Page 5

July, 2014.

Massachusetts in July sweats through your skin. Mornings bright and blinding, afternoons a thunderstorm waiting to happen. That day was hot like hell, but the sky stayed gray, like even the sun couldn’t bear to look.

My eighteenth birthday.

I sat curled in the corner of my bedroom, dragging a fingernail into the peeling green wallpaper beside my closet—scratching another tally into the wall, marking time like I was serving asentence. All I wanted was to disappear. To never seeanyof them again.

I wore an oversized black shirt, its edge brushing my knees. My hair was tied in a loose bun, dark and messy. My cheeks were sticky with tears. My skin, was still raw, still feeling the strokes from the Father’s belt.

The door creaked open. Then shut. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to.

It washim.

Dorian.

My stepbrother for four years. He was a brat, a rebel, a wild thing in a house that punished anything out of line. But he never let them break him.

“Hey, Trouble,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Loving the makeup.”

“I like yours better,” I mumbled, eyes flicking up to the purple bruise blooming beneath his eye.

His black hair clung to his forehead, damp, and messy in a way that felt intentional without trying. His eyes, so dark they looked black in the shadows, watched me as he crouched down. His jaw was sharp and clean-shaven. Beautiful, in a way that felt misplaced in this house full of cold and ugly people.

But don’t get me wrong, he was dangerous. I knew that. He wore his bad like a scent, a warning.

That stupid black button-up, always with two buttons undone, revealing his silver cross. A middle finger to the whole idea of faith. Tight black jeans. Black All-Stars I wasn’t allowed to wear.

Sneakers are for boys,my stepmother would say.Girls wear heels and dresses.

I never got what I wanted.

Dorian reached for my hand. From behind his back, he pulled out a chocolate muffin with a single pink candle sticking out.

He placed it gently in my palm.

“Happy birthday, Trouble.”

I couldn’t help the smile. “You remembered.”

He lit the candle. His smirk replaced the smile, cocky and soft all at once.

“Make a wish.”

“What’s the point?” I whispered. “I never get my wish.”

“Maybe this time you will,” he said, raising a brow, hand sliding up to scratch the back of his head.

Those hands. Veined and strong, covered in tattoos like messy, beautiful stories. They were too much.Hewas too much. My body always betrayed me when he was near. It was wrong. So fucking wrong. He wasn’t blood, but we shared the same last name—and worse, he held pieces of my heart that no one else even knew existed.

And the heart… the heart doesn’t give a damn about rules. He knew that. Loved it. He liked to tease, to make me beg for things I wasn’t supposed to want.

And tonight, tonight he’d haunt me forever. Because after midnight, he knew there would be no more lines to cross. Nothing holding him back.

I closed my eyes, blew out the candle, and swallowed the breath that trembled in my chest.

He leaned in—too close. His voice brushed across my lips.“What did you wish for, Trouble?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He saw it in my face.