Page 78 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

At least, it’s not unobstructed like it should be.

There’s a figure in the window seat, sitting almost completely still and backlit by the moon outside. I can’t see their face, but I sit up fast with a sharp intake of breath. “Who⁠—”

The figure leans forward into the slanting illumination cast by the hall night-light and my heart stutters in my chest like it might just give out in the spot.

“The lock on your door is kind of pathetic,” Cassian informs me in his low, smooth voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice, though it’s a weird thing to go through my head right now.

“What?” I ask dumbly, feeling frozen in place as he meets my gaze. “How did you get in here?”

“Picked the lock,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a toddler who might not understand the words. “On your back door.”

“You closed it, right?” My brain isn’t quite working the way it should, and I attribute it to the exhaustion that I’m still trying to shake off, even though I’ve probably been asleep for a good eight hours.

Cassian is quiet for a moment, and his expression slides into one of bemusement. “You’re asking if I closed your back door?” He sounds like he can’t quite believe that’s what I’m choosing to say right now, but I nod my head jerkily. “Yeah. I did. The cats didn’t get out, Winnie.” He settles back, face obscured by darkness once again. “Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”

No, it isn’t. A million questions slam through my brain all at once, each wiggling uncomfortably into the space behind my eyes in an attempt to be the first to escape my lips.

Why are you here?

Did you kill Lacey?

Why did you kill your sister?

Why didn’t you kill me?

“What are you doing here?” I turn just enough to slide my fingers under my pillow, fingers searching for my phone that I always keep tethered to me for fear of not having adequate entertainment from social media drama.

Only, it isn’t there. And when Cassian pointedly clears his throat, I have an idea of what I’ll see when I turn around.

Sure enough, my phone lights up in his grip, showing a few missed messages from Reagan and what looks like a voicemail from my mom.

“Come on, Winnie.” His tone is just a bit goading, just a little amused. “You thought I wouldn’t take your phone so you couldn’t call the cops instead of talk to me?” The words and the way they’re said make me bristle, and I throw the covers off of my legs in case I need to do something dramatic.

And from the way Cassian Byers tenses, he’s expecting it too. But I force myself to stay still, my body poised to move when I feel like I might be able to get away with it.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” he admits finally, when the silence between us has stretched to its breaking point. “I’ve been coming back here for years around Halloween to reminisce. And maybe to see you, too.”

“I’ve never seen you before yesterday,” I can’t help but interject quickly.

He tilts his head to the side, just enough that one baleful eye is lit up again. “That’s because I never wanted you to. I let you see me at the diner to find out what you would do and, umm…” I swear he’s smiling now. “You didn’t disappoint. I wasn’t expecting such a dramatic reaction from you, truth be told.” His eyes flick downward, toward my hands that clench my comforter. “You certainly didn’t react like that in the psych ward.”

“That was years ago.” My words are quick and defensive, though I’m not sure what I feel insulted by. “And it was a unique set of circumstances.”

“Right,” he agrees. “The unique circumstances being that you’d just shot your father with his own gun. I remember.” Fuck, I hate how easily he knocks me off balance and keeps me guessing. I want him to be predictable, and not throw me for so many turns that I have no idea what will come out of his mouth next.

“You don’t know anything about what happened.” Restlessly, I shift again on the bed, trying to come up with a plan. I’m afraid of him. I’ve always been afraid of him, deep down. Except for that one time in the psych ward, where he’d been the better alternative to getting dragged away by nurses who wanted to evaluate me to see how long I’d need to stay. “Don’t pretend like you do, Cassian.”

“Then don’t pretend like you know what happened the night you watched me kill Carissa,” he replies quickly, voice still soft. “Fair’s fair, after all.”

I open my mouth to reply, but think better of it. He’s…right to some extent. I have no idea why he wanted to kill her. Especially when he was so young, and she was just a teenager babysitting the neighbor down the street. “Enlighten me, then,” I invite. It’s not meant to be a real offer, but I can’t help being curious.

Even though I’m pretty sure in this case my curiosity could get me killed, and no amount of satisfaction would bring me back from getting stabbed like Carissa.

“You first,” he shoots back. “Tell me why you shot your father. Tell me in detail, and I’ll give you every single answer you want, and plenty of ones you don’t.” I hate the challenge in his words, and despise how it makes me bristle and want to jump down his throat.

I hate everything about Cassian Byers.

“You know I’m not about to do that,” I whisper.