Page 9

I t’s barely even daylight as I descend the final step into the entryway, where less than twelve hours ago I stood, full of excitement and eager anticipation, oblivious to how the night would unfold. Despite the early hour, everything feels clearer somehow. Every room is empty. There’s nobody here. It’s almost like the party never happened.

But the stack of pizza boxes covering a portion of the worktop, and a cluster of bin bags by the back door tells me otherwise. On the kitchen island, there’s a takeaway coffee cup with my name scrawled across it, a brown paper bag, and... my phone. On the assumption that there’s only one person in this house who this was meant for, I open the bag.

The almond croissant has me salivating, just thinking about that sweet, buttery fix I’ve been craving. I take a big bite, savouring the flaky layers, and pop open the lid of my coffee. As soon as I breathe in the warm, spicy aroma of my pumpkin spice latte, that sugary cinnamon goodness hits me, making this October staple feel like the perfect cosy treat.

I wrap up the croissant and head outside with my breakfast, stepping around a small mountain of bin bags by the back door. I make a mental note to find the wheelie bin and deal with the mess—it's the least I can do after bailing on a party to fuck not one, but two random strangers.

The morning air is eerily quiet, an unsettling kind of calm that makes me wonder where everyone has gone. I sink into the outdoor sofa, eyes drifting across the empty garden as I unlock my phone and open my gallery. The screen fills with videos—clips of me, ‘Wes,’ and ‘Trick,’ all so familiar, yet now carrying a different weight. One video, in particular, catches my eye—a shot of me, unconscious on a bed.

I hit play, anticipation mingling with a strange sense of satisfaction. In the video, Wes—his slighter frame unmistakable—moves toward my still body. I watch with rapt attention as he injects a clear liquid into my arm, the syringe vanishing as quickly as it appeared. A slow smile tugs at my lips as he heats the blade of a knife with a lighter, the flickering flame illuminating the dark room. My pulse quickens, not with fear, but with the thrill of seeing him press the glowing blade to my skin, carving into my flesh with deliberate precision.

I continue watching, captivated, as they take turns marking me. Each incision is a claim, a testament to something I can’t quite name but know I crave. Wes eventually dresses my wound with practiced care, his touch both tender and possessive, before pulling the sheet over my body. The camera cuts out, leaving me with the image of my seemingly peaceful self, a stark contrast to the excitement thrumming just beneath my skin.

Without hesitation, I lift my T-shirt and peel away the dressing, hissing softly as fresh blood oozes from the wound. The sight is raw, visceral, but it doesn’t repel me. It draws me in. The pain is muted, almost an afterthought, drowned out by the satisfaction of knowing those marks are mine. How did I not feel this last night? And why do I barely feel it now? I press my fingers gently against the wound, a shiver of pleasure running through me. The peaceful morning around me feels like a facade, masking the dark, thrilling secret I now carry, etched into my flesh.

Unknown: Enjoying your breakfast?

Startled, I jerk my head up, tugging the T-shirt down and quickly closing the video. The screen goes dark, my reflection staring back at me with wide eyes and a racing heart. Then, something else catches my eye—a shadowy figure, just behind me, mirrored in the black glass.

My breath hitches, heart pounding in my throat. I whip around, but the space behind me is empty, the morning air still and silent. A nervous laugh escapes me, tinged with the edge of doubt. Either I'm losing my mind, or he’s really fucking good at lurking in the shadows. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of fear and excitement twisting in my gut. I can't tell if I want him to be there or if the idea terrifies me more than I’m willing to admit.

Did he just happen to guess that I’m a pumpkin spice fan? That almond croissants are my ultimate comfort food? The thought sends a chill down my spine. Maybe he’s been watching me longer than I realised. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into this, clutching at something real so last night doesn’t have to end here.

Maybe I shouldn’t like that idea so much.

I counter his question with a you got me in the hope that I’ll finally get to see his face. After all, I was well and truly tricked—it’s the least I deserve. What’s one more rule being broken at this point?

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I whisper to myself, a mix of challenge and anticipation lacing my voice. Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my hand, startling me.

Unknown: Tatum.

I watch the bubbles dance across the screen, eagerly awaiting the message.

Unknown: My sweet, haunted house.

My heart pounds with anticipation as I sense his presence before I see him. Finally, the real Wes steps out of the shadows, a dark force dressed in black, his figure imposing and magnetic. The colorful ink on his thigh peeks through the rips in his jeans, vibrant against the monochrome of his outfit. He’s impossible to ignore, every inch of him demanding my attention.

I suck in a breath, steeling myself for the moment I’ve been both dreading and craving. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his. His face is obscured beneath a black hood, but I can just make out a straight nose and a sharp jaw, half-hidden in shadow. The details are teasingly out of reach, keeping him cloaked in mystery.

Before I can fully process the sight of him, he types something on his phone. My gaze drops to my lap as my phone vibrates, the familiar buzz sending a jolt through me. The message is waiting, but I hesitate, caught between the thrill of the unknown and the reality of the man standing just inches away.

Unknown: We may have caught you, but it doesn’t mean we’re done chasing you.

Kneeling before me, Wes pulls off his hood, revealing a mass of unruly black curls that frame his face. As he lifts his gaze to meet mine, the intricate floral ink covering his throat draws my eyes, but it’s the intensity of his stare that truly holds me captive.

And I swear my heart stops beating.

Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe him. He’s a living masterpiece—a perfect blend of raw strength and delicate artistry. His strong jaw, straight nose, and those eyes—so impossibly blue they’re almost blinding, like staring directly into the sun—leave me completely mesmerised. In this moment, our strange, serendipitous connection feels like the only thing that matters.

I must be drooling, because in the next breath, a smile tugs at his lips, revealing a set of straight, white teeth that somehow make him even more devastatingly perfect.

And there it is. That heart-stopping, panty-melting smile is my undoing. It’s like he’s reached into my chest and taken hold of my heart, leaving me breathless, helpless, and undeniably his.

“You’re so...” I begin, but the words tangle in my throat, lost in the whirlwind of emotions flooding my mind. It’s hard enough to form a coherent thought, let alone string a sentence together when he’s this close, when his presence is so overwhelming.

Wes presses a finger to his beautiful lips, silencing me with a gesture as familiar as it is mesmerising. Just like the first time I saw him on the stairwell at the party, that simple motion leaves me breathless, suspended in the moment. He doesn’t say a word, but the command is clear.

Without breaking eye contact, he pulls out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly as he types another message. The anticipation builds as I wait, my heart pounding in sync with the quiet vibration that soon follows.

Unknown: Can you be quiet for me, Tatum?

I nod.

Unknown: Good girl. Wouldn’t want to wake up your friends.

Pocketing his phone, Wes sinks to his knees, shifting his attention back to me. His gaze locks onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. I try to focus on the house, reminding myself that Cara and Daisy must have crashed here with the other guests, but all thoughts scatter when Wes places his palms on my thighs. With a firm tug, he pulls them apart, his thumbs pressing against my soaked cunt through the damp fabric of my borrowed briefs.

His head dips between my legs, and he plants a slow, deliberate kiss on my pussy, his tongue trailing a line from slit to clit through the cotton. The sensation draws a sharp breath from my lungs, a mix of pleasure and longing. I’m sore, my body aching from the night before, but all I can think about is how much I want him.

“Don’t stop,” I plead, the words spilling out as he sucks my clit into his mouth, his lips and tongue working in perfect, agonising rhythm. His hands slide underneath my shirt, exploring the familiar terrain of my skin. Suddenly, his thumb twists into my open wound, and I hiss in pain, a new wave of fresh blood trickling from the cut. But he’s relentless, the sharp sting only amplifying the pleasure as he continues to suck and lick me through the fabric.

The contrast between the pain and the pleasure, the rough and the tender, leaves me trembling, lost in the overwhelming sensations he’s creating. Every touch, every movement, drags me deeper into a place where all I can feel is him.

I come almost instantly, my cries of release escaping long and loud as Wes’s tongue and that magical fucking mouth continue to coax every last shudder from me. My body goes limp, sinking back into the sofa, utterly spent. I’m not even sorry for the loss of control. If anything, he should be the one apologising for being such a goddamn enigma. I’m determined to unravel the mystery of Wes, even if it means losing myself in the process.

He retreats, leaving me breathless and dazed. As I lift my T-shirt, I glide my fingertips over my open wound, feeling the blood smear as it leaks from the two identical words carved into my flesh. Mine. The writing is unmistakable, each word clearly etched by different hands, shallow yet deep enough to leave a temporary scar. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, a mix of discomfort and strange satisfaction.

An urgent curiosity grips me, compelling me to finish watching the footage from last night. I need to know exactly what I missed while I was passed out, to piece together the full story. But as I look at the marks on my skin, I’m haunted by a different question: How will I feel once last night is a distant memory and all that remains are these scars?

My phone vibrates again, jolting me from my tangled thoughts.

Unknown: You’re so fucking beautiful when you come.

Heat flushes my cheeks as I watch him type out another message, his expression unyielding and solemn.

Unknown: This doesn’t have to be over if you don’t want it to be. Just say the word.

He stands, and I follow, refocusing my gaze on his intense blue eyes, which shift between darkness and light, yin and yang.

I give in to the realisation that I’m not ready for this to end. I want more—more of this, more of us. I crave his depravity, his softness, caught between the thrill of being chased and the comfort of being caught.

“Wes?” I say, my voice steady but laden with desire. His gaze darkens further at the sound of his name. “Maybe you could keep me a little longer,” I continue, my words laced with a mixture of longing and hope. “Until Halloween is over, at least. Until the scars heal.”

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips as he types another message on his phone, the movement deliberate and full of unspoken meaning. The seconds stretch into an agonising wait as the anticipation of his response fills the space between us.

Unknown: I’d like that.

A stray lock of hair falls across his eyes as he types again, the gesture both casual and unexpectedly intimate.

Unknown: And I like hearing you say my name, almost as much as I love hearing you scream.

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, my pulse quickening at his words. “I love saying your name,” I reply softly, letting the sentiment linger in the air.

Unknown: Well, then, my pretty dead girl. This won’t end here.