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I crash back to reality. “Let me go,” I say in a shaky voice.

“A little late,” he replies.

“Better late than never.”

He leans in once more, a demonic glow in his heavy gaze. “Maybe I shouldn’t let you go. What if you go to the cops?”

“If I were going to do that, I already would have,” I insist—hoping he understands that the swirling madness inside me is only temporary.

“He was going to kill you,” he reminds me.

This conversation is as surreal as the night's events. “And you killed Mr. Mitchum.”

“Mr. Mitchum was a bad man,” he says with a soft laugh, though the sound feels empty.

I narrow my eyes. “And you?”

He stops laughing, that sensuous mouth turning deadly serious. “I’m a bad man too—the worst.”

His words should scare me, but instead, they ignite something even deeper, and he kisses me again. Oh God—I wonder if his tongue is pierced. That hard, smooth thing is beyond hot. I even find myself wondering what it might be like to…

“Why don’t you meet me again?” he asks.

“No,” I reply firmly.

“You know I’ll find you.”

“You can try,” I slur, still drunk from my experience and completely out of my mind with lust. “I—I have to go.”

I push him away, and he steps back.

For the third time that night, I run like freaking hell. When I’m a few blocks away, I call an Uber and wait inside an all-night diner for my ride to show up.

I’m still reeling from him when I finally get home about forty minutes later. I sneak into our Bayside mansion, up to the third floor and my bedroom. I strip out of my costume, then pause to stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are dilated and slightly stunned, my hair, which is a color I like to call dirty carrot, is a complete mess. My lips are swollen, and there’s a bite mark and bruise on my throat—as if he branded me as his. I try to shove that thought away, but it sticks stubbornly.

No freaking way am I seeing that monster again. He won’t find me. Besides, I rarely hang around in the borough where I live anyway.

Slowly, I head to the shower in my giant en suite and turn on the rain showerhead, letting the hot, steamy water wash over me—the hotter and steamier, the better. A sudden chill runs through me. Or maybe it’s just the shock of cold water mixed with zero steam. My legs begin to shake as I glance at myself again in the mirror—there are more marks hidden beneath the blood spatters, and they almost kill the last of the lust coiled inside me. Luckily, I can cover them up with makeup.

Fucking John. What an asshole.

I shower, pull on an oversized t-shirt, and return to my room.

In a moment of panic, I scream, “Viviana! What are you doing here?”

My sister is sitting on my bed in her frilly pajamas, smiling. “Sorry, Luce, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, thoughthere’s no real sorrow in her voice. “Headley never showed up and when I couldn’t find you, I just left.”

“You got back fast.” She must’ve been in the car on her way home while I was being deliciously assaulted in the park.

She lets out a deep sigh. “Can I sleep with you? I’m lonely.”

“Sure. Why didn’t Headley come out? Did he call you?”

Her green eyes shift away from me. “No, but he will, I’m sure. C’mon, I’m tired.”

I walk over to the bed and she flips over to look at me. “What happened to your face?”

I bring a hand to my cheek like I’m surprised at the question. “I walked into a low-hanging branch on my way to the club. Scratched up my cheek real good.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue.