to my cunt, the way my fingers work. He slows, just a second, to grind all the way in so I can feel every fucking inch of him. Too much, almost. I whimper, back arching. My wetness is everywhere, coating him, messy and obscene.

He says it again, slower, voice like the devil. “I want to see you cum. I want you to do it while I’m inside you. Show me. I want all of it, Lola.”

I move faster, filthy circles, pinching, desperate. My body shakes. The world narrows to the burn between my legs and the thick stretch of him pounding into me. Shame and power, tangled up. I’m falling apart.

Looking up, Brody’s eyes are wild, hunger burning through. He’s stroking his cock as he does it, watching just to see how greedy my body can get.

“Fuck, you look perfect,” he hisses. His hand slams my thigh wider. “Keep going. That’s my good girl.”

I’m so close. My cunt tightens, spasms. My breath rattles in my lungs.

I lose it. Every muscle locks, goes stiff, then melts. White heat spins in my skull. I sob out his name, choking on it, my pussy clenching around him. It pulses. Fuck. It clamps so hard around him, I come messy, wet, shaking.

Brody doesn’t slow. He keeps fucking me through it, pounding in, jerking my hips up, forcing me to open wider, take every inch of him.

He pulls out at the end—just at the brink—and finishes himself, grunting, spilling over Marcus’s dead torso. Claiming victory. Planting a flag on the fucked-up ruins of my history.

I sprawl out, dazed, shaking, broken open in the best way. Brody laughs. A dark, vicious sound.

For the first time in years, I feel whole.

We pull on our clothes, hands still shaking, giggling under our breaths. Blood coats everything. Brody wipes his mouth, then he gets to work. He grabs the axe from the wall. In the moonlight, he looks like a myth, a story they tell to scare children.

He hacks Marcus’s body apart. Careful, efficient, messy. Arms, legs, head. He throws the pieces out into the snow, each limb splattering red across the white drifts. The earth soaks it up. The cold devours it. Everything vanishes under the falling flakes.

I watch, eyes dry, feeling the monster inside me finally go quiet.

When he’s done, Brody joins me outside in the storm.

We stand together under the moon. Blue-white, turning the carnage into a painting. We hold each other, arms tight. The world is all blood and bone and endless black.

There’s no sound but the wind. No witnesses but the darkness.

48

BRODY

White sky and black roads. Every mile closer to the city, I can feel my chest getting tighter with something hollowed out, left to rot under the ribcage. 

I keep the heater blasting, but my knuckles ache from cold and old bruises. Lola sits next to me, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Snow rattles off the windshield in chunks, gray and wet, smearing the view. The tires shudder over ice at the edge of every intersection. The city skyline appears at first light, all washed out, like something you’d see in the bottom of a cracked TV. 

I grip the steering wheel and try to keep myself from looking at her, because if I do, I might crash the fucking car. I know what she means to me, now. Just a pulse in the dark, something worth breaking the world for.

I watch every street, every passing car, every flicker of shadow under the streetlamps. New paranoia, old instinct. 

Rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand, she jerks a little, startled. Bruises bloom purple all over my skin. I should care more about the pain, but it’s nothing compared to how her hand feels tucked against mine, like she trusts I’ll come back. Like she needs me here to finish it.

We cross river bridges and four-way stops where the only movement is snow swirling in the gutter.

By the time we pull into Richard’s driveway, the day’s grown grim and merciless. Gray sky, gray house, gray everything. The kind of place you could die in and no one would ever see the body.

I turn the engine off, leaving just the ticking of the radiator and the smashing thud of my heart. I squeeze Lola’s hand once, tight enough to remind both of us that we’re not ghosts yet.

“Stay here,” I say. My voice is a cracked echo. “Or inside the doorway. This part is mine.”

She wants to argue. I see her lips part, that stubborn spark still flickering. She’s shaking a little. I could carry her up the steps, but she needs to walk. Needs to feel her own legs under her. So I let go, just for a second, shoving the car door open and slamming it behind me.

Snow sucks at my boots. I hit the code by the side door, a string of numbers burned into my brain since I was a teenager. Green light. The door clicks open. No alarms.

Inside, the world is still. Lights off, everything polished and cold, like a show home for the unwanted. Upstairs, floorboards creak, but no one is awake yet. No one knows I’m here. Not yet.

I move through that house the way I always have. Richard’s trophies line the hall. Cases full of legal awards, framed headlines from cases he rigged years ago. I want to smash them.

His office is at the end of the hall, behind one of those fake-wood doors that shut out the rest of the world. All the shades drawn. I step in, lock the door behind me, and cross to the painting. Underneath it, a safe hides behind drywall paneling, so smooth you wouldn’t see the gap if you weren’t looking for it.

I run my finger along the seam and the panel swings out. The keypad’s got a fresh smudge of oil on the number three. Idiot. He never learns.

The code is the same as always.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The lock pops open.

Inside: everything he was ever afraid to lose.

Shoved in tight are three ledgers, black covers warped and greasy at the corners. A plastic baggy with five burner phones, one still faintly blinking. Three USB sticks. Folders. Wads of cash—hundred-dollar bills packed into pay envelopes. Family photos, not even in frames, just crumpled in the bottom like trash. There’s a folder labeled “Bloom,” and something inside it glints with a paperclip.

I grab it all, dumping it in the duffel I brought. I pull out every ledger, every phone, every flash drive, every proof of every bribe or threat. Inside some envelopes are cut-up news clippings, printouts, blurred surveillance photos. A few are of Lola. Some are of me, from years ago, caught on a camera I never saw. I don’t let myself think about that. I rip a handful of envelopes and throw them in the bag too.

The folder marked “Bloom” bulges with receipts and printed emails, phone logs, and evidence that would make any judge sick. I glance through—finding ties to Marcus, NorthLine, court officials, cash transfers, case files where names are blacked out except for Lola’s in heavy pen. More witness names. More intimidation. Enough to make this whole world burn down.

I almost shut it, almost leave it at that, but something stops me.

At the very bottom, face up, is a photo I haven’t seen in ten years. Me, Sophie, Mom. Sophie’s already got her gap-toothed smile, her arms wrapped around my neck like she’s holding me together. Mom is looking away, eyes tired, but her mouth is soft.

I stare at it so long my eyes water. Then I flip it over, face down. I don’t want any of us looking at this.

Bag zipped, I move back down the stairs through the side door. I haul the bag into the trunk. Lola’s standing by the front steps, arms wrapped tight around her chest, her lips white as bone.

“I’m ready,” I say.

She doesn’t answer, just follows me to the car. Eyes on the house, like she’s waiting to see if it falls apart right here.

I check the rearview mirror every seven seconds. Instinct. Habit. I take side streets and back alleys, ending up at an out-of-the-way post office with cracked tile floors and no cameras.

Inside, the air is warm. I rip open the bigger envelope, stuff in every scrap of evidence. Burners, USBs, glossies, names, addresses, cash receipts. I write the address from memory:

State Special Prosecutor. Attention: Public Corruption Task Force.

I tape it up, hands steady. Not a tremor. The woman at the counter looks at me like she knows something’s wrong, but I smile.

I choose priority mail. But I don’t leave it at that. I know how this shit goes. Mail can vanish, files can get wiped, people can get bought. 

So I take one USB, the juiciest one, and drive it across town to a quiet office building, one floor above a payday loan shop. I used to know a guy here. Ex-cop, dirty as hell, but the only one who ever did what I paid him for.

I buzz the door, but leave the mailer in the dropbox with the cash inside, just enough motivation.

Then the phone comes out. I use a burner from the bag. I give them keywords: NorthLine. Payoffs. Voss. Names. Dates. Marcus Bloom. Lola’s case file.

“Evidence drop. Don’t ignore it,” I say. “Or you’ll be next.”

I hang up before they can trace it, smash the phone, and crush it under my boot, sweeping the pieces into a drain.

Back across the city, it’s dawn now, streets waking up. A cop car flies by, sirens off but lights pulsing. There’s a charge in the air, like a storm is about to hit.

49

BRODY

“Breaking—Richard Voss, high-profile local attorney and business consultant, arrested at his downtown office in a massive pre-dawn raid. Sources cite ongoing investigation into official corruption, organized crime ties, human trafficking, witness suppression…”

The words appear across the screen, white on black. I watch it land, see the look in Richard’s eyes as they perp walk him out of the building. Hands cuffed, suit rumpled. No smile. Just that old, dead look. The one he used to wear when I disappointed him.

Mob of reporters surround him. Cameras everywhere. Someone calls out his name, and for the first time, he flinches.

I pour myself a glass of water, and hand one to Lola. She takes it, hand shaking, barely spilling a drop.

“The hell did you do?” she asks.

I sit down across from her. My knuckles start to bleed again, split along the scab. I lick it clean. “Ended it.”

The phone on the counter rings, Sophie’s number, blowing up the lockscreen. Eight missed calls. Two voicemails. I don’t answer. Not yet. Let her wonder.

“Connections to NorthLine—possible ties to national criminal syndicates—subject of ongoing federal investigation. Evidence of Marcus Bloom being corrupt, he is nowhere to be found…” 

I watch the city swallow it, piece by piece. The phone keeps buzzing, frantic now. Sophie’s crying in her voicemail, voice breaking. Lola leans forward, face pale, but her lips curve into something like a smile. Not hope or victory. Just survival.

My hand throbs. My back aches. I reach for her, and she lets me pull her into my lap, no resistance. We sit together as the world tears down everything Richard built. Every lie, every bribe, every threat. 

I let myself smile, just for a second, knowing what I am. Knowing what it cost. This is the part that’s mine.

Let the rest burn.

The news cycle repeats. Asset seizures, houses stripped down to the studs for evidence, boxes of paperwork. Photos of buildings I know by heart, glass and steel and secrets. The words corruption, organized crime, racketeering, parade across the ticker in red. All his sins laid bare. I want to feel something. Pride? Relief? Instead there’s a hollow cavity where my chest should be, droning emptiness, only the satisfaction of a job finished. 

The kill is done. No thrill, just the taste of necessity.

Lola’s voice is so quiet I almost miss it. “It’s really over. He’s actually…gone.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The evidence scrolls by on repeat. His name. His mugshot. The end of everything he ever tried to build. “He won’t hurt anyone again,” I say. My voice. “Not now. They’ll make sure.”

Her fingers tighten. There’s no color in her knuckles. She tries to process, but the shock smothers her. I know that look. I’ve worn it before. Breathe in, breathe out, wait for the other shoe, because it always drops.

On TV, they roll the tape again. Cuffs biting his wrists. His tie askew. The camera zooms, catching the flash of his eyes, still calculating even as the world burns down around him. My father, the kingpin, the fixer, reduced to a cautionary tale and a hashtag. Not even a man anymore. Just a lesson.

Lola’s head turns, just barely. She’s still sunk into herself, but something in her eyes finds mine. “You really did it,” she says. “You turned on him. Betrayed him.” No accusation, just awe. Like I’m something she can’t understand.

I breathe. Cold air. “He made it easy.” The words cut out, angry and dark. “After I saw the truth of what he was—what he did—there was nothing left to be loyal to. He was a rabid animal. Needed to be put down.”

She’s shaking, just a little. Not fear. Residual tremor from abandonment, from knowing the ground under you is gone for good. “But he was still your dad,” she says. Like the word means something. Like blood outweighs reality.

I almost laugh. There’s no humor. “He stopped being my father a long time ago. All he ever wanted was a puppet, not a son.” I watch her face, and it’s like looking at the sun through cracked glass. “You’re the only thing that’s ever mattered, Bambi. The only good thing. The only innocent left."

She blinks, her lashes wet. Blue glow scatters over her cheekbones, making her look like a ghost girl, someone delicate and impossible. “Don’t say that,” she whispers. “I’m not. I’m not innocent. Not anymore.”

I reach across the stolen space between us. My hand covers hers. Her bones press against my palm. “I know you don’t believe it. But I do. Marcus tried to ruin you. Break you.” At the memory of him, leering, voice spiked with smugness, his hands on everything, my fists clench. “He failed. You’re still here.”

Lola bites her lip. The TV volume dips, static crackle, some legal expert pontificating about plea bargains and federal time. None of it matters. Nothing out there matters. Only her, alive and breathing, in the ruins of a life we can maybe build from scratch.

“Was it hard?” she asks. “Turning on him like that?”

“No. Not after what he made me do. Protecting him meant putting you in danger. It meant becoming a fucking monster. I couldn’t. Not with you in the world.”

She looks at me like she’s searching for a lie, but she won’t find one. I don’t hide anymore, not from her. “You aren’t a monster,” she says. The words tremble, but they land.

I wish I could believe her. “I am what he built. The kill dog. The shadow. But you—” My voice cracks, a break in the emptiness. “You’re the only reason I even remember how to feel anything. If I had to kill the whole world to keep you safe, I would.”

I can hear her heartbeat, the flutter of her breath, the tight breaths stuck in her throat. Blue light etches the wall, outlining her silhouette. I want to pull her close, keep her pressed against my chest until nothing outside can ever reach her again.

Lola leans into me. Just the smallest touch, but it sends a shock through my system. “What happens now?” she asks. “Are we…free?”

That’s a joke. The universe doesn’t do freedom. “I don’t know,” I say, honesty barreling out. “But he can’t hurt us anymore. No one can, if I have anything to say about it.”

Her hand trembles in mine. I squeeze. I want her anchored, to something real, something that won’t vanish when the morning burns off. “You did it for me,” she says. “Everything.”

I nod. Simple as breathing. “For you. Always for you.” The things I’ve done, the blood on my hands, the memories that hunt me in the dark. All worth it, if she’s here, if she can finally breathe.

She lets herself breathe, just a little. Relax. Her shoulders slump, the fight leaking out of her. “I always thought Marcus would win. That men like him always do.”

I shake my head. “No one’s winning here.” My thumb strokes her wrist—pulse, fragile, alive. “You survived. That’s more than he ever did.”

She folds into me. Flesh, heat, reality. Her hair brushes my jaw, soft and wild. “I don’t know how to be normal after this,” she admits. Her voice is so small. “It’s like… everything’s burned out.”

I understand. More than anyone. “There is no normal,” I say. “There’s just before and after. We build from ashes. That’s all.”

Lola looks up, eyes glassy, pupils wide. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

I shake my head, no lies. “Not really. But you learn to live with it. Or you find something that makes it mean less.” My hand moves to her cheek, thumb over her jaw, possessive and tender and so fucking desperate. “You make it mean less.”

We sit in the blue cold, wrapped up in the static of a world that doesn’t want us. I watch the days of my life flicker across that screen. They call it justice. I call it hollow.

But Lola is here, alive, skin warm under my hand. That’s what matters.

She leans in, presses her forehead to mine. I inhale her. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “For saving me. Even if it cost you everything.”

My mouth finds hers, gentle, bruised, a promise carved in the dark. “You’re everything,” I whisper. “There was never anything else worth saving.”

Her breath shudders. I want to keep her like this, wrapped up tight, blue-lit and safe, nothing outside, not ever again. Maybe if I hold her hard enough, the old world will finally dissolve. Maybe the stains on my soul won’t show up in the daylight. Maybe.

But I know better. The scars are there. I can only keep her close. I can only keep her mine.

She buries her face in my shirt. “You could’ve gotten away. Started over somewhere. Why stay?”

“Because I want you.” I run my hand through her hair. “I could never leave you with the monsters.”

She shivers. Not fear, something old breaking open, a cage with rusted bars. “I still don’t get it. Why me?”

I shake my head. The urge to devour her, to make her understand, rises like a fever. “Because you’re the only one who ever looked past the surface. The only one who made me feel fucking real. Maybe that makes me weak. I don’t care.”

She breathes slowly. “You’re not weak. You’re—” The word dies. She can’t finish it. I fill the silence with my hands, my body, occupying the world so nothing else can intrude.

We stay there, locked up in new silence. All the old ghosts howling in the corners, but for now, caged.

I watch her. The way she calms, heartbeat evening out. The way hope sneaks across her face, like a cat burglar breaking into a fortress. Fragile and almost invisible, but it’s there. A thread of what might be.

“Can we just… stay like this?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. For as long as you want.”

So we do. Minutes bleed together. Outside, the world howls for answers, blood, spectacle. In here, it’s just Lola and me, breathing in the blue.

She musters a laugh, a real one, weak but alive. “You’re not what I expected, Brody Voss.”

I smirk. “You either, Lola Bloom.”

On the TV, my family name goes up in smoke. They turn the volume up. They dissect my father’s life, his failings, his empire reduced to paperwork and mugshots. Lola winces for me. That man was never my family, not really.

I trace circles on her skin. “Let them keep talking. None of it touches us now.”

She believes it. I can feel it, the tension melting, the fear draining away, replaced by something like hope. Cautious, stuttering, fucked-up hope. But hope, all the same.

The silence deepens, but it’s not empty. It’s full of everything we survived, all the ways we didn’t shatter.

She leans her head on my shoulder. I let my cheek rest against her hair. We fit, even with all the damage.

I watch the sky lighten outside the window. The world is different now. Burned-out, but still spinning.

Nothing will ever be normal. But this? This is enough.

For now.

Lola is still asleep in my arms when the news flickers to a commercial. I reach for my phone. and the motion wakes her, just enough. Eyes wide, wild, afraid of what comes next.

She whispers, “What are you doing?”

I type fast. “Telling Sophie the truth.”

Lola sits up, panic simmering. “No—she’s not ready. Not for all of this. She’ll break.”

I stare at her. “She deserves the truth. She deserves to decide what to do with it.”

Come next door. You need to know what happened.

The house goes silent. Only the hush of the TV, muted now, showing slow motion footage of my father’s collapse. Lola pulls a blanket tight over her shoulders, watching the window. 

A knock comes followed by silence. Then, the front door opens. Footsteps echo down the hall. Sophie’s hair is messy, eyes swollen, and her phone clutched in her hand, news alerts going off in a rhythm. She doesn’t knock. She just stands in the doorway, shaking.

“What did you do?” Voice hollowed out, stripped to the bone.

I don’t answer right away. I let the silence hang, see if she’ll run. She doesn’t. Lola tenses. I can feel it down to my bones. She wants to shield Sophie, to block everything out. But she doesn’t move.

I stand up, blocking the TV, so Sophie has to look at me. “We ended it,” I say. “For good. All of it, Soph.”

Her lips barely move. “You… what does that mean? Why are they saying Dad’s a criminal? That he— That he’s been doing these things?”

I don’t blink. “He was always this, Soph. Just kept it out of sight. I found the evidence. I gave it to the people who would use it.”

Her face shatters, piece by piece. “You destroyed him. You destroyed everything.”

I shake my head. “He did that to himself. I just made sure no one else would get hurt.” My voice drops, brutal honesty leaking out. “I don’t want to be his fucking kill dog anymore. He made me do terrible things, Sophie. Things you couldn’t even imagine.”

She staggers, clutches at the wall, like she’s going to be sick. “No, no, no…” She sinks to the floor, knees drawn up, sobs quaking through her. “He was my dad. He was⁠—”

I step closer. Old instinct to help, to patch and fix. But the words turn to stone in my throat. What comfort can I offer? None. I am just the messenger, the executioner. I hover, helpless.

Lola kneels beside Sophie, gentle hands, soft words. “Can I get you water? Or a blanket?” Her kindness makes me ache.

Sophie just stares down, hands over her face. Like she could rip the past away if she claws hard enough.

“I’m sorry, Soph,” I say. “This was the only way.”

She cries so hard. Every sob twists something in my chest. She didn’t know, not really. I kept her in the dark, kept the rot hidden so she could have some semblance of normal. 

Now there’s nothing left but the jagged wreckage.

Her voice cracks. “What else? What aren’t you telling me?”

I take a deep breath, preparing to drag the filth up. “NorthLine was never just a shipping company. It was how Marcus and Dad moved people, money, anything they needed. Dad covered for Marcus. He did worse than cover. He made threats disappear, ruined witnesses, wrecked lives. Marcus did the violence, but Dad set the stage, cleaned it up after. But, a few years ago, Marcus staged mom’s death and had it covered. Richard found out and it started a war between them.”

Lola meets my eyes, but this is my burden to bear.

“All those years—he made me his fixer. Followed dirty men to their graves, erased evidence, sometimes more. He said it was family loyalty. Really, it was just power. Survival.” My voice goes dead. “He didn’t care about the cost. He only cared about never being exposed.”

Sophie shakes her head. “No. You’re lying. Dad was strict, but he was—he wasn’t⁠—”

I cut her off. “He was. I found the files. The videos, the ledgers. He kept trophies, Soph. He wanted me to be like him. When I said no, he made threats. Sometimes worse. I’m not proud of what I did for him. But it ends now.”

Sophie’s nails dig into her arms, deep red marks. “What about Marcus? What about the others?”

“He’s gone,” I say. Final, absolute. “He won’t bother you. He’ll never touch anyone again.”

She looks up, wet brown eyes, terror blooming. “Is he…? Is he⁠—”

I stare back, expression cold. “He’s not coming back.”

Sophie covers her mouth, almost gagging. “You⁠—”

I cut her off. “I did what was necessary.”

Silence. The grave kind. Lola holds Sophie, but Sophie just shakes, lost in her own private nightmare.

I stand there, the weight of a thousand crimes pressing on my chest. Burnt out. Empty. Not even sure what I am, now that my job is finished.

Sophie looks up at me, hate and heartbreak fighting for air. “So that’s it? You just destroy everything and walk away?”

I almost laugh. “Nothing about this is walking away. It’s blood on the floor. It’s a memory that doesn’t fade.”

She rocks herself, back and forth, muttering. “He was my dad. He loved us. He—he—” The words get stuck.

“He lied to you,” I say. “He lied to everyone. I’m sorry for that.”

Lola strokes Sophie’s hair. She offers a crumpled tissue, a whisper of comfort Sophie won’t accept.

Sophie’s eyes glass over, fixed on the TV. Another anchor, more talking heads. The world dissects our family like vultures. Every secret, every sin, out for everyone to see.

“What will you do?” I ask, low. “Run damage control? Try to pretend it didn’t happen?”

She glares at me. “You don’t know what it’s like. To have your whole life shredded in front of you.”

I nod. “I do. You just never saw it happen before now.”

She crumples again, this time pressing her head into Lola’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with us? Why couldn’t we just be normal?”

No answer. There never was.

I kneel, meeting her broken gaze. “The only thing wrong was him. You did nothing but survive.”

She shakes her head, tears streaking down. “I don’t believe you.”

I stare at her. “Believe what you want. I’m done paying for his sins.”

I look at Lola. She’s shaking, too, but quieter. Resigned. Like she expected all of this.

Sophie’s words are wet and bitter. “Why didn’t you just leave? Why not run?”

I smile. “Maybe I thought there was something worth saving. Maybe I wanted to stop the cycle.”

She pushes my hand away. “You destroyed his legacy. Everything he worked for.”

I nod, cool. “Good. It was built on bodies.”

She turns away, can’t even look at me. I get it. I’m a ghost in my own skin, too.

Lola says, “You were brave, Brody.” Her voice barely above a whisper.

I shrug. “Not brave. Just done.”

We sit in it. The wreckage. The annihilation. My sister curling up small, trying to stitch her heart back together, Lola watching both of us with a kind of horror I recognize. It’s not over. It’ll never be over.

Sophie finally looks up, voice dead. “So what now?”

“Now you get to choose,” I say. “Who you want to be. There’s nothing left to protect. No more lies. Just us.”

She flinches at the word. Us. Like it’s a curse. Minutes pass. Lola tries to get Sophie to drink water, but she just rocks, stuck somewhere time can’t reach.

Finally, the question comes. Like a last gasp. “Did you kill him? Marcus?” I don’t answer. I just shake my head, not yes, not no. Just final. Sophie gets it. Her eyes freeze, wide and flat. “He’s not coming back,” she repeats. “Ever.”

My voice is soft, steady. “Ever. He paid for what he did to Lola, and mom.”

She sobs, and it echoes. “He killed mom… He killed mom! Oh god…”

I watch them. The last pieces of my family, all of us cracked and leaking, nothing left but pain and the promise of something different. Not better. Not yet. But different.

The sky keeps getting lighter. The news loops. My father’s name, over and over, stained forever. Sophie's shoulders shake under the blanket. Lola’s hand cradles her, soft and real.

I sit back, stare at my hands. All I’ve done. All I can’t wash away. I did what I had to. Because someone had to do it. That’s the truth, even if no one thanks me.

I watch the sun. I watch my sister break. I don’t look away.

This is the cost of freedom. Ruin, grief, the knowledge that nothing you save comes without consequence.

But it means she’s safe. It means Lola is safe, and Sophie, too, if she wants it.

I can live with being the villain, if it means the monsters stay gone. I can live with anything, as long as it’s not the old world clawing us back.

50

LOLA

Daylight is cruel. It pours through the front window, flooding the living room with so much brightness that it feels wrong, almost hostile, like the sun itself wants to expose every bruise inside me and in this house. 

Sophie is curled up at one end of my couch, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her eyes are swollen and red.

She stares at the TV, even though the sound is off and the screen is nothing but a muted parade of Richard’s mugshot, police tape, and scrolling headlines, over and over again.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. I keep smoothing the blanket over Sophie’s legs, tucking it tighter, until she finally flinches and says, “Please stop.” Her voice is shredded, barely there. 

I nod and back away, heart twisting in my chest.

I want to cry and I want to scream, but mostly I just want to disappear. All I can hear are echoes. Richard’s voice, Marcus’s laughter, Sophie’s sobs, Brody’s heavy footsteps pacing just out of sight in the hallway. 

None of us know what to say. None of us know how to be people in this new, shattered world.

Sophie draws in a breath so shaky it makes my own lungs ache. “He was my dad,” she whispers. “He was supposed to love us. He was supposed to keep us safe.”

I force myself to sit on the edge of the coffee table, ignoring how my body hurts in too many places. “You didn’t know, Sophie. Nobody did.”

Her hands tremble around the mug in her lap. “You knew. Brody knew. Everybody but me.”

“I didn’t know everything,” I say, but it’s weak, and she knows it.

The silence returns, thicker than before. I can feel panic rising in my throat. I glance over my shoulder, desperate for a way out, and see Brody standing in the doorway, eyes shadowed. 

He looks at me, then at Sophie, and back. “Should I call Lucas?” I mouth the words, not trusting my voice.

Sophie picks up her phone, stares at it, and then nods with the tiniest motion. “Will you?”

I text him. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type.

Sophie needs you. My house. Now.

He’s here so quickly it’s like he’s been waiting outside for this moment. He comes in quietly, not saying anything, just kneeling beside the couch. 

Sophie doesn’t even try to pretend she doesn’t need him. She falls into his arms and sobs, and all I can do is watch as Lucas holds her, arms around her shoulders, her face tucked against his neck. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just lets her cry.

I slip out with Brody, my chest tight. I hear them walk out the back door to the patio. I want to believe they’ll be okay. I want to believe we all will.

In my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, fingers twisting in the blanket. My skin is still cold from the night before. I can’t stop replaying it. 

Marcus’s face as he died, the taste of blood, the sound of my own heart beating like I might never hear it again. He’s really gone. I say it in my head, over and over. Marcus is dead. I am free.

But my body doesn’t believe it yet. Every noise makes me jump. Every footstep in the hall feels like a threat. My wrists ache from old bruises, my ribs are sore.

I keep remembering things I wish I could forget. His hands, his voice, the way he said my name like it belonged to him. Even now, in daylight with the door locked, I feel him watching.

Brody sits across from me, his face closed off and unreadable.

I can’t hold it in any longer. “Why did you take me, Brody?” My voice comes out cold. “Was it really to save me, or were you doing Richard’s work? Did you want to protect me or just keep me for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes haunted. “Both,” he says, finally. “I wanted you out of everybody’s reach. I couldn’t let him or my father touch you again. But I didn’t know who to trust. I didn’t know what to believe. I just knew I needed you with me.”

The anger arrives like a wild hurricane. I spent so long pushing it down because there’s that scared voice in my head telling that I need to stay compliant and quiet to avoid punishment. I cannot let my anger show, I need to be good. I’m done being good. “You think I was safe? You think I felt saved? You pulled me out of one prison and shoved me into another. You didn’t ask me. You didn’t give me a choice. You were just as obsessed with control as they were.”

He flinches, but his own voice gets hard. “You don’t get it, Lola. You weren’t the only one breaking. I watched you get hurt again and again. I watched you choose to go back to him because you thought it was safer than fighting. I lost my mind. I lost everything. I did what I had to do. Maybe it wasn’t right. But it’s done now.”

I stand, hands clenched, voice rising. “You don’t get to decide what I needed. You don’t get to claim me just because you were hurting. I’m not a fucking prize, Brody. I’m not your atonement.”

He matches me, toe to toe, eyes blazing. “I never claimed to be your hero. I can’t fix what’s broken in you or me, but I won’t apologize for wanting you alive. Those men that Richard sent, they would’ve done so much worse.”

I snarl, louder than I mean. “You didn’t have the right. Nobody gets to decide what I need. What I want. I wasn’t yours to take. Not yours to save, either. Do you even hear how fucked that is? You just put me in a new cage—your fucking cage, Brody! You tortured me!”

He jerks, jaw flexing. I see the anger light up in his eyes.

“I did what I thought was right!” His voice shakes. “I was so angry, and so confused, Richard put all these fucking theories into my head. I couldn’t—” he cuts himself off, breath harsh. “I was losing my fucking mind, Lola. Watching you suffer and pretending not to care. But also thinking that you were on his side, the man who killed my mother. I needed you with me. But I needed you ruined. Maybe I’m sick, maybe I’m selfish, but I won’t pretend it was about being a hero.”

I shove at his shoulder. “I hate you for it, sometimes. I hate that you’re the only thing that makes it stop hurting.”

He grabs my wrist, holding me in place. “You don’t hate me. You hate what’s been done to you. I’d burn the world down before I let anyone do it again.”

It’s screaming, not talking now. Pain ricochets off the drywall.

“Everyone acts like they fucking know me,” I spit. “Like I’m some object to be kept safe, like I’m a trophy, not a person. How can anybody love something they don’t even trust?”

He’s close now. His grip tightens. “You want the truth? I don’t know if what I feel is even love. It’s obsession, Lola. It’s hunger. You’ve been under my skin since the first time I saw you. Nothing else comes close. I tried to walk away—I can’t. I want you. All of you. Even the fucked up, broken pieces. Especially those.”

A sob punches out of my chest. My fist slams against his chest, once, twice, again. “You’re not supposed to want the broken, Brody. You’re supposed to help fix it.”

He catches my fists, pins them against his shirt. “No one can fix it. Not even you. All we can do is survive it.”

He’s right. It pisses me off.

The fight goes out of me. I collapse against him, gasping. Tears wet his collarbone. My body is electric with hurt and wanting. His arms crush me to him, blocking out everything but his heartbeat and the smell of him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the skin of his neck. “For everything. For not being strong enough.”

He shudders, his lips finding the top of my head. “Don’t apologize. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re just tired.”

I sob, and then suddenly, all the fight goes out of me. My knees buckle and I fall against his chest, shaking so hard I can barely breathe.

He catches me. He always does.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips against my hair. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”

The apology cracks me open all over again. I kiss him, desperate and messy. He pulls me onto the bed with him, hands rough and gentle at once, tearing at my clothes, burying his face against my skin like he can’t get close enough.

Our bodies come together hard, wild. There’s no gentleness at first, just need, just the two of us trying to burn away the past, to make something clean out of all this pain. 

There’s nothing sweet left in either of us. I want him to hurt me, to worship me, to fuck every bruise and ghost out of my body. I want to be ruined until I belong to nothing but this moment, until my skin is raw from his hands, my throat hoarse from begging, until there’s no room left for Marcus or Richard or any other monster in this house but the one I choose.

His mouth crashes onto mine. It’s a kiss that tastes like blood and grief, like everything we’ve done to each other, everything we can’t take back. 

“Take it off,” he growls against my mouth, fists already yanking at my shirt, my bra. The fabric tears, he doesn’t care, neither do I. 

I want to be naked, stripped down, exposed. I want the daylight to see every scar, every secret. Let it watch. Let it judge. I don’t fucking care anymore.

His hands are everywhere. Bruising, greedy, possessive. He squeezes my tits, pinches my nipples until I whimper, then soothes the sting with his mouth. Biting, sucking, leaving marks I’ll feel for days. 

He drags his tongue down my sternum, teeth scraping my skin, leaving welts that are more proof I’m alive.

I arch under him, shameless, desperate. “More,” I hiss. “Don’t be careful. I don’t want careful.”

A savage grin cuts across his face. “Good. That’s all I know how to be.”

His fingers hook under the waistband of my leggings, yank them down. I kick them off, panties already soaked.

He doesn’t hesitate. He slides two fingers between my legs, rough, shoving them inside me hard enough to make me cry out. I’m soaking wet, aching, clenching around him, grinding my hips against his palm.

He growls low in his throat, watching the way I writhe, the way I cling to his wrist like I’ll die if he stops.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “So fucking wet. You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” I gasp, grabbing his wrist, fucking myself on his fingers. “Just… just fuck me, Brody. I need it. I need you to break me.”

He pulls his fingers free and wipes them across my lips. “Open,” he commands.

I do, sucking his fingers into my mouth, tasting myself, never breaking eye contact. He yanks my hips to the edge of the bed, spreads my legs wide. 

The sunlight is merciless, painting every bruise, every imperfection. I want him to see all of it. I want him to own it.

He shoves his sweatpants down, cock thick and hard and leaking. Just the sight makes my mouth water. He drags the swollen head through my cunt, smearing my wetness all over both of us.

“Say it,” he demands, voice guttural. “Say you want it.”

I lock eyes with him, defiant. “I want you to ruin me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember anything but your name.”

He thrusts in with one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch is burning, perfect. I cry out, nails digging into his back, dragging red lines down his skin. He thrusts hard, relentlessly, barely giving me time to adjust.

He leans down, mouth at my ear, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s all yours. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else ever will.”

He pounds into me, hips snapping against mine, the sound of flesh slapping echoing off the walls. He grabs my throat, squeezing just enough to make my vision blur at the edges, just enough to remind me I can still feel.

“You like this?” he snarls, his grip tightening. “You like when I’m the only one who can touch you?”

I choke on a moan, hips jerking up to meet his every thrust. “Yes. Don’t stop. Harder, Brody. I want it to hurt.”

His eyes flash. He lets go of my throat, grabs one thigh and shoves my leg up, folding me in half so he can drive even deeper. His cock slams into that perfect spot, again and again, until I’m sobbing, begging, ruined.

He bites my nipple, hard, then switches to the other, sucking and licking, teeth leaving red marks. I claw at his back, his ass, anywhere I can reach. I want to possess him, brand him, make sure he never forgets this.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, voice breaking on the word. “I want to see you cum on my cock.”

I reach down, fingers frantic on my clit, rubbing hard and fast. The pressure builds, white-hot and unbearable, my body burning with need. I feel his cock pulse inside me, the base lathered with my juices, his balls slapping my skin on every thrust.

He watches me, never looking away, eyes wild, pupils blown. “That’s it. Fuck, Lola. Squeeze me. Show me who you belong to.”

I shatter, legs kicking, back arching, cunt clenching around him in violent spasms. I gasp his name, tears streaking my cheeks, every nerve ending on fire.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, relentless, brutal, lifting my hips and slamming into me so hard I swear I could break in two. The pleasure is pain, the pain is pleasure. I can’t tell the difference anymore.

He pulls out suddenly, flips me over, drags me onto my knees. “Hands on the headboard. Don’t let go.”

I obey, too far gone to argue. He grabs my hips, yanks me back, and drives into me from behind. His cock feels even bigger in this position, hitting so deep I see stars. He spanks me, hard, once, twice, the sting making me cry out.

“Such a filthy fucking girl,” he growls, rutting into me like an animal. “You love being used, don’t you? You love being mine.”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” I sob, pushing back against him, wanting all of it, wanting more.

He fists my hair, yanks my head back so I have to arch for him, exposed and helpless, his other hand sneaking around to pinch my nipple, then my clit, never letting up. 

I’m close again, too close, the heat building, my whole body shaking.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he pants, voice breaking. “You gonna make a mess all over my cock?”

“Please,” I beg, tears smearing salt down my face. “Please, Brody—don’t stop, don’t ever stop.”

He fucks me even harder, sweat flying, his breath hot on my neck. “You’re fucking perfect. So tight. So fucking perfect, Bambi.”

He thrusts once, twice, then slams deep and holds. I feel him pulse, cock twitching as he empties inside me, hot and thick, filling me up. I clench around him, milking every drop, crying out as another orgasm rips through me, leaving me limp, spent, trembling.

He collapses over me, both of us shaking, panting, clutching each other like drowning people. For a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing.

He kisses my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, soft now, desperate and aching. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I love you. I will spend my whole life making it up to you. My Bambi. My sunlight in the dark.”

I turn in his arms, bury my face in his chest, let the tears come. For once, I don’t try to hide. He holds me tight, tighter than anyone ever has, until I start to believe I might be real again.

The house feels different, haunted but lighter, like maybe the ghosts are finally letting go.

Brody kisses my forehead, his voice barely a whisper. “We’re still here, Bambi. Still alive.”

I start to believe we both might survive this after all.

51

BRODY

The light in the cabin is soft, real sunlight this time, nothing like the harsh haze of the city, nothing like the cellars or the prison-lights we’ve both lived under.

For once, it doesn’t sting my eyes. For once, I let it in.

Lola is in the tiny kitchen, hair loose, sweater hanging off one shoulder as she pours coffee into chipped mugs. She still moves like she’s waiting to be hurt, flinching at sounds, glancing over her shoulder like the past might walk back in.

We both do. But today, there’s no one here but us.

She looks at me. Not through me, not past me. At me. Like I’m a man, not a weapon, not a killer. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I take it. I’d take anything she’d give.

She hands me the cup, her fingers brushing mine. There’s a tremor. I want to hide it, but she holds on, just a little too long. I meet her eyes—so alive it hurts.

We’re both changed, marked, stitched together by the violence and the hunger and the things we did to survive.

But neither of us is running.

“You sleep?” she asks, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

I shake my head, smirking. “Not really. You hog the blankets.”

She gives a soft laugh and leans into my side. I put my arm around her, and feel her relax, inch by inch, but it’s never all the way.

Maybe it never will be, and maybe that’s okay.

Outside, snow still dusts the trees. No footsteps, no cars, no watchers in the dark. Just our shadows moving across the floor, mingling, harmless.

I press my lips to her forehead. She closes her eyes, tilting her face up for more. My chest squeezes. Pain and love and relief, all tangled and impossible. I want to say a thousand things. I want to make promises I’m not sure I know how to keep.

She looks at me, searching. “What happens now?”

I take a breath, letting the words drift out. “Whatever you want. I’m not leaving unless you tell me to go.”

Her eyes glisten. For a second, she’s the girl I first watched through glass, all wild and breakable, but now she’s something else: forged, fierce, mine.

She leans in and kisses me. It’s not desperate. It’s not hungry. It’s just real. I lose myself in it, let her set the pace, let her take what she needs. We break apart, foreheads resting together. Sunlight pours across our hands, our scars, the bruises fading but not gone.

“I want this,” she whispers. “I want you.”

I close my eyes and hold her tighter. “You have me. All of me. Whatever’s left.”

She laughs, broken and beautiful, and for the first time in years, it doesn’t sound like a goodbye. The past isn’t gone. The darkness hasn’t vanished. But we’re here, together, in the light. As close to free as we’ve ever been.

Maybe that’s enough.

She smiles at me, soft and sure, and I realize; maybe I was never meant to be saved. Maybe I was meant to find her in the dark, and follow her out, blinking, into something like hope.

I watch her move around the cabin, sunlight in her hair, and for once, I don’t need to watch from behind glass.

For once, I’m right where I belong.

With her.

Home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND SOCIAL LINKS

Donna Kessler is a self-taught writer residing in North Carolina. She has been a lifelong lover of reading, writing and poetry, even publishing a poetry book called Swirling Emotions in 2020! She began reading when she was a toddler, and began writing at the age of 9. She enjoys writing about dark and tragic themes with deep and emotional depth. Her favorite genres to read and write are horror, mystery, romance, fantasy, poetry and anything psychological. She has one dog and also enjoys painting, psychology, spirituality, cleaning, collecting and caring for animals!

Instagram: @donnajillauthor

TikTok: @authordonnajill

POETRY IG: @donnapoetess

Substack: @donnapoetess

Wesbite: donnakesslerauthor.com

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