Page 35 of Broken by my Bully (Lessons in Cruelty Dark Academia #1)

Bastian

The Uber driver gives me a grudging nod of admiration before he reverses his car out of my driveway and heads back to civilization. I suppose I should be glad my house is appealing. It took fucking long enough to build. And cost me twice what I’d been quoted.

I lean back, staring up at the monstrosity. Strategically placed spotlights pick out details in the architecture that make the structure all the more imposing.

A sharp angle here. Rough, textured concrete there.

I blink when water hits my face.

Christ, what am I doing standing here in the rain?

Oh, right. I was too fucking drunk to drive home, and now I’m pondering why the hell I built myself such a depressing house.

I’m chuckling to myself as I head for the front door. My security system registers the cellphone in my pocket and unlocks the front door with a faint click. I track a few steps of mud onto the carpet before I remember to take off my shoes.

It’s barely drizzling outside, but it’s been going at it for over two hours. The roads are slippery, and as much as I trust my Tesla to get me home safely despite that, I sure as fuck don’t trust myself .

I slip out of my jacket and toss it over the back of the sofa as I pass it on my way to the kitchen.

Now that I’m home, I can keep on drinking.

Better booze, much better company.

My hands move automatically to my wrists, unbuttoning my cuffs. Then to my throat, unbuttoning my shirt.

I veer to the fireplace, turn it on, watch the flames spring up out of thin air to dance and flicker along the row of pebbles. They illuminate the furniture, ensuring I won’t walk into anything, so I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights.

Should have come straight home instead of stopping off at that bar. But The Eden House, Evelyn’s frail care home, is an hour’s drive past Ashwood Crossing, and as soon as I hit the border of this pathetic little town, I couldn’t wait anymore.

It’s her fucking gift. The one in my bag I so desperately want to throw in the trash. The one I so desperately want to open.

Why does it feel so fucking heavy?

I can’t get it out of my head.

Exactly why it’s still in my satchel, unopened.

Might never tear open that pretty gift wrapping.

Silent rebellion.

I laugh, shaking my head as I step into the kitchen. There’s a stab of pain in my hand, and I stare at the dent in the refrigerator door. Then I laugh again because, Jesus Christ, just when I think I have my shit under control, I assault my household appliances.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

I’ve never had control.

Not then, not now.

One way or the other, that cunt Evelyn will ensure that I?—

I spin around, staring into my bedroom. Could have sworn I just heard something in there. A muted, clandestine sound, not meant to carry.

No one could have gotten inside. I have alarms. Burglar proofing. And they’d have to find this fucking place first. It’s isolated for a reason.

I rarely enjoy other people’s company.

My feet are silent on the thick carpets as I pad toward the bedroom. I detour slightly, grabbing the ornamental iron poker from its stand.

Feels as heavy as that fucking gift.

I heft it, tightening my grip. Preparing myself for whatever—or whoever—is waiting in the gloom of my sanctum.

But when I flick on the light, no one tries to attack me. Nothing scurries away, back into the dark.

It’s just me. I’m all alone. Just the way I like it.

A smile curls my lips as I set the poker back in its place.

But as my hand leaves the warming iron, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I spin around, but the darkness outside is thick and absolute, all but the closest rain rendered invisible.

“Alexa, turn on the floodlights.”

“Turning on the floodlights,” Alexa replies, as a muted white glow spills in through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows.

Muted shock forces a sharp breath through my nose. My jaw clamps tight as I shift my weight to my other foot, and I sway before I can catch my balance.

There’s a figure standing in my garden, just a few feet from the sliding door, as if they’d been on their way to knock.

I don’t know why I take the poker with me when I go to open the door. But I’ve watched enough horror movies to know you always have to be prepared for the worst.

But the closer I draw, the clearer the figure becomes.

Not my mother in her nightgown. Not my mother at all.

And I’m pretty sure, drunk or not, Haven Lee could never overpower me.

Which begs the question…why the fuck is she standing in my backyard, shivering in the rain like the final girl in a horror movie?