A rock forms in my throat, composed purely of self-loathing. Begrudgingly, I look up at Dread, who's casually sitting on the bench, dressed and resting his elbows on his spread knees. He studies me carefully with a blank expression, giving nothing away, while I very deliberately avoid looking at the goddamn puddle a foot from where he sits, which continues to drip onto the floor.
I amnotcleaning that up. That is one thousand percent his fucking problem.
My stomach flips, and it’s impossible to maintain eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. I turn my focus to the lockers straight ahead.
“Can I have my phone back? I need to call an Uber.”
He remains quiet, and after a few stilted beats, I return my attention to him with exponential resistance.
“You were trying to leave in an Uber when I took you. Why?”
I blink, not expecting him to go that direction at all. It takes me a moment to find my words.
“I already told you. Lionel left a note in my room, and I don’t want to see him,” I answer, my voice hoarse but emotionless.
“You're scared of him.” It's not a question, but a conclusion.
“Who wouldn't be?”
“Someone who isn't a target.”
His implication is clear. He thinks I'm supposed to be exempt from Lionel’s wicked urges. It's already been proven possible, considering my mother was never an actual victim of his—at least not of the Locksmith, but rather, of a terrible husband.
So if I'm scared of him, it's because Iama target, but not for the same reasons as his other victims.
But he’s not ready to hear the entire truth, mostly because he was right. If I tell him everything, he will hate me more than he already does.
So, really, it’s me who isn’t ready, and as selfish as that is, I can’t bring myself to confess to it.
My truth is mine to bear, mine to eat at my soul. I may not have murdered his mother with my own hands, but that doesn’t mean my actions didn’t ultimately lead to her death. It doesn't mean my hands are clean of her blood.
“Are you a target?” he pushes, his tone sharp.
“Isn’t everyone?” I deflect. “He’s obviously dangerous. I may be his daughter, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be his victim too. He knows my dorm, so I can’t go back there tonight. So if you would please give me my phone, I’d like to call an Uber.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle within thrumming. For several moments, I watch the gears in his brain turn, considering something deeply before finally asking, “Who are you staying with?”
I give him a dirty look. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but no one. I’m getting a hotel.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and his expression grows colder. “It is my business. I recall you telling me I now own you.”
I scoff, shifting uncomfortably and hating that the moment I do, I feel a twinge of pain in my core, a disheartening reminder he was very much inside me only five minutes ago. And that’s…reallyfucked up.
This whole situation is fucked up.
But he got what he wanted, and, regardless of my stupid ramblings and meaningless promises, it’s over now. Now, I want nothing more than to move on and pretend it never happened.
“That meant nothing.”
His brow arches in challenge, and slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, he stands. His precious namesake lives up to its reputation. Foreboding pumps into my veins, slowly circulating through my systemuntil it’s all I feel. Then, my heart thumps heavier as he prowls toward me.
I stiffen but hold firm, even as I crane my head back to look up at him when he stops before me. His chest brushes against mine, and it's truly awful how familiar it feels already.
His hand rises, and I flinch away as he pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. My skin hums, sprouting from the abysmal point of contact and spreading to the tips of my toes.
“You signed over your soul to me, and I have every intention of collecting.”
I sneer, muttering snidely beneath my breath, “God fucking help me.”
