AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I knew he knew Ed. That was a sort of bonus for me. They say to keep your enemies close. But there’s also that saying that a friend of my enemy is no friend of mine. I should have listened to that fun quote a bit better, clearly.
I didn’t know how deep a betrayal could run. How much someone else could hurt me. I thought I lived and breathed sadness, that it was as much a part of me as the marrow inside my bones. This feels so much worse.
I knew Rowan had lied to me. I’d suspected from the moment we met. He hadn’t made it a secret that he’d been sent to kill me.
I just never imagined Ed was the stepfather that Rowan had so much disdain for.
My breath is rattling by the time I get to my apartment from across town. I left my book bag at Rowan's penthouse, so I guess that’s his to keep now because I’m never seeing him again after tonight. I slide my key into the side entrance of the morgue and quickly enter my living room. I deadbolt the door behind me, and then I’m racing to my bedroom. The dormer window above my bed has an old metal hook lock that I nearly strain my wrist shoving in place.
But now I’m safe from him and all his pretty lies.
A chill crawls up my arms, and I spin on my heels to fling open the closet door. The hangers clank against one another in the darkness of the small space.
But it’s empty.
A weird pang of sadness twists my stomach that he’s not here. He’s not watching me. Why am I so fucking stupid? I need to call my therapist. Not now because it’s nearly four in the morning, but at eight a.m. sharp I’ll be calling her about this very apparent case of Stockholm syndrome.
Jesus, how did this happen to me? Yeah, so I was a little too invested in the Black Dahlia homicide at the ripe old age of ten. And while most girls were excited about their junior prom, I was fixating on decoding the messages of the Zodiac Killer. It was all just an invested hobby. My mom called it a morbid quirk.
Growing up to accidentally fall in love with a stalking killer wasn’t supposed to happen! God, I should have gone home with Mustachio that night. He was the good guy. The safe guy. And what the fuck was his name again?
A knock raps softly against my window, and I fling a dark death glare at the gorgeous man on his hands and knees looking in at me like a lost angel. As if he even has the right to look at me that way. The fucking asshole.
“You know I have a door, right? Normal people use a door, Rowan!”
“Do you want me to go around to the door?” he asks patiently with big pleading eyes, and his rational tone only makes me more irate.
“No, I want you to go fuck yourself!”
At that, he shoves off from the ground and storms away. A shaking breath trembles from my lungs, and I hate that it hurts me to turn away from him. In a sick way, he’s been my security blanket all of my adult life. He has always taken care of me even when I didn’t know it. But this... this changes everything.
Dahmer’s ears perk up just before a solid knock tumbles across my apartment door. I walk casually to the living room with my glare fixated there for several seconds. My palm lingers on the knob, and I can feel my emotions tear in half. A single slab of wood separates me from him, but it feels like the space between us grows with each passing second. With every thought that circles my mind, the tension in my chest pulls a little tighter.
“Atlas, open the door,” he orders, but his tone is shadowed with agony. “Atlas, please.” His voice becomes a broken whisper.
I push the deadbolt aside and hold the door firmly in place. The golden hue of the porch light shines across ocean eyes. My heart lurches just seeing him, begging me to reach out and feel his skin against mine. It’s like my body knows this might be the last time I ever see him again.
“Why did you follow me?” His voice is low, quiet, not allowing his words to carry as he looks over his shoulder and down the street.
He seems on edge. Like at any moment, the FBI might jump from the bushes. Or maybe he’s just staring at the phantom consequences his lies brought on.
“Why didn’t you tell me who Ed was to you?”
“Same reason you didn’t say it to me, I guess.” He doesn’t brush it off or deny it. He treats it as factual and respectfully, and once again, my stupid little heart is ready to forgive and forget and rush him inside and take him into my arms and live happily fucking ever after.
“Except you knew, Rowan.”
“Let me come in. Let’s talk about this,” he pleads.
“You knew! You knew what he did to me, and you knew he was your stepfather, and you fucking knew I was your stepsister! And for what? Some sick sister-fucking fetish?”
At that, he shoves open the door and storms inside, walking me backward with every enormous step he takes. My back hits the wall, and he slams his hand there just above me, caging me in with the weight of his body against mine.
“Lower your fucking voice,” he hisses against my lips when we’re in the safety of my apartment. The feel of his chest brushing mine with every breath I take sends a pulse of need all through my veins.
“Lower my voice?Lower your fucking expectations, Rowan. What did you expect? That I’d fall in love with my stepbrother? Move to the suburbs and ignore how fucked up it is that you work for the man who literally tormented me all my life?”
“I don’t work for him,” he grinds out.
