This nightmare grows realer by the day, and I want to wake up. But when my eyes finally open, I am trapped in a ruined world of twisted wood and scattered chunks of an antique chair. Mama’s presence is so real that I can see her smuggling my letters into this room and tucking them beneath the chair’s cushion. Later that night, she probably brought me into this very room and cradled me on her lap as I cried about the state of my life.
And all along, she knew.
Should I be so surprised? After all, I’m a Hollings. That means something.
I lie.
I cheat.
I steal.
All at Mommy and Daddy’s behest.
The longer I stay in the room, the more I feel choked by memories. They wrap themselves around my throat, cinching off my air bit by bit until I have no choice but to scramble to my feet and escape. My first refuge of choice is my bedroom, but I don’t know what makes me turn for the stairs instead. The moment my foot hits the floor of the foyer, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Snow.” His voice comes from down the hall, in the direction of Papa’s study.
I find him seated at the desk, but there are no loose pages in sight today. Merely a stack of old, crumpled letters. He lifts one and presents it to me without looking back.
“Read.”
My hair lashes the air around me as I shake my head. “N-no.” Some things can only be uttered once, either out loud or indirectly. Some truths mean nothing when all is said and buried. Rehashing the past now serves no one. Especially not Brandt. My fingers twitch, aching to reclaim them for myself.
As if sensing the desire, he lowers the letter back to the rest. “I will make you this offer once.” His voice inspires goosebumps that rise over my arms. I’m suddenly freezing, and this man—this stranger—seems miles away. “Read the fucking letters. Tell me what they say or—” He breaks off as his hands form fists over the desk. Ropey veins pulse against his skin, broadcasting his racing heartbeat. “Or I’ll make you wish you’d gone for the first option.”
My throat goes dry at the threat. Forming words at all requires that I lick my lips and inhale deeply. “I can’t.”
He stands, shoving the chair aside. It flies back and nearly strikes me. I only just manage to lurch out of the way—and right into his path. He grabs my shoulders, shoving me into a bookcase next. The ridge of a shelf bites into my spine, but the discomfort is nothing in the face of his expression. Narrowed eyes stare through me, a haunted, stormy blue.
“You said you told him everything,” he says. “You said you had an explanation. So say it. Say it!”
My lips refuse to part, sealed shut. Deep down, I know it’s foolish—a childish promise I haven’t broken in ten years. I’m a Hollings. My name means something, but what exactly? Mama and Papa are dead, yet their hold on me is a steel chain, tethering me to this goddamn house. Eyes welling with tears, I shake my head. “I-I can’t.”
“Oh?” He brings his fingers to my cheek, but they shake, grazing my skin. “Then I’ll treat you like the lying bitch you are. I’ll hurt you, Snow.” There’s no mocking this time.
I can’t escape the feeling that he’s warning me more than threatening. Pleading for me to give him a reason not to.
“I-I can’t.”
His eyes glaze over, his mouth tightening. I almost don’t see the slap coming—it happens that fast. The sting burns through my skull, sharp, but nowhere near the strength I know he’s capable of. I rub the area with trembling fingers as I watch him, my mouth agape.
“Bend over the table.” He claws at his front, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. The first two break off in the assault but he’s unconcerned. His arm lashes out next, knocking the letters to the floor. “Now.”
Everything slows down to the frantic breaths we trade between us: mine mere gasps, his steady and harsh. There’s so much malice contained in that single word: now. My gaze flicks to the letters as my fingers ache to grab them. Hide them. Letting a stranger peer over them should be easy, considering everything else.
But Blake Lorenz is a monster. Something in me won’t let him have that last, final piece of me. Not if I can help it.
Shuddering with the effort, I manage to wrestle control of my limbs from fear bit by bit. My brain fights to put everything back into perspective. The money. The business shares. The Hollings name.
I told myself once I’d do anything to preserve them, the only things in life that matter. Even as terror gnaws at that resolve, I remember Hunter and Ronan. Is Ronan awake yet? Is Hunter even further within the bottle?
My feet flex against the floor, drawing strength from the polished wood. The first step I take is unsteady, but I don’t fall. The next propels me close enough to the desk to cling to the edge of it.
Blake Lorenz wordlessly comes up behind me, casting a shadow that leaves me in semi-darkness. When his hand lands on my lower back, I wait for the violence. Instead, he roughly tugs my elegant gown up. Gradually, my ass is exposed, and I hear him groan, sounding pained. Then his foot forces its way between mine, nudging them farther apart and opening me up to him.
I’ll hurt you, Snow.
And he does, but without ever having to touch me. His breath nuzzles my throat as he lowers his face to my shoulder, almost crushing me with his weight.
“I won’t say that I wish you took the first option,” he growls against my ear, scalding the tender flesh with the heat of his confession. “I need you like this. Hating you…”
Air whistles past me as he draws back. A zipper comes undone, and fabric brushes my exposed back before hitting the floor. His shirt, or so I assume.
“I need you selfish and so fucking stupid.” A guttural note edges the words and my heart stutters in anticipation. “I need to fucking despise you.”
The desk creaks beneath his weight as he braces a hand against it, inches away from my head. His shadow flickers and then flesh meets the damp space between my legs, biting deep. Splitting. Invading. My scream echoes, but it isn’t loud enough to drown him out.
“I need it. It’s all I fucking have left.” He bucks into me, shoving me almost onto the desk entirely.
His nearness traps me, and I’m forced to accept every burning inch he seeks to bury inside me. Throaty groans betray his satisfaction as his hand fists in my hair, wrenching my head to the side while his lips find mine and devour them, forcing them apart. Like that, he manages to thrust even deeper than before, making me whimper. Muscles spread to conform to his size. The sheer breadth of his invasion leaves me speechless. Senseless.
I can only feel.
“I need to hate you,” he says almost reverently against my open mouth. Then he shifts his position, mounting me fully, and begins to move in earnest, slamming my body against the desk with every battering entry. “Fuck, I have to hate you.” He pants, biting the words out in between breaths. “Or I’d kill you.”
Fear sleepily combats the all-consuming sensation of sex. I blink, grappling against the wood beneath me with trembling fingers.
“I would,” he says as I struggle in vain to crawl from beneath him.
With one tug on my hair, he drags me back, using the motion as leverage to sink his cock into me so roughly that my vision goes white and my lips contort in a wordless scream. Everything inside me burns. My toes curl, my lungs gasping for breath.
“I’d have to,” he murmurs almost soothingly into my hair as his movements quicken. “You’d…beg…me…to…”
A big hand sweeps along my stomach and eases beneath me. He finds the weeping folds where we’re joined and rubs, grinding what feels like a thumb over the sensitive flesh. My spine contracts with every rough pass, like I’m a wind-up toy at his discretion. A plaything.
“Because it’s already done. It’s already done.”
The hand in my hair becomes a vise on my skull, shoving me forward as his thrusts increase. Hard. Harder. It’s like his goal is to bore through me, rip me utterly apart. Destroy me for anyone but him.
“You’re already mine.” He slams into me, his chest folding over my back.
This time, he doesn’t bother to anticipate his release. It floods into me, pulse after pulse of burning, unbearable heat. Too much. It seeps through what little space he isn’t occupying, dripping down my inner thighs.
I expect him to leave, but he lingers, softening inside me while his fingers continue to twist through my hair.
“Your body foils us both,” he whispers. “We both need the pain…but you can’t even give me that much.”
He pushes back off his hand, and I can hear him unsteadily fishing his clothing from the floor. Dazed, I watch him, my cheek still pressed against the desk.
His bare back is turned to me, rippling with muscle and tension, locked within a shell of paper-thin skin. Damaged skin. Old scars define his hulking shape, adding touches of vulnerability where there should be none. A pang shoots through my belly. Pity?
These injuries aren’t the result of an accident: circles of silvery skin indicate deliberate, precise wounds. Burns? If so, ones created by something small. My brain tries to place the weapon as he replaces his shirt. Then I remember.
They burned him, Snow. With cigarettes.
My sharp intake of air draws his attention, but his face doesn’t reveal dread or shame. He merely meets my gaze and holds it for what feels like an eternity, chilling me to the bone. An expression falls over his features, one I’ve come to fear. After adjusting his collar, he snaps his fingers.
“Come here.”
Only now do I notice that he hasn’t attempted to pull his pants up.
“Now.” His voice deepens. It’s like he’s daring me to run. To give him chase and one more reason to hate me.
Maybe I should. I wrestle with the weight of how easy it would be to give him what he wants. He practically begged me to.
I need to hate you.
Slowly, I unfurl my limbs, wincing as fresh bruises throb over my legs. Much to his apparent annoyance, I cross over to him. His next breath hisses through his teeth as he reaches up to trace tears that I didn’t even realize were falling. I shiver as his thumb trails over my bottom lip, nudging my mouth open.
“Clean me off, Snow.”
His chilling expression contrasts the unusual softness of his tone. My mind instantly conjures up an image of what he means, and I can’t stop my gaze from darting down, finding him partially erect, shining with fluid.
My cheeks flame as a refusal springs to my lips. “I—”
“Yes,” he murmurs over me. His hand cups my chin, forcing my gaze up to his. He nods encouragingly, stroking his fingers along my jaw. “Do it.”
He wants me to run, I realize with a building sense of helplessness. My stomach tightens as I rock onto the balls of my feet, torn between leaving and staying. Finally, I move, collapsing to my knees.
Almost reflexively, his hand seizes a chunk of my hair, yanking my face up for his scrutiny. I’m stripped bare beneath his attention. Then he draws me closer while fisting his shaft with his free hand.
I fight the instinctive need to close my eyes. I keep them open, watching him observe me, his face that twisted mask of rage I’ve come to associate with him. My mouth opens and my tongue hesitantly shoots out, tracing the wet crown.
I don’t let myself process the taste. I simply obey, using my tongue to whisk liquid away even though it leaves him just as damp as before. My mind shuts down and I move on autopilot without ever stopping to reject the act. His gaze is the only thing to give me context to the moment: eyebrows drawn, mouth curved downward, piercing, empty eyes.
Suddenly, my hair is tugged painfully, which pulls me away.
His breaths thunder from him, his lids lowered. A surprisingly pink tongue flits across his parted lips, tasting my fear on the air. “Open your mouth,” he says harshly.
No. Fear crawls through me at the thought of being choked again. My esophagus is still tender from before. Without thinking, I return to his cock, this time licking him faster. Harder.
He grunts in surprise, and I’m sure he yanks chunks of my hair out by the root. Then he stiffens. My hand comes up as if on its own accord, grasping him in a weak fist. Desperate to mimic the tightness of my throat, I squeeze.
“F-fuck.” His breathless gasp encourages me to squeeze harder and lavish attention on the places along his shaft that make him grunt. Curse me. Hiss. Spit. “Dammit, stop!”
He shoves me away this time, his hand striking my shoulder. I let myself go limp, watching him grasp his length in both hands. He doesn’t stroke, just grips until his knuckles whiten as if he’s fighting to stave off any reaction. Then our gazes meet. Collide.
“Fuck!” His head rears back and he spills himself into his palm.
Not by intention.
His anger resonates in my very bones as he steps over me and snatches my dress from the floor and cleans himself off with the satin. Then he tosses the garment aside before snatching up another item. This one, he holds up in the overcast daylight filtering in through the window: one of the letters. His teeth gnash at the air as he grabs the other corner of the envelope, preparing to rip it open. Before he can, he bellows out something unintelligible and throws it so hard that it bounces off a bookshelf.
“Fuck you! Fuck—” He tears at his hair, and his gaze finds mine, narrowed and unsettling. “If you won’t read, then you stay in here. You don’t fucking move an inch.”
He advances toward me, testing the strength of his command. I stay still, lying on the floor. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. As requested, I don’t move a fucking inch.
Paces away from me, he turns and marches for the door instead. I sense his gaze rake over my prone body one last time. Then he’s gone, leaving the door open and exposed to the drafty air chilling the rest of the house. Within days, my warm, familial haven has become an icy crypt, haunted by old memories.
A flash of white catches the corner of my eye: one of the letters strewn beneath the desk. There are ten of them in total. Ten fragile pieces of my soul I’d thought torn away years ago. I’m not ready to reconnect with them now. It feels like ages pass before I gather up the nerve to reach for one and run my fingers over the sloppy handwriting spelling out Brandt’s name.
My eyes sear. Blinking worsens the pain, and once again, I find myself weeping, unable to slow the onslaught of misery. The moisture smears the old ink, rendering it illegible. Just a stain of black over faded ivory, much like the way the past stained our perfect Hollings future. Papa always warned me not to dwell and never to regret.
We were Hollings, and that means…
It means…
I grasp through my thoughts for the answer but find nothing tangible. Just pain, and agony, and a growling voice that won’t stop echoing inside my skull: You’re only beautiful like this. Broken. Beautiful. Broken.
You’re broken, beautiful Snow.
In my hands, I hold just one tiny sliver of who I used to be. Moving like an old woman, I carefully gather the rest, wiping off dust and grime as best I can with my already filthy fingers.
Papa always kept matches somewhere in his study to light the fireplace when the mood struck him. Usually on the mantel, hidden within the false bottom of a Napoleon statue. It’s still there, a tiny figure riding a marble horse. So I crawl toward it and find the book of matches intact, with one remaining.
There’s no wood in the fireplace itself. Regardless, I arrange the letters in a neat stack and strike the match.
The topmost one almost doesn’t light, stubbornly resisting destruction. When I move the flame directly over Brandt’s scrawled name, it finally catches fire.
Layer by layer, my unspoken explanation goes up in flames as I watch on. Burning smoke floods the room, making me cough and my eyes water further. It’s the smell that must draw him back. His footsteps rattle the floorboards, rapid in their approach.
“What the hell?”
I turn and find him lunging through the doorway, his chest heaving. When he sees what I’ve done, he lurches forward and shoves me back. Hissing, he beats the flames with his bare hands before snatching my dress up to vanquish much of the fire. From the smoking wreckage, only one letter survives, and he cradles it against his palm.
“Get the fuck out.”
I don’t make him tell me twice.
On jellied legs, I return to my room and scrub myself clean. I pull on my shift dress and almost immediately find myself wandering the kitchens, desperate for fresh air. His very presence repels me from the house, banishing me to the gardens—but I don’t go far. Enslaved by my promise, I go only as far as the grounds allow me. Walking. Running. Weeping.
My eyelids chafe against sore flesh. I’m exhausted from crying so many tears. They blur my surroundings, reducing the stunning estate to a landscape of smeared gray and emerald green. A cool wind nips at my hair and bared flesh, seeming to shove me along until I reach the wooden path by the boathouse.
He’s not here, a fact that gives me enough courage to creep inside and throw myself into maneuvering one of the exercise machines. Without permission. I know I’m not welcome here, but exertion is more welcome than waiting for his next assault.
He wants me beautiful for him. I’ll give him exactly what he wants: beautiful, broken, ugly, fractured, selfish Snow.
After attempting to lift weights until my arms burn, I reach for a dumbbell, intending to lessen my load. But when my fingers brush the metal surface, everything blinks in and out of focus. Then I’m falling through the floor, wrapped within a heavy, dizzying cloud. The next thing I know, I’m on my knees, tasting blood.
My stomach churns, an angry, vengeful thing. How long has it been since I’ve eaten? I can’t remember, not that it matters. My body swells around me. I’ve never felt so ungainly. So clumsy. So stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid!
I’m engorged on Blake Lorenz. He fills me up, more decadent than any cake or sweet. He’s poison. I can’t keep him out. I can’t keep him in. Bile lurches up my throat, impossible to choke down. Desperate, my gaze cuts to the lake shimmering beyond the window, and I tear from the boathouse and stumble toward the dock.
My reflection gazes up at me from the water’s surface, so hollow and pale that she glows. Maybe she’s not me but a ghostly soul doomed to haunt the Hollings Estate. She watches me sway, looming closer. Farther. Closer.
Alarm runs down my spine before my brain can process it. Panicked, I grasp for the railing, but all I find is air. Then my legs give out, pitching me sideways.
Thwack!
Stars dot my vision, burning bright. I hear a splash. And then silence. Darkness.
And everything fades.
“No!”
I flinch at the shout. The way thunder heralds lightning, I know that voice and the danger that tone conveys. Sluggishly, my body reacts to it. My eyelids lift and then lower again, which gives me only a snippet of gray sky and looming trees. It’s cold. Wet. My teeth are chattering so hard that I almost can’t hear what the bellowing figure says next.
“Don’t you fucking dare, Snow,” he growls. “Breathe!”
Pressure slams against my chest, knocking me onto my side. Rough earth meets my cheek; I can smell it, grass and dirt. My eyelids flutter faster as my lungs heave, refusing to draw in the air as they should. Each attempt wheezes noisily, gurgling…
“Damn you. Breathe!”
Another blow to my chest makes me cough up salty, bitter liquid as my eyes open again. An angel is hovering above me. He’s beautiful, his blue eyes wide with fear. For me? Then his upper lip pulls back from his teeth in a vicious snarl and he’s suddenly more demonic than heavenly.
“You don’t get to do this,” he hisses as I’m jostled onto my back so that I’m staring up at the sky. “You don’t get to leave me. Not until I let you go. I didn’t let you go. I didn’t…”
He continues to speak, biting off unintelligible words as my thoughts drift and the world dissipates again.