Page 79 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

“Then you don’t get the answer to your curiosity about that night.” He doesn’t sound particularly put off by it. He sounds conversational. Like this is something other than a horrifying situation.

Like I’m not waiting for the flash of the knife in the darkness.

“So you come back to Hayden Fields to get some sick pleasure out of remembering what you did, and I’m an unwilling participant in that,” I say flatly, changing the conversation back to a less horrid topic. Though not by much. “And now you’re, what, graduating to breaking into my house so you can watch me sleep? You’ve always been a creep, but don’t you think this takes it to a new level?”

He leans forward so his entire face is in the light, and his gaze tells me I’m not getting the rise out of him I’d expected. Not only that, but he seems more amused than annoyed as he runs his fingers over the back of my phone absently.

“I’ve ‘always’ been a creep, huh?” he repeats. “That so? Even when we were kids?”

“Stop.” My voice is flat when I say it, and I clench the comforter more tightly.

“Even when you were hiding from what we both knew was happening at home? When you begged me to let you hide under my bed so you wouldn’t have to go back with your mom?”

“I said stop.” This time the words come out as even a whisper.

But his eyes never leave mine, and a small, wry smile twitches at his lips when he asks, “Did you know I was a creep when I walked you home so no one would bother you and you held my hand so tight I thought you might never let go? Or when⁠—”

“I said stop!” I’m yelling without meaning to, and I grab my pillow to launch it at his face. I can see the look of surprise in his eyes as he jerks back, and I take that moment to lunge to my feet, hitting the floor at the foot of my bed and looking around for anything I can use as a weapon. But unless I’m willing to beat him to death with an empty plastic cup or throw my fan at his head, I don’t think I have a lot to work with.

Instead, I bolt toward the hallway, just as I hear heavy steps behind me that eat up much more distance than my own. I’ve barely made it to the doorway before an arm loops around my waist and I’m jerked off my feet. A yelp of surprise and protest escapes my lips as I grope for the doorframe, hooking my fingers around it for some kind of leverage as I struggle in his grip.

“Let go of me!” I scream, refusing to give in, even as my heart pounds out a terrified rhythm.

“Never,” Cassian snarls in my ear. “Not ever, Winnie. So don’t bother asking again.” His words register in my brain and shock makes my limbs go cold. My fingers are suddenly numb enough that he can yank me off of the doorframe, and Cassian easily spins me around to toss me back onto my bed before kicking the door closed behind him and plunging us into darkness lit only by the moon outside.

I surge upward off of the mattress, hands propelling me, but a large weight knocks me off balance, pinning me on my back with my head pressed to my remaining pillow that I hadn’t used as a pathetic excuse of a weapon.

“What do you want?” I demand, though the words come out shakier than I want. My fingers twist in the comforter, palm aching dully from too much movement.

“To tell you I didn’t kill Lacey Clarke,” Cassian growls.

“Why—”

“Because I know what you think, Winnie.” Frustration laces his tone, and he shifts, settling on his hands and knees above me and giving me a few safe, scant inches between my body and his.

But it’s not enough.

It wouldn’t even be enough if he were in the next county.

“You don’t know anything,” I reply sharply. Or at least, as sharply as I can, given the circumstance and my building fear that’s about to make a mess out of me. But if Cassian is going to kill me, I won’t be like Carissa.

I won’t beg him for my life.

I won’t let him see me cry.

His laugh is soft and harsh, and he’s close enough to my face that I feel his breath against my lips. “I know what you think when you look at me. You’re not very subtle, princess. You never have been. I know you think I killed her. You’re so sure I’m the reason her mother was covered in blood this morning, aren’t you?”

He isn’t wrong in the least. But I don’t want to admit he’s right. Instead, I opt not to say anything at all, but that doesn’t seem to bother him either.

“Why would I lie to you about killing her, hmm? I’m not exactly shy with you knowing what I’ve done. I let you watch Carissa die, after all.” His voice is goading and soft. Almost a purr in his chest that has my heart slamming against my ribs in fear.

Well, mostly fear.

Because if there’s one thing I hate the most about Cassian Byers, it’s the fact that deep down, I’ve never been just afraid of him.

And now I’m terrified he knows it too.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, realizing belatedly that I’m not trying to fight him anymore. His thighs are snug around my hips, his jeans rubbing against the exposed skin from where my shirt has ridden up slightly. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care.