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He’s waited for me to wake up so he could take his time torturing me.

Murdering me.

I whimper. He cocks his head to the side.

My teeth snap shut.

“Missed me?” he grunts.

An old instinct flares inside me, obliterating my need to live. A protective one.Of him.

Someone could come searching for him here. In my apartment.

“This is a mistake, coming to my home.” As I talk, I clutch the knot on my towel, tugging it close to my body. “You have to hide.”

He isn’t listening to me. Kaleb tips his chin down, his entire focus on my hand. On the flimsy towel that separates us. Ice chills my spine and heat pools at my core.

His eyes strip me.

He’s doing deplorable things to me inside his head.

No doubt about that. I don’t need to actually see his eyes or be a mind reader to know it.

A low growl reverberates from his chest.

A weak cry comes from mine.

Not because I hate it.

I don’t hate him being here. Don’t hate him staring at me in a totally different way than how he did eleven years ago.

I do not, cannot, hate how his free hand bunches my towel up my legs. Just a little.

I cry out because I don’t hate it at all.

“Please.”Stop. Go on. Kill me. Just kill me already, please. I need this nightmare that I’ve lived in for the past eleven years to end. Do it.“Please.”

His hand stills on my thigh. “You haven’t answered my question. Don’t you darepleaseme until you do.”

“I did miss you.” It’s the truth. My chin wobbles as he pushes my towel up another inch. “I did, and I’m so sorry, Kaleb.”

He stills a second time. His thumb is there, pushing between my clenched thighs. If he goes any higher, he’ll touch me where I’m hot for him. Where I’m shamefully wet for him.

For a murderer.

For my stepbrother.

“What about you? Hmm?” Sassing him isn’t an act of bravery. It’s all panic laced with surprise. So much so that I gasp at the end of the sentence.

He huffs a cold, soulless laugh. “What about me?”

“Yes.” My mouth does the talking for me. Instead of telling him to leave like I should, instead of letting him punish me, I demand answers. I’m going to die soon, anyway. Might as well find out if there’s only hate there or something else. “Did you miss me?”

He’s on me in a flash. Manhandles me to the floor, pressing my back flat against it. Towering over me while my wet hair sprawls on the rug. On my shoulders, hiding my scar. My shame.

He can’t see it. Can’t pity me.

Though his pity isn’t my biggest concern. The fear of the promised pain is stronger than I imagined it would be. I clutch onto my towel for dear life, terrified of what could happen once it’s off.