1. PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

Dahlia

Seven years earlier

T his can't be happening again. Make it stop. Get us out of here.

Someone. Anyone.

"What do I always say, Dalí?" my older brother, Ian, whispers close to my face.

Close enough that I see every ounce of sadness in his dark brown eyes.

Close enough that I can reach out and smooth over his messy brown hair.

Close enough so that only I hear him.

Me, not our sadistic uncle.

Al hates that Ian calls me by my nickname.

Hates that my brother thinks it's cute that I'm almost as eccentric and out there as the Spanish artist.

He says I'm a freak. That only fucked-up girls bake cupcakes with frosting spiderwebs decorations on top .

My mother's brother basically hates everything about my brother and me, his remaining family. Everything.

But most of all, he hates it when Ian doesn't do as he says. When Ian doesn't beat me up right away. When he doesn't do what Al Higgins asked for so he could have a good fucking laugh.

"Get on with it," he shouts from the small kitchen area.

My mother was sweet and loving and kind. So was Dad. The day they were killed in a mugging gone wrong in their crafts shop was the worst day of our lives. Then, Al took over.

Ever since then, things just kept getting worse and worse.

"Do it or I will."

Ian ignores Al and grabs my shoulder. His eyes are desperate and painfully hollow. They've grown more and more vacant as days went by.

"Dahlia, please. I need to hear you say the words."

I have to answer Ian fast if I don't want the situation to escalate. For Al to take out his rage on both of us.

No one's here to save us, so I have to.

One person has tried over the last six months, and failed.

Tyler Price, our neighbor from three floors above. The one decent and gorgeous neighbor who bangs on our door and scares our uncle. The one person who can't take it when our screams rattle the old building.

The only one to ever call the cops.

Problem is, when he did, Al accused the twenty-seven-year-old angel of trying to fuck me. A fifteen-year-old girl .

Fucking nonsense. Tyler never gives me creepy looks—even though I wish he would. He's always nice. Even when he's angry at my uncle, he finds it in him to be nice to Ian and me.

Everyone else ignores us. The neighbors pretend the walls aren't paper-thin. Social services eat up Al's act, smile at the bastard. Tell us we're lucky to have such a caring uncle.

Tyler isn't that stupid.

Tyler isn't here. Not today.

Why would he be, when it's Halloween?

Everyone's outside, having fun. Going trick or treating. Drinking orange punch at a Halloween party. Having Scream , or Halloween , or Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie marathons. Enjoying this night.

While we're stuck here.

Ian and I are alone with the monster.

We face each other in the living room. I'm wearing the oversized black T-shirt I slept in before Al threw me out of bed. Ian's in nothing but his sweats. His broad shoulders are squared, the muscles in his throat flexing.

He's built for a seventeen-year-old. His large frame is almost enough to hide our ugly-ass uncle from me. It isn't enough to fight a man who's twice his size.

Wake up, Dahlia. Ian. Needs. You.

"Yes," I spit out. "I remember."

I lick the sweat from the top of my lip. I'm scared of what's coming for me. Nevertheless, I steel my blue eyes to hide my fear from Ian. I won't add to his pain.

It hurts him down to his bones, beating me up .

What goes on in our shoebox Manhattan apartment makes my brother sick to his stomach. I see his sanity draining from him every day we spend in this hellhole. I hear him punching the wall in anger when Al isn't here. Watch him get down on his knees when it's just the two of us and—unnecessarily so—beg for my forgiveness.

Any sign of distress on my face would mess him up even more.

I won't do that to him.

"Better—" I start.

"Valentine," Al, drunk out of his mind, stumbles to the fridge. He waves his vodka bottle at us, high up so I can see it behind Ian. "The girl's still standing. Why the fuck is she still standing?"

"Repeat it for me, Dalí." Ian rears his arm back, bent at the elbow. His large hand is curled into a fist. His lips are twisted, eyes tormented. "Please, I need to hear you say it. I need it so I won't feel so fucking bad."

Giving the subtlest of nods, I whisper the words that help both of us sleep better at night, "Better you than him, brother."

"I love you," he mouths.

"I love you."

Ian's blow hits me a split second later. White-hot pain explodes in my cheek, sending my face to the opposite side. Spit flies from my mouth as I cry out. A drop of blood joins it. I catch the sight of it landing on the strands of my long blonde hair .

Despite the sting on my cheek, looking at my hair is what gets me. It used to be soft and shiny. Now, it's a greasy and tangled mess.

Anything to stop my fucking uncle from leering at me.

Survival is my number one goal until Ian turns eighteen. Keeping Ian and me alive. Then he'll become my legal guardian. We'd run away. Be new people in a new place. If we do it now, Al would send the cops after us.

We have to survive.

Then we're out of here.

Ian will get married one of these days. He'll have his own family. I'll have mine. We'll have Sunday brunches and barbecues in the backyard. I'll bake them all the cupcakes, as spooky as I wish.

We'll be happy.

So ha—

"Another one!"

Bam.

A second punch lands between my ribs.

Fuck, that hurt.

Al hoots. He's delighted when Ian's blow sends me spiraling and crashing on the linoleum floor.

I close my eyes, clutching my stomach.

It's just a punch. Just a punch. Ian's given me dozens of those. And he's right. They are better than Al's. Al hits me twice as hard and then chases it with a kick to the same spot. The bastard.

Ian's are better. In less than a year, he won't have to punch me anymore .

"Dalí," Ian whispers.

His breath flutters on my cheek. A balm on the spot that burns, burns, burns. Doesn't matter that he doesn't go at me as hard as fuckface Al. At six-foot-three—a foot and two inches over me—each punch from him hurts.

Ian taught me how to defend myself, but I won't fend him off me. No fucking way. I'm supposed to save my survival skills for emergencies only. When Ian's moonlighting as a busboy in a dodgy dive bar down the block. When Al might try to rape me.

One of these days, he would.

My eyes crack open. "Hey. I'm here."

"I'm so sorry." His hand is on my shoulder, chin wobbling.

Seeing my brother's eyes redden is the most painful slap in the face. I'm mad beyond what's humanly possible.

"I love you." I bristle before sitting up on my knees, pointing a finger at Al. "You want to beat me up, you fuck?"

"Dahlia." Ian grabs my shoulders, pulling me back down to the floor.

"Come get me." My scream rattles the tiny apartment our parents left us. "Be a fucking man and come get me yourself!"

Ian's pinning me to the floor, but before he can shut me up, I manage a, "You sick fucking fuck. I'll fuck you up. I can take you, I can—Mmm. Mmm."

"Good boy." Al chuckles. His boots scuffle closer. They appear to my side. Old from years of use at his construction job. Dry mud covers them. Dried blood. My blood. "Shutting her up like that. "

My ears ring when Al connects the dirty boot to the side of my head. Right over my ear, missing it by an inch.

"Leave her alone," Ian shouts.

My brother releases my mouth and falls to his forearms. He's bracketing my body. Creates a human shield around me and locks me at the same time. Stopping me from doing something reckless.

"She's down. I did what you wanted. Don't hurt her."

I wriggle beneath Ian, eager to get up. To give Al the fight I threatened him with.

"Ian." My fingers find his hips, scratching it. "I'm stronger. You taught me how to fight. Let me."

"What's she whispering over there?" Our bodies shake. He kicked Ian. He fucking kicked my brother.

Ian turns his head up. "Go to hell."

"No, you will." Another kick. To my Ian.

"Fuck you!" I wail. "I'm going to murder you."

Ian pins me with a raging glare, speaking in a hushed voice. "I'll kill him first. Swear to fuck I will."

"Know why you'll go to hell, Valentine?" Al doesn't call Ian or me by our names. For Ian, he uses our last name. I'm she , her , the girl . A nameless punching bag. "That's where boys who fuck their sisters end up. And that's what you'll do. Fuck your sister, right here, right now."

Bile rises in my throat. Ian has always been the most dedicated, loving brother. Walked me to school. Read me bedtime stories when Mom and Dad would get held up at the shop .

Never in the history of fucking ever has he looked at my tits like this sick fuck does.

"Go to hell," my brother repeats, his eyes blazing. He makes a human fortress around me. "I'm not fucking her."

It's clear to both of us what Al is going to tell him.

Same as he always does.

"If you won't do it, I will."

Something snaps in Ian's gaze. Nothing I can pinpoint. No widening or narrowing eyes. No light flickering in them like it does when he's happy.

Something just snaps.

"No one will touch you," are the last words he offers.

The rest happens in a blur. He jumps to his feet, bolting for the kitchen. He doesn't leave me. Ian would never.

I'm not hanging around to find out what his plan is. Al has already lowered the zipper of his jeans. Hand inside his old, blue boxers. Blue, drunk, and ugly eyes aimed at me.

I get up on my elbows, shuffling far, far away from him.

"I'm gonna be a good uncle, Dahlia. Give you a choice." He wields the vodka bottle in his other hand, the clear liquid sloshing around. "Who'll take your precious virginity? My cock or the bott—"

"Motherfucker," Ian screams. His voice is scary. Scares even me.

So much so that I freeze in place and stare. Stare as Ian jumps on our uncle's back, sinking the knife in his shoulder.

The vodka bottle falls onto the floor. Its contents spill out, reaching my toes .

I still don't move. Still captivated by my hero brother. The Green Goblin that's here to save me. The Thanos of my story. My own version of Michael Myers.

At this moment, Ian doesn't care about the law anymore. Doesn't care if he'll serve time for this and be taken away from me. He's a rabid dog, the fingers of his free hand latching onto Al's cheeks, frantically searching for his eyes.

"Goddammit," Al grunts, pulling the knife out and tearing my brother off him.

My hopes crash much like my brother as he drops to the floor.

I should've known better. Our lives aren't one of those feel-good movies. There'll be no happy ending for us.

Al goes for my brother. He's going to kill him.

He lands kick after kick to Ian's ribs, stomach, chin. Blood splatters all around him. My brother curses, tries to rise, and is kicked back down as soon as he does.

While blood in general interests me, I hate seeing it on my brother. Hate how rough his voice sounds when he tells me, "Run, Dahlia."

Hate that I'm still shocked and stuck in place.

Wake the fuck up , a voice shouts inside my head.

"Leave him alone." Surging to my feet, I sprint and launch myself on Al's back, mimicking my brother. Digging my fingers into the open wound Ian put there. Digging deeper, deeper, deeper. "Leave my brother alone."

"No, Dahlia," Ian breathes. Reaches an arm out for me. "Go! Run!"

Al screams. Kicks Ian. Flings me off him .

Takes his dick out.

"I've been too generous, I see." He doesn't acknowledge me growling at him. Doesn't care that Ian fainted. "Cock it is."

He thinks he's so smart. Thinks that just because the neighbors are celebrating Halloween—that because almost no one cares that he's torturing us—he can be worse than he usually is.

So sure of himself that he doesn't notice my hand snatching the knife Ian stabbed him with.

Al pushes my legs apart with the tip of his boot, and I let him.

He kneels between my thighs, rubbing his repulsive two-inch dick. I let him do that too.

He tears my black panties off me.

And I. Let. Him.

That's the only way to keep his attention away from my hand. To get him on top of me, where he won't be able to run.

"What the hell? Shaved?" He sneers, disgusted, as he eyes my pussy. "You've been sneaking around, fucking boys?"

I haven't. I don't like the hair, that's it. But that's none of his business.

His only business is to die.

"You'll be the first one." With my free hand, I grab the collar of his shirt, yanking him to me. "Uncle."

"I'll be the judge of that." Unbothered by my aggressive move, Al positions his cock to my opening. Nudges himself against my lips. "If you bleed, then I'll—"

"No, Uncle," I spit out. "You'll be the one to bleed. "

His eyes squint for the longest, most delicious moment of my life. The moment when our uncle and abuser realizes the tables have turned.

The moment I stab him in the side of his neck.

His mouth gapes when I yank the knife out. Doesn't close when I sink the knife into him again.

"You'll bleed and bleed and bleed." Each word is another puncture wound to his skin. More blood splashes on his white work shirt. More blood drips from his mouth. He spits on my face as he tries to breathe. "Just. Like. That."

This is more than revenge. As I keep puncturing Al's throat, then cheeks, then nose, I feel something bubbling up inside me.

A hysterical laugh.

A sense of joy.

When Al becomes heavier on top of me, I flip him to his back and get back to my mission.

Stab, stab, stab.

In horror movies, it looks different. Looks easier to break someone's skin. In real life, it isn't. I'm not cutting through butter. But I have madness on my side to fuel me. Six months of torture fuel me. My knocked-out, courageous brother fuels me.

Stab, stab, stab.

His chest cracks open. Al's heart has long stopped beating. I don't stop stabbing him.

"You hurt us," I scream. Stab, stab, stab. "Hurt my brother." Stab .

Blood dribbles along the sides of his body. Splotches of red cover my forearms. "Fooled everyone to think you're this nice person, Uncle Al. Those days"—s tab, stab, stab —"are over."

There's a knock on the door. A few of them. Loud ones.

"Dahlia," my brother groans, sitting up.

"I hate you." My scream is more of a shriek. My laugh is shrill and borderline manic. "I hate you, you monster."

"Dahlia, open up!" The voice that reaches from behind the door is familiar. Tyler. "Ian! You in there? Open up."

Hearing him here gives me pause. A moment of clarity. Seconds of sanity as I'm bathing in my uncle's blood.

He came here to save us, after all. Isn't at some Halloween party. He's stayed home, in this miserable apartment complex. Truth is, he could've moved out long ago. He's got a fancy new job as a software engineer. But he's still here.

"Dahlia!"

I'm not imagining this. Tyler is here.

A smile creeps up my lips. That is until I'm knocked off to my side.

"Hand the knife over." Ian's on top of me, his fingers digging into my fist. "Dahlia, hand the fucking knife over. Tyler will use the spare key I gave him soon. I can't let him see you did this. It has to be me, do you hear?"

"No, no." I shake my head on the blood-stained floor. "It was me. I did this. I'll say it was self-defense."

"They won't believe you." Ian's stronger, despite the bruises blooming on his stomach, chest, and chin. "Let me have it. "

He wrestles the knife from my hold and makes a dash for the kitchen sink, rinsing the blood.

"They will," I call after him.

The lock jiggles.

"They won't." While the lock clicks, Ian settles over Al's dead body. He stabs and slashes and tears through the gashes, through what little unharmed skin Al has left. "Remember what the lady from social services called him? Sweetest uncle I've ever met . We're making it look like I killed him. It's fine, sister. It's okay. It's the goddamn least I can do for you."

Click.

"No." I reach for my brother again. The first tears of the night cascade down my cheeks. "I won't let you go to prison. This is me. All me."

"The hell you're taking the fall for him." My gaze trails away, leaving my brother in favor of the thundering voice above us. The man who towers tall, so tall.

Gorgeous, too. His scruff is cut close to the skin, and it's neat. Oh-so-neat. Tyler's dark brown hair is short on the sides and messy on top, but even that looks intentional. He goes to a barber. Ian never does.

Then there's his eyes. They're beautiful. The way the sixty-percent chocolate-brown eyes gaze at me. There's not a shrivel of bad intent in them. Not a splash of malevolence lurking underneath.

Ian stops jamming the knife into Al. I stop breathing altogether.

That's not entirely true. I do breathe. I sniff him. Smell Tyler. How clean he is .

He's always so freaking clean. His gray T-shirt and pale blue jeans aren't rumpled like ours.

Clean.

Pure.

Perfect.

"Little savage, are you listening to me?" There's no endearment in his voice. His eyebrows are furrowed. Fire bursts from him. "Ian did this. Ian will go to prison. You won't. I'll pay for his defense. I'll protect you while he's gone. You won't take the blame for something you didn't do. Forget about it."

Yes, Tyler's perfect. But even perfect people make mistakes. And it's not like Ian's making it easy for him to see the truth, with how he's on top of Al like that.

Problem is, Tyler's mistake means years in prison for my brother.

I've been in love with him for over a year. A crush he won't reciprocate no matter how many times I bat my eyes at him. No matter how many spiders I give him.

I'd do anything for this man who treats me like a kid and not the woman I wish I could be already.

Anything but this.

My brother doesn't belong behind bars.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Tyler." Careful to not slip on the blood, I stand up.

"Dahlia, he's right."

My red hands stain Tyler's clean shirt as I push against it. Now, he's less clean. Now, he has a bloody handprint on his clothes.

Now, he's like us .

"Go back to your cozy apartment and your cozy life." I'm being mean. Push him again. He doesn't budge, just glowers at me. "Leave us."

"I'll help you, both of you." When I shove him the third time, he grabs my wrists. "I have a new job." He reminds me of what I already know. I was so proud of him when he got it. He looks over my shoulder. "Ian, you won't have to worry about anything. A good attorney will prove this was self-defense. I'll say I was here, that he came after you. Just don't let Dahlia take the blame for what you did. Even if he deserved it, which the fucker did."

"Did I say I'll do that? That I'll let Dahlia go to prison for me?" Ian, an inch shorter but a lot madder than Tyler, stands up. Shoves me aside.

He's nose to nose with Tyler, the two men growling.

"No. It was me and I'm going down for this. I killed him. No one will believe it was self-defense, so save your stupid money. No one's helped us before. I sure as shit don't need you to start."

"You're being unfair." Tyler's eyes narrow. "I've come here plenty of times, and—"

"Where were you tonight, then?" Ian's bloody fists clench at his sides. "Where were you when our uncle ordered me to fuck my sister? When I refused, and he ordered her to choose between his cock or a vodka bottle?"

"Dahlia?" Tyler's gaze cuts to mine. To the floor. He notices my torn panties for the first time. Sizes up my T-shirt that barely covers my bare pussy, then looks away so fast.

"No one raped me." This isn't the time or place for pity .

My attention leaves Tyler. As much as I'd love to stare at him for hours on end, Ian's more important at the moment. My brother drops the knife and inches for the door.

He's going to run away.

No. He can't go out there wearing next to nothing.

I take three steps to our dresser. The top three drawers are Ian's. The bottom two are mine. The closet is, of course, Al's.

Was.

"Ian saved me." I pull out a black, wool sweater. "Then I killed Al. Me."

"You did not," both men say unanimously.

"Did too."

Al is dead. I'm no longer in danger. What's left to do is take care of the living. I fish for a long shirt and the coat I crammed into one of Ian's drawers yesterday.

"Ian, put these on." I hand the clothes over to my brother. "Hide just until this whole thing blows over. I'll hold off the cops. Run and hide. But come back."

"Sooner or later, they'll lose interest." He nods.

Understanding passes between us. One that Tyler isn't in on. Wordlessly, Ian jerks his clothes on. His boots come after, then his black wool hat.

"Promise you'll come back?" My fingers clutch onto the front of his sweater. "When they lose interest. I'll be here waiting. I'll never leave."

Sadness isn't what I'm feeling.

I'm worried. Ian's eyes are lost. Insanity dabbles with panic and worry. So far from me. Out in space, miles away from the world .

I'm also hopeful. Ian will be gone for a few days, find us a place to live, and call me. He'll have a chance to regroup. He'll be better once he clears his head.

He and I, we'll always be crazy. What Al has put us through will forever leave a stain on our souls. But I can't afford to believe Ian will be lost for good. He won't. He can't.

He'll find himself.

When he does, I'll have him back.

New start. New us.

Minus Tyler.

I'll have my heart broken, sure. Wouldn't be the first time. When Ian told me Mom and Dad were killed, a part of me died with them. When Al crushed my spider pet under his filthy boot, I hurt like a fucker.

I hate his boots.

I've survived his boots. I'll survive being separated from Tyler.

"I'll call you." My brother leans in for a last hug and kisses my cheek. A wet kiss. A kiss that'll leave a red, bloody lip mark on me. "See you soon. Take care of her, Tyler."

The anger doesn't leave Tyler's body. His eyebrows scrunch, mouth pinched in a straight line. "So help me, if she spends one day in jail for this…"

"So make sure she won't. Tell them I did it." Ian turns away, bolting out of the room.

"Little savage." Tyler grabs my chin, his eyes remaining on mine and not the naked parts of me. "We have to call the cops. "

His touch feels nice. Demanding and warm and not the least bit sexual. Even though I long for it to be.

"I did it." I step closer to Tyler, my bare feet nearly slipping on the blood.

Tyler catches me by the waist. Places me at a safe distance from him. "You couldn't have."

"Yes, I did. I can prove it."

Since I know Tyler isn't a perv, this makes everything easier. Easier to step back, easier to spread my legs. Even though I get tingles down there, I'm confident Tyler wouldn't. That he wouldn't violate me.

That he'd just look.

"Dahlia, Jesus." Tyler stares for a beat. He's quick to recover, tugs off his much larger T-shirt, and tries to throw it over my head. "Please, cover up."

"Tyler, stop." I grip his T-shirt and toss it aside. "Look at me. No one raped me, and you found me lying on the floor. So how did all that blood get there, between my thighs?"

Tyler scowls, his gaze firm on my face. "You really did that."

"Yes."

"I should've come here sooner." Tyler's brown eyes turn dark. They've changed, looking a lot like eighty-five percent chocolate. Murderous. "I should've killed him. I would've killed him a million times over for everything he's done to you two over the last six months."

"Ian didn't mean what he said. You've helped enough that one time you punched Al." A small smirk rises on my lips. " When you stormed in here and put yourself between us and him. He called the cops on you and you still did it."

A giggle bursts from my lips. He tilts his head, wondering just how far gone I am. I don't think I'm that crazy. Yet. It'll come, though. Once the shock wears off, I can kiss my sanity goodbye for a few good hours. I always do.

"Help us again by not calling the cops. By giving Ian an advantage." I've never begged anyone for anything. I am begging him. "Until he'll tell me where to meet him."

"You think you're leaving? That you're going to live in God knows where? In the street?" Tyler grips my cheeks. It hurts. "You're not allowed to leave. I'll make everything better. For you and Ian. You'll see. You won't have to leave. I have you. Both of you."

My na?ve neighbor. Thinking he could save the world.

I smile. He nods once, firm and decisive.

Who knows, maybe in some alternate universe, he will.