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I crank the hot water on with more force than necessary, like the metal handle is to blame for everything unraveling, nearly yanking it out of the wall. I don’t care. I need heat—scalding, blistering, punishing.

Steam floods the bathroom instantly, curling around me like smoke from something burning. Maybe it’s me.

I step under the spray and flinch. It hurts—exactly how I want it to.

My anger simmers just beneath my skin, hot and volatile, like a teapot on the verge of screaming.

You’re so stupid, Parker.

For letting Hudson in. For thinking he could handle this. For hoping he’d still look at me the same after what I did.

Somewhere along the line, I let myself believe he saw me. All of me. That he accepted the fear and the darkness. That he could weather my monsters.

That he could stay, despite how hard I tried to push him away.

But he didn’t. Not really. He stayed as long as I was something he could protect.

The second he couldn’t control the story?—

The second I wasn’t his to save?—

He looked at me like I was broken. I scrub a hand down my face, my throat tight.

God, I can’t decide what hurts more—his judgment, or the fact that it hurts at all. Because I care what he thinks of me.

The realization settles deep, cold and cutting.

I let him get too close.

I shake my head, furious at myself, furious at him . I let myself forget why I kept everyone at arm’s length. Well, I sure as shit remember now.

Fuck friendships. Fuck attachments. Fuck all of it.

I slam the bottle of body wash against the wall, liquid splattering across the tiles. I lather my skin like I can scrape it all off. The bruises. The bite marks. The pleasure.

Like I can erase what I let happen.

But I can’t.

Rad’s touch is still imprinted on my skin—the claw marks on my hips and breast, the bruises already forming, the soreness that lingers deep inside me.

And my body still remembers.

My thighs clench without permission. A choked sound escapes me—somewhere between a growl and a sob. My body doesn’t seem to care that I shouldn’t want this. That I should be ashamed, afraid, horrified. It only knows that it craves what it shouldn’t.

Like a moth drawn to flames despite knowing it’ll burn.

I slap my palm against the tile, trying to ground myself, trying to remember who I am under all this. But I don’t know anymore.

All I know is that I wanted it. I begged for it.

And now Hudson is gone.

I bow my head and let the water scald the back of my neck. Let it sear away the pieces of me I can’t stand to keep.

And then?—

A shift.

That unmistakable, crawling sense of dread, of being watched. A prickle of awareness skates down my spine.

My breath catches.

The shadows are moving. Stretching slowly from the corners of the shower—curling along the grout lines like ink bleeding through water. They slither toward me with patient, terrifying precision.

Shit.

In my anger, in my haste to get away from Hudson, I forgot to turn on more lights. The single fixture overhead isn’t enough to push the darkness back completely. I usually have extra light bars, push lights everywhere to keep this from happening.

I spin, reaching for the nearest one—but shadows coil tight around my ankles, locking me in place.

My heart hammers in my chest.

I’m so fucked.

They move faster now, climbing. Tendrils slide up my calves, wrapping around my thighs—slow and unrelenting.

And then higher.

Higher.

They don’t explore like they did the first time. They remember. They trace the path Rad’s claws took in the dream that wasn’t a dream—up my sides, over the curve of my hips, brushing beneath my breasts like they’re mapping his memory into my skin.

Like they’re erasing the feel of him just to put it back again, but colder.

Sharper.

My breath shudders.

They twist around my ribs, curling over bruises, wrapping me in phantom caresses—and then they dive straight between my legs.

A choked, strangled cry rips out of me.

There’s no hesitation. No build-up. No teasing. Just pure possession .

One tendril slams into me with ruthless precision, another circling my clit with rhythmic pulses, cruel and merciless.

My knees nearly buckle.

I gasp, my hands flying to the tile behind me, searching for purchase, for control . But there is none. All I can do is feel.

And I moan.

God help me, I moan.

They thrust again—deep, curling inside me like they want to make a home there. Each movement is calculated, designed to split me open from the inside out. They’re cold, like ice melting against fire, burning and soothing, a contradiction I can’t process, can’t fight, can’t escape.

It’s too much. Too raw. Too soon. I’m still sore from Rad. Still stretched. Still aching. But the shadows don’t care. They know I’m already close.

And they feed on it.

Fuck. I think I’d rather he try to kill me instead of this… whatever this is. I don’t know how to escape this. I’m not prepared for it.

A sob escapes me. My eyes sting with tears that I can’t blink away, not from the pleasure, but from the grief. The shame. The helpless, overwhelming weight of everything pressing down on me.

My body doesn’t know the difference between safety and danger anymore.

It only knows touch.

Heat.

Need.

It only knows how to open.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I want to scream.

I want to disappear.

I want?—

A low chuckle curls around me. Deep and rich and cruel. A sound I know too well.

“You will do well to remember who you belong to, Snow Pea.”

I choke on a gasp as more shadows flood between my thighs, stretching me too wide, rubbing too hard. The pleasure sharpens—biting, unbearable.

And my body—traitorous, helpless—clings to it.

“You should have known better than to make a bargain with R?dslakorcu.”

R?dlsa what? Is that Rad’s full name?

I’m teetering. Teetering on that thin line where pleasure and pain blur into one, where I can’t tell if I’m about to break apart—or break entirely. Where sensation turns to white noise and all I can do is feel.

The thinner tendrils circling my clit increase their speed. Fuck. Too fast. Too much.

A sob claws its way up my throat. “P-please…”

It’s barely a whisper. Barely anything at all. Raw. Shattered.

I’m drowning in the overwhelming pressure. The invasive pleasure. The dizzying realization that I don’t even know if I want it to stop.

And that terrifies me more than anything..

The orgasm rips through me like a scream I can’t voice, a brutal snap of sensation that makes my vision go white at the edges.

Stars.

I see stars.

Is this what dying by orgasm feels like?

Is this what my monster has decided for my death?

And still—my monster doesn’t stop. My monster drives me into another climax with frightening precision. Like this is a contest he’d kill to win, even if my death is the trophy. My body convulses, pleasure and pain braided into one burning thread.

I open my mouth, another moan trying to tear free, but no sound comes out.

“Parker!”

The shower curtain rips open, flooding the small space with light.

The moment the brightness hits, the shadows recoil, vanishing in a violent pop —like a rubber band snapping back into place. The overwhelming pressure disappears with them, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.

I collapse against the wall, my knees weak, my entire body trembling with aftershocks. My skin feels feverish, oversensitized from everything he just did to me.

And that’s when I remember to breathe.

I suck in air like I’ve just surfaced from deep water—loud, ragged gulps that scrape up my throat. A sob slips past my lips, my fingers clawing at the slick tile, trying to anchor myself. Trying to remember how to exist inside this body.

Fuck.

Fuck. What the hell just happened?

But even as the thought flickers, I already know.

It wasn’t Rad. It was him . Steorfan, Rad called him. My monster. The one who’s haunted me since childhood. The one who used to stalk the shadows of my room, who used to whisper threats behind the closet door.

Only now he doesn't want to kill me.

He wants to claim me.

The realization slams into my chest like a punch. I press my back to the slick tile, gasping, trembling, unable to stop the sobs.

And then I feel it—Not the shadows. Not the cold. But something real. Warm. Solid. Human.

A voice breaks through, low and careful like it’s afraid I’ll shatter.

“Parker.”

Hudson.

I curl tighter into myself, arms around my knees, forehead pressed against them. The steam clings to my skin, suffocating, and still somehow I feel cold all over. My chest hurts like it’s caving in.

I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me like this.

Ruined.

Used.

Owned by a monster I can’t seem to fight off.

The tears won’t stop—hot and raw, tracking over my cheeks and down my neck, mixing with the water dripping from my hair.

Hudson crouches outside the shower.

“Parker.” His voice is soft. Careful. Barely a breath above the sound of water sliding down the drain.

I flinch. Curl tighter.

“You’re not okay.”

There’s no judgment in his voice. No anger. Just a quiet truth that slices deeper than any accusation.

He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t try to touch me. He’s just… there. Kneeling on the cold tile floor while I shatter.

“Tell me what to do,” he says. “Do you want me to turn the water off? Do you want me to leave?”

My voice is hoarse, barely there, but sure. “No.” Then louder, cracked open. “No—don’t leave.”

A beat of silence.

Then he says, “Okay.”

I hear him shift. Watch his hand reach in slowly, carefully, past me to turn the water off. The stream cuts off, leaving behind a silence so thick it feels like it might crush me.

I shiver. My body aches. My heart hurts worse.

“I’ve got you, Parker,” Hudson says gently. “You’re here. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

“I can’t.” The response breaks out of me, fragile and ashamed.

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs. “Just do it with me, okay?”

He inhales—slow and even. Loud enough for me to follow. The same way he had at the bakery when both our lives became intertwined.

I try. My lungs stutter.

The first breath barely makes it. The second is a little better.

“Again,” he says, steady as stone.

We breathe together.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And the panic eases.

Not gone. But no longer clawing.

I still don’t look at him. I can’t. But I can imagine the way he’s watching me—eyes full of worry.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers. “Not while I’m here.”

Another tear slips down my cheek because I want to believe that. And part of me does. But another part—deeper, older, worn raw—still whispers all the things I’ve always feared:

I’m too much. Too far gone. Too broken to love.

So I don’t thank him. I don’t apologize.

I just press my head against the tile. Close my eyes and keep breathing with him.

For now, that’s enough.