Page 72

SEVENTY-TWO

PRESENT

AMETHYST

Everything aches.

My head pounds in sync with the slow beat of my heart, and my throat feels hoarse from screaming. Every muscle burns as though I’ve just run a marathon, and my pussy has never felt so raw.

I want to drift back into unconsciousness and sleep away the pain, but a niggling part of my brain urges me to surface. Why? I don’t know.

The last time something like this happened, there was a horrific scandal. Two men at my college were found dead in their dorm. Mom and Dad freaked out that there was a killer on the loose. And before I knew it, I was back on a cocktail of drugs that knocked me out for weeks.

To this day, I still don’t know why they pulled me out of college, but my life soon turned into an endless blur of blackouts, prescriptions, and bed. When I finally emerged from my haze, I was already living at number 13, Parisii Drive.

So, I don’t want to wake up, thank you very much. I’ll probably get blamed for something I don’t even remember.

As I drift back into slumber, my mind dredges up snatches of memories. Not just from the quartet of men in black who broke into my home, but from being chased through a graveyard by Xero.

Wasn’t that just a nightmare?

My throbbing clit says it wasn’t, as does my sore pussy. I crack open an eye, but sunlight stings my retinas, so I seal it shut. What the hell did I take? This feels worse than the time I got drunk on vodka and holy water.

Shit.

Why am I picturing myself relaxing in a Roman bath surrounded by stained-glass windows? That had to be another dream, because Xero is just a ghost.

Isn’t he?

I’m trying to sift through what’s real, what’s a nightmare, and what’s just a hallucination, but my brain won’t cooperate. Can’t it just create a purple haze, so I know which is which?

Because there’s no way in hell Xero would fuck me on his own grave, then knock me unconscious, give me a nice, warm bath, and blow dry my hair. That’s too surreal.

Maybe it’s time I found a new doctor. I could apply for a credit card and get myself into debt. Nothing matters more than my mental health because, right now, I can’t function.

I open my eyes and wince at the force of the sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window. From the looks of it, I’d say it was noon.

But what about those men who broke into my house?

I should be dead or captured, not put to bed. That’s not how gangs of rapists operate.

My gaze darts around, looking for anything out of place. When I try to rise on my elbows, my arms are restrained. I try to kick off my sheets, but there’s something around my ankles. I pull my hand out from the cover to find a black rope around my wrist, looking like it’s attached to the bed.

My hands are filthy, as though I’ve drawn someone’s blood.

Not again.

I glance across the bed at the other pillow for a note that says I’m grounded. When I don’t find it, I turn toward the nightstand. Somehow, my phone has found its way back to my bedroom and is charging.

Heavy footsteps creak on the stairs, making my stomach drop. Maybe it’s one of the men from last night, coming up to gloat. He’s probably connected to Jake and will interrogate me about what happened to his fellow troll.

Cold sweat breaks out across my brow. I breathe hard, trying to muster up some strength to break out of my bonds, but my muscles refuse to cooperate. What the hell did I do last night besides run around a graveyard?

Did that even happen at all?

A hulking figure walks in, holding a tray. His hoodie obscures his face, radiating danger. I suck in a deep breath to scream but freeze as he steps into the light.

Ice-blue eyes meet mine, framed by high cheekbones and a strong brow. A septum piercing glints on his straight nose, and two rings punctuate his bottom lip. Most alarming are the four jagged scratches on his cheek, raw against his otherwise flawless skin.

My heart pounds, a volatile mix of attraction and fear.

I would know that face anywhere.

“Xero?” I whisper.

“Recognize me now?” he asks, his voice dry.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You woke up last night, thinking you were under attack,” he mutters. “I tried to restrain your arms, but you fought like a berserker.”

“What’s that?”

He flashes me a grin so wide that my heart makes a backflip. “A mythical warrior who goes into an alternate state. Some say they’re possessed by spirits, but they’re supposed to be unbeatable.”

“Wait.” I gulp. “There’s no way I could have done that to you.”

He raises a brow. “Take a look at what’s under your nails.”

I shudder, already having seen the blood. At least nobody’s a corpse .

Xero continues forward with the tray and walks into the light. When he doesn’t flicker, realization hits me in the face.

“You’re not a ghost?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

He sets down the tray. “When you mentioned blackouts, I thought you meant dizzy spells. Tell me what you last remember?”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying not to think about what horror he wants me to dredge up from the recesses of my mind.

“I was writing my ghost romance, and some men broke into the house. Then you stepped out from the cupboard under the stairs and killed them with an ax.”

“They’re not dead.”

“But I saw…” I shake my head. “Xero, what’s happening? How are you alive?”

“Didn’t I tell you we would be together after the execution?”

“You did, but I thought you meant in spirit.”

Looking at Xero for too long is painful. He’s too pale, too perfect, too fucking pretty. The photos didn’t do him justice, and neither did that mugshot. He’s like a statue come to life, with a light dusting of platinum stubble that adds to his otherworldly allure.

His intense stare pierces my soul, making it impossible to believe he’s real. I have to drop my gaze, overwhelmed by his sheer presence.

I’ve had a psychotic break, brought on by an excess amount of stress. That’s how Mrs. Mancini described my condition when I pushed Mr. Lawson off the roof garden.

Myra’s mom said that I had been one of many of his young victims and couldn’t cope with the abuse. The defense she and Dr. Saint concocted was that I’d been driven insane by the forced abortion. When he trapped me in the roof garden to rape me so soon after a traumatic event, my body reacted in self-defense.

Maybe it’s happening again, except I’m imagining Xero.

“Amethyst.” He cups my cheek. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes?” I whisper .

“Did you forget last night?”

“Um… Do you mean the graveyard?” I ask.

“What else do you remember?” he asks.

“You took me to the old rectory for a bath.”

He nods, those pale eyes brightening. “Good girl. What else?”

“Waking up here with a pounding headache?”

He sighs, seeming disappointed. Oddly enough, the part of me that always wanted to please Xero aches for a way to earn his praise. I already told him I have gaps in my memory. What the hell did I miss that could be so important?

“I explained everything before putting you to bed,” he says.

“I don’t remember that.” I peer at him from the corner of my eyes. “Sorry.”

“Eat your breakfast.” He places a tray on my lap.

I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Did I give you a choice?” He grabs the back of my neck and twists my head toward a tray containing cereal, buttered toast, and coffee. “Eat.”

My heart pounds. Memories of weeks of terror float to the surface of my mind like flush-resistant turds. Xero can’t be trusted. This breakfast is just another torture tactic.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say. “How are you still alive?”

“Eat, and I’ll explain.”

“Untie my hands, and I’ll eat.”

He laughs, the sound bitter. “And if you turn on me, I’ll have to knock you out again.”

Nothing about this situation is right, from Xero being alive and in my bedroom to the sight of all this food I didn’t buy. This isn’t even my bread, and I sure as hell didn’t stock any cereal and milk.

The ache in my muscles could be from fighting, but what if I was fighting for my life? What if I tried to defend myself because Xero decided to get revenge on me after weeks of biding his time?

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“How do I know this breakfast isn’t poisoned?”

He rears back, his eyes widening, his lips curling with offense. “Why would I put shit in your food? ”

“Well, you murdered a bunch of men. Maybe I’m the next in line for your revenge.”

Xero makes a low, animalistic sound that’s half-exasperation, half-growl. Goosebumps break out across my skin, and all the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t know why I’m being so calm in the presence of a killer. Maybe it’s a freeze response, because I sure as hell can’t fight or flee when he’s restrained my arms and legs.

He leans so close that my skin tingles at the caress of his warm breath. “Do you think I want you dead?”

“Are you denying that you set me up to hang?” I ask, my voice measured. “Or was that a hallucination?”

“You weren’t going to hang.”

“I don’t believe you,” I rasp. “How could you know I’d bring down the ceiling?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it the night I left Death Row,” he snarls, his voice so low that it penetrates the marrow of my bones. “I could have slithered out from under your bed and smothered you in your sleep. I could have strangled you with your sheets or stabbed your thick skull. I could have snapped your neck, slashed your jugular vein, or shot you in the stomach.”

“Impressive use of alliteration,” I mutter. “But I still don’t trust a thing you say.”

He snatches a piece of toast, takes a large bite, chews, then swallows. After washing it down with a mouthful of coffee, he eats a spoonful of cereal. “Is that good enough for you?”

“That depends on if you rush out of the room to throw up,” I reply.

“If I knew you’d be this infuriating, I wouldn’t have bothered replying to your letter,” he snarls.

I grind my teeth. “Why are you even here? Don’t tell me it’s because death will never keep us apart, because I know you want to break my spirit.”

When he doesn’t reply, I add, “Or did another vengeful ghost say shit about me in morse code?”

His nostrils flare. “Are you holding that over my head? After everything you did to me?”

“I already explained a thousand times why I wasn’t at the wedding and why I made money from the videos. Everyone else was earning from the creator fund. What was so bad about me doing the same?”

“Eat your damn breakfast.”

“No,” I snap. “We keep going around in circles. I apologize for what I did, then you cut me off, then you return to make me grovel. Do you know how frightened I was when I saw you as the Grim Reaper? I didn’t know if I was hallucinating again or being haunted.”

He breathes hard, his features tightening with repressed fury. Common sense screams at me that I shouldn’t rile up a mass murderer who’s tied me up in my own home and may or may not be trying to feed me poison, but he’s pushed me beyond the point of reason.

“And another thing. Why the hell did you murder Kayla? She only took a dildo?—”

Xero grabs my throat. “And my mother’s locket,” he snarls. “Did you tell that bitch to turn the photos I sent you into pornographic merchandise?”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“Answer my question.” He punctuates that command with a shake.

How the hell did he switch things up again? It isn’t me who snuck around an innocent woman’s life like a Scooby Doo villain, murdering people who got too close to his possession. Now he has the nerve to accuse me of something new?

“I don’t know anything about the merch,” I snap. “And stop changing the subject.”

“I’m alive,” he says.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I spit back.

“You accused me of poisoning your breakfast. I ate it. I’m not dead.”

My gaze drops down to the tray, where coffee and milk has spilled on its surface from all that unnecessary jostling. I glance at Xero, who glares down at me like the angel of vengeance.

“If this tray isn’t clear by the time I return, there will be consequences.” He turns on his heel and walks toward the door.

“Where are you going?” I ask .

“Checking on the men I captured last night,” he says without sparing me a glance. “I need to know if they have any accomplices before I make you kill them.”

He disappears into the hallway, leaving me with my roiling thoughts.