“What the fuck?” I whisper beneath my breath.
I try the next door, and the next, finding both of them locked as well. There’s one door left, and when it swings open with ease, it immediately sets me on edge. Every muscle in my body tenses as I cautiously step into the room.
Directly ahead is a large window with the blinds turned outward, inviting moonlight to peek through and allowing me to see a faint outline of a bed right below it.
Hesitantly, I flip on the light, only to scream, my heart flying into my throat as I stumble backward and fall flat on my ass.
Dread sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows propped on his spread knees as he casually twiddles a knife, crimson trailing down the blade and over his hand before dripping onto the pale wooden floors.
My hand flies over my chest, my heart pounding violently against my rib cage.
“What the fuck?!” I shout breathlessly.
A wicked smile teases one corner of his lips, though his frosty eyes hold no warmth.
“Well, hello, darling.”
CHAPTER 7
REVERIE
My brain screams at me to run back the way I came, but I’m frozen beneath Dread’s piercing stare.
“Happy birthday,” he says dryly, not a single fleck of emotion in his tone.
I don’t know what’s more upsetting—this entire fucked-up situation, or that he knows me well enough to predict exactly where I’d go and planned this entire thing with full confidence I’d prove him right.
And I did exactly fucking that.
A shot of anger flashes through me, fueling me just enough to fly to my feet and seethe at him.
“You’re fucking sick, you know that?” I hiss. “The noose in my dorm wasn’t enough? Now you have to throw his victims in my face?”
I glance at the knife in his hand and work to swallow my fear. I’ve locked myself inside this house with a monster, and he just might hate me enough to actually kill me.
Logic attempts to poke a hole through that thought, whispering inthe back of my mind that he could never get away with it. He’s planned an elaborate scheme over a dozen girls are complicit in—he couldn’t kill me without everyone knowing he did it.
Yet, the terror persists, and I contemplate bolting for the front door to take my chances with the walking dead girls.
His stare sharpens, as if he can read exactly what I’m thinking and is daring me to try.
With his outrageously long legs, one step would eat up three of mine. I’d probably get a good four and a half in before he’d drag me back to hell.
“Did you know for the entire trial, I sat in the gallery and listened?” he asks, ignoring me.
I blink, my brain taking a moment to pivot to the topic.
“Yes?” I say it like a question, confused why he’d ask.
I sat on the other side of him every day. For an entire month, my life was the inside of that courtroom, only getting breaks on the weekends.
“You would look over at me and stare, but every time I met your eyes, you quickly looked away, like you didn’t want me to know you were watching me,” he continues.
My cheeks burn from the memory. Back then, all I wanted to do was sit beside him, take hold of his hand, and say three little words:I believe you.
But I couldn’t. I was too fucking scared.
“So?” I snip.
