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SHILOH

W ithout a single warning, I’m being yanked out of my nightmare and thrust back into real life.

Waking up in the morning, to light instead of darkness, doesn’t comfort me one fucking bit. My heart hammers in my chest. Panic swarms over me like a swarm of bees.

A drop of sweat rolls down my temple. Fingers clutching onto the pillow that I hug tight to my body.

My sticky lips part.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here , my brain screams at me. He’s beautiful and dangerous, and he’s here to hurt you.

I should give in. In the recesses of my mind, I know I was wrong to lock him out last night. To deny him anything he wished for.

At the very least, I should stay very still and let him come to me. Violate my body. Watch his lean muscles ripple as he fucks me brutally. Mercilessly.

Murder me after the fact .

I do just that and pray. I pray to a God who never answers that no one followed him here. That he won’t get caught.

The longer the silence in the room stretches, the more adrenaline rushes through my veins. Anticipating the worst is horrible.

It has my body moving in ways it shouldn’t.

Panicked and breathing hard, I snatch the knife I put under my pillow. I roll over, dropping to the floor. The blade glimmers as I point the tip to the darkness under my bed.

“Kaleb.” Last night, I double and triple-checked that the locks were in place. But there’s no telling what he might do. He did break out of a secure psychiatric hospital, after all. Besides, how else could I explain the stickiness on my lips? “Get out. I don’t want to hurt you. So. Just get out. This silence, how mad you are, I—Stop. Stop it. You’re scaring me. I’m tired of my life being such a fucking mess. So—Fuck, no more of this. Do you hear me? Do you?”

I don’t even know what I’m asking of him. All I know is that this guilt and fear that keeps hitting me hard is making me crazy.

“Kaleb?”

Silence. No movement. No flash of a white mask.

He isn’t here.

And I can’t stop talking. My heart brings the words out of my mouth.

“We’re not going to have a repeat of yesterday. We’ll—You know, start over? We could talk. Apologize to one another.” I lick my lips, tasting salt on them. He’s definitely been here. How? “Then, we could have a conversation. Like two grown-ups. If you still want to kill me, fine.” Sigh. “I guess you’ve earned the right to do it. Just—this touching me without my consent. While you hate me. No more of that. We need to talk.”

I’m lying to myself. Yesterday, I got hot in the shower, thinking about his fingers inside me. I clenched my thighs during my classes, because I remembered him moaning and coming for me.

As I stare into the darkness, as I say those things, heat pools at my core. My panties dampen.

I don’t want this. It’s impossible to get turned on by violence.

With my hand firm on the knife’s handle, I edge the knife farther into the dark space under my bed. I poke at the air.

My chest caves in then expands anew as my body alternates between disappointment and relief.

The roller coaster of emotions doesn’t end there, though. I get up, and a metaphorical fist locks around my throat. Squeezes the air out of me.

There’s a new severed finger on my nightstand.

The digit is small and delicate. Different from the others he left for me before.

“Is that a woman’s finger?” Terror raises the hair on the back of my neck. The empty bedroom doesn’t answer. “Is that a message? That I’m next? Or are you trying to hurt me again? To make me jealous? It isn’t working.”

Lies.

Images of him being with another woman are a hard blow to the chest. My fingertips brush along my lips, feeling the evidence that he must’ve come on them. But who’s to say it was his first orgasm for the night?

A frustrated groan escapes me. My hand tightens around the knife. The plastic handle digs into my skin, though it does nothing to pull me out of this truly ridiculous flare of jealousy.

No. I’m not jealous. Am not. I’m confused, that’s all. A victim of his mind games. Weak as I face my guilt over and over again. My longing. My misplaced emotions.

The fucking finger and fucking Kaleb. I toss it across the room, and it lands beneath my window.

I’m so done with this. With being jealous. Out of everything, this is the worst.

I’d rather be dead.

After a quick scan of my empty apartment, my knife firm in my grip, I come up empty.

Nothing and no one’s here. The locks, on the other hand, are undone.

I shake my head, mad at myself for messing up. Again. I’ll double and triple-check tonight.

Or maybe I’ll leave it open.

Maybe, once he’s done punishing me, he’ll get out of here.

He’ll be safe.

I don’t know. I don’t know .

Best thing to do is get out of here. He’ll come to me when it suits him.

Then, I’ll convince him to save himself.

If I stay here, waiting, I won’t be able to do any of this. I’ll drown in adrenaline, anticipation, and fear .

Sitting through another day in college would help me regain some of my sanity. I hope.

There’s more I have to do today besides sitting through my classes. I’m on a mission. Now that Kaleb’s back, I’m helping him.

Helping us.

I thought I could wait a few years until I could participate in the clinical practice hours. Time has run out.

The sooner I take part in them and actually practice with real people, the sooner I’ll be able to understand him. Me. This thing we have.

Once I have the experience and tools to reach out to him, chances are he’ll listen. He’ll get out of here before they come for him.

He’ll be able to leave me behind and save himself.

Which is good. It’s a good thing.

But I can’t get into the clinical practice hours unless Professor Dempsey signs off on it.

Being at the top of my class won’t be enough. I have to dress the part, to announce how serious I am about this. And I will. For Kaleb.

I drop the knife on the kitchen counter and turn to my room just as the alarm goes off. It reminds me that my phone is still there. I need to check and see if anyone’s been looking for me. If they suspect anything.

If there’s a danger Kaleb needs to know about.

He was cruel to me. I was crueler.

And I never stopped loving him .

The empty screen shouldn’t surprise me. I can always count on Dad not to care about me.

I can also count on him to be a control freak. The press isn’t blowing up my phone. They won’t be following me around campus. They won’t find Kaleb.

The unhinged serial killer who has zero sense of boundaries. My stepbrother. The man I shamefully long for.

Browsing through the major news sites online proves that I was right.

His face, mask, and name are out of the news. That’s good. It means it’s less likely that people will look for him. I bet almost everyone has already forgotten about him. Either that, or they missed the news that aired two nights ago and don’t even know he exists.

I shouldn’t wish for this, for him to be a free man. I shouldn’t. I should fantasize about sticking a knife to his throat for how he violated me.

But he needs my help. He’s owed my help. And it’s not like I actually suffered. He humiliated me, but I breathed him in. I bathed in his wrath and deviance. I welcomed it.

Sigh.

I’m in and out of the bathroom, treading carefully toward my closet. No strong, cold, and powerful hand grabs for my ankle.

He isn’t here. I can feel it as I choose my clothes for the day. I focus on that instead of the ache in my chest and the worry in my stomach.

A fitted black blouse. Black blazer on top. Black jeans .

My black leather boots will complete my look once my hair and makeup are done. I don’t think I look better or worse with my hair smoothed and my mascara on point, but it’ll send a message.

It’ll scream that I mean business.

Same as it did when I forced my dad’s hand this summer.

I’ll have to make Professor Dempsey hear me out. Then Kaleb.

I will.

Somehow, I will.