Page 2

Nic

Present Day

My skin feels too tight, my body wound like a spring about to snap.

Six hours of working the room at the Shine with Scars fundraiser, and all I have to show for it is aching feet and a desperate need to be fucking . . . touched.

The house is dark except for the blue glow leaking from my fiancé’s gaming room. I follow the light like a moth to a flame, my hand finding the switch as soon as I push open the door.

The scene hits me in snapshots: monster cans arranged in a silver graveyard, half-eaten pizza congealing in open boxes, Theo hunched over his gaming setup, the glow of the monitors painting his blonde hair electric blue.

His favorite ASB—Aldridge School of Business—hoodie stretches across his broad quarterback shoulders, still unwashed because he keeps fishing it out of the laundry heap. The family name emblazoned across his back seems to mock me. As if I need another reminder of whose world I’m living in.

The heir to the Aldridge fortune, ladies and gentlemen, looking like he’s three days deep into a gaming bender.

“On your six, on your six!” His voice mingles with the tinny chaos erupting from his headset.

Twenty-four years old, in the same postgrad program as me, and still living like a freshman during finals week.

“You’re back,” he says without turning, fingers flying over the gamepad.

“Finally.” I drop my heels by the door and curl my toes into the plush carpet. The relief is obscene after hours in four-inch stilettos I had no business getting into, just to impress my new boss. “I had the longest day, babe.”

Theo grunts. “It’s raid night.”

Of course it is.

I press my thighs together, trying to quell the ache between them. The fundraiser had been a bust—hours of fake smiles and careful small talk, of rich donors looking through me like I was part of the furniture. All that performative kindness has left me raw, stripped down to pure need.

My rented dress feels too tight as I move across the room to him, the silk clinging to my heated skin. I’d chosen it carefully—rust-colored, elegant and with a hint of scandal in the low back. It’s the kind of dress that usually gets Theo’s attention.

“Theo,” I purr, reaching around me to drag down my zipper, sighing with relief as the bodice falls off my shoulders. I trail my fingers across his shoulders, feeling the tension there and hoping he’ll pause his game—hell, toss the pad and pull me into his lap. “Think we could have an early night?”

“Shit, shit, hold the line!” He jerks away from my touch, his headset slipping. His energy drink sloshes as he rights himself. “Sorry, what did you need, babe?”

“Really?” I scoff, staring at my lace-covered tits shoved practically in his face.

Theo will always be the boy I grew up with—my BFF, the little boy who held my hand through surgeries and made me laugh when everything hurt. The boy whose parents saw a broken little girl and decided to fix her.

But I worry that all I see now is the man who can’t read a room. Who doesn’t notice when I’m falling apart.

Lilith Aldridge’s voice echoes in my head again. Darling, Theo needs someone to ground him, and you’ve always been the only one who can handle him.

Handle him. Like he’s a fucking project.

The same way they ‘handled’ my medical bills, my school fees, my entire life, I suppose. Their perfect Cinderella story—the burned little girl they saved, now groomed to save their son.

Theo takes his headset off and twists around, his eyes glazed with impatience. “Can you give me twenty minutes?”

“Sure,” I murmur, already pulling my dress up and backing away.

The bedroom is dark and cool when I slip inside. My dress whispers against my skin as I peel it off, and even that soft friction makes me shiver. I’m too sensitive, too aware of every point of contact. The fabric catches on my nipples, forcing a sharp breath through my teeth.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror—curves that years of training have toned but never slimmed. The black lingerie set hugs my body like a second skin, the lace tracing my smaller chest and fuller hips like a promise unfulfilled.

Again.

My hand traces the geometric scars that wrap around my thighs, and the rippling on my right leg—permanent reminders of the accident that brought Theo into my life. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I stay—because fate wrote our story in scar tissue and skin grafts.

I close my eyes, letting my hand trace back to the juncture of my thighs, skimming the edge of my damp panties before I can stop it. A gasp catches in my throat at how ready I am. It would take so little to—

No.

I strip off my underwear with quick, angry movements. This is pathetic. I’m pathetic, aching for someone—anyone—to just . . .

I sink onto the bed naked. The sheets are still rumpled from this morning when Theo rolled away to check his phone, leaving me wanting more. I try to get comfortable, to will away this dangerous craving.

I should be stronger than this need that’s been building all day, should be satisfied with a quick, distracted fuck once a week without needing to resort to this.

But the sheets feel like they’re made of static, every brush against my skin building the charge.

“Fuck it.” The word escapes on a breath as I roll onto my back and spread my legs. The air conditioning raises goosebumps across my skin and tightens my nipples.

Another whoop of victory from the game room down the hall. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

With an eye roll, my hand digs into the bedside drawer until my fingers close around the sleek vibrator. The silicon is cool against my palm, already humming with promise.

Just one more time, I lie to myself. Just to take the edge off.

But I know it’s not true. I know exactly where this path leads, who I’ll see when I close my eyes.

The first touch makes me arch off the bed, a whimper catching in my throat. It’s too much, too soon, but I can’t slow down, can’t think about anything except this burning need to come apart.

I start with safe fantasies: Theo’s hands on me, his mouth.

And then, as the pressure builds in my core, it’s a stranger’s touch I feel. Someone who doesn’t expect gratitude for every scrap of affection. Someone who would take what they want instead of asking if I’m okay every five seconds, without actually caring about the answer.

I moan, feeling my thighs shake as I press the smooth head inside my wet center.

I want more.

Tonight, my mind wants something darker, something forbidden. The images I keep locked away, the ones I deny even to myself.

A single tattooed arm emerges from the darkness behind my eyelids, and I cry out. Strong fingers wrapping around my throat, the perfect pressure I’ve imagined a thousand times from studying those hands in photographs.

The detailed sleeve of ink I’ve memorized crystallizes in my mind—Nordic runes flowing into waves, the hint of flames at his wrist.

Fuck. Not him. Anyone but him.

I twist the vibrator higher and pump faster, trying to drown out the image. But it’s too late. His wet black curls. The width of those tanned shoulders, muscles rippling as he hoists himself out of the pool. That wicked mouth with full lips.

My breath hitches as the fantasy takes hold. He wouldn’t be gentle. Wouldn’t treat me like I’m made of glass. Those hands would pin my wrists above my head, grip hard enough to bruise and fuck me until I scream.

“Please,” I whimper, not sure if I’m begging for release or mercy. The vibrator slides lower to tease that forbidden hole, my hips rocking against my hand as live images flood my mind.

He’d make me work for it. Make me confess how many nights I’ve touched myself thinking about him while collecting evidence against him.

I’m close, so close. My back arches off the bed as my orgasm hovers out of reach. Just a little more—

His face crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity. Those dark eyes burning into mine, knowing exactly what he does to me. Knowing how much I hate him, how much I want him.

Pleasure rips through me like a tidal wave, violent and perfect. His name catches behind my teeth. Not Chase Mitchell.

His real name.

Kai.

Reality crashes back before the aftershocks fade. Shame floods in as I lie there, trembling and spent. The vibrator falls from my boneless fingers onto the sheets.

It’s normal, Nic. Very common, even. My therapist’s voice floats through my head. Fantasy doesn’t always equal desire. You can dream about someone you hate.

What I didn’t tell her was that I don’t just see him in my dreams. I see him when I come. Every. Fucking. Time.

Theo’s victory shouts filter through the wall as I wipe away the evidence of my orgasm—something he’s never seen.

My therapist is fucking wrong. Fantasy and reality do collide. And that’s the reason I’m unraveling.

Because tomorrow I’m going to see him.

Tomorrow I’ll stand in the same room as the man who killed my stepsister, and all my coping strategies—my breathing exercises, my rational thought patterns—won’t be enough to contain what burns beneath my skin.

My grief.

My pain.

My obsession.