Page 168 of Piggy

She pulls her corset up, cheeks flaming, and scurries to the corner like a scolded doll.

Meghan leans over me, her mouth curled in disgust. “Rowen. Look at you. Naked. Tied up. What happened to the man who used tohurt mefor fun? Now you let this bitch tie you up?”

I stay quiet.

Let her believe it. Let her rot in that lie. It burns her worse thinking IwantedCharlotte’s ropes. That I surrendered to someonebetterthan her.

“I love Charlotte,” I say simply, the words now as natural as breathing. She’s my oxygen. Without her... I can’t imagine.

Meghan knows it and recoils like I just slapped her. Her expression fractures, then hardens.

“I want things to go back,” she whispers. “The way they were.”

“You mean,putting me in prison?” I sneer. “You blackmailing me into phone calls. Threatening to report that I contacted you so I’d get thrown into solitary?”

Her lips tremble. “Imissyou.”

“No. You miss control. You miss me cleaning up your vomit, hiding your pills, babysitting your overdoses.”

She glares.

I don’t stop.

“Youdon’tlove me. Youhateme. You hateallmen like I hated women. You used me as your punching bag since dayone. So tell me, Meghan...” I meet her eyes, ice cold. “That night. Was it rape, or did you want it?”

Silence.Her expression flickers, something wicked behind her gaze.

Then she shrugs, casual as sin. “Maybe if I get rid of Charlotte forever—”

The blood in my veins turns to lava.

“Meghan,” I snarl, pure threat, pure promise. “You hurt her, you die.”

She flinches. Her chin wobbles. “Why can’t you love me like you love her?”

“Meghan,” says Riser. “You want him as your simping assistant, fine. Let’s get rid of the bitch already.” His gun swings, pointing at Charlotte.

Thud.

A grunt.

Thewizof a bullet.

Charlotte’s scream.

It all happens so fast.

Red splatters the wall behind Charlotte, like gruesome artwork.

“Fuck!” I shout, my neck craning, body twisting against the ropes, trying to see her past furniture. “Baby!”

A sick gurgle answers.

Closer.

Riser’s hunched over to my left, clutching his throat. Blood pumps between his fingers, thick, dark, and fast. Hedrops to his knees, choking on his own spit, trying to speak. Failing. His final breath sounds like soup bubbling.

Then—