Chapter 4

Chapter Four

ASHER

T he early morning air bites, sharp and cold as I watch her from the cover of the trees around the cabin. The front door creaks open, and she steps outside, her head down, clutching the note I left as if it’s a lifeline. The sight pulls a dark satisfaction through me, filling me with a rush that nothing else has ever come close to. My brother may have thought he owned her, that she was part of his perfect little world, but he never knew the truth to it all—or that I’ve been watching.

I’d seen her first on his social media, buried under all those preppy photos he’d spam like a church newsletter. She was so easy to spot, even in a crowd, a flicker of wild in her eyes that was too bright for the stale world he was trying to drag her into. I knew then and there that she was never meant to be his.

No, she was made for me .

What started as harmless curiosity turned into months of watching, learning, and obsessing. The more I dug, the more I saw the parts of her he didn’t. She was real and raw, and I wanted her for myself.

And now, she’s mine.

She’s easy to fool. The cabin they were staying in—the one Alex always bragged about, a place our parents had reserved for their perfect son—wasn’t hard to get into. Just a quiet pick of the lock and a slip through the shadowy halls while she slept soundly, tucked up in the bed they would have shared. Her steady breathing filled the room, and for a moment, I just watched, taking in the calm that radiated from her, a calm I’ve never had and probably never will.

I stepped closer, feeling the familiar, cold pang of resentment surge into something darker, more possessive. My fingers brushed against a red lock of her hair, tucking it gently behind her ear, and I felt a twisted thrill ripple through me. This girl, so peaceful and trusting, was blissfully unaware of the storm that surrounded her, convinced she’d be meeting her perfect boyfriend in the morning.

But the sight of the bruise blooming on her cheek—a cruel reminder of Alex’s cowardice—stoked the fire within me. Rage boiled in my veins, a savage fury that twisted my gut. I’d watched him strike her, witnessed that moment of weakness, and it ignited something deep inside me. I knew, in that instant, that my twin needed to die.

He was too reckless, too pathetic to protect her. He didn’t deserve her trust, her love .

I wanted to obliterate that worthless piece of shit once and for all, to seize everything he had and make it mine. I wanted to erase the pain he’d inflicted on her, to show her what it truly meant to be cared for—what it meant to be mine . I’d strip away the remnants of his abuse and mistreatment until all that was left was me, standing in the shadows, her real protector, and I’d make sure she never looked back.

So I did.

If she knew what I’d done and understood that Alex was gone, buried in the frozen ground, she’d probably never sleep again.

I pulled my hand back, curling it into a fist as a flash of memory shot through me, sharp and biting, like a frigid gust tearing through the room. The holidays never brought calm—they were a season of expectations, forced gratitude, and my father’s overbearing sermons about faith and obedience.

One year, around Christmas, I slipped out during service. While Alex sang in the choir I ducked away, craving a moment alone in the biting winter cold, the fresh snow crunching under my boots as I escaped down a small path through the woods behind the church. I wanted to feel alive and free from their eyes for a few minutes, but it didn’t last. I barely had ten minutes out there before my father’s iron grip yanked me back inside, dragging me through the congregation’s hushed, judgmental stares. I remember the glint in his eyes, that cold look as he told me I’d embarrassed the family.

That same night, after everyone else left, he let me have it. Took me out behind the cabin and belted me until my skin was raw, going on and on about how my defiance and my selfishness made me a disappointment to the family, a stain on his reputation as the pastor. The fury in his voice, the disgust in my mother’s eyes as she watched from the window, wrapped up in her perfect, pious disappointment—that’s the legacy I got. Not the approval, not the affection. Just the reminder, over and over, that I was the bad one, the unworthy one, the kid who couldn’t stand still or sing the right hymns.

Afterward, they told me I had to pray for forgiveness, that God wouldn’t accept a son as broken as me unless I begged. But even then, I knew they weren’t talking about God; they were talking about their own twisted pride. It was always about them, never about faith, never about anything higher than their own need for control.

And now, here I am, in Alex’s life, about to take his girl, in a cabin that should’ve been mine, with all the things they never thought I’d deserve.

She’s still reading the note I left, the barely there, fake apology meticulously crafted to show her a little slice of myself, but not tip her off. Just a little bait to reel her in, to keep her from asking questions too soon. The promise of our game will keep her on her toes all day, and by the time the sun sets, she’ll be practically begging for my touch.

I watch her lips move as she reads it, and a dark grin stretches across my face beneath the mask. She thinks he’s ready to make amends, that he cares enough to fix this mess. Little does she know, she’s merely a pawn in this game—a game I’ve been planning for too long. Her naivety is delicious, a sweet little morsel that only deepens my desire to claim her as my own.

My sweet doe has no idea my twin is six feet under and that I’m the only one left here.

I step back into the shadows, though I know she won’t look my way. She’s too wrapped up in the lie I’ve crafted, her mind racing with hope. She’s never seen me; I doubt she even knows about me at all. This mask, this game I’ve set up, will be the perfect cover. She’ll never know she’s spending time with me, not him.

Not until it’s too late.

The ski mask clings tight against my face, the fabric stretching over my skin, concealing everything but my gray eyes. I can feel the warmth of my breath inside it, mixing with the cold morning air as I stand hidden in the trees. She has no idea I’m here, watching her every move.

It’s like a game—a game I know she’s already lost, even if she hasn’t realized it yet.

Part of me wants to skip the game all together and take what's mine, but I know I can’t. This is something she needs. Something my sweet doe craves.

Right now, it’s enough to watch, to keep myself out of sight until she’s lulled into her usual sense of safety. I want her to look for Alex , to feel that twisted comfort, knowing her “perfect” boyfriend left her a sweet note and a hefty monetary gift, something to keep the lie alive.

She’ll believe it’s him—of course she will—until I’m ready to pull the mask off, letting her finally see who she’s been playing this little game with all along. And, fuck , I can’t wait to see her face when she realizes the truth.

Through the tangled shadows, I catch sight of her. My sweet doe striding through the woods in that damn red sweater dress, thigh-high boots with the white fur trim. She’s dressed to be noticed, dressed like she’s on display, like she knows she’s about to be watched.

I stay in the shadows, watching her make her way through the trees.

I pull Alex’s phone out, sliding my gloved fingers over the screen as I type out a quick message.

Those boots don’t look like fun to run in, sweet doe.

Her phone vibrates, and I watch as she stops dead in her tracks, looking down at it with that smile of hers growing wider.

Guess I like a little challenge—think you can keep up?

Fuck, she’s into it. Hooked, right where I want her. I knew she’d fall for this. It’s like she’s begging to be hunted, to be played with, like she wants to be chased by someone who isn’t going to back down or soften up when things get dark.

Damn, if I’m not exactly what she’s craving.

I’ve spent months learning everything there is to know about my sweet doe. Every post she’s made, every picture, every pathetic, hopeful little message she’s sent to Alex that he barely bothered to read—I’ve gone through it all. I hacked her socials, dug into the depths of her life, and found every piece she hides from everyone else. Those late-night conversations with her best friend Cara where she spills her soul, I’ve read it all. I know them and their friendship better than she does. Hell, I know her better than she knows herself.

And when she talks to Cara about what she wants, that thrill she craves that my pathetic twin hasn’t been able to give her—the kind that leaves her breathless, that makes her feel alive—it’s like she’s calling to me, begging for someone who knows how to give her everything she wants.

She has no idea that every step she takes is leading her straight to me. My sweet doe thinks she’s in control. She’s still in that bubble of blissful ignorance, convinced this is all a harmless game Alex concocted just for her. But Alex was a coward, too soft and spineless to even get close to giving her what she needs .

But me? I’ve got all the patience, all the control. I’ve waited and watched, obsessively picking apart every little piece of her life she thought was private. Piecing together every want, every insecurity, until I knew exactly how to trap her.

Now, as I watch her from the shadows, her eager steps picking up pace as she heads toward town, I can practically feel her excitement radiating through the cold morning air.

The center of town comes into view, quiet and still, covered in a thin layer of frost that glitters under the morning light. Sloan walks right into it, her head held high, that same naive little smile on her lips. She thinks she’s walking into her fairytale.

But soon enough, she’ll know exactly who’s waiting for her at the end of this story, and it’s not her prince charming.