“What the actual hell?”
I’m staring into my locker like it just sprouted tentacles. Black velvet box nestled between my Calculus textbook and my Ethics notes. Inside: a gold key that looks like it unlocks either a treasure chest or someone’s deepest fantasies.
The note is in his handwriting—that crooked, arrogant script that somehow manages to look expensive even on cheap paper.
“Room 3B. Tonight. No lights. No rules. Let’s see how brave you really are.”
“Absolutely not,” I whisper to my locker. “Nope. Not happening. This is how horror movies start.”
But I pocket the key anyway because apparently my self-preservation instincts are completely broken.
Monday night, 11:47 PM. I’m standing outside the condemned dorms like some kind of academic criminal, holding a key that feels heavier than my entire moral compass.
Don’t go in. Turn around. Go home. Do literally anything else.
I go in.
The hallway smells like dust and abandoned dreams. My footsteps echo like confessions in an empty cathedral. Room 3B’s door creaks open, and I freeze on the threshold.
Holy shit.
Candles everywhere. Actual candles like this is some Victorian seduction manual come to life. Golden shadows dancing on stone walls. A burgundy velvet armchair that looks like it costs more than my tuition.
And him.
Grayson West stretched out like he personally owns gravity, wearing that same criminally casual confidence that makes smart girls stupid.
“You came,” he says, not surprised. Just satisfied.
“I want answers.” My voice sounds small in all this flickering light.
“No touching,” he says, tone unreadable. “Lie to me, and you lose something.”
My fingers twist against my skirt. “Lose what?”
His smile is pure predator. “That’s not the first question.”
I sit stiffly, legs crossed, spine straight, like perfect posture can protect me from whatever game we’re playing.
Spoiler alert: it cannot.
“Have you ever cheated on a test?”
“No.” Quick, automatic, completely dishonest.
He tilts his head. “Not even a peek?”
Fuck. He knows.
“Okay, fine. Once. Tenth grade Physics. I was desperate.”
“There she is.” His smile spreads like spilled wine.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t look so smug.”
“Do you secretly hate Lily’s singing?”
Oh God, yes. It’s like cats being murdered by other cats.
“Yes. Don’t tell her or I’ll deny everything and then kill you.”
“Sworn to secrecy.” He raises his hand like he’s taking an oath.
This is fine. Easy questions. Harmless stuff. Just two people talking in a room full of fire hazards.
Then he leans forward.
“Have you ever touched yourself thinking about me?”
The world stops.
Every single molecule of oxygen evacuates the room. My stomach plummets somewhere near my ankles. Heat explodes across my face like I’ve been slapped.
He did not just ask that. He absolutely did not just—
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except sit there like a deer caught in very expensive headlights.
“That’s what I thought,” he says softly.
“Why would you—” My voice cracks. “Why would you even ask that?”
“Because I want the truth. And you haven’t figured out how to give it.”
“I don’t owe you shit.” But it sounds weak even to me.
“You came here. Alone. With my key. You didn’t owe me that either.”
Fuck fuck fuck he’s right.
I press my palms against my knees, trying to ground myself. “This was supposed to be about getting answers.”
“It is. You think your silence isn’t an answer?”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. I hate how right he is. Hate that he’s excavating parts of me I’ve buried so deep I forgot they existed.
“You’re not scared of me,” he says, voice dropping. “You’re scared of what I make you feel.”
“Stop it.” But I’m shaking now.
“Why? Because I’m not pretending like you are?”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“Bullshit.” He stands, starts pacing like a caged animal. “You’re pretending you don’t want me to say it again. Pretending you didn’t imagine this exact scenario.”
I jump up, fists clenched. “You’re disgusting.”
“Say it again. Maybe you’ll believe it the third time.”
I want to hit him. I want to scream. I want to run.
I want to stay.
He circles behind me, voice barely above a whisper. “You pretend you’re above all this. That you don’t think about dirty things like the rest of us mortals. But I think you do. More than anyone.”
My chest is too tight. Room spinning slightly.
“You think I can’t smell it on you?” His breath ghosts near my ear. “That hunger you’re so fucking ashamed of?”
“You’re vile,” I whisper, but my voice is shaking for all the wrong reasons.
“Maybe. But I’m not lying.”
He’s not. God help me, he’s absolutely not.
My body is betraying me—pulse racing, skin electric, every nerve ending screaming things I can’t acknowledge.
“I could ruin you, Juliet,” he murmurs from the shadows. “Completely destroy every perfect little wall you’ve built. And you’d thank me for it.”
The candles blur. My knees feel liquid. Everything inside me is fighting between running away and falling apart.
“You want to know what I think?” His voice is silk and venom. “I think you came here hoping I would.”
30
