I wanted to get into a little trouble. I wanted to catch some rain, find something that made my heart pump again, and I wanted to know what it was like to not have anyone to grab onto.
I’d tried to explain it to him, but every time I opened my mouth, I couldn’t find the right words. Out loud it sounded selfish and ungrateful, but inside…
I needed to know what I was made of. I needed to know if I had a leg to stand on without the umbrella of my family name, the support of others having my back, or Trevor’s constant hovering. If I went to a new city, with new people who didn’t know my family, would they even give me the time of day? Would they even like me?
I wasn’t happy at Brown or with Trevor, and even though the decision to move on was hard and disappointing to those around me, it was what I wanted.
Own who you are.
My heart fluttered, remembering Trevor’s brother’s words. I could barely wait. Twelve more hours…
“But then again, I guess that’s not really true, is it?” he asked, an accusing tone in his voice. “Michael plays for the Storm, so he’ll be close to you now.”
I hooded my eyes, taking in a deep breath as I set down my drink. “With a population of over two million people, I doubt I’ll run into him often.”
“Unless you look for him.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, holding Trevor’s eyes and refusing to let him engage me in this conversation.
Michael Crist was Trevor’s brother. A little older, a little taller, and a lot more intimidating. They were almost nothing alike, and they hated each other. Trevor’s jealousy of him had been there ever since I could remember.
Michael had just graduated from Westgate University, being snatched up by the NBA almost immediately afterward. He played for the Meridian City Storm, one of the top teams in the NBA, so yes, I would know one person in the city.
Lot of good it would do me, though. Michael barely ever looked at me, and when he spoke to me his tone was no better than if he were speaking to a dog. I wasn’t planning on putting myself in his path.
No, I’d learned my lesson a long time ago.
Being in Meridian City had nothing to do with Michael anyway. It was closer to home, so I could visit my mother more often, but it was also the one place Trevor wouldn’t go. He hated large cities, and he loathed his brother even more.
“I’m sorry,” Trevor said more gently. He took my hand and pulled me in, sliding a hand around the back of my neck again. “I just love you, and I hate this. We belong together, Rika. It’s always been us.”
Us? No.
Trevor didn’t make my heart pump so hard that I felt like I was on a damn roller coaster. He wasn’t in my dreams, and he wasn’t the first person I thought about when I woke up.
He didn’t haunt me.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, noticing his gaze briefly flash to my neck. He quickly averted his eyes as if he didn’t see it. The scar made me less than perfect, I guess.
“Come on,” he urged, dipping his forehead to mine and gripping my waist. “I’m good to you, aren’t I? I’m nice, and I’m always here for you.”
“Trevor,” I argued, trying to twist out of his hold.
But then his mouth came down on mine, the scent of his cologne burning my nostrils as his arms wrapped around my waist.
I pressed my fists into his chest, pushing at him and tearing my mouth away.
“Trevor,” I growled low. “Stop it.”
“I give you everything you need,” he fought, his voice turning angry as he dived into my neck. “You know it’s going to be us.”
“Trevor!” I tensed every muscle in my arms and pressed against his body, finally pushing him off. He dropped his hands and stumbled back a step.
I immediately backed away, my hands shaking.
“Rika.” He reached for me, but I steeled my spine, backing away again.
He dropped his hand, shaking his head. “Fine,” he bit out, sneering. “Go to school then. Make new friends and leave everything here behind all you want, but your demons will still follow you. There’s no escaping them.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, glaring at me as he straightened his tie and walked around me out the doorway.
I stared out the windows after him, anger building in my chest. What the hell did that mean? There was nothing holding me down and nothing I was trying to escape. I just wanted freedom.
I backed away from the door, unable to go back outside. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Crist by sneaking out on her son’s party, but I no longer wanted to spend my last hours here. I wanted to be with my mom.
I twisted around, ready to leave, but then I looked up and instantly stopped.
My stomach flipped, and I couldn’t breathe.
Shit.
Michael sat in one of the cushioned chairs all the way at the back of the solarium, his eyes locked on mine, looking eerily calm.
Michael. The one that wasn’t nice. The one that wasn’t good to me.
My throat thickened, and I wanted to swallow, but I couldn’t move. I just stared, paralyzed. Had he been there since I first walked down? The whole time?
He leaned back in his heavy armchair, nearly shrouded by the darkness and the shadows of the trees overhead. One hand rested on a basketball that sat on top of his thigh, and the other hand lay on the armrest, the neck of a beer bottle hanging from his fingers.
My heart started to pound so hard it hurt. What was he doing?
He raised the bottle to his lips, still watching me, and I dropped my eyes for a split-second, embarrassment heating my cheeks.
He’d seen the whole episode with Trevor. Dammit.
I looked up again, seeing his light brown hair that was styled to look like he should be on the cover of a magazine, and his hazel eyes, that always looked like cider with flecks of spice. They seemed darker than they actually were, hidden in the shadows, but they pierced me under straight brows that slanted inward, making him look just as formidable as he was. His full lips held no hint of a smile, and his tall frame nearly consumed his chair.
He wore black pants with a black suit jacket, and his white shirt was open at the collar. No tie, because, as usual, he did what he wanted.
And that’s all anyone could ever go on with Michael. How he appeared. How he looked. I didn’t think his parents even knew what was happening behind those eyes.
I watched him rise out of his chair and drop the basketball into the seat, keeping his eyes on me as he walked over.
The closer he got, the taller his six feet four inches looked. Michael was lean but muscular, and he made me feel small. In many ways. He looked like he was walking straight for me, and my heart hammered in my chest as I narrowed my eyes, bracing myself.
But he didn’t stop.
The faint hint of his body wash hit me as he passed by, and I turned my head, my chest aching as he walked out the solarium doors without a word.
I folded my lips between my teeth, fighting the burn in my eyes.
One night, he’d noticed me. One night, three years ago, Michael saw something in me and liked it. And just when the fire was starting to kindle, ready to flare and burst apart in a flood of flames, it folded. It tucked its rage and heat away and contained it.
I shot off, heading back into the house, through the foyer, and out the front door, anger and frustration chewing at every nerve in my body as I headed to my car.
Other than that one night, he’d ignored me most of my life, and when he did speak to me, it was clipped.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and climbed into my car. I hoped I wouldn’t see him in Meridian City. I hoped we never crossed paths and I never had to hear about him.
I wondered if he even knew I was moving there. It didn’t matter, though. Even in the same house, I may as well be on a different planet than him.
Starting the car, 37 Stitches by Drowning Pool poured through the speakers, and I accelerated down the long driveway, pushing the clicker to open t
he gate. I sped out onto the road. My house was only a few minutes away and an easy walk I’d made many times in my life.
I forced deep breaths, trying to calm down. Twelve hours. Tomorrow I’d leave everything behind.
The high stone walls of the Crist estate ended, giving way to trees lining the road. And within less than a minute, the gas lamp posts of my home appeared, lighting the night. Veering left, I clicked another button on my visor and inched my Tesla through the gate, seeing the outside lamps cast a soft glow around the circular driveway with a large marble fountain sitting in the center.
Parking my car in front of the house, I hurried to my front door, just wanting to crawl in bed until it was tomorrow.
But then I glanced up, doing a double-take at seeing a candle burning in my bedroom window.
What?
I hadn’t been home since late this morning. And I certainly hadn’t left a candle burning. It was ivory-colored and sitting in a glass hurricane candleholder.
Walking to the front door, I unlocked it and stepped inside.
“Mom?” I called out.
She had texted earlier, saying she was going to bed, but it wasn’t unusual for her to have trouble sleeping. She might still be up.
The familiar scent of lilacs drifted through my nose from the fresh flowers she kept in the house, and I looked around the large foyer, the white marble floor appearing gray in the darkness.
I leaned against the stairs, looking up the flights into the three stories of eerie silence above. “Mom?” I called out again.
Rounding the white bannister, I jogged up the stairs to the second floor and turned left, my footsteps going silent as they fell on the ivory-and-blue rugs covering the hardwood floors.
Opening my mother’s door slowly, I crept in, seeing the room in near darkness except for the bathroom light she always left on. Walking over to her bed, I craned my neck, trying to see her face, which was turned toward the windows.
Her blonde hair lay across her pillow, and I reached out my hand, smoothing it away from her face.
The rise and fall of her body told me she was asleep, and I glanced to her nightstand, seeing the half-dozen pill bottles and wondering what she’d taken and how much.
I looked back down at her and frowned.
Doctors, in-home rehab, therapy… Over the years since my father’s death, nothing had worked. My mother just wanted to self-destruct with sorrow and depression.
Thankfully the Crists helped a lot, which was why I had my own room at their house. Not only was Mr. Crist the trustee for my father’s estate, handling everything until I graduated from college, but Mrs. Crist stepped in to be a second-mother.
I was immensely grateful for all their help and care over the years, but now… I was ready to take over. I was ready to stop having people take care of me.
Turning around, I left her room and quietly closed the door, heading for my own room two doors down.
Stepping in, I immediately spotted the candle burning by the window.
With my heart skipping a beat, I quickly glanced around the room, thankfully seeing no one else.
Had my mother lit it? She must have. Our housekeeper was off duty today, so no one else had been here.
Narrowing my eyes, I inched toward the window, and then my gaze fell, seeing a thin wooden crate sitting on the small round table next to the candle.
Unease set in. Had Trevor left me a present?
But it could’ve been my mother or Mrs. Crist, too, I guessed.
I removed the lid and set it aside, peeling away the straw and catching the sight of slate gray metal with ornate carvings.
My eyes rounded, and I immediately dived for the top of the crate, knowing what I was going to find. I curled my fingers around the handle and smiled, pulling out a heavy steel Damascus blade.
“Wow.”
I shook my head, unable to believe it. The dagger had a black grip with a bronze cross guard, and I tightened my hand around it, holding up the blade and looking at the lines and carvings.
Where the hell had this come from?
I’d loved daggers and swords ever since I started fencing at age eight. My father preached that the arts of a gentleman were not only timeless but necessary. Chess would teach me strategy, fencing would teach me human nature and self-preservation, and dancing would teach me my body. All necessary for a well-rounded person.
I gripped the hilt, remembering the first time he’d put a fencing foil in my hand. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I reached up, running a finger along the scar on my neck, suddenly feeling closer to him again.
Who had left it here?
Peering back into the box, I pulled out a small piece of paper with black writing. Licking my lips, I read the words silently. Beware the fury of a patient man.
“What?” I said to myself, pinching my eyebrows together in confusion.
What did that mean?
But then I glanced up, gasping as I dropped the blade and the note to the floor.
I stopped breathing, my heart trying to break through my chest.
Three men stood outside my house, side by side, staring up at me through the window.
“What the hell?” I breathed out, trying to figure out what was going on.
Was this a joke?
They stood completely motionless, and I felt a chill spread up my arms at how they just stared at me.
What were they doing?
All three wore jeans and black combat boots, but as I stared into the black void of their eyes, I clenched my teeth together to keep my body from shaking.
The masks. The black hoodies and the masks.
I shook my head. No. It couldn’t be them. This was a joke.
The tallest stood on the left, wearing a slate-gray metallic-looking mask with claw marks deforming the right side of his face.
The one in the middle was shorter, looking up at me through his white-and-black mask with a red stripe running down the left side of his face, which was also ripped and gouged.
And the one on my right, whose completely black mask blended with his black hoodie, so that you couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were, was the one who finally made my chest shake.
I backed up, away from the window and tried to catch my breath as I dashed for my phone. Pressing 1 on the landline, I waited for the security office, which sat only minutes down the road, to pick up.
“Mrs. Fane?” a man answered.
“Mr. Ferguson?” I breathed out, inching back over to my windows. “It’s Rika. Could you send a car up to—?”
But then I stopped, seeing that the driveway was now empty. They were gone.
What?
I darted my eyes left and then right, getting right up to the table and leaning over to see if they were near the house. Where the hell did they go?
I remained silent, listening for any sign of anyone around the house, but everything was still and quiet.
“Miss Fane?” Mr. Ferguson called. “Are you still there?”
I opened my mouth, stammering, “I…I thought I saw something…outside my windows.”
“We’re sending a car up now.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” And I hung up the phone, still staring out the window.
It couldn’t be them.
But those masks. They were the only ones who wore those masks.
Why would they come here? After three years, why would they come here?
First, to the readers—so many of you have been there, sharing your excitement and showing your support, day in and day out, and I am so grateful for your continued trust. Thank you. I know my adventures aren’t always easy, but I love them, and I’m glad so many others do, too.
To my family—my husband and daughter put up with my crazy schedule, my candy wrappers, and my spacing off every time I think of a conversation, plot twist, or scene that just jumped into my head at the dinner table. You both really do put up with a lot, so thank you for loving me anyway.
&
nbsp; To Jane Dystel, my agent at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management—there is absolutely no way I could ever give you up, so you’re stuck with me.
To the House of PenDragon—you’re my happy place. Well, you and Pinterest. Thanks for being the support system I need and always being positive.
To Vibeke Courtney—my indie editor who goes over every move I make with a fine-toothed comb. Thank you for teaching me how to write and laying it down straight.
To Kivrin Wilson—long live the quiet girls! We have the loudest minds.
To Ing Cruz at As the Pages Turn Book Blog—you support out of the goodness of your heart, and I can’t repay you enough. Thank you for the release blitzes, blog tours, and being by my side since the beginning.
To Milasy Mugnolo—who reads, always giving me that vote of confidence I need, and makes sure I have at least one person to talk to at a signing.
To Lisa Pantano Kane—you challenge me with the hard questions.
To Lee Tenaglia—who makes such great art for the books and whose Pinterest boards are my crack! Thank you. Really, you need to go into business. We should talk.
To all of the bloggers—there are too many to name, but I know who you are. I see the posts and the tags, and all the hard work you do. You spend your free time reading, reviewing, and promoting, and you do it for free. You are the life’s blood of the book world, and who knows what we would do without you. Thank you for your tireless efforts. You do it out of passion, which makes it all the more incredible.
To Samantha Young, who shocked me with a tweet about reading Falling Away when I didn’t even know she knew who I was.
To Jay Crownover, who came up to me at a signing, introduced herself, and said she loved my books (I just stared at her).
To Abbi Glines, who gave her readers a list of books she’d read and loved, and one of them was mine.
To Tabatha Vargo and Komal Petersen, who were the first authors to message me after my first release to tell me how much they loved Bully.