Lindsay.
I see her when I close my eyes. The mess of her honey brown hair. The scar at her collarbone. The way she laughed when she killed someone she hated. The way I loved her for it. The way she made me believe that darkness could be art if you painted it right.
She made me a monster with a scalpel and a smile. Taught me how to gut a man with precision and sleep like a baby after. I didn’t just follow her—I worshipped her. I let her hollow me out, scoop the softness from my ribs until all that was left was calculation and obedience. I let her love me like a weapon.
And when I wrapped my hands around her throat, I didn’t hesitate. I watched her eyes widen, felt the tremble in her fingers as she reached for me. I held her down as she kicked, as her breath stuttered and stopped, and I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I counted the seconds it took—documented the pressure, the resistance, the sound of the final gasp that escaped her lips.
And then I ran. Not because I was afraid of what I’d done. But because I was young, and that was the first time I’d killed someone alone. And it felt—god help me—it felt like I’d finally earned something. When Landon found me, I could have peeled my own skin off from the pressure, and the onset of emotions that broke me down. Landon is right. There hasn’t been anyone since Lindsay and I don’t know what Jasmine did to catch my eye but she should rue the day she ever crossed paths with me.
“You should be more concerned about my attraction,” I say, voice low, eyes fixed on the window—but I feel the weight of his presence behind me. “To your girl.”
Landon doesn’t flinch. “You won’t hurt her.”
I cough out a bitter laugh. “You know that’s not true.”
“She’s a strong girl.”
“That’s questionable,” I snap, turning slowly, the air between us crackling.
Landon stands now, back straight, reflection sharp in the glass. “You’re not going to hurt her.”
I whirl around fully, my chest tight, my hands clenched. “How do you fucking know?” I breathe. “I loved Lindsay, Landon. I loved her, and I still killed her. What do you think is going to happen if I love Jasmine?”
His jaw flexes. His voice drops, low and lethal. “If you love her,” he growls, stepping close enough that our foreheads nearly touch, “you will watch yourself. You will walk the fucking line. Or I will put you down.”
“You’re going to put me down?” I murmur, half a challenge, half a prayer. I step closer, close enough to smell the smoke on his breath. “You really think you can kill me? I taught you how to dismember a body.”
His eyes gleam, cold and bright. “And I taught you how to throw a punch, Con.” His fists tighten. “I don’t need a weapon for what I’ll do to you if you so much as make her cry.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long. No blinking. No backing down.
The second I hear the scream, something in my chest locks up. It’s sharp. Rattling. Too real to be from a dream, and too familiar to ignore. I know fear when I hear it—I’ve caused enough of it. My hands curl at my sides, and for a breath, I just stand there, frozen in the living room with the sound echoing down the hall.
Then Landon bolts. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he’s done this before—like she’s his to protect.
I follow, slower. My legs feel stiff, heavy with something I don’t want to name. Guilt, maybe. Dread. Hunger. I don’t know.
By the time I make it to her door, it’s open. Light spills out into the hallway like a throat of gold, and there he is—Landon—already on the bed, already got her wrapped in his arms. Jasmine’s curled up in his lap like she was made to fit there. He’s holding her like he’s the last thing keeping her from breaking apart.
She’s shaking, clutching at his shirt, tears streaking her cheeks. Her breath stutters in and out like it hurts her to keep going. I can’t look away.
Her shaky voice shoots into me like a bullet. “H-he w-won’t go away. I-I needed to get him to stop.”
Landon’s murmurs in a low, soft voice. “He stopped. I promise he stopped.”
“Y-you stopped him,” she whimpers into his chest.
“No Peach,” Landon clicks his tongue. “You stopped him. You’re so strong.”
She shakes her head no. No words. No breath. Just that slow, fractured denial, and I know exactly what I’m looking at.
This isn’t some random nightmare. This is memory wearing a mask. It’s shame soaked in sweat, clawing its way up her throat until she can’t breathe through it. I’ve lived that. I still do.
Whoever she is in that dream—whatever she did—she believes it defines her. I can see it in the tremble of her lip, the way she digsher fingers into the sheets like she’s trying to anchor herself to something that isn’t swallowing her whole. That’s not just fear. That’s self-damnation.
And fuck, I know that monster.
The one sinking its claws into her chest, pulling her down into some place darker than dreams. I know it too well. I’ve let it crawl up my spine and settle in my brain like smoke. I’ve listened to its lullabies. I’ve let it teach me how to breathe in agony and call it discipline.
