18. Rae

This time,Crave's note is in my pocket. A chill runs through the air, and I pull my hoodie tighter around me. It's not just the winter weather, though. The Galloway House has a presence, and its claws are ice cold in my flesh. With each step I take closer to that basement, it's like I'm becoming a part of the house.

Crave's note reads: Meet me at one a.m.

The words are scrawled on the back of a grocery store receipt. The fact that he chose an old receipt from my trash can seems purposeful, like he wants to reiterate that he can come and go as he pleases from my apartment.

I don't need confirmation anymore. Crave is definitely watching me. Maybe even right now.

My feet crunch over the dirt. The padlock is gone now. Ned gave me my own real key, without knowing that I already had one. We agreed that I could keep the gate unlocked for the time being since I'm preparing the space for the anniversary party. It's the logical thing to do.

It makes things easier for Crave.

I open my purse, a sigh relaxing out of me as my eyes settle on the gun. Crave hasn't hurt me—not in an unpleasant way, at least—but that doesn't mean whatever this is with him is risk-free. Last time, he openly killed a man while I watched. Crave could kill me tonight.

Or maybe I'll kill someone tonight.

Inside of the house, there's a new canvas cover on the old couch. Newspaper prints hang up in picture frames on the walls. Caution tape lines each door. We started decorating, and it's clean now.

I sniff; there's something in the air that I don't recognize.

A stranger is here, and it's not Crave.

A tingling rush flutters over my skin and disappears. I bite my lip. I'm imagining things. If anything, it is Crave. At the very worst, it's Crave with another victim.

My pussy clenches, my fingers wandering over the old wallpaper, imagining his leather gloves touching my bare skin.

"Crave?" I ask.

I glance toward the basement. The door is closed.

I reach for the handle. It's locked.

What the fuck?

Burned fast food seizes my nostrils. I snap around.

A hood slams over my head.

I scream.

A set of hands grabs me, pulling me around. I thrash, desperately trying to twist out of their grip.

"That's right," a man says. "Dumb cunt was here, just like he said."

Like he said?

"Didn't say she was a screamer though."

I kick—hitting what I think is a stomach—and the hands drop me. I scramble forward, flinging the hood off of my head and reaching for my purse. My gun is in there. I can defend myself. I can?—

"Yeah right, bitch."

A foot kicks between my legs; pain assaults my core. A punch whacks me in the head, and my vision blurs. The hood comes over me again. Everything is dark fabric. I wheeze, and another punch lands on my back, the air knocked out of my lungs. My wrists are pulled into a binding, then my stomach is pressed against the couch. I kick again and hit the furniture. Their laughter vibrates around me.

"You dumb cunt."

Each of my legs is strapped to something—it must be the feet of the couch—and I'm spread wide. They pull the hood from my head. My heart pounds.

Two brown-haired men, overly muscular, carrying rifles, line each side of me. One tall, one short.

I search their eyes for proof. Is the tall one Crave? If I saw Crave, really saw him, I would know, wouldn't I? There would be a primal connection.

One of them has to be Crave.

Or this has to be a joke. A new trick he's playing on me. That's the only way this makes sense.

Their eyes aren't right though, too light to be his. And they smell like cigarettes and french fries.

My lips tremble. Crave isn't here.

A pain radiates between my temples. Crave wouldn't save me. I know that. But a small part of me holds onto the hope that he would at least spare me.

"Please," I whisper, tears filling my voice, though I don't know what I'm begging for. I want Crave to be here. I want his proximity and the fearlessness he gives me. I want to absorb him.

But I'm alone with two strangers, and it hurts like a knife to the heart.

"Please let me go," I beg.

"We were told to make it painful," the shorter one says. "Let's break some bones."

The taller one slips behind me. Then a heavy object bludgeons my backside. The pain guts me, radiating in my fingertips and swimming back to my lungs. I cry out, closing my eyes, willing myself to be somewhere else. To find a way out of this.

I can't do anything though. I wail. Another strike. I hold my breath and shake uncontrollably.

Crave is watching from the corner. He has to be.

That's what this is. He's going to let them kill me. He wants to watch me suffer.

"No!" I scream. If I'm going to die because of Crave, I can't die like a pathetic victim that walked right into his trap. "No. No. No?—"

A knife prickles across my skin. I scream.

"I bet she's a bleeder," one of them says.

Anger fills me. I'm not in control, and it scares me.

I don't want this. I don't want them. I want Crave.

The muzzle of a rifle settles on my temple.

"A bleeder and a screamer," one of them says.

"We'll have to tell him."

Him. Fucking him.

Everything tunnels. My only instinct is survival.

Crave is the key.

"Crave!" I scream. "Crave! You motherfucker?—"

"Crave?" one of the men chuckles. He whams the heavy object into my body again. I scream Crave's name again and again. "Is that some kind of slang word?"

"Crave!" I shout. Desperation fills me. My voice strains: "Crave. Crave, please?—"

A hard object dashes through the air, and the shorter man falls to the ground, blunt force trauma killing him cold. Another object lands near the couch, right by my hands. I scream, closing my eyes.

More motion. More noise. More everything.

I can't think.

"What the?—"

The tall man swings his rifle toward the noise.

A black leather bondage mask clings to the assailant's face, the zipper shut. The dark eyes ominous.

"Crave," I cry.

The tall man shoots. The bullet rings in my ears. Crave launches toward the man—the bullet must have missed him—and whacks the rifle out of his hands. The two of them fight on the ground. I squinch my eyes shut.

Crave is here. He's saving me.

Will someone hear the gunshots? Are the cops going to come now?

I both plead that the cops come and cross my fingers that they don't. If the cops come here, Crave will get caught.

I don't want to die.

I don't want Crave to get caught.

I want to see Crave again.

I want these rifled men to die.

I want to kill them myself.

I want?—

I pull my arms down and realize that my wrists are free. Crave must have cut them free right after he killed the shorter man.

I panic, my eyes frantic. Then I see the man—that tall, brown-haired, muscular man—with his hands around Crave's neck. Heat boils inside of me—anger, fury, then pure need—replacing that drive for survival. Crave hooks a punch into the man's gut, and the man lets go, giving Crave his breathing back. With a quick blur of hits, the man is on his hands and knees.

Crave will take care of these men. He doesn't need my help. I don't have to do anything.

But I want to do something. I want to help. I want?—

The tall man crawls, using the couch as leverage to pull himself up. I growl, the sound so beastly, I almost don't recognize myself, and Crave kicks the man's back. The man stumbles into the nearby wall, using it to find his footing.

"Get the fucking gun," Crave orders, his voice muffled by the zipper. "Kill him, Rae."

My eyes dart around. The tall man pulls a knife out of his pocket. Raises it up. The man looks from Crave to me and sees his easy shot. Blood seeps from his mouth and a wound on his head. His cheek is swollen like a ripe fruit.

"I'll kill you first," the man mutters.

Crave won't let me die. He'll protect me. I don't need to kill this man. He's so messed up that whether or not I do anything, he'll die soon.

But god, I want to kill him.

My ankles are still tied to the couch's feet. I reach for the rifle. "You motherfucker!"

The man swings toward me, and at the last second, I lift the rifle, using it to block me right as Crave stabs him from behind.

The man stills, Crave's knife keeping him upright. Blood gushes out of the man's mouth, spilling onto me. The man gurgles.

Crave shoves his body to the ground, pulling the knife from his back. His shoulders broaden. His expression remains as empty as a blank canvas. He's utterly calm, even after all of that.

His gloved hands roam my wet skin. It should upset me, knowing how much I trust Crave with my life when he doesn't trust me with his real self. The leather is his cold disguise. His armor. His lack of trust in me.

And yet, comfort washes over me anyway, because he's here. He did this for me.

"Crave," I whisper. "You sav?—"

He slaps my face. My jaw drops.

The truth hits me then; my body blazes with confusion and need.

Crave orchestrated this night. He left the note in my apartment. He hired those hitmen. He must have done it so that I would kill one or both of them, to prove that I'm a killer just like him.

And I was ready to. I could have told myself it was self-defense, and that may have been why Crave hired them in the first place, so that I would have justification for my actions.

Somehow, I still trust him with my life and death.

He didn't let them kill me.

Crave grabs the tall man's hair and yanks him up. His lifeless eyes stare straight ahead.

I should be scared. I don't feel anything.

I wait for Crave's next move.

He slits the man's throat right in front of my face, then adjusts his grip at the top of the man's head, draining the warm blood all over my body. He does the same with the shorter one, drenching me in their blood. It's like I'm being baptized. I'm not pure and clean, but I also know I'll never be the same again. Whatever this is, Crave has transformed me.

Crave moves behind me. Fabric shuffles against skin, sloshing with liquid. He grabs me from behind. A thin rope pulls around my neck. My belly tenses.

Then I realize it's a belt. Crave's leather belt. Make one mistake, and the belt could get stuck on my neck, killing me.

Crave will only let me die if he's the one to do it. And that thought thrills me.

The belt locks onto me, and his dick splits my pussy. My head spins with fear and lust and disgust. I want this so badly that it scares me. He's here. He didn't let me die. I must mean something to him if he's doing all of this to prove a point. To prove that I'm a killer too.

He unzips the mask's mouth.

"Weak little girl," he whispers, the condescension dripping from his words. "What a disappointment."

Each thrust is a punishment. His metal-ringed dick hits my cervix, causing pain to course through me. Tears streak my cheeks, and I swallow it down, absorbing it all, relishing in the fact that it's him. The man I want. The killer I know. The man who may have sent those men to kill me, but when it came down to it, he saved me. He killed them instead.

He let them hurt you,my rational brain argues. And you failed him. You didn't kill either one of those men.

No,I argue back. He was always going to kill them for me. He only hired them because he knew I was strong enough to survive this.

My entire body quivers in shock. All of it—the physical pain, these warring thoughts—should hurt. I trusted Crave to keep me safe, and he let those men hurt me. But it's more than that.

This must have been a test to see if Crave could trust me. If I really am like him. I may have failed him, but now I want to prove myself. Now more than ever.

I wish I had killed those men.

And that would make you a murderer,my brain screams. Your mother would be right. You would be the daughter of a killer, just like she said.

Those logical thoughts dull as the desert air skirts through the house, my skin freezing, my mind whirring with fragmented thoughts. Am I like my father? A murderer? Am I misunderstood? Will Crave continue to test me? Will I ever prove myself?

Crave's body crushes on top of me, both of us collapsing into the couch. My vision fills with stars as the belt tightens. My body tingles with numbness, his cock like the blunt arm of a cactus shoving inside of me. I'm not a person, not a body, not an animal, but a thing. A vessel. A possession. His. An object he can mold. A puppet he controls. And if I could only figure him out, I would control him too.

Everything goes black, and my hearing tunnels until his voice is all around me, like a million insects crying out in the desert night.

"You're nothing without me," he says.