Page 37

A dull ache settles in my chest as I blink against the sunlight streaming through the window. I’m in bed, but everything feels...wrong.

My eyes land on the knife the masked man left behind, still perched on the bedside table. The sight of it pisses me off, so I hurl it across the room. It clatters to the floor, and the sound does nothing to soothe my anger.

“Stupid fuck,” I mumble. He doesn’t owe me a damn thing, but his absence hurts more than it should.

The way he looked at me, like he actually cared, the way he held me—what a joke. What we had was just sex. It wasn’t special, and it sure as hell didn’t mean anything.

I’m glad he’s gone.

Last night’s mess keeps replaying, and damn it, here come the tears again.

Alicia and her ultimatums. Would I really give up the one thing my mom left me just to keep this sorry excuse for a life from falling apart? Dad’s made it clear he couldn’t care less. And Spencer has his own life to worry about. Losing my spot as a Siren? That’s just a ticking time bomb before Axe yanks that away, too.

I slide down the wall in the shower, letting the hot water pour over me, but I’m out of tears now. There’s nothing left.

Axe’s words from last night keep stabbing at me, each one a fresh wound. His rage, his violence, his complete lack of humanity—they’re burned into my brain. How stupid was I to even think, for a second, that he might have any feelings for me?

It’s obvious now—I’m nothing to him. Nothing but a tool in his sick revenge game against my father who, let’s be real, doesn’t give a damn about me either.

I turn off the water, grab a towel, and head back to the bedroom. Just then, my phone dings, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Dom: The Pavilion flooded during last night’s storm. Tonight’s show is canceled, but rehearsal’s still on at 4.

Well, isn’t that just perfect. Something to keep my mind off this train wreck of a life. With almost a month to figure out Alicia’s mess, I can at least focus on rehearsal. Hell, maybe the assholes hunting Axe will take me out too. Not like I’ve got much left to lose.

I pick up the knife and toss it back on the nightstand before heading downstairs. The house is annoyingly quiet, and the smell of fresh coffee hangs in the air. I walk into the kitchen, pour a cup, and splash in some oat milk. Leaning against the counter, I take a long sip, the warmth doing little to untangle the knots in my stomach.

“The Range Rover’s at the shop. I’ll drive you to rehearsals,” Axe’s voice cuts through the silence.

I hear his footsteps—slow, deliberate—as he walks over. I don’t look at him. But his presence is like a weight pressing on me, making the air thick. He’s close now, too close.

He brushes my arm, and I stiffen. “Look at me.”

I let out a shaky breath, my hands trembling despite my best efforts to stay cool. Every part of me is screaming to ignore him, to keep my eyes anywhere but on him.

“Rory.”

I grit my teeth and finally meet his gaze. He grips my chin, forcing my face up. He pulls down the collar of my hoodie, exposing the ugly bruise on my collarbone.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I won’t show him how much he gets under my skin. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. I hate that he still has this power over me, still makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.

“Are you bruised anywhere else?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Show me.”

“I said I’m fine.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my skin.

“Show me. Now.” His voice leaves no room for argument. With an annoyed huff, I set my coffee down and lift my hoodie, revealing the bruise on my hip from where the seat belt dug in.

His thumb traces the edge of it, sending goosebumps racing across my skin.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

Our eyes lock, and for a split second, I see something flicker in his gaze. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care to find out.

The tears threaten to spill over, but I bite them back. I’m not sad—I’m fucking furious. At him, at the masked man, at my father, at the whole goddamn world.

A stupid little sniffle escapes before I can stop it.

“You’re crying,” he says, sounding almost surprised.

“No, I’m not.” I wipe at my eyes and yank my hoodie down. I step back, putting distance between us, trying to shake off the feeling of being so exposed.

Part of me wants to throw my arms around him, bury my face in his chest, and let him hold me. Another part wants to run as far away from him as I can get.

I want him to disappear, to leave me the hell alone.

I want him to fuck me, to make me forget, to make me feel something other than this stupid mess of emotions.

I want him gone.

I want him here.

I want everything and nothing all at once, and it’s tearing me apart.

I mean nothing to him. He told me I was just a hole to fuck, yet here I am, still wanting him—his touch, his attention. It makes me sick. I hate myself for it, for this weakness that crawls under my skin.

But what really burns me up is how effortlessly he twists my emotions, how he holds this power over me like it’s nothing.

I swipe at the tears threatening to spill over and grab my coffee, desperate to get away. “I need to leave at 3:30.”

“You should eat,” he calls after me.

“I’m not hungry.” I’d rather starve than spend another second in his presence.

I retreat to my room, slamming the door behind me like it could keep out the mess he’s made of my heart. My thoughts are all over the place, tangled up in him and the cold truth that I don’t matter to him.

The day drags, and I count down the minutes until I can leave for rehearsal. When it’s finally time, I grab my dance bag and head downstairs. The silence in the car is smothering, his eyes fixed on the road, mine on anything but him.

When we finally arrive, I almost throw myself out of the car, desperate for the distance. But then his voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“Rory.”

I pause, reluctantly meeting his gaze through the dark shield of his sunglasses.

“We’ll talk when I pick you up.”

I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a promise, but either way, I want no part of it. I just turn and walk away, trying to ignore the knot of dread tightening in my gut.

Dom pushes us hard, and for once, I’m grateful. The burn in my muscles is a distraction from the chaos in my head. Time slips by, and when Dom finally gives us a break before the final run-through, I rush to my dressing room, desperate to peel off my sweat-soaked clothes.

But the second I step inside, gloved hands clamp over my mouth and throat, cutting off my airflow. I struggle, clawing at the arms. The man’s grip tightens, his body pressing against mine, squeezing the life out of me. The last thing I see before everything goes black is the masked man’s reflection in the mirror, cold eyes staring back at me.