Chapter 2

2

Lil Peep - Star Shopping

A few days later…

This bar is a fucking dump.

Cheap liquor, sticky floors, and the kind of patrons who look like they’ve been thrown out of every decent place in town. I fit right in. The stench of stale beer and sweat clings to the air, a thick, suffocating stench that barely masks the underlying scent of desperation. The lights are dim, casting long shadows that slither across the cracked linoleum floor like something out of a nightmare. It’s fucking perfect.

I down another shot of whiskey, the burn tracing a familiar path down my throat, settling like fire in the pit of my stomach. It’s my third—no, fourth?—I’ve lost count. Not that it fucking matters. The booze is doing its job, dulling the world's edges, numbing the noise in my head. The noise has only grown louder since the news came in.

They’re dead.

The words echo in my mind over and over, but they don’t mean shit to me. My father and his perfect wife—gone, just like that. A twisted wreck on the side of some godforsaken road, nothing but crumpled metal and shattered glass. I should feel something, right? Anger, sadness, grief—anything. But, staying true to my diagnosis, all I feel is...relief.

Psychopath. Psychopathy is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of empathy, remorse, and conscience. At least that's what the doctors told my parents, and honestly, for once, I think they hit the nail right on the fucking head.

But regardless, they’re out of the way now. And that means she is finally mine.

I motion to the bartender for another shot, not caring that my vision is starting to blur at the edges. The world is better this way, soft and out of focus. The bartender—a tired-looking woman with too much makeup and not enough hope—slides the glass toward me without a word. She’s seen my type before and knows better than to ask questions. I like that about her.

The whiskey burns just as hot as before, and I let out a slow breath as the alcohol works its way through my system, loosening the tight coil of tension that’s been wound inside me for days. Since I found out they were gone since I saw Tatum fall apart like a fucking child. I can still see her in that living room, broken and small, surrounded by memories she’ll never be able to escape. She looked so lost, so fragile.

So fucking beautiful.

I’ve always wanted her. Since the day I moved into that goddamn house and saw her for the first time. She was this perfect little thing, with hair as black as a raven’s feathers, all sweet smiles, and innocent eyes. But I knew better. I saw through the bullshit act. There’s darkness in her, a twisted, fucked-up darkness that mirrors my own, and it’s been haunting me ever since. I want to drag it out of her, make her see that she may have everyone else fooled but not me.

She’s something else entirely, something dark and hungry. And now, nothing is stopping me from doing every sick and depraved thing I’ve been dreaming about for years to their precious little Tatum.

The thought sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine, cutting through the haze of alcohol like a blade. I down another shot, savoring the burn, and let my mind drift to her. Tatum . Even her name feels good on my tongue, like a secret I’m not supposed to say out loud, forbidden and cherished. She’s most likely hiding away in her room at home right now. She's probably crying to sleep in that big, empty bed she’s spent the last few days in. Thinking about and mourning them.

But not me.

Shit, I won’t mourn them. They were nothing to me. Just obstacles. Things that loved to tell me what a disappointment I was. Or how I should be more like her. Doing whatever they could to get in my way. To keep me from doing any of the shit I want to fucking do. And now, they’re gone.

What the fuck is there to mourn?

The whiskey makes everything easier to think about. Like somehow it’s clearer, and as I let the thoughts swirl around in my head, dark and dangerous things slowly feel like they’re falling into place. I’ve always been good at keeping things under control, at hiding the truth behind a mask of indifference. But with them gone, I don’t have to hide anymore. I can finally take what’s mine.

And she is mine.

As the alcohol works its way through my bloodstream, I imagine her face when she finds out about my plan. About the lengths I’m willing to go to to ensure I finally get what I want. She thinks she knows me. She knows how cruel and dark I can be, but she has no fucking idea. Tatum has no clue about the level of fucked up we are and what we’re about to become together. She’ll fight it at first, try to cling to that pathetic little shred of goodness she thinks she has left.

But that will just make things more fun. For me, anyway.

I’ll strip it away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the darkness that lurks underneath. The real her. The one she’s been hiding from all this time. And when she finally gives in, when she finally lets go and becomes what she’s meant to be...fuck, that’s a sight I can’t wait to fucking see.

The bartender glances at me, probably wondering if I’m going to pass out or if she’ll have to throw me out. I give her a crooked smile that perhaps doesn’t reach my eyes and push the empty glass toward her. “Another,” I say, my voice rough and slurred around the edges.

She hesitates, her hand hovering over the bottle, but then she sighs and pours the shot. I like her. She knows how to keep her mouth shut and just do her fucking job. Tatum could learn a thing or two from her. If Tatum were here right now, I’d teach her to shut up like the bartender. But that can wait. I’ve got all the time in the world now.

I lift the glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it holds the answers to all the fucked-up questions swirling in my head. It doesn’t, of course. Nothing does. But it helps. It dulls the ache, the twisted need gnawing at me for so long. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want her. When I didn’t want to ruin her. Forbidden or not, I’ve spent years dreaming about how one day I would twist her. Form her into the glorious fucking dark queen she was always meant to be. The nights I spent stroking my fucking cock while thoughts of fucking her into submission while she laid naked beneath me, wearing nothing but one of those stupid fucking flower crowns she used to make, filled my head. She acts like this perfect little angel, like the ideal fucking daughter, but I know differently. I fucking know what’s inside her. I can feel it.

And I’m going to bring it out.

The whiskey slides down my throat, smoother now, with less burn and more heat. I close my eyes, letting the warmth spread through me, letting the alcohol do its job. The bar fades away, as does the noise, the lights, and the people, until it’s just me and my thoughts.

And her. Always fucking her.

She’s all I can think about, even when I’m supposed to be mourning, supposed to be grieving the loss of my father and her mother. The thought brings a smile to my face. I wonder if they’re looking down on us or if they know all the thoughts I have planned for their favorite child.

The jokes on you, Dad. I’m going to break down and ruin every single part of her that you two cherished, and then, I’m going to fuck every single tiny piece until every fiber of hers is tainted with me. And there isn’t a single fucking thing you two can do about it.

The path is clear. And all I have to do is take that final step.

The thought makes me smile, a slow, wicked curve of my lips that probably looks as twisted as I feel. I open my eyes, the room coming back into focus, and toss a few crumpled bills onto the bar. The bartender doesn’t say anything as I stand, just watches me with those tired eyes, probably relieved I’m finally leaving. She doesn’t know what’s coming, doesn’t know what I’m planning.

But she’ll see. They’ll all see.

The night air is cool against my skin as I step outside, the dim light of the bar fading behind me. The street is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the last person on earth. I like it, though. I like the stillness, the way it lets me think without interruptions. It makes it easier for me to plan.

Our house isn’t far, just a few blocks away. I can walk it in minutes, even in this state. And when I get there...well, that’s when the real fun begins. I take my time, letting the anticipation build with each step, savoring the thought of what’s to come. She’s probably asleep by now, exhausted from all the crying and the grieving. But she won’t be asleep for long, not after what I have planned for her.

The house looms in the distance, a dark silhouette against the night sky. It looks different now, without them in it. Colder, emptier. But that’s okay. I like it better this way. I like knowing that it’s just the two of us now, that there’s no one left to get in the way.

It gives a different meaning to our house. Now, it’s just hers and mine.

When I reach the front door, I pause for a moment, letting the silence wash over me. The world feels different tonight, like something has shifted, like something dark and inevitable is coming. And I’m so fucking ready for it. I’ve been ready for a long time, and regardless of the bullshit people have told me over the years, I fucking deserve this. Every goddamn second of it.

I deserve her.

The door creaks as I push it open, the sound echoing through the empty house. Inside, it’s dark and quiet, the only light coming from the small lamp Tatum left on in the living room. The same room where she fell apart the other day after, no doubt the same phone call I received. The call that caused her to break down like a fucking child. I can still see her there, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking with sobs.

It was pathetic, really. But also...enticing.

I close the door behind me, locking it with a soft click. The house feels even colder now, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. I like it. It matches the way I feel inside, the way I’ve always felt. I take a deep breath, her scent still lingering in the air, mixed with the faint, fading scent of her mother’s perfume. It makes my blood pulse, the anticipation growing stronger, more insistent. She’s upstairs, just a few steps away, sound asleep in her bed, and all I have to do is take her.

The stairs creak under my weight as I head upstairs. Each step is deliberate and slow as I savor the moment. At the top, the hallway is dark, and the doors are closed, but I know which one is hers. I’ve known since the day I moved in. I’ve always known where to find her.

As a kid, I’d sneak into her room sometimes to watch her sleep. After a while, watching got boring, and I would sneak peeks under her blankets. Lifting her little nighties up to catch a glimpse of what’s underneath. I’d stand there by the edge of her bed. Cock in my hand while I watched her chest rise and fall with slow, calming breaths. I’d shoot my load into her favorite coconut lotion bottle, so the next morning, she’d be rubbing me all over herself without ever knowing it.

She’s spent her entire fucking day marked by me, and no one fucking knew the wiser.

When I reach her door, I pause again, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I can hear her soft and steady breathing on the other side like she’s finally at peace. But that peace won’t last. Not when I’m about to shatter it.

I twist the doorknob slowly, savoring the way it turns under my hand. The door opens with a quiet creak, revealing her room, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. She’s curled up on the bed, her back to the door, blankets pulled tight around her as if they could protect her from the world—or from me.

I step inside, the carpet muffling my footsteps, making me feel like a predator stalking its prey. My heart pounds in my chest, the anticipation almost too much to bear. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

She stirs in her sleep, a small, fragile movement that makes something dark and possessive tighten in my chest. I want to reach out, to touch her, to claim her right then and there. But I hold back, letting the moment stretch out, letting the tension build until it’s almost unbearable.

She’s is fucking mine. She’s always been. And now, with nothing left to hold me back, I will make sure she knows it.

I move closer, my breath catching in my throat as I reach the edge of the bed. I can see her more clearly now, the soft rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her hair spills across the silk pillow like a dark halo. She looks so peaceful, so innocent. But she’s not fooling me. I know what’s inside her, what she’s hiding, what she’s afraid to admit even to herself.

I crouch down beside the bed, my fingers itching to reach out and touch her, to feel her warmth and make her mine in every way that I’ve been waiting to. But I wait, letting the anticipation coil tighter and tighter inside me until I’m almost shaking with it.

“Tatum,” I whisper, my voice low and rough, filled with everything I’ve been holding back for so long.

She doesn’t stir at first, and for a moment, I think she might not wake up. But then she shifts, her body tensing, a soft, barely audible gasp escaping her lips. She’s awake. And she knows I’m here.

I reach out, my hand hovering over her shoulder, inches away from touching her. “Tatum,” I say again, a little louder this time, letting her hear the command in my voice.

She turns slowly, her eyes wide and scared, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. For a moment, she just stares at me as if she can’t believe I’m really here. As if she’s not sure if this is a nightmare or reality.

But it’s real. It’s so fucking real. And it’s happening.

“You,” she whispers, her voice trembling, filled with fear and something else—something darker, something I recognize because it’s the same thing that’s been burning inside me for so long.

“Me,” I say, a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face as I reach out and touch her, finally. Her skin is fucking soft and warm under my fingers. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me, like a live wire.

She flinches at the touch, her breath hitching in her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. She just stares at me. Her wide-eyed and scared expression changes to something else…curiosity? Intrigued? The darkness is there, just beneath the surface. I can fucking see it, feel it like a shadow waiting to be unleashed.

“What are you doing in here?” she whispers.

“I told you,” I murmur, my fingers trailing down her arm, light as a feather, sending shivers down her spine. “You’re mine, Tatum. And now… now there’s nothing left to stop me from taking what’s mine.”

“But─but I’m your sister… I can’t. We can’t.” she stammers as she tries to give me every fucking excuse our parents used.

“Exactly, and now, I’m all you have left. Little sister. It’s just you and me. It’s why we have to be together,” She shakes her head with a small, weak movement, but I can see the doubt in her eyes and how she’s torn between running and giving in. It’s a battle she’s been fighting for so long, but it’s one she’s destined to lose. Because I won’t let her win, I won’t let her keep pretending she’s something she’s not.

“You know it’s true,” I say, my voice soft but insistent, filled with the dark, twisted certainty that’s been driving me for years. “There is no one else, and even if there were, I’d kill them just to make sure all you had was me. You think I don’t know you want this? Want me. Admit it, you’ve thought about me and all the depraved fucked up things I could do to you,”

“No,” she whispers, but the word is weak, barely audible, and I know she doesn’t believe it. Not really.

“Yes,” I counter, leaning in closer, my breath hot against her ear. “You’ve been acting. Putting on a show for them, but guess what? Now they’re dead. Now they’re gone, and there’s no one left to watch the second act. No one but me. I know you’ve been fighting it, but you can’t fight it anymore. Not now. Not with them gone. It’s just us now, Tatum. Just you and me. And you know what that means.”

She trembles under my touch, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t try to run. She just stares at me, her muddy eyes filled with fear, longing, and something dark. Something dangerous that makes my blood sing in my veins.

I lean in closer, my lips brushing against her ear as I whisper, “Let go, Tatum. Stop pretending. Stop fighting. You belong to me now. You always have.”

She shudders a small, involuntary movement that sends a thrill of satisfaction through me. She’s close. So close to breaking, to giving in. And when she does, when she finally lets go of that pathetic facade of innocence, I’ll be there to catch her. To claim her. To make her mine in every way that matters.

I pull back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes and see the war behind them. She’s so fucking close, teetering on the edge, and all I have to do is push her over.

“Give in,” I whisper, my voice low and commanding, filled with the dark, twisted need that’s been eating at me for so long. “You know you want to. You know you have no other choice. No one left for you besides me.”

Her eyes flicker, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she stops, her breath catching in her throat. She’s on the brink, teetering between fear and desire, between running and surrendering.

And then, finally, she does.

Her shoulders slump, a small, defeated movement that sends a wave of triumph crashing through me. She’s given up. She’s given in. She’s mine.

I don’t hesitate. I capture her lips in a rough, possessive kiss, my hands tangling in her raven hair as I pull her closer, claiming her in the way I’ve been dreaming of for so long. She’s soft and warm against me, and for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation, realizing that this is finally happening.

She doesn’t resist. She melts into me, her body molding against mine as if she was made to fit there, like this is where she belongs. And maybe it is. Maybe this is what we were always meant to be—two dark, twisted souls, lost and broken but perfect together in our shared destruction.

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together, the air between us crackling with the tension that’s been building for so long.

“You are fucking mine, Tatum,” I whisper, my voice rough and raw, filled with the dark, possessive need that’s been driving me for years.

She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but it’s enough. It’s all I need. She’s mine now. Completely, utterly, irrevocably mine.