He opened my door and offered a hand, but I was already sliding out on my own. His jaw ticked, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Stay behind me,” he murmured as we approached the officers.

  Dec looked up at the sound of my footsteps, and the second he saw me, his eyes went wide and glassy, mouth falling open in a desperate gasp. “Kennedy!”

  He struggled to stand, nearly falling over in the process. One of the cops grabbed his arm to keep him steady.

  “Please,” he said, moving closer. “I didn’t mean to… just let me explain…”

  Malachi stepped forward, body tense and commanding. “Back it up,” he ordered, his tone calm but firm. “You don’t get to lunge at her like that.”

  “I wasn’t lunging!” Dec protested. “I just… she needs to know I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just trying to help!”

  I stepped around Malachi, ignoring his warning glance. “It’s okay,” I said. “I want to talk to him.”

  His shoulders were rigid. “Okay. But you’re not getting closer than two feet, for your own safety.”

  I didn’t argue. I turned my attention to Dec, who looked absolutely awful. His face was flushed, and there was a smear of dirt on the side of his cheek, like he’d face-planted into the lawn at some point.

  “What the hell were you doing?” I snapped, arms crossed tight over my chest.

  “I was just trying to get in,” he mumbled. “After you called earlier, I felt really bad for not helping. So I figured I’d come and grab the stuff for you. Like you wanted.”

  “So you drove here drunk?”

  “Course not! I took an Uber.”

  “And then you decided to break into my house?” I said, eyebrows lifting.

  “I know how it looks, but I didn’t mean it like that,” he insisted, swaying again. “I just couldn’t remember the code for the front door. So I thought… I don’t know, maybe I could get in a window or something. That’s all. I swear, Kenny.”

  Despite how pissed I was, I didn’t see any malice in him. Just bad judgment and way, way too much beer.

  I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. “You’re a complete idiot sometimes, Dec.”

  “I know.”

  I turned to Malachi and lowered my voice so that only he could hear me. “I really think this was a stupid drunken mistake,” I said. “I did call him about my car earlier, and I gave him the door code too. And like I told you last week, he’s going through a lot right now. So I really don’t think this needs to turn into a big thing. And I definitely don’t think it’s related to the Carver in any way.”

  Malachi’s expression darkened. “He attempted to enter a private residence through a locked window. Usually we’d press charges.”

  “I get that,” I said. “But he wasn’t trying to rob me or hurt me. He was just being stupid.”

  “I think you’re being too generous, given everything that’s going on right now.”

  “Maybe,” I said, arching a brow. “But it’s my decision, right?”

  Malachi didn’t look happy, but he nodded once. “All right. He’ll still have to come to the station so we can let him sleep it off in the drunk tank,” he said. “And tomorrow, we’ll be having a real conversation with him. About the letter. The ears. All of it.”

  My heart started pounding. “You honestly think Dec is somehow involved with the Carver?” I asked incredulously. “Or actually the Carver himself?”

  “I didn’t suspect him of anything before, but this incident has made me think he needs to be questioned, at the very least,” he replied, rubbing his jaw.

  “He’s not the Carver, Malachi! And he’s not working with him either,” I said. “I mean, come on. Just the thought of that is ridiculous!”

  “It might sound ridiculous, but we need to cover every base.”

  I sighed, shoulders sagging. “Fine.” I turned back to my stepbrother. “Dec, the police want you to go with them to sleep this off. But I want you to know I’m not pressing charges. Just promise me you won’t do something this stupid ever again, okay?”

  Dec’s head drooped forward, like the relief had physically drained what was left of his energy. “Okay. I promise.”

  The officers helped him to his feet and started walking him toward the cruiser.

  I turned away and headed up the porch steps. Malachi followed me, saying nothing until we reached the front door.

  “You okay?” he asked, voice low. “I know it turned out to be your stepbrother, but this stuff can still shake you.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure you want to be alone tonight? I could call Freya for you. Or another friend.”

  “I’m really tired, so I think I’ll just head to bed,” I said. “But thanks for picking me up and helping me out tonight.”

  Something passed between us then; an unspoken flicker of tension. He hesitated like he might say something else, but then simply nodded.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how my chat with Dec goes,” he said. “Double-check the security system when you get inside. And keep your phone close.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll get someone to fix your car and bring it back to you tomorrow morning,” he added.

  I gave him a ghost of a smile. “Thanks, Malachi.”

  Inside, I did as he said and checked every lock. Every window. Reset the alarm. Then I took the world’s hottest shower, scalding away the night’s anxiety.

  After I dried off, I pulled on an oversized T-shirt and loose satin shorts. Then I finally climbed into bed, emotionally and physically drained.

  Despite my exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. My thoughts kept circling like vultures. Dr. King, the fanfic site, the mysteriously-dead car, Dec at the window, the terrifying sense that the Carver was only ever one step away from me…

  Eventually, I drifted into a light slumber.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been out when I stirred again at the sound of a floorboard creaking somewhere. I didn’t think much of it at first. Probably the house settling. Maybe even my imagination. I rolled from my left side onto my back with a yawn, eyelids still heavy and closed.

  Then the mattress dipped. And something—someone—was suddenly on top of me.

  A gloved hand clamped down over my mouth, smothering the scream that rose in my throat as something warm and solid pressed me into the mattress. A heavy, muscular man's body was caging me in like I was nothing more than a pinned butterfly… but it was his mask that really paralyzed me.

  A bone-white skull covered his face, empty eye sockets staring down at me. The teeth were etched into a grin, fixed and soulless.

  Somehow, deep in my bones, I knew it wasn’t just a costume. Wasn’t just a sick joke.

  It was the Carver.

  11

  Kennedy

  I couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t think.

  Couldn’t breathe beneath the weight of the man on top of me.

  His mask loomed inches from my face, bone-white and grinning, like death itself had crawled out of the walls and onto my chest. His gloved hand was huge, fingers splayed wide and unforgiving, and his body was solid and terrifyingly real, pressing me into the mattress until I felt like I might sink right through it.

  My heart thundered, and every cell in my body screamed for me to do something. To kick, to bite, to thrash. But I still couldn’t seem to move. I was frozen, like prey beneath a predator’s claws.

  A sob made its way up my throat, muffled by the man’s heavy hand. Then something suddenly occurred to me.

  The cops were outside, and my security system was on. There was no way this man could’ve sneaked in without setting off the alarm. Not unless he had the code. And the only person I’d given the code to was Dec, who was currently locked up in the drunk tank at Corwin Bay PD.

  The man didn’t move or say anything. He just looked down at me, like he was waiting for something. Waiting for what, though? What the hell did he want from me?

  My limbs still wouldn’t respond, and suddenly my brain was grasping at another idea.

  This isn’t real.

  It couldn’t be. It had to be another one of those dreams. The ones that crawled out of the dark part of my psyche, leaving me soaked in sweat and shame. The ones I’d wake from gasping and flushed, with my hands already between my legs, working frantically until I came so hard I saw stars.

  Just a dream.

  A sick, twisted fantasy dredged up by my worst memories and my filthiest impulses. And in dreams, I didn’t have to be good. Didn’t have to be ashamed, either. I could want the things I wasn’t supposed to, and I could do them, too.

  The man leaned in, his masked face inches from mine. His breath was warm against my cheek, and his body was a furnace of heat and menace. His voice, when it came, was deep and masculine, muffled by the mask so I couldn’t quite place it despite an odd sense of familiarity.

  “This is what you want,” he muttered.

  Not a question. A statement. Like he already knew me, inside and out.

  I didn’t even try to deny it. I just nodded.

  His head tilted, and I felt his stare burning through the skull mask. His next words were low and commanding. “Don’t scream.”

  Then his hand lifted from my mouth.

  I didn’t scream. I moaned. It escaped without permission, a whimper of pure wanton need as my hips arched upward, chasing the friction of the man’s body.

  His gloved hand came up to my chest. In his other hand, something was gleaming. A knife. My breath caught as the cold kiss of metal touched just below my collarbone, and I shivered… but not from fear.

  The blade moved slowly down the center of the oversized T-shirt I’d worn to sleep, slicing cleanly through the thin cotton. The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and my skin prickled under the sudden exposure, nipples hardening against the air and the heat of his gaze.

  I should’ve felt terrified, but I only felt seen.

  The knife hovered at my throat now, the tip barely touching the delicate skin just beneath my jaw. A whisper of pressure. A promise. “Tell me exactly what you want, Kennedy,” the masked man demanded, voice low and gravelly.

  I swallowed, eyes locked on him. “I… I want this,” I breathed, barely able to get the words out.

  “Be. More. Specific,” he hissed, each word striking like a whipcrack.

  My breath hitched, and shame curled in my gut. But beneath that was deeper, darker desire. “You… you know what I want,” I murmured, still barely able to force the words out. “You’re already inside my head.”

  “I need to hear you say it.” The tip of the knife dug into my skin, hard enough to sting. “Last chance, baby girl.”

  I swallowed hard and released a shaky breath. “I want you inside me,” I whispered. “And… I want you to make it hurt.”

  “Good girl,” he muttered. As he spoke, he slowly dragged the flat of the blade down my sternum, letting the cold steel trail over my skin. “Finally being honest.”

  He pressed the blade against the swell of my breast with just enough pressure to make me gasp, and my back arched, chasing the danger like it was pleasure. Like I’d never known the difference.

  My wrists itched to be bound. My throat ached for his hand. My whole body trembled under the weight of his presence, and the weight of finally giving in.

  To the darkness.

  To the lust.

  To him.

  The knife slipped lower. His other hand was back on me now, palm flat on my chest, fingers splayed between my breasts. He wasn’t gentle or slow. He touched me like I was his. Like he’d already claimed every inch of me in his mind, and now he was just confirming it in flesh.

  I gasped when his gloved fingers caught the waistband of my satin shorts and dragged them down my hips, baring me completely. The blade followed, tracing a stinging line down my thigh that made me cry out with anticipation.

  He leaned closer, and I felt the warm huff of his breath against my cheek, the mask brushing my skin as he spoke.

  “You’ve wanted this for so long,” he muttered.

  Once again, there was no room for doubt in his voice. No hesitation. Just certainty. He really knew me. My fears, my cravings, every filthy secret I’d buried so deep that not even therapy could dig them out.

  I nodded, breath coming fast. “Yes.”

  “You dreamed about this. You wrote about it, too,” he went on, his voice a guttural whisper. “Didn’t you?”

  I nodded again.

  He leaned even closer. “You wanted to be hunted. To be claimed. Used.”

  Another fervent nod. “Yes.”

  A gloved hand wrapped around my throat then. Not squeezing hard, just resting there, claiming me. I moaned again; a desperate, involuntary sound that made his hand tighten slightly.

  He finally pulled away and slid his hand lower, down my stomach and between my legs. Gloved fingers parted me, finding me soaked and trembling, and a low growl rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating through me as he pushed one thick finger inside without preamble.

  My body arched, pleasure clashing hard against panic as the knife kept hovering nearby. “More,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “Please.”

  He gave me what I asked for. Another finger. More pressure. More control. He took it all like it belonged to him… and maybe it did. Maybe it always had.

  When I started to come undone beneath him, thighs shaking, hips bucking against his hand, he leaned down again, mask brushing my temple, voice dark and amused. “Good girl.”

  My orgasm hit fast, ripping through me in jagged waves as I cried out, voice cracking from the force of it. My back bowed off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets like they could anchor me, but there was no grounding to be found. Not when he was still inside me. Not when he’d barely even started.

  His fingers didn’t slow. Instead, he pushed harder, deeper, curling them with cruel precision until the overstimulation made me squirm. I whimpered, half-wild now, unsure whether I was trying to escape the pleasure or chase it again.

  “Don’t try to run,” he said softly. “Not from this.”

  The blade reappeared in my hazy vision, catching the moonlight through my window as if to remind me that it had never really left. The masked man dragged the flat edge up my inner thigh again, slow and reverent, until it pressed just beside where I was spread open for him.

  I didn’t flinch or beg him to stop. I just stared up at the mask looming above me, heart racing, skin flushed, body throbbing with need.

  He made a pleased sound low in his throat. “Good.”

  The knife slid away again, and in the next moment he was undoing his belt. The metal buckle clinked in the dark, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to hear it. Anticipation spiked like lightning in my veins.

  When the belt came down around my wrists, I let him bind me without a fight. He pulled the leather tight, securing my hands above my head and locking them to the bedhead with practiced ease. I was helpless beneath him now; exposed, panting, dripping with desperation.

  His masked face tilted again, and he leaned down. “You know you’re mine now, don’t you?”

  I nodded. My mouth was too dry to speak.

  His hand came to my throat again, squeezing just enough to send stars dancing at the edges of my vision. “Say it.”

  “I-I’m yours,” I gasped.

  He made a low, hungry sound and shifted between my legs. The thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I bucked toward it instinctively, shameless and greedy. “Beg,” he said.

  “Please,” I whispered.

  “Louder.”

  “Please,” I cried, writhing beneath him. “Please fuck me.”

  He gave me what I asked for, sinking into me in one harsh, unforgiving thrust. I choked on a scream as he stretched and filled me, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a cocktail that was a hundred times better than any drug.

  He didn’t stop, didn’t let me adjust. He just pounded into me, driving his cock deep with every thrust. The mask loomed above me, a stark reminder of his anonymity, his mystery, his darkness. But right now, I didn't care who he was. I didn’t even care if this was a dream or not.

  All I cared about was the feeling.

  My thighs squeezed his hips, pulling him in, urging him deeper. He fucked me hard and fast, unrelenting, taking me like he knew exactly what I wanted. Like he could read my thoughts, desires, and fantasies, and had crafted this experience just for me.

  "Yes," I moaned, grinding against him. "Oh, god… please, don't stop."

  A deep, masculine chuckle. "Such a good girl for me."

  “Yes,” I panted. “Don't stop. Please… don't ever stop."

  But he did. He withdrew, undid the belt to release my arms, and then rolled me onto my stomach, roughly pulling me up onto my hands and knees. My back arched instinctively, exposing every inch of my bare ass and pussy.

  "Please!" I begged, my body screaming for release. He couldn't stop now. Not when I wanted more, more, more.

  The man’s gloved fingers plunged between my legs again, gathering my wetness and spreading it over my asshole. Then the head of his cock was there, nudging the tight ring.

  “I’m gonna take your ass, and it’s gonna hurt,” he said. “But you’ll love every second of it, won’t you?”

  “Yes!” I cried, quaking with anticipation. “Please…”

  As I answered him, there was a cold press on the back of my left leg, mere inches below my ass. It was the knife, yet again.

  "Don’t move, baby," he growled near my ear. The tip of his cock was still lined up with my asshole, but he wasn’t thrusting forward. Not yet.

  My breath hitched as his blade pressed harder, dragging a deliberate, burning line. Only when the pain sharpened did I understand: he was carving three lines on me. Marking me with the letter 'K'. Claiming my whole body as his before he claimed my ass.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to silence my cry as the final line was cut. The pain was sharp, but my desire to be his burned hotter.