The true depth of the insult doesn’t sink in until nearly a minute later. When he’s already turned his back on me and sauntered down the hall.
Trash.
Hollings.
Like I’m a toy he bought on a whim.
“No.” I voice the refusal to a blank wall, aware that he’s listening. His heavy steps trail off nearby. “N-no, I’m not.”
I follow him, expecting to find him sneering, ready to deliver a cruel retort. Not scowling with impatience.
“Is that so?”
“I could go to someone else.” It’s an option that sounds more appealing by the minute. I could return to Bolles and find someone else. But there’s one small matter only Blake Lorenz can offer.
“Do it,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes flash almost with glee. “I’ll have your home burned to the ground before you can even spread your legs.”
I wince at the imagery. “It’s just a house.”
“Wrong.” He advances on me but pauses when he’s close enough to touch—not that he does. “You’re a Hollings. You know what that means.”
I’m not sure I do anymore. Nothing but dread and harsh memories taint the walls of the house, nullifying the good. Mama’s study. That space under Papa’s desk. My old room—those are the only parts of Hollings Manor worth saving. Could I bear to watch them burn?
I don’t need to hear Blake’s callous scoff to know the answer.
“You’d fuck a stranger to save this place,” he tells me, his voice ringing with confidence.
I would. I will.
“Houses can be rebuilt,” I croak, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. “I don’t need you.”
“Oh really?” A shadow distorts his hard features, darkening the hue of his irises. “Then get the fuck out. Leave.”
I aim my trembling limbs toward the stairs, intending to do just that. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have clothing, or a car, or a house to run to. As he crudely put it, I’m a Hollings. I’ll find a way. I must find a way…
“And what a shame when Ronan gets taken off life support. Or when Hunter is led away in cuffs.”
“What?” I come to a dead stop at the base of the steps, panting with the effort it takes to breathe. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me. I own everything in your fucking life, Snow. I can smash it all to pieces, but I’ll let you oversee when and how. So leave. Just know that the moment you step foot out of that door, I’ll fucking set your entire world on fire.”
“Why are you doing this?” I can’t even shout. Or scream. I just whisper, horrified by the figure watching me from the top of the stairs. His face is so beautiful that it hurts, and I now understand the true meaning of hell. It’s not fire and brimstone. It’s pain draped in Armani and perfumed with hate.
It’s Blake Lorenz manipulating me like a puppet.
It’s this cold, deep pinch in my gut that warns me there can only be one reason why, no matter how insane it sounds inside my head.
“Only one person in the world could hate me so much…”
“Oh?” He shrugs again. “And who would that be, Snow? Fucking say his name.”
But I can’t. “One person you could only dream of becoming.”
He laughs at that. Throws his head back and chuckles deeply. “And why would this so-called ‘dreamlike’ man hate you?”
“Because…” I nervously lick my lips. In the space of a second, his expression changes. His eyes flash and his upper lip curls back from his teeth, baring them in a snarl. “Because I told the entire world what everyone always thought he was.”
“And what was that?” Danger laces his tone, warning me to stop.
But I can’t. “I told the world he was a monster.”
He blinks, his face blank, almost canvas-like, before rage paints it in strokes of red. “And he showed the world that you’re nothing more than an ugly, selfish, disgusting little bitch.”
Stung, I turn for the front door and cross the foyer in seconds. With trembling hands, I paw the door open and brace my bare toes over the stoop, assaulted by the frigid chill.
“Run, Snow,” he calls from behind me. “Go! Fucking run.”
And cause your family’s ruin, his cruel tone implies.
My body twitches forward, but at the last second, I turn before I can step fully over the threshold and run headlong deeper into the house instead.
I pick a direction at random, aware only of the fact that someone is fast on my heels. Their steps are heavier than mine. Steadier than mine. When I trip over a doorway and flail for balance, they’re already entering the room in my wake.
“Get away from me!”
I’m in Papa’s study, of all places. The desk is the only structure capable of being placed between us. So I lunge for it, but he reaches it at the same time. The drawers are on his end and he wrenches one open and rummages inside it while my heart plays a sickening melody. When he withdraws a pair of silver scissors, my pulse stutters to a violent stop.
“Come here.” He parts the blades with menacing slowness.
“No.” I stagger back out of his reach, but my shoulders strike the firm ledge of a bookcase, trapping me between him and the door. There’s no escape.
But he doesn’t want to corner me. He wants to desolate me. Cold, blue eyes convey my utter destruction as he braces his weight against the desk on the flat of his hand. “I said come here.”
My gaze fixates on the scissors he’s holding. The twin blades gleam, dangerously sharp. No one’s threatened me like this before. Correction: No one’s done so this openly.
“You have five seconds,” he warns.
“Are…are you going to hurt me?”
He stiffens, his jaw snapping shut. “Come here.”
He won’t hurt me physically anyway. It’s a suspicion I can’t explain, and I don’t care to examine it in full.
“Three seconds.”
Woodenly, I force my legs to move, bringing myself as close to the desk as I dare. When I’m within his reach, he grabs my wrist, dragging me around to his side of the desk.
“Get down.”
A heavy hand flattens against my lower back, forcing me to lean over the desk, at his mercy. I see the scissors glinting from the corner of my eye, alarmingly close to my ear. The snap of them closing echoes like a gunshot, close to my head but not near any skin. I blink in confusion but then the aftermath flutters against my fingers: long strands of fiery red…
“No!” I try to move only to be pushed down harder.
“Don’t fucking move.” The scissors open and close again in quick succession and more strands of my hair drift down to coat the desk. Red, vibrant.
“Stop.”
He doesn’t. Ruthlessly, he shears every bit of hair, grunting with each snap of the blades. More. More. More. Somehow, I don’t move a muscle even as tears stream down my face, wetting the wood beneath me.
“I don’t want Snowy fucking Hollings,” he growls as more locks fall from my shoulders. “If that’s all you have to offer, then you might as well leave now. I don’t want your goddamn family. Or your money.”
Then what does he want? I can’t find the breath to ask. With one last violent snap, he slams the scissors onto the desk.
“I want a warm fucking hole who knows who she owes her world to.” He growls the words into my ear. “Say it. You need me. Fucking say it.”
My body vibrates against the surface of the desk. I’m shaking. Fear and desperation shape my spine, keeping it curved while the remains of my hair coat me, red like ashes. Warmth clings to them still. I can tell from how light my head feels that he cut off inches, leaving me with a length that barely brushes my shoulders. To drill the loss in, he seizes a lock of it, cruelly twisting it between his fingers.
“Say it. Say it or you won’t get a fucking dime—”
“I need you.”
“That’s right.” He withdraws with a sigh. “You’re damn right you fucking do. Now, clean up this fucking mess.”
I hear him leave. Somewhere deeper within the house, a door slams. Silence descends, lasting only a second before my sobs shatter it. They rip from me, wordless and howling.
I don’t know how long I lie here, gasping for air. All I’m sure of is darkness and unrelenting cold as I return to my bedroom.
Ice greets me beneath the sheets, a fitting sensation to match the chill encasing my heart. Nothing seems to ease it. No number of blankets pulled over my frame or any position over the mattress.
For the first time in my life, I wish that Brandt Lloyd really is dead and gone, any doppelganger be damned. I pray for as much.
Because the alternative is too terrifying to fathom. Could my beautiful boy have become a monster? My brain shies away from deciding on an answer. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to ignore my shorn hair. Cool air tickles my ears in a way it hasn’t in years. My shoulders chafe, assaulted by the sheets.
But the worst discomfort dwells in my head, where Blake Lorenz waits, eager to terrorize me, even in sleep.