I’ve heard it on TV many times, typically from interviews on ESPN or other sport channels. The last time I heard it in person, though, it sounded nothing like it does now. We were both nine years old, standing outside a courthouse, dozens of reporters and photographers with flashing cameras, all tripping over themselves to get close to us. His pale, icy blue eyes glowered at me from beneath thick brows, his murderous thoughts as apparent as his hatred for me.
My mom stood beside me, clutching my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. She was crying and hurling insults at him for what he did to our family—for successfully convincing the jury to find my father guilty, subsequently ripping our family apart, leaving her without a husband and me without a dad.
And that little boy stood alone, without a single ounce of guilt.
He had already lost his own father years prior, but now, he was without his mom, too. She lay six feet under, next to her husband.
And it was my father who put her there.
But successfully putting his mother’s killer behind bars was hardly a victory when nearly the entire world thought he lied to do it. After all, it was his testimony that ultimately convinced the jury—and his testimony alone. No one else believed my dad was guilty of murdering Katherine Sharpe.
Except me.
But I never got to tell him that. As my mom dragged me away from him, three words were only seconds away from spilling from my tongue—I believe you.
He spoke before I could, though, effectively silencing me.
“One day, I will make you suffer. I will make you wish you weredead.”
Back then, he sounded like a boy. Now, he sounds like a man.
My heart pounds, and I'm almost convinced my nightmares have begun to manifest. I must be hallucinating them now.
Because there's no fucking way he's here.
Slowly, I crane my head over my shoulder to meet those blue eyes, stands of obsidian hair teasing his long eyelashes.
My racing heart shrivels the moment our stares collide.
Kellan Sharpe.
Right before me, in the fucking flesh.
The smart thing to do would be to run, but I'm paralyzed. So instead, I only gawk at him with rounded eyes and a slack jaw.
When he’s a few feet away, he crouches behind me, his elbows casually resting on his spread knees, that same burning hatred radiating from his every pore. It creates a smog so dense, it clogs my throat until I’m practically choking on it.
My mouth dries, and for several moments, I’m at a loss for words. Actions. Feelings. All I can do is gape at him, my shock quickly transitioning into fear.
Unimpressed, he raises his right brow, a thin white scar slashing through the arch. I always wondered how he got it, but I never had a chance to ask before he decided he hated me.
To this day, I don’t blame him.
I clear my throat before squeaking out, “Kellan.”
God, he already looked cold, but the second his name falls from my lips, his stare becomes frigid enough to burn.
“Don’t call me that,” he clips. “My name is Dread.”
I knew that, but only from the news. He’s a prodigal swimmer who broke several records and holds the most Olympic gold medals for his age. The public considers Kellan a legend—a walking, talking fish out of water. After breaking his first record at fifteen, he told an interviewer how he got the nickname. Apparently, his coach gifted it to him when he was ten, claiming it’s the feeling he instills in his competitors when he steps onto the diving block. The name stuck, and the world quickly learned he only answers to Dreadful Sharpe.
At eighteen years old, he’s practically a celebrity.
Which is why I can’t figure out why the fuck he’shere, atmycollege, several states away from where we grew up.
“What… what are you doing here?”
He grins, and the sight makes it hard to swallow. There’s a hint of amusement embedded in the curl of his mouth, but it falls into the shadows of something sinister. Evil. He doesn’t smile to portray his happiness, but his darkness.
