Page 7

REILY

I sit on the edge of my bed, the bathrobe clinging to me like a second skin. Dawn creeps through the window, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges, but sleep is a no-show tonight. My hands are cold, my thoughts louder than any morning birdsong.

"Just broken glass," I mutter, my voice dry and too sharp in the quiet room. My fingers trace the faint marks on my neck, the memory of his grip still there, like a phantom no amount of scrubbing will erase.

"Get a grip, Reily," I hiss, slapping my hands on my thighs. The bathrobe slips off one shoulder, and I yank it back up like it’s betrayed me. "You’re not some damsel. You’re not..." I trail off because the thought of what I might be, what he made me feel, is too much to unpack right now.

The whole thing feels like a trap. If I don’t show up, he’ll come after me. Worse, he’ll go after Mom, the house, everything I’ve barely managed to hold onto. And if I do show up? Who knows what he’ll demand.

I groan, pressing my face into my hands. "Why does that have to be the thing I can’t stop thinking about?"

"Because you’re an idiot," I snap at myself, standing abruptly. The robe falls open, and I wrap it tighter, as if it can somehow shield me from my own stupidity. "He’s dangerous. He’s... whatever the hell he is. And you’re..."

I stop, pacing the small room. The floorboards creak under my weight, each step echoing my agitation.

"Fine," I say to the empty room, my voice steadier now. "You’ll go. You’ll play nice. And if he tries anything, you’ll..."

I trail off again because the truth is, I don’t know what I’ll do. But the thought of being in that house, of getting close to him again, sends a shiver down my spine—and it’s not all fear.

I yank open my closet door, staring at the handful of clothes that pass for my wardrobe. "What do you even wear to a billionaire’s house when you’re basically his prisoner?"

Jeans and a flannel shirt stare back at me, judgmental in their plainness. "Fantastic," I mutter, grabbing them anyway. "At least I’ll look like myself."

I throw them on the bed and sit back down, running a hand through my messy hair. "You’re not going there for him ," I remind myself, my voice low but firm. "You’re going to figure out how to stop him. Save the town. Save Mom. And if he wants to play games..."

I struggle to contain myself, my fingers tightening on the edge of the mattress.

"Well, let’s see who wins."

The coffee percolates, filling the kitchen with its bitter wake-up call.

I grip my phone like it’s a life raft, scrolling through contacts with a sinking feeling in my gut.

Every name I call—Seabus, Clem, even that weird girl from the laundromat—either ghosts me or has some critical excuse.

Halfway through the list, my thumb hacks a ragged nail into the screen.

Of course it comes down to this.

Boris picks up on the second ring. His voice oozes pure, unfiltered grease. "Hey, baby, I knew you couldn’t resist my manly charms for long. My place, or yours?"

The mug in my other hand creaks under my grip. "I need someone to sit for my mom. You’re my last resort. I’ll pay you—with money, don’t get ideas—and next time we do a demonstration, you can use a megaphone."

A muffled scuffle erupts on the other end, punctuated by Barfbag’s hyena cackle. When Boris comes back, he’s practically wheezing. "Barfbag gets a megaphone, too. And you have to show us your boobies."

The mug slams onto the counter hard enough to send sparks of pain up my wrist. "Yes to the megaphone. And if you mention my boobies again, you’re both going to need dental implants before you hit twenty."

A beat of silence. Then, in deeply theatrical reverence: "We accept your terms, mistress."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Mom’s gonna take one look at these knuckleheads and think I’ve finally lost it. The thought of explaining— No, no, they’re just deeply unfortunate human beings who owe me after the whole ‘roadkill smoothie’ incident last summer —makes my temples throb.

"Just—just be at the house in an hour. And for the love of God, don’t call me ‘mistress’ in front of my mother."

The line goes dead with their laughter still ringing in my ear. I slump against the counter, staring into the black depths of my coffee. "What the hell am I doing?" I mutter.

The coffee doesn’t answer. Smartest conversation I’ve had all morning.

The doorbell rings, and I open it to find Boris and Barfbag standing there, their faces lit up with matching grins that make me instantly regret this decision.

Barfbag’s got a Slayer shirt on, the shirt I’m pretty sure he’s worn every day since eighth grade, and Boris is holding a bag of Doritos like it’s a peace offering.

"Hey, Reily," Boris drawls, popping a chip into his mouth. "We’re here to babysit your mom. Cool, huh?"

"Thrilling," I mutter, stepping aside so they can come in. "Just... don’t wreck the place, okay?"

Barfbag snorts, already scanning the living room like a vulture. "Wrecking stuff is kinda our thing, Reily. But we’ll try to keep it to a minimum."

Mom’s in her wheelchair by the window, and when she sees them, her face lights up. "Oh, hi boys! Come on in!"

"Whoa," Boris says, his eyes widening as he takes in Mom’s collection of vinyl records on the shelf. "You’re into Slayer too, Mrs. D?"

"Absolutely!" Mom beams, her enthusiasm catching me off guard. "Reign in Blood is a classic. Have you heard South of Heaven?"

Barfbag lets out a whoop, grabbing one of Mom’s records like he’s found buried treasure. "You’re officially the coolest mom ever!"

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open. Since when does Mom know Slayer lyrics? Since when does she care about heavy metal? She’s supposed to be the one who listens to old country music and hums along to Patsy Cline, not headbang to Angel of Death .

"Mom," I say slowly, "what’s going on?"

She shrugs, her eyes gleaming. "What? I had a life before library books and diaper changes, you know."

Boris and Barfbag are already air-guitaring in the middle of the living room, their heads bobbing to some imaginary beat. Mom joins in, her fingers moving like she’s shredding on an invisible guitar. I’ve officially stepped into some alternate dimension.

"Hey, Mrs. D," Boris says, pausing mid-air-guitar. "Have you ever taken your wheelchair through a fast food drive-thru? Like, does that even work?"

Mom tilts her head, considering. "You know, I’ve never tried. Should we find out?"

Barfbag’s eyes light up. "This is gonna be epic."

I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "At least my mom is in…good?…hands I guess."

"Don’t worry, Reily," Mom says, grinning at me. "We’ll be fine. You go do what you need to do."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, grabbing my keys off the hook. "Just... don’t burn the house down."

"Only a little bit," Barfbag calls after me, and Boris laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

I head out to the POS, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. The engine sputters twice before finally roaring to life after I punch the dashboard a few times for good measure.

"Perfect," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel. "Just perfect."

As I pull out of the driveway, I can see Mom and the boys through the window, their laughter echoing out into the yard. For a second, I almost feel guilty for leaving her with them. Almost.

The POS rattles down the road, and I focus on the task ahead. Gary’s cabin looms in my mind like a storm cloud, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into something I might not walk out of. But for now, I push that thought aside and keep driving.

The POS sputters down the long, winding private road, kicking up gravel and dust like it’s trying to take a last stand before giving up the ghost. I squint at the signs posted every ten feet. No Trespassing. Trespassers Will Be Shot. Survivors Will Be Shot Again.

"Charming," I mutter, tightening my grip on the wheel. The man’s got a real flair for hospitality.

The cabin comes into view, all natural wood and stone, looking like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream. It’s massive, with windows that probably cost more than my entire house. I pull up in front and kill the engine, the POS wheezing its last breath as I step out.

No sign of Gary. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the distant thwack of someone chopping wood. I follow the sound around the back, my boots crunching on the gravel.

There he is. Shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he swings an ax with the kind of precision that drives me wild.

He’s built like a damn mountain, all hard lines and sharp angles.

The scars on the left side of his face catch the sunlight, giving him a jagged, broken look that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

He doesn’t stop. The ax bites into the log with a satisfying crack.

"Excuse me," I try again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Hey! Gary! "

He pauses mid-swing, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he turns, those red eyes zeroing in on me. They travel down my body, lingering on my chest so long I can practically feel the weight of his gaze. When they finally meet mine, there’s a heat there that makes my skin prickle.

"Your uniform’s inside," he growls, voice low and gravelly. "Get dressed and then report to me for your first assignment."

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. At least he got me a uniform. I won’t have to ruin my own clothes doing whatever menial labor he’s got planned.

Inside the cabin, the mess hits me like a punch to the gut. Furniture overturned, a shattered vase on the floor, and a coffee table that looks like it’s been hit by a sledgehammer. This isn’t just messy—this is rage, pure and unfiltered.

"What the hell happened here?" I mutter, stepping over a pile of broken glass.