He scans my face with those crystal blue eyes. They’re not just burning—they’re crazed. And he doesn't try to explain himself or apologize for killing a man right in front of me. Just says, “I didn’t kill the guy who touched you. Yet. Second time today.”
His words stop my heart.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “You’ve done enough. I didn’t ask for that. I would never ask for that.”
“Course you wouldn’t. You don’t get it,” he answers with that cocky smirk. Like me having basic morals is some kind of character flaw.
He brings his face closer, his lips hovering over mine. Oh God, he's going to kiss me. He's going to kiss me after killing a man. Possibly take me against the wall again, like he did back at the church.
Even worse, I don't know if I'm going to stop him. I’m horrified—bordering on traumatized. But desire swells inside of me, thick and dumb, and my body silently begs for the thing—for the man I shouldn’t want.
But his lips just hover there. He doesn't bring them any closer.
I don't realize he's waiting until he asks, “You going to kiss me again? Stop me from going back down there to put another bullet in the head of that pipsqueak who fucking touched you?”
I swallow again, every single part of me mute with horror. My voice has stopped working. I can't feel my heart beating, and I know for damn sure I'm not breathing.
His eyes blaze, challenging me, daring me.
And when I just stand there, that cocky smirk metastasizes into a feral grin. “Not this time, huh?”
“No…no, I’m not going to kiss you,” I finally manage to squeeze out. I remind both him and myself, “You just killed a man. And you’re threatening to do it again. Do you not see why that should make me totally disinterested in kissing you for any reason. Ever?”
His smile fades, and a grim shadow falls over his face. And for some reason, I feel bad for rejecting him even though he’s the one who dragged me into this hellmouth, then showed me that he isn’t just one of these monsters—he’s their king.
“This ain't how I wanted to start with you.” He pushes back and shakes his head. Like he’s disappointed. With me or himself? I can’t tell.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What exactly do you think we’re doing here?”
These are only two of the many questions I have for him.
“Get some rest,” he commands, not answering either of them. “We’re leaving early tomorrow morning.”
He says that, then he strides out the door he didn’t close before pushing me into a wall.
But this time, he shuts it behind him. With a slam.
I wait. Holding my breath, I make myself wait until his footsteps recede into the distance.
And as soon as they do, I lunge for the door. To my horror, when I turn the knob, it stops almost immediately. It's locked!
What kind of establishment has doors that lock from the outside?
I yell and slam my hand into the door. “Hey! Hey! Somebody let me out!”
As if in answer to my pleas, a single shot rings out from below.
Then the music starts up again. This time even louder. The bass of a Colin Fairgood track shakes the floor. It’s one of the hip-hop crossover songs he did with Roxxy Roxx—one I actually liked. Before this moment.
But Waylon’s just killed another man.
And locked me inside this room.
An ugly primal panic overwhelms me as I remember Melinda, the foster mother who locked me in the closet to teach me a lesson about lying after Ant got taken away—when I tried to explain to her what really happened so that she could tell the social worker to retrieve the innocent boy who’d done nothing wrong from Juvie.
Dry swallowing, I run to the window.
There's only a single dim light illuminating the ground outside, but it's far enough down that I can tell a drop would be painful. And even if that wasn’t the case, when I try to pull up the window to see if there’s any kind of ledge I can step out onto, it doesn’t budge in the slightest. It's locked too. This is a room designed to imprison.
No! No! No!
I run back to the door, and I don’t just yell this time. I scream—I scream for Waylon, for anybody to let me out. Scream and cry.
It feels like my mind is cracking. Like, of all the things that happened after I said no to that pastor today, this is the consequence that will destroy me.
But no one comes, and eventually, I pass out, too tired and emotional to go on like that.
I awake to a soft knock the next morning and open my eyes to find myself lying right next to the door. It’s not dark anymore, but it’s not bright either. Dim rays of early morning sunlight shine through the room’s dusty window.