“Did you remember those three ladies who sat behind me for a week?”
I frown, racking my brain. Vaguely, I remember two brunettes and a blonde, and that they moved to sit on our side after a little while.
I never knew why. I guess I was too preoccupied to think about it.
“What about them?” I ask, my tone annoyed and impatient. He’s still playing with the fucking bloody knife, and it’s making my skin crawl.
“They believed me at first, sat there to offer support when no one else would. It lasted three days before their whispering started shifting, and they became suspicious of my story. And you know what really got to them? What started turning them against me?”
He waits for me to answer, and I work my jaw, dreading where this is going. “What?”
“That interview with you and your parents,” he answers, his tonestill cool and lifeless. “It played fucking everywhere during the trial. The media shoved it in everyone’s faces, like they wanted to constantly remind people not to listen to me.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. This is the worst part of hating Dread—hating what happened to him, too.
“‘Did you hear the way he called Regina darling?’” he recollects. “That’s what one of them said, and they spent the rest of the fucking day swooning over him. The way he looked at your mom with so much love, how she looked at him with so much devotion.‘Surely, there’s no way he could be a monster.’”
I shuffle on my feet, battling between being pissed off at him and empathizing with him.
“I think they stuck behind me for the rest of that week out of guilt. But every day, they whispered to one another about how the only thing pointing to Lionel being the killer was me, and maybe I really was making it all up. With each passing day, they’d grow less and less sympathetic toward me until one morning, they sat on the other side, flicking these judgmental glances my way, like they were accusing me of lying, too.”
I inhale deeply, trying to gather myself enough to not say something cruel. This whole night… it’s been cruel, too. But I can admit his hatred comes from a place even I can’t blame him for.
“I get it, Dread. You’ve made it abundantly clear the world mistreated you, and I don’t disagree with that,” I say slowly, pumping my palms face down in the air as I speak to emphasize my sincerity. His brows fly up on his forehead, seemingly surprised by my admission. “You’ve also done a stand-up job of making me relive my eighteenth birthday, along with my father’s wonderful legacy, so congratulations. Can I go now?”
His surprise instantly dims to resentment again. I don't need to read his mind to see he thinks I was only telling him what he wanted to hear. As much as I want to defend myself and tell him I'vealwaysbelieved him, I know what questions will follow, and those are the ones I won't—can'tanswer.
So, like always, I keep my teeth cemented shut, having no choice but to allow him to think the worst of me. Because even standing before him now, terrified and in danger, it's better than what he'd do to me if he knew the full truth.
Dread hums, seeming to contemplate my request, but it’s only anact. He gets to his feet, and my stomach drops. Despite having seen him almost every day of my life over the past four years, save for summer and holiday breaks, his tall, imposing stature still steals my breath sometimes.
I force steel into my spine as he saunters toward me, uncaring of the fake blood trailing down his hand. It feels as if a vacuum has sucked all the oxygen from the room, and a code red alarm blares in my head, screaming at me to run. But I stand firm, and in this moment, I don’t understand why, when doing so might be the biggest mistake of my life.
My neck aches from craning back to stare up at him, and I stop breathing as he steps into me, his front brushing against mine. I bristle when he lifts his hand to my face and softly brushes his knuckles across my cheek. My only consolation is it's not the one holding the knife.
Little currents erupt across my skin before a zap of electricity shoots down my spine, beckoning forth goosebumps like they’re rising from the dead.
I glower at him. He’s way too fucking close for comfort, but I also have the irritating need to prove I’m not scared of him.
Even though I am.
“I haven’t forgotten about your stunt that almost ruined my career. But tonight, I want to focus on your birthday celebration.” His thumb moves to press firmly on my bottom lip and drag it down, his stare locked on the movement. It’s almost reverent, except nothing about it makes me feel warm or fuzzy inside. It seems to pull him into a trance, like he physically can’t look away as he murmurs darkly, “I want you to see just how special you are to me.”
My brows pinch, and I’m torn between asking what the hellthat’ssupposed to mean and biting his fucking thumb off.
Before I can do either, he lifts his other hand and presses the knife to my throat, the sharp end of the blade kissing my skin. My muscles harden into stone and my mouth dries. I fight the urge to swallow, nervous even the slightest movement will cause him to slash my throat from ear to ear.
I feel a drop of the fake blood slowly trail down toward my collarbone, his eyes tracking it until it disappears beneath my black jacket.
Seeming dissatisfied by that, he reaches up to grab the zipper and slowly drags it down, the sound of the metal teeth parting sending a cold chill down my spine.
I would love to slap his hand away, but with a knife held to my throat, I’m more inclined to keep my head attached. So, I grit my teeth and try to keep my body from trembling beneath his critical stare.
Then, he pushes it off my shoulders, letting it fall down my arms before dropping to the floor behind me.
“I can see your pulse,” he murmurs darkly. “Are you scared, Reverie?”
“No.”
