Page 37

Cassidy is being unusually quiet this morning.

The apartment is silent, too silent, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. Usually, she’d be blasting some music or talking about something, but today, she it’s just off. I think my cat can feel it too because he’s nowhere to be found, he doesn’t like this vibe.

I watch her fill her mug with coffee and take a silent sip. The air feels heavy, like something unsaid is hanging between us.

Maybe there is.

I guess because last night before I was taken. Cassidy found me bawling my eyes out before she left for the night to see the guy she’s dating.

She had tried to get me to talk, tried to get me to tell her what the hell had happened between me and Thatcher, but I couldn’t even form words.

After the shitshow she witnessed firsthand in the parking lot, I didn’t know how to explain.

How do you tell your best friend that you agreed to be a psychopath’s possession to cover a murder you committed and now he’s refusing to keep your relationship with him a secret and also ordering you around like a dog?

But now, I have bigger problems on my hands, don’t I?

How am I supposed to tell her about last night? There’s no way that I can.

My spoon noisily clinks against my bowl of cheerios, breaking the veil of silence that hovers between us. Cassidy’s eyes flicker up, and for a brief moment, I see the hesitation in them. She isn’t going to push me. She never does. But I know she’s waiting. Waiting for me to let her in.

“I’m fine,” I say, not believing the words even as they leave my mouth.

Cassidy doesn’t respond right away, but I feel her studying me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. She doesn’t ask any questions, though. She just takes another sip of her coffee, her eyes still on me. The quiet is deafening.

She sinks down next to me with a slightly anxious look on her face.

“Okay,” she mutters. “This is killing me, and I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I know you probably don’t want to hear anything about this, but I have to tell you… Okay, maybe I shouldn’t tell you…” she rambles.

“What is it?”

She bites her lip, hesitating, and I can tell whatever she’s about to say is weighing on her. “It’s just… Thatcher,” she says finally, her voice soft, like she’s treading carefully.

“What about him?”

“He’s a part of something, Rhea. Something more than a fraternity.”

I feel a knot form in my stomach at the mention of this because I’m a part of it now apparently. But I have no clue what it is exactly. The masks, the group of men, fucking me in that weird basement place. My instinct is to brush it off, but the look on Cassidy’s face stops me.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound confused.

She bites her lip, clearly reluctant to keep going. “They’re called the Reapers. There are rumors of what they do, and I think that guy who died at that party was killed by one of them.”

“One of who?” I ask, cutting her off, wanting to know what the gossip is on campus.

“By a Reaper, and they have powerful connections, so nobody is going down for it.”

I gasp, trying to sound horrified.

It’s horrifying , I tell myself.

“Wait, nobody is going down for it? What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly very intrigued.

She shrugs. “I don’t know if Jack was murdered, but there’s a lot of talk. I heard he was a Reaper and then he was cut off. And then hockey suspended him. People are saying he was killed that night because he was threatening to expose the Reapers.”

I need to quiet my racing heart, so I keep my eyes on the ground, trying to remain calm and like this doesn’t concern me, and I am looking for gossip. I mean, this is all a shock. I didn’t know Cassidy knew anything about Jack or the murder.

“And you know Thatcher is a part of it?”

She shrugs. “I’m not saying he’s the killer, but I’m just saying be careful. I wouldn’t want to get caught up in Reaper business, Rhea. They’re bad news.”

I nod, understanding. “I’m trying to stay away.”

“If he’s––”

I shake my head, needing to cut her off. “He’s not,” I assure her. “But thank you for warning me.”

She nods, offering a friendly concerned expression.

Finally, she stands, grabbing her coffee cup. “Okay, I’m off to class,” she announces, her tone deliberately light, though I catch the faint edge of concern beneath it.

I watch as she rinses her mug, moving with that same effortless energy she always has. It’s a sharp contrast to the weight pressing down on me, the knot of emotions twisting tighter in my chest.

“You should really consider going to class too,” she adds casually, not looking at me as she sets the cup on the drying rack. “You’ve been in this funk all morning, and I don’t think hiding out here is going to help.”

I huff, leaning back against the couch. “Skipping one day isn’t the end of the world.”

Cassidy turns, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe not. But skipping is so out of character for you, Rhea.” she pauses, placing a hand on her hip. “What are you going to tell your professor, huh?”

“I’ll just tell him I was sick or had explosive diarrhea or something,” I sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, fiddling with the hem of my sweatshirt.

She scoffs, “Sure, like he’s going to believe that. You’re his star student. The second you mention diarrhea, he’s going to know you’re shitting him.”

I let out a reluctant laugh, covering my face with my hands. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m… mildly avoiding things.”

Cassidy raises an eyebrow. “Mildly?”

“Okay, severely,” I admit, peeking at her through my fingers.

“Let’s, I don’t know, take a walk or grab some coffee? Just something to get out of your own head for a bit.”

“Okay,” I say finally, standing and grabbing my phone. “Let’s go.”

Cassidy’s grin is instant and smug as she slings her bag over her shoulder. “Yay!” she cheers.

I quickly get ready and grab my things for class.

As we walk down the stairs, Cassidy tells me about some random documentary she watched last night, her voice a comforting background hum. I focus on her words, letting them pull me out of my own head, even if only for a few minutes.

But as we step out of the building, the conversation dies on my lips. Standing near the curb, leaning casually against his Tesla is Thatcher.

His presence hits like a cold gust of wind, wiping away the fleeting lightness I’d been holding onto.

I’m not going to lie. I am shocked to see him.

“Hey,” I say, no longer listening to Cassidy.

Cassidy notices him at the same time I do, her cheerful chatter coming to an abrupt halt. “Oh, no,” she mutters, her tone laced with both annoyance and disbelief.

“Wait here,” I tell her and then I approach Thatcher.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” I ask.

His gaze sharpens, his posture stiffening as he steps closer. “It seems like you don’t remember the terms, baby. I own you, your time, your body…” his words trail off as his eyes flick down to my lips…and lower.

A shiver races down my spine. His gaze cuts through me and I feel so exposed, basically unclothed. I clench my arms tighter around myself, willing the unease to transform into something solid—anger, defiance, anything that doesn’t leave me feeling bare.

“Don’t,” I let out. His eyes snap back up to mine, sharp and deliberate, and the smirk tugging at his lips deepens. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Don’t what, dove?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock innocence, his words deliberately slow, like he’s savoring every syllable.

I force myself to stand taller, my arms still wrapped around my body like armor. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t talk to me like that. Just…don’t.” My voice wavers on the last word, betraying the frustration and unease swirling in my chest.

His smirk shifts into something darker, his gaze unrelenting as he takes another step forward. “Get in,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I hesitate and my chest tightens as I glance back at Cassidy.

“Are you leaving with him?” she asks, storming closer to us.

“Stay out of it,” Thatcher cuts in, his voice low and clipped, a warning simmering beneath the surface.

Cassidy doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, asshole,” she fires back, her tone ice cold.

I feel the walls closing in, the weight of both their eyes pressing down on me. My pulse thunders in my ears, and for a moment, I wish I could disappear.

I look at Cassidy, her concern burning through the frost in her voice. She narrows her eyes, suspicious of Thatcher. “Rhea—”

“Relax, Cass. I’ll be okay,” I cut her off, sharper this time. I can’t let her drag me further into this confrontation.

Thatcher’s smirk shifts, his gaze gleaming with something unreadable.

“No,” she snaps. “You just said we could go for coffee.”

Thatcher shakes his head. “Not anymore. Come on, Dove. Get in.”

I give her a sorry expression and then get into the Tesla.

I force myself to move, sliding into the passenger seat.

The leather is cool against my skin, and the air inside the car feels heavy, stifling.

I stare straight ahead as he closes the door behind me.

The engine roars to life, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.

Instead, he looks at me, his expression unreadable, the silence between us crackling with tension.

“What the hell did you tell her?” he asks, staring at her through the window.

When he drives off, I can’t bring myself to look at her. I say, “I didn’t tell her anything. Somehow, she knows about the Reapers, and she thinks someone in the Reapers killed Jack that night, and it’s being covered up.”

He smirks wickedly at me, rubbing my thigh, unashamed. His hand climbs higher, and I stop him before he can reach my center.

He glances at me and chuckles. “My poor little Dove,” he mocks. “You had to pretend you didn’t know who the killer was, didn’t you? She has no idea she’s best friends with a murderer.”

“Can you not,” I plead. “Please.”