I WILL BREAK YOU

GIGI STYX

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 CONTENTS

Author’s Note

1. Prologue
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102

Also by Gigi Styx

About the Author

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Copyright © 2024 by Gigi Styx

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the
publisher or author.

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 AUTHOR’S NOTE

This dark romance thriller romanticizes stalking and other morally

reprehensible behavior for entertainment. It contains graphic depictions of
psychological abuse, deviant sexual acts, and torture at the hands of a
psychopathic murderer who delights in the heroine’s terror. If you are
offended by such content, do not continue reading.

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 TRIGGER WARNINGS

This is a dark romance that includes dub-con, graphic depictions of torture

and violence, and sexually explicit scenes. If any of this content is
triggering for you, please do not read this book.
Triggers include:
Abortion (backstory)
Anal sex
Autassassinophilia
Attempted sexual assault
Bullying
Cannabis growing (and dealing)
Car accident
Castration
Child assassins (backstory)
Child porn (secondary character backstory)
Child sexual abuse (backstory)
Choking
Collaring
Coprophilia (brief mention)
Cults
Date rape drugs (by minor antagonist)
Desecration of a corpse
Desecration of a grave
Dismemberment
Doxxing
Erotophonophilia
Execution
Fear play
Financial abuse (by minor antagonist)
Forced abortion (backstory)
Gang rape (to side character)
Gaslighting
Grooming (backstory)
Hallucinations
Human centipede (on minor villains)
Humiliation
Imprisonment
Improper use of a thigh bone
Improper use of extension cables
Improper use of holy water
Knife play
Mask play
Medical misconduct
Medication tampering
Memory loss
Mental illness
Miscarriage (backstory)
Murder
Online harassment
Osteophilia
Phrogging
Pornography
Primal kink
Rape (of rapists)
Sadism
Sexual harassment
Snuff movies
Somnophilia
Spanking
Stalking
Suicide
Suspension bondage
Teacher-student relationship (backstory)
Torture
Trauma
Victim blaming (by minor antagonist)
Vigilante justice
Reader discretion is advised. If you find any of these topics distressing,
please choose a different book. Your mental health matters.

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To all the girls who ever wanted to be the hot serial killer’s last meal

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 ONE

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 PROLOGUE

Rhythmic knocking drags my mind out of sleep. It’s an unearthly sound,

like bones rattling against wood.
A hangover pounds through my head, and my gut churns with nausea.
It’s about this time I regret trying to drown my sorrows in vodka.
I crack open an eye, expecting it to be light. All I see is the darkness of
my bedroom until the eerie sound pounds through my eardrums.
Knock, knock, knock.
Panic grips my chest, sending a surge of cold adrenaline. Every instinct
screams at me to reach for the knife under my pillow, but my arms are
pinned to my sides.
This is his doing.
My stalker, the vengeful ghost.
The sadistic bastard who craves my complete destruction.
Regret washes through my veins like acid. I shouldn’t have gotten
drunk. Shouldn’t have jilted him on the day of his execution. Shouldn’t
have shared my filthiest fantasies with a mass murderer on death row.
Xero made me feel safe. Maybe it was stupid, but I thought he cared. He
expressed his love for me in a dozen beautiful ways. He talked about
forever, even from beyond the grave.
Deep down, I knew he was a monster, but I thought he was my monster.
I believed his love for me was unconditional. Real. But he's a man without
forgiveness. And maybe I deserve his wrath.
 But that doesn't mean I won't fight.
Movement in the shadows pulls my attention to the corner of my
bedroom, and he steps out of the dark.
The seven-foot-tall specter drifts toward the end of the bed, his eyes
shining with a malevolent glow.
My breath shallows.
Is this the night he finally drags me to hell, or will he continue
tormenting me to insanity?
That thought slices through my brain fog like a scythe. I thrash within
my bonds, wanting to crawl out of my skin, but my arms feel tied to the
sides of my body.
Will the ghost pass the salt circle?
It’s supposed to repel evil spirits. I laid it perfectly. Twice.
When the specter pauses at its perimeter, terror loosens its grip around
my heart, replaced by a flicker of faith.
The salt will hold.
Won’t it?
A cold wind sweeps into the room, extinguishing any remaining hope.
His head bows, pulling those glowing eyes away from mine and toward the
salt.
I glance toward the window. When the hell did I leave it open? Is
the salt circle broken?
The ghost advances through my protective perimeter and passes the foot
of the bed.
Panic restarts, turning the edges of my vision black. I thrash within my
invisible restraints, my mind screaming, my gaze fixed on his glowing,
white eyes.
Cold fingers pull back the sheets, exposing my trembling thighs to the
cool air. In one swift movement, he lifts my nightgown up around my
waist. The pulse between my legs pounds a staccato beat. Arousal floods
my clit. The muscles of my core tighten in anticipation of another night of
torture.
Terror consumes my consciousness, and my last hope before I succumb
to the darkness is that maybe this time, he’ll allow me to come.

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 TWO

AMETHYST
I see Death, and I don’t mean the man I just murdered.
Adrenaline surges through my trembling fingertips, making it a bitch to
claw out of this open grave. I’ve also tumbled down more times than Jack
and Jill because the shoes I’m wearing won’t grip the loose soil.
My hands won’t stop trembling. Every time a worm slithers under my
fingers, I flinch, and the breeze swirling through my sweat-soaked curls
gives me a chill.
I reach the top and pull myself out, only to lock gazes with a six-and-a-
half-foot tall wraith with glowing white eyes. Alarm punches my heart. The
only thing worse than seeing the grim specter of death is him alerting the
night shift workers of where I buried the corpse.
The moon vanishes behind clouds, plunging the cemetery into gloom. I
scramble to my feet and hurry through the tombstones, finding my way
back to the path.
Death stays close, his shadow swallowing the light. The only thing
missing is a scythe.
This is… unusual. I haven’t hallucinated in over a year, and when I did,
I only saw the men I’d personally killed. But now, Death dogs my steps and
I have no idea why.
Shuddering, I quicken my pace.
An hour ago, an online troll pushed his way into my house. His name
was JakeRake69, and he wanted to snuff out my life. I fought back, but he
was too big, too strong, and too determined to choke me on my kitchen
floor.
 As the edges of my vision turned black, a dark figure appeared in the
doorway, signaling my imminent demise.
That was the jolt of adrenaline I needed for my fingers to find a fallen
knife and plunge it into Jake’s neck.
I thought saving my life would exorcize the apparition, but I only
piqued his interest. Death trailed after me as I dragged Jake’s corpse down
my backyard and through the thicket of trees that separate my home from
the cemetery.
After hiding the body in an open grave, I thought I’d be free of the
specter, but I was wrong. He waited for me at the edge of the burial ground
with his head cocked to the side like an owl’s.
So that’s how I find myself trudging back home, stalked by the Angel of
Death. Shivers seize my skeleton, and every fine hair on the back of my
neck stands on end, but the sensation is nothing compared to being covered
in dirt.
Dirt encrusts my fingernails and covers every inch of my skin. Dirt
gathers beneath my eyelids and lines my nostrils. It wriggles through my
ear canals and across my scalp. I want to shake it off and scream, but I don’t
need to attract any more of that thing’s attention.
Ignoring him, I continue through the Douglas Firs that border my house.
I’m so exhausted from fighting off a brute and digging his grave
barehanded that my knuckles practically drag on the ground. Who would
have thought self-defense could be so grueling?
As soon as I step out of the evergreens and into my narrow backyard,
the weight of dragging and burying the man I killed lifts off my shoulders
only to settle in my gut. I stare down the paved yard through my kitchen
window to find flames flickering on the gas stove.
I don’t remember turning it on.
My home is a narrow, two-story townhouse wedged between a pair of
larger buildings and has been my home for six years, ever since Mom and
Dad marched me off my college campus in my first semester.
I’m sure Mom is sick of dealing with my mental issues and feels more
comfortable with me on the other side of town. Dad says I should be more
understanding because of what happened in my past, but I don’t have a
single memory of anything that took place before the age of ten.
But I digress.
 Because of me, a man is dead, and now I’m being shadowed by a
specter. Worst of all, no amount of self-reflection or pity will clean up
Jake’s blood. I step through the back door and into the kitchen, where my
online troll tackled me to the floor and nearly ended out my life.
If it hadn’t been for that fallen knife…
Chills race across my skin as I turn on the light, finding blood all over
the black-and-white tiles. It’s also probably spattered over the kitchen
cabinets, but they’re a deep ebony wood that hides stains. With a sigh, I turn
off the stove and trudge to the linen closet where I keep my supplies and
grab a pack of paper towels.
Thank goodness I buy in bulk.
I lay them on the floor, taking advantage of their absorbency. Next, I
open every sanitary pad in my home, unwrap each tampon so they can soak
up the rest. After exhausting a three-month supply of period products, I
move on to the toilet paper.
After wiping down the cabinets, I double bag the absorbent materials
and hide them in the cupboard under the stairs. Next is a mop and bucket
with copious amounts of bleach. This cleaning job won’t be enough to fool
a forensic team, but I make a mental note to purchase hydrogen peroxide.
One of the benefits of dating a killer is knowing how to clean up a crime
scene.
Xero. Xero Greaves spent his last day on death row alone and miserable
because of me and my cowardice.
Grief hits me like a tsunami, making my legs buckle. My knees hit the
wet tiles, and I gasp out a sob. Pain spreads across my heart, overshadowing
the rawness around my throat.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper through tears.
His execution would have been hours ago. I swore to keep him
company as he fried on the electric chair, but I left the only man who ever
showed me love to die alone. That was unforgivable enough, but I also
missed the wedding we were supposed to have in the prison chaplain,
followed by three hours of conjugal bliss.
Xero died among enemies today because I couldn’t put aside my
trauma. That guilt will plague me until I die.
Swallowing hard, I pick myself up off the floor. Movement through the
window turns my attention to the unlit garden, where I swear I see a dark
figure standing among the trees.
 “Call Dr. Saint,” I mutter under my breath, wishing Xero hadn’t
convinced me to stop taking my meds.
Instead of the prescription-induced haze that’s been my life since
leaving college, my experiences now are immersed in agonizing clarity.
An hour later, after taking the longest shower, I apply enough concealer
to hide the finger marks around my neck. Then it’s the usual process of
applying makeup without looking myself in the eye.
When I said I hadn’t hallucinated in over a year, I was referring to
people or objects outside the mirror. That’s the domain of the monster who
wears my face. My spectrophobia means I can’t escape her—not in videos,
photos, or even puddles.
It’s been like this forever. A doppelgänger haunting me through every
reflective surface. I tried describing her to Dr. Saint, but I can’t articulate
why she’s different from me. She’s a being who mimics me to perfection,
except she’s evil.
It’s strange because I spend ages looking in the mirror when I’m taming
my unruly curls or bleaching the left side of my hair platinum blonde. If I
close one eye, I can even bleach the right brow to match. Focusing on one
element of my face is fine–I just can’t see both eyes or the whole thing in its
entirety.
Turning my attention away from the mirror, I wear the black leather
corset dress Xero bought me, along with black stockings decorated with
silver snakes. Long gloves hide the scratches on my arms, and a thick
choker draws the attention away from my bruised throat.
After adding the chunky silver crucifix Xero sent me for an early
birthday present, I walk to the green room. It was originally a large pantry
and utility space, but Mom let me move everything out and cover the walls
in chroma key paint. That’s where I shoot the podcast and the social media
clips that pay my living expenses until I can get a publishing deal.
My heart pounds so hard that I feel its vibrations between my legs. It’s a
reaction that’s plagued me since my first killing, where the release of
adrenaline increases the blood flow to my genitals. Dr. Saint called it
violence-induced arousal and explained that it was a trauma response.
I looked it up online, and it doesn’t exist. Dr. Saint probably made it up
so I wouldn’t feel like such a freak. I’m not a sadist. That would imply that
I seek pleasure from causing harm. I really don’t.
 But it isn’t normal. Nothing about me is normal. A normal woman
wouldn’t become infatuated with the mugshot of a killer. A normal woman
also wouldn’t send said killer letters every other day, accept his gifts, or his
proposal of marriage.
A normal woman also wouldn’t have left the love of her life at the altar,
then get aroused after stabbing another man to death in her kitchen. I push
forward through the exhaustion, through the trauma, through the
disorientation and pain for Xero. He would want me to give his fan club
some kind of closure.
After setting up the ring lights, I log into my account, OfficialXerofan
club, select a background for the green screen, then go live.
“Good evening, Xero Maniacs,” I croak, my voice hoarse. “It’s your
president here with an update from the man himself.”
Fingers trembling, I clutch Xero’s last letter. I stare so hard at his
angular handwriting that my eyes blur with tears. I’ll never hear from him
again. I’ll never get that excited flutter every time I visit the mailbox,
anticipating one of his letters. I’ll never get an early-morning phone call
from the exercise yard, never get another text or clandestine photo or video,
never feel that soul-deep connection with another human being.
Because he’s dead.
There’s a reason I fell in love with a killer. His soul is as tainted as
mine. The man I murdered today wasn’t my first. And with the way Mom
and Dad keep me at arm’s length, I wonder if my suppressed memories
contain more deaths.
I blink, loosening two fat tears that roll down my cheeks. My phone
chimes, bringing me out of my thoughts. I stare at the screen to find a slew
of messages on the live chat, demanding Xero’s final words.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Sorry… Here’s what he wrote.”
I try not to cry as I read and force my voice not to waver, not wanting to
ruin Xero’s beautiful message with a breakdown. After the last word, I
pause, letting every Xeromaniac soak in the finality of his ending. A quick
check at the corner of the screen tells me that I already have a thousand
viewers who have sent nearly a hundred gifts. There’s also a line of people
wanting to chat.
Most nights, I stay for at least an hour, making sure as many people as
possible get to hear me read out Xero’s letters. Tonight, all I want to do is
curl up in a ball and grieve. Grieve for Xero, who I jilted and left to face the
executioner alone. Grieve for myself, who missed the chance to say
goodbye. Most of all, I want to grieve for what we lost.
Without our sacred union, we might never find each other in the next
life. Our bond was so profound, yet we haven’t even touched, let alone met
in person. Xero was on death row, which gave him barely enough time each
day to walk the grounds to the cell phone jammer’s dead zone where he
would call me and forward me photos and videos.
Despite all the barriers to our love, I managed to fall for the man behind
the voice and the honeyed words. Now, I don’t know how I’ll cope without
hearing from him every day. My throat closes, and my sinuses burn with
grief.
Fuck it. I’m going to bed.
Turning off the live, I navigate to the screen that allows me to create a
regular video to post on my page. I set up a different green screen, read out
the excerpt of Xero’s final letter, click send, and walk upstairs with a bottle
of vodka.
My bedroom is like the rest of the house’s decor: gothic. While only the
panel of wall behind the bed is painted black, the white walls are covered in
macabre artwork. Pictures of Xero hang among canvases that feature
skeletons, creepy dolls, scenes of torture, and all manner of Shinigami.
After tonight, I’m beginning to understand my love for Japanese death
gods.
I don’t bother to shower before bed, since I already scrubbed my skin
raw. Not a single trace of Jake remains on my body, save for the bruises.
Maybe I should have taken his online threats seriously, but I thought my
security measures were foolproof.
After undressing, I wash down double the recommended dose of
Temazepam with several swigs of vodka and slip between the black silk
sheets. My muscles still ache from dragging a full-grown man into the
cemetery and digging his shallow grave, and I’m desperate for sleep.
My eyelids become heavy, and slumber pulls me under in minutes.
Before my eyes fully close, I swear I see the reaper hovering in my
doorway. His cold breath makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand
on end. He drifts closer, his skeletal fingers reaching out to caress my
cheek. I’m too drowsy, too sedated to flinch, even as his icy touch makes
my skin erupt in goosebumps.
 I dream of Xero, all alone in a desolate afterlife, his eyes filled with hurt
and anger over my betrayal. I dream of JakeRake69, burning in the fires of
Hell. Flames engulf him, reducing his flesh to cinders, only for it to
regenerate. His screams ring through my ears with the sweet melody of
vengeance. I should revel in seeing my attacker get his comeuppance, but I
can’t look away from Xero’s accusing glare.
Hours later, the first rays of sunlight stream through my eyelids, pulling
me out of sleep, but my skin tingles with static electricity. Sensation gathers
low in my belly and the pulse between my legs pounds in sync with my
frantic heartbeat.
“Fuck,” I croak, my throat still hoarse.
Whatever dream I had must have been erotic, because my clit has never
felt so swollen. I reach down between my legs and rub my aching bundle of
nerves. My other hand twitches toward the dildo Xero commissioned from
a mold of his erection, but I close my fingers into a fist.
I am no longer worthy of using him to get off.
Not after such a devastating betrayal.
So, let’s make do with my fingers and make this quick.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I focus on the sensations, but my mind’s eye
keeps dredging up his beautiful face. Strong brow, framed with platinum
hair and irises glowing brighter than blue icebergs.
It’s his mugshot that went viral, the one where he wears a septum
piercing along with a pair of snakebites on his perfectly plump bottom lip.
A dusting of stubble covers his square jaw, accentuating the sharp angles of
his face. Utter perfection. My mind’s eye travels down his thick neck to
muscular shoulders and a sculpted chest. His abs are chiseled with a dusting
of blond hair leading to⁠—
“Xero,” I whisper as I climax.
A thud hits the closet. I leap out of bed, my heart pounding loud enough
to rouse the dead. Crossing the room in a few steps, I grab the handle and
yank open the door.
Something large, something stiff, something heavy and cold falls into
my arms. I stagger back with a shriek, only for it to tumble onto the floor
with a loud crash.
It’s a body.
But not just any corpse.
 Jake stares up at me through sightless eyes, his lips parted with shock.
Black blood encrusts the stab wound in his neck, revealing a trail of fluid
down to his bare chest.
Three things hit me at once.
One. The corpse I buried last night has found its way back into my
home.
Two. I really need to take my meds.
Three. I’ve already forgotten the third.

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 THREE

Alderney State Penitentiary

Dear Amethyst,
Your blood-red envelope captured my curiosity, but your confession of
murder has captured my attention.
Tell me more.
Xero
P.S. Most women spray their letters with perfume. You’re the first who
has scented the paper with their pussy.
Brava.

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 FOUR

AMETHYST
Afterimages of JakeRake69’s death mask haunt my mind as I reach the
front door. I close my fingers around the lock, wanting to fling it open, but
cold air swirls around my skin, reminding me that I’m naked.
Shit.
It was just another hallucination. There’s no way in hell JakeRake69
could have survived getting stabbed in the neck and buried, only to climb
out of his grave, break into my house, and crawl into my bedroom closet to
die.
It doesn’t make sense. This must be a figment of my imagination.
My memory is so screwed up that I barely even remember the last time
I took my pills or even ordered a new prescription. Every ounce of attention
has been absorbed by my social media presence and my relationship with
Xero.
And the book.
Seeing Jake was just a trauma response. It happened one time at
boarding school when someone broke into my room. For days afterward, I
kept imagining my creepy doppelgänger had found a way out of the mirror.
Not to mention the hallucination that pops up every time I try to hookup.
“That’s right,” I say to myself. “It’s just my messed-up brain.”
With a deep breath, I walk down the hallway, assuring myself that the
creaking is just my feet moving over the floorboards, and climb the stairs.
Intrusive thoughts float to the top of my mind like bloated corpses. What if
it isn’t a figment of my addled mind and JakeRake69’s body is real? I can’t
drag him back to his grave in the middle of the morning, and my muscles
are still shredded from last night.
Jake came to kill me because I’d publicized my relationship with a mass
murderer. He said bitches like me who wanted to fuck killers instead of
high-value men were begging for death.
I reach the top of the stairs, realizing that Xero didn’t call me this
morning from the exercise yard, and my heart sinks into my empty
stomach. Tears sting the backs of my eyes at the reminder that he died
believing he’d been ghosted. He probably thought I’d been using him to
gain online clout.
After his mugshot went viral, hundreds of women tried to reach out to
him at Alderney State Penitentiary, thinking they had a chance with the
Angel of Death. That’s what they called him because of his blond hair, blue
eyes, and chiseled bone structure. He had the kind of masculine beauty that
belonged to a Michelangelo statue.
Those other women never saw past his masculine beauty, overlooking
the brutal murder of his stepmother and brothers. I was one of the few
people who saw a kindred spirit. The way he tore out their hearts was
poetic.
I creep along the upstairs landing, passing a portrait a fan made of him
in charcoal, and return to my bedroom. Sunlight streams through curtains
I’m sure were closed, illuminating my bed. The family of antique dolls who
usually rest on the nest of pillows lie strewn across the floor, and there’s no
sign of Jake.
Just to make sure, I fling open the walk-in closet and turn on the light.
The mini chandelier springs to life, lighting up the antique wardrobes I
painted black. There’s no sign that anything has been disturbed.
So, the sight and feel of that cold, heavy corpse was in my mind, as was
the loud thud.
This is my first compound hallucination.
I really need to get some new meds.
The doorbell rings, making me flinch. Now is not the time for visitors.
There’s a trash bag downstairs filled with sanitary products, still soaked in
Jake’s blood, and I don’t even know if I’ve gotten rid of the smell of bleach.
The bell sounds again, and I shudder. Whoever is outside is either persistent
or knows I’m pretending to be out.
When my phone rings, I swallow back a scream.
 With a silent prayer to the patron saint of murderers, I slip out of the
closet, creep out of the bedroom, slink into my study, and peer out of the
window to see who’s calling.
It’s Myra, my cheerleader, oldest friend, and literary agent, wrapped up
in a tattooed little package. She lives downtown and wouldn’t normally
drive all the way to the suburbs without informing me in advance. Paranoia
roots me to the spot, and I answer the phone.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Open the bloody door,” she says. “I’m outside.”
“Oh. Sorry!”
In all the excitement about yesterday, I’d forgotten she said she was
coming to visit to offer a shoulder to cry on after Xero’s execution.
Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I slip on a black kimono, fasten its
belt, and rush down the stairs.
Myra stands on the doorstep, holding a bottle of champagne. The
morning sun shines down on her red hair, reminding me of the blood that
spilled on the kitchen floor. Today, she wears a pinstripe, burgundy corset
that accentuates her perky new implants. She wraps her arms around my
neck, aggravating my bruises and making me wince.
“Happy birthday,” she squeals.
My eyes snap open. I’d almost forgotten I just turned twenty-four.
“Thanks.”
She draws back, her brows pulled together in the frown she makes
whenever she’s trying to gauge my mood. “And congratulations?”
“Not really.” I stand aside, letting her in. As she walks toward the
kitchen, I yelp. “Lounge.”
Pivoting, she walks into the front room. It’s one of the few spaces in the
house that doesn’t overlook the Parisii Cemetery, instead facing onto a
street of townhouses. Its walls and ceilings are black, as is the furniture,
with the only pops of color coming from a gilded mirror over the fireplace
that matches the chandelier.
Myra plops down on a leather sofa. “You’ve already gotten two million
views.”
It takes a few heartbeats to realize she’s talking about the video I made
last night when I read out Xero’s letter. The views mean nothing to me now,
a hollow victory in the face of my betrayal.
“Oh.”
 Her face drops. “Sorry. Of course, you wouldn’t be pleased.” She pats
the seat. “How are you holding up after the execution?”
Shuddering, I cross the room and run my fingers through my curls. The
backs of my eyes grow hot. My lips tremble as I force out the words, “I
wasn’t there.”
She rears back, her eyes widening. “You left after the wedding?”
The accusation in her question hits like a punch to the gut. Pressure
builds around my sinuses, and my eyes prick with tears. How the hell can I
say the words out loud?
“I…” I swallow over and over, trying to push back a surge of guilt and
grief and regret. “I couldn’t go.”
“Amy. Don’t tell me—” she clamps a hand over her mouth. “You jilted
Xero?”
All the emotion I’ve been holding back pushes against a dam, trying to
release. I breathe hard, holding back a sob, but the weight of my choices
forces me to sink into the seat.
It will sound so callous, spending months sharing my deepest secrets
and darkest desires with a prisoner on death row, building up a bond that
became our lifelines, only for me to leave him at the altar. The thought
alone is suffocating, and I’m drowning in a sea of self-loathing cowardice.
“You don’t understand,” I rasp.
“What happened?”
“I had everything ready. The outfit. The cake. The toys… Then I made
the mistake of checking my mail.”
Myra takes my hand. “What did you see?”
“An envelope.” My throat thickens, and I suppress a shudder. “It
contained a photo of me as a child, strapped to a gurney with a mouth guard
between my teeth and electrodes pressed to my temples. They were all over
my body, and I was naked.”
Her eyes widen. “What did you do?”
“I called the police. They questioned me for ages, demanding to know
when the photo was taken. When I told them about my missing memories,
they acted like I was lying.” I exhale a shaky breath. “By the time I got to
the prison, the woman at the door wouldn’t let me in.”
“But you had special permission!”
Guilt claws at my lungs, turning my breath shallow. Xero made a huge
sacrifice to arrange that wedding, and it all went to waste. “I was only a few
minutes late, but that was enough for the guard to ruin our first and last
real-life meeting.”
“Did you at least call his phone?”
My eyes brim with tears. “I did, but who knows if he ever got my last
message.”
Her brows pull together. “Oh, Amy. I’m so sorry.”
I stare at my lap, hating myself for being distracted, hating the traffic for
slowing my journey, hating that stupid prison bitch who smirked in my
face, letting Xero die thinking his love for me wasn’t reciprocated.
“Are you sure it was you in that photo?” she asks, changing the subject
from my failure.
Part of me is relieved she's not pushing about last night, but the question
stirs a new wave of anxiety. I open my phone and scroll to the photos app,
where I show her the picture I took of what I received. It’s so disturbing that
I can’t bear to look.
She stares at the image for several tense seconds before saying, “This is
AI.”
“What makes you think that?” I ask.
She switches to the web browser, taps in a few words, and brings up a
picture of Jack Nicholson. “Does that look familiar?”
I shake my head.
“It’s from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Someone must have used
AI to create an image of you at…” She scrolls back to the offensive image.
“How old are you there, nine, ten?”
“No idea, but it’s not AI.”
“How would you know?”
“It has the exact location of my scars.” I point at the horizontal line
running from the left side of my waist that disappears into my midsection
and then the deep line running down the length of my belly on the right.
Myra gasps. “I didn’t know.”
“That’s because I’ve never shown them in public,” I mutter.
“What do you think is happening, then?” she asks.
I tilt my head, letting a curtain of blonde curls flop down over my left
eye. My early childhood is a brick wall of nothingness. It’s like my life
began a few weeks before I turned eleven, yet I could read, write, perform
math, and recognize my parents.
 “That photo is real,” I reply. “What else but electric shock treatments
could wipe out the entire memory of my childhood?”
“But you said there was a car accident⁠—”
“That’s what my mom and dad told me, but this photo says otherwise.”
“Have you called them?”
I exhale a tired sigh at the memory. “They were the second people I
called, after the police.”
“Why did you call the cops?”
I reach across and scroll to the next photo. “Because there was a note in
the envelope, saying that my time was up and I would scream on some
table.”
“What does that mean?”
I hold my breath, shake my head, and stare into my lap. Anything to
avoid looking her in the eye.
“Amy?” she asks.
As much as I want to confide in Myra about what happened after the
police left my house, I can’t. Telling her that I killed a man would make her
an accessory to murder, and I can’t let that happen again. I learned that
painful lesson the last time.
When we were students at Tourgis Academy, I made the mistake of
confiding in her about my relationship with Mr. Lawson, the predator who
taught us music. I was so impressionable at the time and wasn’t getting
attention from Mom and Dad.
He filled that gaping hole in my heart and took advantage. Months after
things got sexual, my period stopped, and he invited me to his apartment
one Friday night for a special dinner. The next day, I found out he’d tricked
me into taking an abortion pill.
I didn’t understand what was happening until after I’d collapsed with
painful cramps and started hemorrhaging. I begged him to call 911 but he
said I would be fine in the morning. He only spoke up after I thought I was
dying and tried to call Mom for help. The following week, I asked him to
meet me in the roof garden to talk.
Let’s just say he fell to his demise.
Everyone believed Mr. Lawson’s death was a suicide until Myra called
her sister, Martina, for advice and swore her to secrecy. At the time, Martina
was a law student, and she promptly reported me to the police, leading to
my arrest in the middle of Biology.
 What happened next was a shit show that would have gotten me sent to
jail if I hadn’t been thirteen. Mom and Dad got Dr. Saint to help me plead
insanity, I got expelled, my juvenile record got sealed the day I turned
eighteen, and I learned a painful lesson about keeping quiet.
“Amy, are you okay?”
I raise my head and smile. “The police took the photo and letter as
evidence and warned me not to distribute it online.”
“As if you would,” she replies with a huff. “What I don’t understand is
how a troll could have tracked you to this address.”
“What makes you think it was sent by a troll?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re right. I keep assuming it’s AI. But if it’s a
real photo, one you can’t remember, you need to speak to your mom.”
My throat tightens. Myra keeps her family at a distance. Her parents
disapprove of everything she does, from her career in publishing to her gig
at the Wonderland fetish store. Yet they’re desperate to welcome her back to
the fold.
For as long as I can remember, my parents have just wanted me gone.
It’s why they made me board at Tourgis Academy, when I could have gone
there as a day student and traveled by bus, and why they bought me a house
on the other side of town.
I make them uncomfortable. Dr. Saint says it’s survivor’s guilt because I
was the only one who got injured in the car crash. Now that this photo has
come to light, I think that explanation is bullshit.
“So, how’s the book going to end?” she asks, trying to distract me from
the picture.
My shoulders sag. That’s an excellent question. One I’m incapable of
answering. “No idea. I hadn’t thought past the wedding and the execution.”
“How do you feel about including the reason why you didn’t go?”
I wince. There’s no way I’ll allow the whole world to know I can’t
remember my childhood, especially if it involves electric shock treatments.
“That....” I shake my head. “Myra, I can’t.”
She sighs. I hate disappointing her, but my lack of memories are a
festering wound. When I agreed to write a true crime love story based on
my relationship with Xero, I knew I would have to include a little
background on myself, but I don’t want to open my life up to even more
scrutiny.
 Jake was probably the one behind the photo and had sent it to derail my
plans to marry Xero. When that didn’t deter me from leaving the house,
that’s when the slimy bastard must have decided to attack me on my
doorstep.
I thought I’d safeguarded my privacy. Myra arranged for my mail to be
sent to her assistant, Kayla, who forwarded it to a mailing service, which
forwarded it to me. Jake shouldn’t have been able to track my whereabouts
without getting the information from Myra or Kayla.
“Why don’t we celebrate when I finish the manuscript?” she says.
“Thanks.” I force a smile at her attempt at encouragement. “Hold on
while I put the champagne away.”
I take the bottle into the kitchen and open the fridge. The red velvet
cake I ordered for Xero and me to enjoy after the wedding has a hole in its
side and is covered in white streaks. It almost looks like someone stuck
their dick into it and came all over its surface.
Resisting the urge to run my finger over the white substance and check
its salt content, I place the champagne in a bottle rack and shut the door. If I
can hallucinate an entire corpse, then a ravished red velvet cake is hardly a
stretch.
When I return, Myra is already standing. “Something’s happened to
your account.”
I cross the room and take my phone, only to find myself signed out of
the app. When I enter my username and password, I squint at the error
notice.
“What does it say?”
“Account banned for community guidelines violation,” I mutter.
“What? Why?”
I navigate to my email, where there’s a message waiting for me from the
app. “Shit.”
“What now?”
“I’ve been expelled from the creator fund, which means I won’t get paid
for all those viral videos.”
“Call Gavin,” Myra says. “He’ll get you reinstated.”
I roll my eyes. Gavin works for the app and could help me in seconds,
but everything about him makes me cringe. All three of us were at Tourgis
Academy together, but we only have contact via Myra. He’s a regular at her
fetish store and maintains their e-commerce site. He’s harmless, but his
desperation to practice BDSM bleeds into every conversation.
“Let me at least try contacting support,” I mutter.
“Too late,” Myra says as she’s halfway out of the door. “I already texted
him to come tonight at eight.”
Shit.
I’m about to protest when my second phone rings. It’s the one I use
exclusively for text messages and conversations with Xero. Leaving Myra
to let herself out, I jog upstairs to where I left it on my bedside. Only one
person has that number, and he’s dead.
My heart pounds as I approach the nightstand, where it has stopped
ringing and instead buzzes with a message. Xero must have sent it from his
cell before the execution, where there wasn’t any reception. Now that he’s
dead, the prison must have moved his personal effects to an area with
coverage.
I unlock the phone, my fingers trembling. My breath hitches at his last
words.
It is devastating to discover that our entire relationship was a sham, all
for the sake of writing a bestselling book.
“What?” I whisper.
The next message pops up.
And the woman at the mailing address you gave me wasn’t even you.
My jaw drops. Did he get a last-minute pardon? I shake off that thought.
Xero was caught red-handed—quite literally. Police had burst into the
house while he was tearing out his stepmother’s heart. If he had escaped
prison, Myra would have said something. It would be all over the news.
The next message says:
After the execution, I went there to find her wearing my mother’s locket.
A photo pops up of his tattooed hand, holding a silver necklace with a
heart-shaped pendant. Xero sent it to me, but I never received it. We
thought it had gotten lost in the mail. What’s it doing with Kayla?
I message back:
Are you alive?
He replies with:
How is that even possible when you ripped out my heart?
I reply:
How are you doing this?
 Seconds later, he writes:
Electromagnetic radiation.
“Helpful,” I mutter.
Do you want to know what else I found?
Ignoring his question, I switch to the browser app and look up Xero’s
execution online. According to every major media outlet, Xero was
pronounced dead at 6:05 PM. A few articles mention leaked footage of Xero
frying on the electric chair.
Another message takes up the top of the screen.
You said my last gift got lost in the mail. I found it on her nightstand.
Did I ever tell you what we do to thieves in prison?
Moments later, there’s a picture of a woman with one side of her hair
bleached blonde. She’s bent over a desk within a room decorated with Xero
memorabilia, her brown eyes streaming with tears, and her thin lips
wrapped around a big black sex toy. Its entire length, save for the base and
suction cup, looks like it’s lodged down her throat.

OceanofPDF.com
 FIVE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I’m impressed that you lured the music teacher into a late-night
rendezvous. Your description of the way blood bloomed around his head
was poetic. If I may, I would like to know how you brought yourself to push
him off the ledge of a roof garden at the age of thirteen.
I’m curious about the owner of such a fragrant pussy. Are you
statuesque or petite? Will you honor me with a photo?
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 SIX

AMETHYST
I stare at the image of the woman swallowing an entire dildo, not
knowing what to think. It could be a still from a porno movie or a picture
someone downloaded online. There’s no way for me to authenticate it
because I’ve never even met Kayla.
Just in case it’s real, I turn back to the nightstand where I left my replica
of Xero’s silicone erection. Its base is thick and beneath are suckers that
help it adhere to any smooth surface. One glance at the photo on the phone
tells me that they’re similar, but I can’t see the bulk of its shaft.
Xero’s dildo is covered in round bumps to replicate all his cock
piercings, but it’s impossible to tell in the photo. Just in case the person
texting me really did mess with Kayla, I text Myra to check on her assistant.
The burner phone buzzes with another message, but I ignore it.
Podcasting about a killer brings out extreme reactions in people, along with
my fair share of online trolls. Anyone from the penitentiary could have
found Xero’s phone. How do I know it’s him and not an impersonator?
But what if the governor intervened, or the execution failed? Xero could
still be alive.
I make another online search for updates on his execution, finding
footage leaked from Alderney State Penitentiary. It’s Xero in a small
chaplain, towering over a priest. My breath catches. Grief hits me in a
wave, making my knees buckle. I’ve only ever seen selfies of the man or
close-up videos he’s managed to send from the prison’s blind spot. I’ve
never once seen him in a full-body shot.
 He’s a titan compared to the surrounding guards, with a strong build and
broad, muscular shoulders. My heart squeezes, and I release a pained groan,
knowing what’s gotten him so agitated.
Xero is waiting at the altar.
For me.
Moments later, another guard enters the chaplain, saying their time is up
because another couple is waiting to get married.
Xero tells the guard that I will come. I’m just running late, but the guard
walks out and returns with a blond prisoner and a pregnant woman in a
wedding dress. An argument breaks out and Xero punches one of the
guards. The couple skitters out of the frame as the other guards rush at
Xero.
“No,” I whisper, my hand clamping over my mouth.
The next scene is a one-man riot. Every guard in the chaplain piles on
Xero and more rush in from other doorways. Xero fights them off, seeming
powered by the fury of being jilted, until streams of electricity fly out from
a weapon and he’s tased. He charges toward a door, but another guard hits
him with a taser, bringing him to the ground.
As he convulses on the floor, the guards surround him, looking ready
for retaliation. That’s when the footage cuts, leaving an advert on the screen
for X-Cite Media, a subscription site claiming to have the full footage of
Xero’s beat down and execution.
My stomach churns as I navigate to the web address, finding scenes
upon scenes of women being degraded and tortured. It’s one of those sites
that sells extreme sex, with scenes of real violence that could give anyone
nightmares. It takes ten minutes of trying to navigate out of the site because
it’s filled my phone with pop-ups.
When I search social media again for news of the execution, another
influencer has already uploaded a video. Her name is Lizzie Bath, a
shortened version of the serial killer Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Her page
is the UnofficialXerofan club and all she ever uploads are reactions to clips
of me reading out Xero’s letters. She’s one of those people who will do
anything for clout.
“Look at this for a moment,” says a reedy voice.
Lizzie Bath raises a finger and points at the screen, where four guards
wrestle Xero into an electric chair. His beautiful platinum hair has been
shaved, leaving a face that’s a swollen mass of bruises with blood streaming
from his temple from that brutal attack at the chaplain.
My chest tightens, each breath becoming a struggle against an invisible
weight pressing on my splintered heart. Tears well up in my eyes, distorting
the world into a watery blur.
Xero wanted to go to the electric chair happy, satisfied, and fulfilled in
the knowledge that our souls would be forever connected by marriage.
Because of me, he died in anguish.
He struggles as the guards secure his limbs with thick leather straps
before placing a band over his eyes. Once he’s immobilized, they step
backward, and then there’s a brief pause as the same priest from the
preview walks into view to make the sign of a cross.
“They brutalized him,” Lizzie says through wracking sobs. “They made
our baby’s last moments painful.”
This is the first time we’ve ever been in agreement.
Lizzie bows her head, and the video continues. A new guard places an
electrode helmet over Xero’s head. It’s a metal contraption lined with wet
sponges that trickle water over the bloody side of his face, presumably to
make sure the electricity conducts.
Bitterness claws its way up my throat, threatening to cut off my air. I
force it down with a gulp, but it’s like swallowing a mouthful of
inhumanity. Xero wanted me in the observation room, watching him as he
took his last breath. Since I couldn’t be with him yesterday, I mustn’t look
away today.
“What gives them the right to kill such a beautiful soul?” she says, her
words choked.
My breath hitches as his body seizes with the first volts of electricity.
He heaves a breath, his prominent pecs pressing against his prison jumpsuit,
then the greenscreen goes black.
“That’s all I can show,” Lizzie says to the camera, her face streaked
with tears. “The rest of the clip is behind a paywall at a website called X-
Cite Media. I have to warn you that all their footage is about death. In case
anyone is sick enough to watch the full execution, I’ve linked it in my bio.”
“What?” My jaw drops, and I gape as her video loops back to the
beginning. “Are you making money from Xero’s execution, you
opportunistic old hag?”
 I navigate away from The Unofficial Xero fan club and read an article in
the New Alderney Times, where the reporter who attended Xero’s execution
calls for the end of the death penalty. Her description of his death is so
graphic that the phone slips from my fingers and falls to the floor.
“He died alone and in flames,” I read, my voice a trembling whisper.
The words sear through my conscience, each syllable a knife. I should have
been at his side, filling the last few moments of his life with joy. My mind
churns, replaying wasted moments, lost seconds. I could have helped Xero.
Guilt gnaws at my soul, a relentless beast. I imagine his face, twisted in
agony, and shame crushes my spirit. He trusted me, and I let him die alone.
My chest burns with resentment. Resentment at myself for getting
distracted by those photos of me as a child. Resentment at the police, who
took their time getting to the house and spent over an hour interrogating me
about being in possession of child porn. Resentment at Xero’s family for
treating him and others so horrifically that he was compelled to extinguish
their lives.
The phone by my foot buzzes, making me flinch.
Whoever is impersonating Xero is trying to get in touch. I reach down,
pick up the phone, and glare at the screen.
Enjoying the show?
My nostrils flare. How did he know I was watching the execution? Is he
a hacker?
I don’t reply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response.
He sends a picture of a sex contract I signed that outlined the terms and
conditions of my relationship with Xero. In the right-hand corner is my lip
print in Purple Damson lipstick.
Fury ignites in my chest, filling my veins with molten fire. I should take
this handset to the police and report whoever’s behind the messages for
harassment, but I’m overwhelmed by the urge to put him in his place.
He writes:
Was anything between us even real?
My fingers tremble as I type out a reply:
You know what’s more pathetic than a prison guard who brutalizes their
charges? One who scavenges a dead man’s possessions to harass his
girlfriend.
The phone you’re playing with belongs to Xero’s estate. No matter how
much you try to impersonate him, you will never measure up to his
greatness.
Three dots appear, and I clench my teeth, waiting to see what he’ll say
next. Hopefully, something incriminating, so I can hand the evidence to the
police.
You didn’t answer my question.
I scroll back to see what he asked. Reading the question again makes
my throat burn with even more guilt at leaving Xero at the altar, mere hours
before his execution. Before I can even process the emotion, another
message pops up on the screen.
From the way I’m looking at it, you used me for fame.
Without thinking, I tap out a reply:
Stealing Xero’s phone doesn’t make you him, asshole. What I had with
Xero was genuine, and I can tell the difference between a real man and a
maggot.
Three dots appear, but I’ve had enough of this creep. Before he can type
out a message, I pick up a hair pin and jam it into the tiny hole on the side
of my phone. When the metal tray pops out, I extract the SIM card and toss
it on the nightstand.
“Fuck that dickhead,” I mutter. “He won’t get the satisfaction of driving
me crazy.”
I open a drawer and slip the phone inside, determined to leave it there
forever. Whoever’s trying to harass me can howl at the fucking moon. I am
nobody’s prey.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I was horrified that your teacher took advantage of you at such a young
age. Please accept my apologies for my previous excitement. What you
committed was an act of justice, not murder. That bastard deserved to be
tortured slowly and was lucky for a quick death.
Your legal team’s suggestion to plead insanity was a brilliant move. I
expect that your juvenile records are now either sealed or expunged.
I admire your bravery and resilience, and I am eager to know more.
Why would a nice girl like you write to a murderer like me? Does it not
terrify you to get involved with another monster?
Thank you for the photo. You are as beautiful on the outside as you are
on the inside. Please send more.
Xero
P.S. What made you decide to dye one side of your hair blonde? Is the
black half your natural shade?

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHT

AMETHYST
Hours later, I’ve already forgotten about the text messages, more
concerned with wiping out all traces of JakeRake69’s death. I drive across
the state to a mom-and-pop hardware store on the outskirts of Carmel, New
Jersey, where I make a cash purchase of hydrogen peroxide. It’s the kind of
establishment that doesn’t have security cameras to record footage of me
buying items to get rid of forensic evidence.
I’m resisting the urge to look up Jake’s socials to see if anyone has
reported him missing. By now, a burial would have taken place where I left
him at the cemetery, covering all traces of his body. I don’t need to
incriminate myself by searching for him online.
After burning the trash bag full of blood-soaked products in a forest, I
pay for the car to get cleaned and return home to sterilize the kitchen. When
I open the fridge to check on the birthday cake, the hole in its side is
missing, along with the streaks of white. I toss it out, dismissing what I saw
before as a hallucination.
My doorbell rings as I’m mopping up remnants of the cleaning fluid
with hot water infused with mint oil. I check the wall clock and frown
because it’s only 7:15 PM. Straightening, I glance out into the backyard,
where I swear there’s a figure standing among the trees. It’s too dark to
make out the details, but moonlight reflects on a hood, with a long, flowing
cape that makes him look like a modern-day Grim Reaper.
Squinting, I tilt my head, trying to work out if it’s a figment of my
imagination.
 The doorbell rings again, and a deep voice from the other side of the
house says, “Amethyst?”
My attention snaps back to the direction of the sound. “Gavin?”
“It’s me.”
I jog to the front of the house and open the door. At 5’8, Gavin stands
three inches taller than me and with a slender build that isn’t much bigger
than mine.
Gavin bobs his Funko Pop-shaped head and grins a crooked smile with
one side drooping toward his chin like a Salvador Dali melting clock. He
hasn’t shaved today, so the uneven patches of ginger on his square jaw clash
with his strawberry-blond hair.
When I don’t offer him a warm welcome, he strides past me and heads
straight to the kitchen. “Show me what’s wrong.”
I glare at his narrow back, my lips pursing. He’s only been here twice,
and he’s already making himself at home. I follow him, arriving as he
settles at the small dining table.
“Just another community guidelines violation,” I mutter.
“Take a seat. Let me see.” He wraps an arm around the back of the chair
beside him, but I take the seat opposite and pick up my phone.
As I log into the account, he rises off his seat and rounds the table to
hover behind me like a wraith.
Sweat breaks out across my skin. My stomach twists and I shift
uncomfortably on my chair. Gavin is so desperate for a sub that he’s
tattooed BDSM on each finger of his right hand. He thinks he’s a Dom, but
his personality is more like a dachshund. Too eager, too excitable, and too
exhausting.
Leaning to the left, I glare up into his chocolate brown eyes. “Do you
have to stand so close?”
He steps back, his palms raised. “Sorry.” He shuffles on his feet. “Are
you still devoting yourself to that guy?”
“Yes,” I say, my words clipped.
“But he was executed…” Gavin’s voice trails off as I shoot him a
venomous glare. Dipping his head, he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just
saying.”
I could explain to Gavin that death isn’t the end of a relationship but
simply another phase. I could tell him that my mind hasn’t yet processed the
shock of missing Xero’s execution because I’m preoccupied with something
that could get me imprisoned.
Explanations would be futile. Gavin is one of those men who takes the
word no as the starting point to a negotiation. Whatever I say to let him
down gently will be met with counter-arguments. Hell, I won’t be surprised
if he ends up begging.
He reaches for my arm, and I rise off the seat.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my shoulders bunching.
“Restoring your account isn’t just a question of tapping a few buttons,”
he says, his tongue sliding across his bottom lip. “It’s a very involved
process.”
“Last time, you got me up and running in seconds.”
His gaze sweeps down my top. It’s a hoodie unzipped to the collarbone
and barely shows any skin, yet Gavin looks at me like I’m wearing a push-
up bra. “It’s different now.”
Different now that I’m technically single, he means. Different, now that
he has something I desperately need. Once again, I don’t voice this thought.
Instead, I back toward the sink, where I left a mug.
He folds his arms across his chest. “I charge five hundred dollars for
each account I restore. The last time I helped you out was a freebie to
demonstrate my talents.”
The tight knot of anxiety in my gut relaxes. I can handle a man trying to
make a living, even if the way he’s going about it is creepy. “Fine. The
creator fund pays out next week. Restore my account, and I’ll send you a
grand.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he mutters.
Oh, I know exactly what he meant, but I refuse to acknowledge his
attempt at bawdy barter. I don’t want to get into any arguments, especially
so soon after killing the last man who attacked me in this kitchen. Two kills
is an unlucky coincidence. A third would increase my chances of joining
Xero on the electric chair.
“If it’s an advance you want, I can forward you what I have in my
account and pay the rest next week,” I say with a shrug.
He grabs my phone, exhaling a long breath of frustration. “Fine. You
got any cognac?”
“Sure.” I walk out of the kitchen, the tension in my shoulders loosening.
 I don’t remember Gavin acting so thirsty at the academy. In fact, I
barely remember him at all apart from the few glimpses from across the
dining hall. Gavin kept to himself, sat with a bunch of day students, and
never gave anyone much trouble. I, on the other hand, was the school pariah
until I was expelled.
Most of my alcohol is out of sight, in the living room, which I only use
for guests. A year after moving in, I found a liquor cabinet at a junk store
for a steal. It was originally mahogany with intricate carvings and gilded
accents, which I kept after painting it black. I lined its interior with black
velvet to add a touch of luxury.
I take a bottle of Armagnac, hoping he’ll be satisfied with it, and return
to the kitchen to find Gavin hunched over my phone. Without looking up,
he mutters, “I ordered us some food. We can watch the execution while we
wait.”
“No, thanks,” I say with a shudder and set down the Armagnac with a
glass.
Gavin pours himself a generous portion and takes a long gulp. “Suit
yourself.”
“Did you restore my account?” I ask.
He raises a finger. “These things take time.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching him tap a few commands
into my screen before picking up his phone.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see? I paid X-Cite Media $99.99 for an
hour’s rental.”
“What?”
He glances up, his eyes dancing. “Whoever shot that footage took a
massive risk. That sort of thing doesn’t come cheap.”
“Why would you even pay to see someone die?” I ask.
“Same reason women set up entire fan clubs for serial killers, I guess,”
he replies with a shrug.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I fold my arms across my chest.
He gazes into my eyes and smiles as though he’s delivered a barb that’s
landed. That, or he’s finally managed to capture the attention of a woman.
Breaking eye contact, I walk to the stove and pick up the vintage kettle
Xero ordered for me online. Not personally. He explained he had a friend
on the outside taking care of his affairs.
 I fill the kettle with water, return it to the stove, turn on the gas, and
ignore the sensation of Gavin’s eyes on my ass. The only reason I’m
tolerating him is to restore my only source of income outside of Mom and
Dad. Several of my videos have gone viral, and that money can buy my
independence.
That, plus a mourning dress and a grand flower arrangement for Xero’s
funeral.
Gavin turns up the volume on his phone, taunting me with the sound of
Xero’s fight with the prison guards, followed by the tasing. He snickers as a
guard declares him immobilized, and they drag him to a holding cell.
Whoever said hell hath no fury like a woman scorned hasn’t met Gavin.
Gavin’s anger at his involuntary celibacy could rival the rage of heaven.
The kettle bubbles as the priest gives him his last rites, and it whistles as I
hear the governor order the executioner to turn on the electric chair.
“Isn’t it boiled yet?” Gavin asks.
“No,” I reply through clenched teeth.
He snickers. “Your man is a resilient fucker. Look at the way he’s
jerking on the chair. He’s taking ages to die.”
My sinuses throb. I want to tell Gavin to stop torturing me with the
sound of Xero’s death, but there’s a part of me that’s still curious about the
text messages claiming to be from him. Maybe there’s an infinitesimal
chance he cheated death.
The kettle continues to whistle, the shrill sound making my ears ring.
When a male voice on the edge of my awareness says that Xero survived
the electrocution, I double over and steady myself with a palm on the
counter.
“Shit,” Gavin says, his voice breathy with awe. “They’re doing it
again.”
I whirl around, my eyes widening. “What?”
“Come and see.” Gavin rocks back and forth in his seat with the force of
his excitement.
“No.”
He rises to his feet. “You need to see this.”
“Why?”
“So you can stop clinging to the past.”
I huff a laugh. “He’s barely been dead for twenty-four hours.”
 Gavin holds out his screen, which reveals Xero still convulsing on the
electric chair, his large body barely restrained by the leather straps. Flames
erupt from the back of his head, followed by black smoke. It fills the
execution chamber and spreads toward the camera.
One of the guards flaps his arms about, and with the help of some
powerful fans, he eventually manages to clear the air. Xero’s body
continues to jerk and spasm within the restraints until he finally falls limp.
Every muscle in my body tenses, and I stand frozen with my back to the
kettle’s shrill whistle. My gaze is glued to the screen as every detail unfolds
before me with a surreal clarity that roots me to the spot.
Xero’s chest remains still as a man in a white coat approaches and
performs several tests before declaring, “Time of death, 6:05 PM.”
“You see?” Gavin sneers. “He’s dead.”
“And this is why a man like you can’t get a girlfriend, let alone a
submissive,” I reply, my voice breaking. “You’re a creep who preys on
women at their most vulnerable.”
“What did you say?” he hisses.
“A coward, too.”
He advances, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling with rapid
breaths. I raise my chin, look him in the eye, and dare him to try it. Gavin is
about to find out who he’s fucking with. And there’s a kettle behind me,
whistling his name.
The doorbell rings, and his gaze darts toward the hallway. Without
another word, he walks out of the kitchen. I blink, loosening tears that roll
down my cheeks. I follow him to the front door, watching him take
possession of his food delivery and walk down the street without a
backward glance before sliding into the driver’s seat of his red sports car.
“Fuck you, Gavin,” I snarl and close the door.
If tolerating his presence is the price of getting back into my account,
I’d rather starve.
When I return to the kitchen, steam surrounds the stove, and I turn off
the gas. My phone buzzes with a text message from the delivery app,
announcing that my order arrived in ten minutes and asking if I’d like to
give the driver a tip.
I scroll to my order history, where there’s a receipt for $549.54 from the
Phoenix Wine & Spirits for two bottles of Château de la Croix XO cognac,
candy, chips, beef jerky, and a bottle of lube.
 “That slimy scammer,” I snarl.
A message pops up on my phone from an unknown number:
Is this your type? Losers?
My jaw drops. I check the device, making sure it’s my actual phone and
not the burner I use to message Xero. That one is upstairs in a drawer
without its SIM. Xero never knew this number. Even if he did, he sure as
hell wouldn’t have written it down for a prison guard to pick up after his
execution.
I stare at the screen, wondering if Gavin is texting me from around the
corner out of some sick drive for revenge.
Another message appears:
That man is lucky to have escaped with his life.
I type out:
Who is this?
He replies:
You know.
I shake my head.
I don’t.
Seconds pass, keeping me glued to the screen, desperate for his reply:
Would it help if I told you something only you and I would know?
I don’t respond, too freaked out that my anonymous creep has tracked
down my real phone number.
Early in our relationship, I called you from the blind spot and you told
me your darkest fantasy. Remember?
I nod. That was the morning of the thunderstorm when lightning struck
the old sycamore tree at the end of the road. It was raining so hard that I
needed to stick a finger in my ear so I could hear Xero’s deep, smooth
voice. But of course, I don’t reply.
The next message says:
You wanted me to escape death row for one night, climb into your
bedroom while you were sleeping, and fill your holes.
He adds:
In the morning, when you got up for a shower, they would be dripping
with my cum.
Throat tightening, I run through the possibilities. One, a guard standing
close by Xero overheard this conversation. Two, these text messages are
another compound hallucination, brought on by the trauma of watching
Xero’s execution.
Because option three is impossible.
There’s no way he could survive two rounds of the electric chair and
getting set on fire. Even if he could, he sure as hell wouldn’t be texting me
obscenities from the prison infirmary.
He messages again to ask:
Was your love for me bullshit?
“No,” I whisper, my throat thickening with anguish.
Were those letters you sent with your fantasies a lie?
“No,” I reply with a sob.
Xero died yesterday in front of cameras and witnesses, including the
reporter for the New Alderney Times. No guard could have overheard our
conversation during a noisy thunderstorm.
I’m having a breakdown, brought on by guilt and grief and shock. I
need urgent medical help.
Another message pops up.
The next time you allow a man to touch what’s mine, you’ll find his body
parts under your pillow.
My breath catches, and I navigate to my contacts. Dr. Saint has an
emergency number. I could call it, get some help, and put an end to this
imaginary stalker.
Because there’s no such thing as ghosts. There are, however, such things
as psychos and copycats.
When my fingers hover over the call button, another message arrives.
Don’t believe me? Look under your pillow.
“No,” I whisper.
I wasn’t giving you an option.
My breath quickens, and the pulse between my ears drums a frantic
beat. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to will away the imaginary messages.
The phone buzzes again and again and again, the vibrations seeping into
my bones. My mind won’t stop fucking with me until I go upstairs and
check.
On legs that won’t stop trembling, I trudge out of the kitchen, my feet
dragging across the floor tiles like they’re weighted down by chains. Chains
of my sins. Chains of my broken promises. Chains of every way I failed
Xero. As I force myself up the stairs, I try not to think about what the hell
I’ll find.
The discarded SIM card, or something more sinister?
Each step on the stairs comes with a spine-chilling creak, and the air
grows colder as I ascend. Every breath rasping through my throat feels like
a plea for mercy.
What did Dr. Saint tell me about giving in to my delusions? I don’t
remember. That conversation is as blank as the first ten years of my life.
I reach the bedroom door, ignoring the shiver running down my spine.
Will JakeRake69’s corpse wait for me in the closet or under the covers?
Should I give up on my delusion and seek help, or should I take a photo of
the hallucination and prove to myself that it’s all in my head?
Take the photo.
The words slide through my skull as though they’re coming from
someone else with the same voice, and the same inflections, but the
personality behind it isn’t mine. I focus on the task ahead and push open the
bedroom door.
Moonlight streams in through a chink in the curtains that I swear that
were open this morning. I swallow back a whimper and walk to the bedside,
where the SIM card lies on the nightstand.
Look under the pillow.
With trembling fingers, I peel it back and find an envelope the exact
shade of blood. Recognition has my stomach plummeting to the
floorboards. It’s the exact type of stationary I used to send letters to Xero.
Readying my phone, I fire up the camera app and film the envelope’s
front. In my handwriting is the address:
Xero Greaves
Inmate ID 99931
New Alderney State Penitentiary
10 Longis Street
Beaumont, NA 83725
My mind has even conjured up a stamp and a postmark.
What the hell am I going to find inside?

OceanofPDF.com
 NINE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Thank you for the second photo. I love your freckles. Do you have any
more?
The insight of your last letter left me speechless. What made you think
there was more to the murder of my stepfamily than simple resentment?
Would you be open to receiving a phone, so I may send a photo of my
reaction?
Xero
P.S. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else. I want to know
your darkest fantasy.

OceanofPDF.com
 TEN

AMETHYST
Blood roars between my ears. I grip the red envelope so tightly that the
paper warps. This feels too real to be a hallucination, but I force myself to
remember Jake’s corpse.
I heard it move in the closet. It was cold and heavy against my skin
when it fell from the door, and it was loud when it landed on the wooden
floorboards. If my mind can conjure up dead bodies and black wraiths that
stalk my steps, then it sure as hell can make me think I’m holding and
feeling something as simple as an envelope.
With my free hand, I snap a picture of what I’m holding and check the
camera app. The envelope is still there, which proves nothing. Dr. Saint
always said the brain was a powerful organ, capable of throwing out all
manner of delusions to cushion the psyche from severe trauma.
My fingers shake as I ease out the letter inside, which contains my
loopy handwriting. I bring it to my nostrils, inhale the faint aroma of my
pussy, and grimace. It’s so… accurate.
One quick glance at the contents tells me I’m reading a word-for-word
response I made to Xero’s request for my fantasy, where I wrote something
about somnophilia. I take another photo, only to find an exact replica of it
on my phone.
What if it’s not a hallucination? What if the man sending me text
messages is in my home, watching me freak out over a letter? It wouldn’t
surprise me if he wasn’t one of the bastards who beat Xero bloody before
his execution.
 I place the letter back in its envelope, set it back down on the bed, and
walk to the closet. My fingers hovers over the door handle. There’s a part of
me expecting to find Jake lying on the floor with black blood oozing from
his neck wound.
That malfunctioning part of my brain needs to woman up. There’s no
need to feel guilty. It was kill or be killed. Jake is dead. We buried him
ourselves. Hallucinations can haunt, but they can’t attack.
Right?
I fling open the door and stare into the walk-in wardrobe, finding the
closet organizers intact with no sign of bodies, blood, or bogeymen because
everything’s in my head. Regardless, I walk to a drawer, pull out a bag, and
pack a change of clothes.
Something is wrong beyond my slipping grip on reality. I’m going to
drive across town, stay at Mom and Dad’s, and see if I can book an
emergency appointment with Dr. Saint for tomorrow morning.
Ignoring my buzzing phone, I zip up my overnight bag and walk out
into the bedroom. The red envelope is exactly where I left it, making me
think it might be real. Hallucinations don’t tend to stick around. They
disappear to screw with my mind and then return at the most inconvenient
times.
Like the time I got a boyfriend and hooked up with him in his
apartment. An apparition of Mr. Lawson appeared at the foot of my bed and
crawled across the mattress. I screamed so loud, his roommates burst into
the room, thinking the worst, and Mr. Lawson vanished. That was the end
of that relationship.
Since it’s looking like the envelope is real, then the man sending me the
texts has somehow entered my house. I charge down the stairs, deciding to
call the police from Mom and Dad’s.
I fling open the door and step out into the night, letting the cool air seep
through the fabric of my hoodie. Ignoring the chill, I race down the steps
and glance over my shoulder at the house, looking for any signs of an
intruder.
My narrow townhouse stands where a cobblestone path once led to the
cemetery, shut down after a mafia murder. I used to think the story was
quaint. Now, it’s just gruesome.
With a shudder, I unlock my car with its remote and open the driver’s
side door. After tossing my overnight bag on the front seat, I scoot inside.
 My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, and I make a double take. Sitting
in the back passenger seat is Jake’s mottled corpse. He stares at me through
cold blue eyes, his strawberry blonde hair disheveled. Purple blotches
appear beneath his skin, which is already starting to rot.
Alarm punches me in the heart. I jerk away, my shoulder hitting the
window hard enough to make the glass reverberate. I suck in a sharp breath,
inhaling the faint scent of alcohol, copper, and damp earth. Fingers
scrambling for the door handle, I launch myself out into the street.
Fuck.
This can’t be happening.
Why is my mind trying to keep me from leaving? This is insane.
I crouch down and stare into the tinted window, only to find Jake’s
corpse still sitting in the back seat, as though it’s made my car its final
resting place.
My stomach churns in sync with my throbbing pulse. What the hell is
my brain doing, and why the fuck am I so calm?
Because I’ve faced worse. Because staring into a figment of my
imagination is nothing compared to killing a man in self-defense, or
shoving another off the side of a roof.
Either way, I’ll be damned if I drive to Mom and Dad’s house while in
the throes of a delusion. What if my mind decides to mess with my
perception of the stop lights? What if it imagines a truck?
I walk back to the house, my heart sinking into my gut like a stone.
There’s no way I can return home, knowing that the letter is real. My phone
buzzes again, the vibrations making my spine seize. My gaze travels up to
the upstairs window, where a hooded figure watches me in the dark.
It’s the Grim Reaper my mind fabricated when Jake had his hands
around my throat.
“What?” I snap, already cringing at the futility of talking to an
imaginary being.
If I’m not careful, I’ll become one of those crazy women having
arguments with people who don’t exist. My gaze darts back to the car,
where my mind reminds me that Jake’s corpse has taken up residence.
Yeah, fuck this.
I’m going to Mrs. Baker’s.
Mrs. Baker is the old woman who lives next door in number 15 and runs
a quaint little bed-and-breakfast. The lights are still on downstairs, so I ring
her bell. Maybe if I tell her I don’t feel safe at home, she’ll let me stay in
her spare room. I could take a cab across town, but Gavin wasted my last
five hundred dollars on booze.
The door swings open, revealing a six-foot-tall man with haunting gray
eyes, hair the color of caramel, and soft pillowy lips. I step backward, my
mind going blank. My gaze rakes down to pecs bulging through his white t-
shirt and the outline of something promising in his gray sweatpants. He
looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him on the cover of a magazine.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice light with amusement.
“Um… I’m here to see Mrs. Baker?” I squeak.
“She’s gone to bed. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Oh.” I gulp, my cheeks prickling with heat. “I was just wondering if
there was a spare room. I mean, my house is… Never mind.”
His brow furrows. “You’re Amethyst.”
“How do you know?”
“Mrs. Baker mentioned hearing some commotion coming from your
house early last night. I wanted to drop by to see if everything was alright,
but she said you perform on camera for the internet. I have a Christian
podcast.”
My lips purse, but I force my expression to stay neutral. A strong-
looking man like this one would have been helpful yesterday when I was
fighting off Jake. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep hallucinating his dead body.
“My name is Thomas.” He holds out a hand. “Thomas Dinsdale. I’m
staying here while they’re fumigating the rectory.”
I shake his hand, remembering Mrs. Baker raving about the handsome
new priest. If I’d known he was also young, I might have started going to
church. “Pleased to meet you.”
“What’s the problem with your house?” he asks, looking into my eyes
so intently that I swear he’s taking stock of all my sins.
Releasing his hand, I fold my arms across my chest. I don’t want him
repeating that story about hearing noises to the police.
“Oh, a friend from out of town called, wanting somewhere to crash.”
The lie spills from my lips. “She’s the type that likes to overstay her
welcome, so I wondered if Mrs. Baker had room.”
Reverend Thomas flashes me a smile of straight, white teeth. “I’ll be
sure to pass on your message in the morning. Is there anything else?”
I shake my head and turn back toward my house. “No, that’s all.”
 As soon as he closes the door, I glance over at number 11 and try not to
shudder. Its permanent resident is a woman named Relaney, whom I avoid.
Not because she describes herself as a spiritualist, but because I’m sure
she’s running a cult.
Am I really that desperate?
I think of the frequent police raids with officers marching out unsavory-
looking men. Or the strange chanting that wafts through my windows if I
leave them open at night. When I call Myra, it goes straight to voicemail, so
I leave a message. Maybe it’s time to risk calling Mom?
My gaze darts back to the car. Yep, the body is still there. I enter my
house, making sure to keep my back against the door. If anything jumps out
from the shadows, I’ll return to that sexy priest.
I know better than to dial Mom’s cell phone. She’s so sick of hearing
from me that she lets two-thirds of my calls run to voicemail. Instead, I call
the house.
“Who is it?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.
“Mom?” I rasp.
“Amethyst, what’s wrong now?” she replies with a sigh.
I swallow hard, already cringing at the rejection. “Can I stay at yours
tonight?”
“Is this about the man you attacked? Because you told me he was still
alive.”
My gaze drops to my feet. Mom was the first person I called after I
stabbed Jake. When Myra’s sister told the police about Mr. Lawson, Mom
blamed me for running my mouth and allowing myself to get caught. She
made me feel like I deserved to be abused, then she said the next time I
killed or maimed a man, I should call her.
She was being sarcastic, but the message stuck. Instead of calling for an
ambulance, I called Mom. She freaked out, and I backtracked, saying I’d
stabbed his shoulder, not his neck, and he’d just fainted.
I know, I know. Lame.
“That guy left last night and even apologized,” I lie.
“Then what do you want?” Her voice tightens with impatience.
“I’m hallucinating, and I don’t have enough money to call a cab. Can
you or Dad pick me up?”
“Your Uncle Clive is here. I can’t deal with yet another person’s mental
illness.”
 “But I think I’m being stalked⁠—”
“Amethyst,” she snaps. “My blood pressure won’t stop rising. Don’t
come. One more word about strange men in that house, and I’ll send you to
an institution. You’re not a victim if you’re off your meds. I can’t cope with
your antics. I’ve had enough.”
“Mom, I’m serious. I think I need help.” When she doesn’t respond, I
ask, “Mom?”
The phone goes dead.
Maybe it’s time to call the police.

OceanofPDF.com
 ELEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I gasped at the photo of you in the black negligée and groaned when
you posed for me on the bed.
Thank you for confirming receipt of the phone. The prison is
surrounded by cell phone jammers, but the man in the cell next to mine
assured me there’s a dead zone. Tomorrow, when they let me out for
exercise, I’ll be sure to forward you a photo.
I didn’t get any sexual satisfaction from killing, but I have also
fantasized about somnophilia.
The thought of watching over you at your most vulnerable sets my
blood aflame. You would be my perfect sleeping beauty, and I would be
your dark prince. I would sweep the hair off your face and kiss the beauty
mark on your cheekbone before sliding my lips down to your throat.
Would you like that, my beautiful little jewel?
Would you like to wake up with me sucking your collarbone or would
you prefer to stay asleep? Tell me which gets you more excited. How far
would you permit me to go?
I await your response with bated breath.
Xero.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWELVE

AMETHYST
I spend the next hour with my back to the door, looking out for
phantoms. The house is quiet and still, making me wonder if calling the
police was a mistake. If I can’t tell what’s imagined from what’s real, then
why am I involving the cops?
The doorbell rings, making me flinch. I whirl around, look through the
peephole, and grimace. Officer Vayne stands on the front step, his bulk
obscuring my view of his colleague. He leans in so closely that my vision
fills with the bristles of his bushy mustache.
He’s the asshole who came when I found the envelope containing the
threatening note, along with the disturbing photo of me being electrocuted
as a child. Instead of focusing on the threat hanging over my head, he
lectured me on the dangers of associating with killers. He and his intrusive
questions were part of the reason I missed Xero’s execution.
With a sigh, I open the door.
“Miss Crowley, what can I do for you today?” he asks, his eyes already
narrowing.
I step aside and gesture for him to enter, but he folds his arms over his
gut.
“Someone’s been sending strange texts,” I say.
His gaze drops to my phone. “Another of your online trolls?”
“I told you yesterday that I don’t give out my number.”
With a grunt, he steps over the threshold, filling my senses with the
scent of citrus. As Vayne lumbers into my living room, his colleague, a
younger, clean-shaven man with a crewcut, walks in with an apologetic
smile.
I follow the second police officer into the front room, where Vayne has
already made himself comfortable on the sofa. The other one waits for
permission, so I gesture for him to sit anywhere he likes.
After we’re all seated, I explain the strange messages and even bring
down the burner phone and its SIM card. I’m relieved when they read
through the texts, both on this handset and the other one, confirming that
they weren’t a figment of my imagination.
“And was there anything under your pillow?” Vayne asks.
I nod. “A letter I wrote to Xero.”
“Bring it.”
I reach into my pocket and extract the envelope. “Aren’t you going to
dust it for fingerprints?”
The two officers exchange glances, making me wonder if they’re taking
my complaint seriously.
Vayne clears his throat. “Bridges will put it in an evidence bag and take
it to the precinct.”
“Will I get it back?” I ask.
“At the end of the investigation. Take out the letter and let me see what
it says.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks as I extract the note, but I keep my
features even. Standing in front of him, I hold it at arm’s length.
“Closer.” He scoots forward, making the sofa groan.
I take a step toward him, but he continues to beckon.
Skin crawling, I inch a little closer. He sniffs the paper like a
bloodhound, and his head snaps up to shoot me a glare.
I meet his gaze, daring him to ask about the scent in front of his
colleague, but his gaze drops back to the letter.
“Dear Xero,” he says, sounding gruff.
“The content isn’t in question,” I snap. “I wrote it myself and mailed it
to the penitentiary. What I need is for you to investigate why I found it
under my pillow.”
Ignoring me, he continues skimming through the page. I turn to the
other officer, who looks like he wants to shrug. Sometimes I hate men.
When they’re not being predators, they’re berating women for their choices.
It’s part of the reason I found Xero so appealing.
 Everyone else fell in love with his handsome mugshot, but I was drawn
in by the intelligence behind his eyes. After writing to him, I discovered he
was polite, open-minded, non-judgmental, and compassionate. Most
importantly, he was safely behind bars.
Vayne splutters.
“I lie awake at night, imagining you sneaking out of prison and into my
bedroom. You would pull back the sheets and make love to me the whole
night long. At sunrise, you would disappear like a vampire, and I would
wake up, aching and satisfied from the most erotic dream?”
The other man chokes back a laugh.
“Miss Crowley, nice girls don’t write that kind of fantasy to convicted
murderers,” Vayne says, shooting me a slut-shaming stare.
My eyes narrow. “Would you like to comment on how the envelope
found its way from the prison to my bed?”
His cheeks turn pink. “It looks like whoever handled Xero Greaves’s
personal effects has traced the letter back to you.”
“But I didn’t leave a return address.”
He falls silent.
Bridges leans forward. “We’ll make inquiries at the penitentiary and see
which officer cleared Mr. Greaves’s cell.”
“Thank you,” I say with a sigh.
“And I’ll extend our patrol down your road and see if we spot someone
suspicious,” Vayne adds, as though not wanting to be outdone by his
colleague.
I nod.
“Is there somewhere you can stay until we complete our investigation?”
Vayne asks, his gaze sweeping down the front of my hoodie. “With family,
friends… another lover?”
“Maybe.” I don’t elaborate.
Mom implied I wouldn’t be welcome. Myra isn’t picking up her calls,
and I haven’t had a lover since my last disastrous hookup. Mrs. Baker is
asleep, and I don’t know anyone else well enough to ask to infiltrate their
homes. Except Relaney.
After the police place the letter in an evidence bag, I walk them out and
check the back of the car. The corpse has gone, along with its scent, but I
don’t dare turn the ignition. Driving while hallucinating is just as bad as
driving while drunk. I can’t take the risk.
 Picking up my overnight bag, I glance at number 11. The downstairs
lights are still on, which is no surprise. Nobody in that house ever seems to
sleep.
There’s nowhere else for me to go. I’m stuck here until I get my
prescription or a ride, so it looks like I’ve run out of choices. With a sigh, I
walk over to my other neighbor and knock.
Moments later, the door opens, releasing a cloud of incense. Relaney
Cymbal towers over me in a patchwork kimono, her blonde afro backlit by
multicolored lava lamps. She’s in her early forties, with smooth, pale skin
that stretches over an angular bone structure.
Her voice is breathy and warm, as is her touchy-feely body language.
Despite this, I’ve never once seen the woman crack a smile. She peers down
at me through spidery lashes and a pair of John Lennon glasses perched on
the tip of her nose.
“Amethyst,” she says in that airy whisper. “How nice of you to drop by.
Are you here to learn about the afterlife?”
“My electrics aren’t working,” I lie. “Is there any chance I can stay the
night in your spare room?”
She grins, revealing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Come in,
darling. You can join our séance.”
I glance over my shoulder, wondering why she seems so pleased for me
to join her communion with the dead. Maybe I’m better off at home being
haunted by Jake and the Grim Reaper. Before I can think through my life
choices, Relaney pulls me through the threshold.
The hallway is illuminated by a cluster of lava lamps containing
multicolored blobs of wax undulating within translucent liquid. My nostrils
twitch with the overwhelming scent of frankincense, cannabis, and burning
wicks. Shifting on my feet, I glance toward the staircase. Its wall is
decorated with occult symbols, mandalas, and sacred geometry.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I say, my voice hoarse from all the smoke.
“I’m really tired. Could you show me to your spare room?”
She clasps my hand and looks me dead in the eye. “I saw you yesterday.
I know what you did.”
Shit.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTEEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I’m glad you enjoyed the photo. There are two groups of piercings: a
Prince Albert around my cock head and a Jacob’s Ladder under my shaft.
One of the guards tried to remove them during my admission, but I stopped
him with a shank.
Thank you for elaborating on your somnophilia fantasy. Since you
prefer to stay sleeping, then I would slip a sedative in your water. I would
hide beneath the bed as you fell asleep and wait for your breathing to slow.
Once I’m sure you’ve succumbed to the drug, I’d crawl out from my
hiding place and take in your slumbering form.
My heart would race with anticipation as I brush your hair aside,
revealing the delicate curve of your neck. The pulse beneath your skin
would quicken, knowing you’re completely at my mercy, and my cock
would expand as I extract my knife.
I’d run the flat of my blade along the lace trim of your nightgown and
slice it open. Every inch of your skin would be a revelation, and my mouth
would water for a taste.
Answer my call on Wednesday morning if you want to know what I’d
do next.
Xero.
P.S. Now that you have my number, you can send me a video
demonstrating exactly how much you loved my cock.
OceanofPDF.com
 FOURTEEN

AMETHYST
What the hell does Relaney think she knows? I’m so busy schooling my
features into a mask of innocence that I let her disappear behind a beaded
curtain.
Curiosity burns my chest, lighting up a fire that propels me through the
dangling barrier. All plans to hunker down in her spare room ignite into
ashes. Desperate for answers, I follow her into a space twice the size of my
living room.
It’s unlit, save for candles on the right side of the room by the window,
which stand on an altar among a carriage clock, crystal balls, and cards. In
the middle of the room, four men sit on the floor around a circular table,
each giving me wide-eyed stares. I glance to the left, where at least three
queen-sized mattresses lie side by side, covered in cushions, clothes,
comforters, and clutter.
If I wasn’t so preoccupied with finding out what Relaney saw last night,
I’d wonder why she’s accommodating a quartet of men in her lounge when
her house is so much larger than mine.
I take a step further into the room, too annoyed by her cryptic
accusation to be bothered by her flock, and glare into the back of her head.
It reminds me of a dandelion seed. “What is it you think I’ve done?”
She turns around, her long lashes fluttering. “Your podcast,” she replies,
her voice echoing through the room. “Didn’t you try to save your killer’s
soul? You failed, by the way. I could have done a better job.”
My brows pull together. Is she talking about my livestream or the video
that went viral? I haven’t podcasted since before the execution.
 “The background music you played as you read out from his final
letter,” she adds, seeming to answer my unasked question. “It’s called Ode
to a Sinner.”
“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck, trying not to broadcast my relief.
Looks like she didn’t see me drag a dead body through the backyard. “That
thing you said about saving Xero’s soul, is that even possible?”
She sweeps her hand toward the four men sitting around the table. “My
acolytes and I will show you the way.”
“Are you a priestess or something?” I focus on the strangers.
She points at a broad-shouldered man who might be attractive beneath
his long hair and scraggly beard. “That’s Chappy, who’s training to be a
medium.” Then she gestures at a much smaller, red-haired man wearing
thick black glasses. “Ezekiel’s third eye is already open.”
My gaze moves on to two tall, black-haired men who I’m sure are
brothers. When she doesn’t introduce them, the larger of the pair raises a
hand. “I’m Sparrow and this is Wilder.”
“Hi,” I say.
Relaney walks to the table, shoving the brothers aside, who both rise
and stand against the wall. My brow furrows, but I don’t ask why she’s
being so rude. Maybe she’s ignoring them because they’ve overstayed their
welcome.
She gestures at me to sit on their recently vacated cushion. I cast the
brothers an apologetic wince, but they shake their heads as though they’re
used to being dismissed.
“Come on, dear.” She beckons me over, making her bracelets clink.
I lower myself onto the brothers’ seat.
Chappy offers me a large hand. “Hey.”
I shake it, noticing the rough calluses. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same, babe,” he says, his voice lowering.
Relaney leans across the table, kisses Ezekiel, and shoots Chappy a sly
glance. Chappy brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
I pull away, not wanting to get caught up in their relationship drama.
“You said something about the afterlife?”
“Of course,” Relaney says, her voice returning to the breathy whisper.
“Xero Greaves suffered a traumatic death and caused many others. As such,
his spirit is trapped between worlds. It’s my duty as a spiritualist to guide
him to the correct resting place.”
 I bow my head and stare down at the tablecloth. There’s a reason I avoid
my neighbor. Spiritualism, souls, and supernatural subjects are bullshit.
When we die, our minds die with us and that’s it. Nothing. We cease to
exist.
It explains why I don’t remember anything about my childhood. Mom
says I was sitting in the backseat of the car when there was a collision.
Somehow, I’d unbuckled my seatbelt, and the impact had me flying through
the windshield, then I was hit by another vehicle.
The paramedics pronounced me dead, but Mom begged them to perform
CPR, which restarted my heart. I don’t have any memory of the coma or my
short stay in rehab, and can only recall snippets from the time I spent
recovering from my injuries at home.
Listening to Relaney is a long shot, but I have nothing to lose. And I’m
in no position to demand that she accommodate me for the night without
even attempting to be social. If there’s a chance that part of Xero still
lingers here in limbo, then I’ll do what I can to help him move on.
“When you say resting place, do you mean heaven and hell?” I ask.
Chappy takes my hand again. “There’s no such thing, babe. Just
different planes of existence.”
I slide my hand out of his grip and tuck both of them in my lap. “What
does that mean?”
“Organized religion is how the establishment keeps people under
control,” Relaney says. “Follow our orders in the living world so you get
rewarded in the next. It’s the ultimate scam.”
Ezekiel and Chappy nod along. When I glance at the wall toward the
brothers, Sparrow stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs, while Wilder
rolls his eyes. It looks like they share my skepticism.
“So, what’s out there when people die?” I ask, just to keep the
conversation going.
Relaney lays her hands on the table, palms upward. She closes her eyes,
inhales a deep breath, and says, “When we pass from this life, our spirits
continue evolving to higher planes of existence. We reflect on the lessons
from our past lives and decide if we wish to return for another.”
“Reincarnation?”
“Precisely,” she says with a nod. “Death is simply a transition, and your
killer is trapped between realms.”
“I thought they were planes?”
 “Shall we begin with a seance?” she asks, ignoring my question.
“Why not?” I mutter, not wanting to be an ungrateful guest.
This pseudoscience about spirits might be bullshit, but at least I’m not
stuck at home being watched by a stalker pretending to be Xero. Or being
haunted by Xero’s ghost. Or hallucinating JakeRake69’s rotting corpse.
I really don’t know what to think about what’s happening, but one thing
is for sure: I’m safer here with Relaney and her acolytes.
She instructs us to lay our hands on the table, palms-down with our
fingers spread, so each hand connects with their neighbors’. Chappy twines
his pinky around mine and winks. I glance at Relaney, who either hasn’t
noticed or is too absorbed in the ritual to care.
After telling us to close our eyes and focus on our breath, she makes a
long speech about the universe. I can’t focus on anything she’s saying
through Sparrow and Wilder’s mocking laughter.
I’m beginning to understand why she acts like they don’t exist.
Ignoring them, she asks, “Is anybody out there? If there are any spirits
present, please make yourselves known.”
“Got your spirit right here,” Sparrow mutters.
I crack open an eye to find him swigging a bottle of Armagnac. Closing
my eyes, I hide a smile. What a dick.
Relaney gasps. “Someone’s here! Spirit. Knock three times to announce
your presence.”
Three knocks echo through the room. My eyes snap open and I glance
around the table, finding everyone sitting around it with their hands still
connected. When I look at the brothers, they smirk.
My eyes narrow. What the hell do they think they’re doing?
“Wonderful!” Relaney says, her voice quickening. “Let’s ask the spirit
some questions. One knock for yes, two knocks for no. Alright?”
One knock sounds through the room and it doesn’t come from the
brothers. Relaney's and the other two men’s hands are visible atop the table.
I glance at Sparrow, who passes his bottle to Wilder and folds his arms.
“Very good. Are you at peace, spirit?” Relaney asks, her eyes still
closed.
Two knocks.
My throat tightens, and I glance around the room. Maybe there’s
another acolyte standing in the hallway, faking these answers. That might
explain these responses. I steal another glance at Sparrow, who shakes his
head.
“We hear you, spirit," she says, her voice softening. “Is there anything
we can do to help ease your burden?”
One knock.
“Shouldn’t we identify it first?” I ask.
There’s a pattern of knocks, a combination of singles and doubles. I
stare, wide-eyed, at Sparrow, who stares back with mirrored confusion.
They repeat over and over until Ezekiel gasps.
“It’s Morse code.” His face scrunches.
“What’s he saying?” Relaney asks.
“H…Y… S… T… A… M… E… T… H⁠—”
“Amethyst,” I say. “Who is this?”
The knocks change rhythm, and Ezekiel translates. “E… R… O… X…
E…”
I bow my head, my eyes stinging. How is this even happening?
“Xero Greaves?” Relaney squeaks.
One knock.
My lips tighten. This is where I draw the line. Xero wouldn’t float into
Relaney’s house to communicate with me via Morse code… Would he? Or
am I being too skeptical?
Memories of our conversations flood my mind—his soothing voice, the
way he made me feel understood and cherished. Each memory is a caress
and a sharp pain, a reminder of the love we shared. His attention was my
sanctuary, his letters my refuge. The thought of never hearing his voice
again, never experiencing our connection, crushes my spirit.
What would it cost me to cover my bases and say hello? Nothing. What
would it cost to remain hardheaded? More haunting. More creepy
messages. More needing to call the police. More chances of someone
discovering what I did last night.
“Is it really you?” I croak.
One knock.
“Did you come back for closure, because I can explain.”
Two knocks.
“No? Then what do you want?”
He starts another sequence of knocks, spacing them out, making me
wonder if it’s a long sentence. I turn to Ezekiel, who tilts his head, his eyes
still closed behind his thick glasses.
“What’s he saying?” I whisper.
He grimaces. “F… U… C… K… Space. K… I… L… L… Space. C…
L… A… I… M.”
Wilder chokes on his mouthful of brandy and drops the bottle, which
hits the floor with a smash, sending shards of glass across the room.
Sparrow slams his fist on his brother’s back, his features morphing into
panic.
Nobody around the table seems bothered about the commotion,
appearing too preoccupied to care that one of their friends is choking.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
Two knocks.
I wasn’t talking to him. Straightening, Sparrow leans against the wall
and gives me a half-hearted thumbs up.
“P… U… S… S… Y,” Ezekiel adds.
“Oh, my,” Relaney says, her cheeks darkening.
“Who do you want to kill?” I ask.
“I’m losing him,” Relaney says. “Everybody, please focus.”
I close my eyes again, my insides twisting with unease. How much of
this is real? The wool tablecloth is itchy against my palm, and Chappy’s
finger pulls against mine. Nobody in the room is the source of the knocks,
and I doubt that Ezekiel is faking his translation of Morse code.
It’s a prison guard. Some man in the penitentiary who’s become
obsessed with me and my pussy-scented letters, has analyzed my every
movement, and predicted I would have nowhere else to run by here. That’s
too far-fetched. Would a man in full-time employment really break into my
neighbor’s house to harass me via Morse code?
Or maybe Xero really is out there, fuming at me for ruining his last few
hours of life. I’m seeing all kinds of crazy shit right now, so why would the
explanation of what’s happening be logical? I don’t blame Xero for his
anger, but I don’t understand the fuck and kill and claim? If ghosts can’t
touch anything, what’s the source of the knocks?
“Are you back, spirit?” Relaney asks.
An explosion has my eyes snapping open. I turn to the other side of the
room, where sparks fly out of a stereo, setting one of the mattresses alight.
“Shit.” Chappy scrambles off his cushion, his large body upending the
table. He rushes across the room and smothers the fire with a comforter.
 Rising, Ezekiel stretches before walking over to help his fellow acolyte.
Relaney pats my shoulder, turning my attention away from the
spectacle. “Don’t worry about that. Spiritual activity causes electrical
surges, and the one we summoned tonight was powerful. I’m sorry we
couldn’t put Xero to rest, but we can try again tomorrow night.”
“You don’t mind?” I croak.
“I’d be honored to be a character in the conclusion of your podcast,” she
replies, her lashes fluttering. “Would you like me to show you to your
room?”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “For everything.”
By the time I’m on my feet again, the brothers watching over us have
gone.

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTEEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Thank you for accepting my call yesterday. I wish we’d had more time
to speak. Talking to you was like getting a taste of heaven.
Dare I say your voice is just as beautiful as your delectable body?
Last night, I imagined myself in bed with you tucked at my side. I
wanted to press a kiss on your temple while you spoke to me in that sweet,
sleepy voice.
Are you trying to drive me insane? That clip of you in the burgundy
gown is seared into my mind. I want to see what’s beneath those lace cups
and enjoy more than a half-second tease of your pussy.
Tell me what it will take to see more of my precious jewel, and it’s
yours.
Xero.
P.S. I recorded my reaction to your video clip. Expect to see it
tomorrow.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTEEN

AMETHYST
Upstairs at Relaney’s place, I lie within a surprisingly clean room
decorated in white. She set my overnight bag at the bedside while I was still
reeling from being mentioned in the séance. That, along with the words
fuck, kill, and claim, not to mention the little explosion, would be enough to
make anyone question their own skepticism. Maybe that’s exactly what she
planned.
Relaney explained that the spiritual realm was mysterious and that I
shouldn’t take what Xero said to heart. When I asked about the unsettling
language, she said he was probably still processing the violence of his
crimes.
I still can’t make up my mind.
Moonlight streams in through a chink in the curtains, illuminating the
empty side of the bed. After ten minutes of not being able to sleep, I lean
across the mattress, reach into my overnight bag, and pull out a bottle.
I gulp down mouthfuls of water, trying to wash away the unease of
staying in a strange house occupied by even stranger men. The four I met
tonight seemed alright, but they’re nothing compared to some of the other
characters I’ve seen leaving Relaney’s at all times of the day and night.
After downing half the bottle’s contents, I flop back on the bed and sigh.
Xero’s spirit, or whoever was impersonating him, disappeared before I even
got a chance to explain why I left him at the altar yesterday. I don’t know
how JakeRake69 got hold of that picture of me as a child or what it means.
My troll died before I got the chance to ask.
The only people who can answer those questions are Mom and Dad.
 Moments later, my eyelids grow heavy and I melt into the mattress, my
body dragging me to sleep. Disembodied thoughts swirl through my mind
like wraiths, haunting the beginnings of my dream.
What if I wasn’t hallucinating and Xero really is haunting me for
revenge? Everyone else who has wronged him is dead, except for me. I fall
into a vortex of the events of the past day and a half, my thoughts spinning
until everything goes black.
Hours pass, and a floorboard creaks, waking me up with a start. My
eyes flutter open. The room is so dark that there’s little difference between
my surroundings and the patterns behind my eyes.
An outline of a hooded figure emerges at the foot of my bed, its eyes
emitting a faint, silver glow. I try to jerk awake, but my body won’t move.
I know this state: sleep paralysis, where the mind is awake, but the body
is still stuck in REM. Focusing on my breathing, I command myself to
twitch a finger or a toe.
The figure drifts toward me, its movements so fluid that it must be a
dream. Its glowing eyes lower to the level of my face. I stare ahead, unable
to rotate my eyes.
This is just a dream.
I don’t need to panic.
So why is my heart galloping across my chest like the March Hare
being chased by a feral Cheshire Cat? I want to close my eyes, but they
won’t move.
The comforter slides off my shoulders, down my chest, and gathers at
my waist. Even though I had the good sense to sleep in my clothes, a cool
draft still penetrates my hoodie. My breath quickens, and I concentrate
every ounce of effort into moving my pinkie.
Cool fingers ghost down my neck and lift the slider of my zipper. They
draw it down gently, exposing my skin. Underneath, I’m wearing a sports
bra and tank top, but I can already feel my nipples tightening.
After opening my hoodie completely, a cool hand slides over my
breasts, making me exhale a soft moan. The touch is gentle yet determined
enough to not be a figment of my imagination.
Chills run down my spine and settle between my legs. My clit awakens,
and the muscles of my pussy spasm.
I want to tell myself this isn’t real. It’s a dream brought on by Officer
Vayne reading out my somnophilia fantasy.
 The fingers roll my nipples, infusing me with sparks of sensation. My
back wants to arch, and my body craves more. I’m so touch-starved that I’m
picturing Xero escaping his cell to reenact some of the fantasies in his
phone calls and letters. I swear I can hear his deep groan.
Xero was so perfect for me, so generous with his time, and so
understanding of my dark past. All he asked for in return was the short
window of time before his execution, and I left him hanging.
My body tries to drift back to sleep, but I force my mind to stay alert.
The comforter around my waist disappears, revealing my leggings and
socks.
A distant voice echoes through the room, a rich and throaty sound that
sends shudders down my spine. I feel my tank top rise, exposing my belly
as I fight to stay awake and aware in the darkness. Every nerve ending
tingles with anticipation of what will come next.
Cool lips press into my skin, making it erupt into goosebumps. This
feels so real, but I’m slipping away. I send what’s left of my consciousness
into my pinky finger, urging it to move, urging myself to stay awake, but
slumber drags me under, and my thoughts go black.

Hours later, my phone rings, pulling me out of sleep. I jerk awake in an

unfamiliar, white room, my heart pounding. My thighs clench, only to find
my clit is still swollen and aching.
Right. I dreamed that the Grim Reaper came to my bedside to play with
my nipples. The little I remember from last night was hot enough to keep
me aroused the entire night. I try to chase the memory, but my phone won’t
stop ringing.
I roll to the side of the bed, still fully dressed in my hoodie and
leggings, and rifle through my open overnight bag.
“Hello?” I croak.
“Amy?” The anguish in Myra’s voice breaks through my lingering
drowsiness.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“It’s Kayla,” she says, her words choked with sobs. “The assistant who
re-mailed your packages and letters?”
 I bolt upright. “What’s happened?”
“Her roommate found her dead. It was horrible. She choked on a dildo.
Suffocated. How the hell does something like that even happen?”
Cold dread grips my stomach, twisting it into knots. I double over on
the mattress, remembering the image of that woman deep-throating a thick
black toy that looked nearly identical to the one on my nightstand.
“Amy? Amy, are you still there?” Myra asks.
I gulp. “Yeah. Sorry. Did the roommate call the police?”
She hesitates. “The officers who came said there were no signs of a
break-in and it was probably an accident. People die from kinky shit all the
time.” She sniffles, and I can tell she’s started crying again. “Her roommate
said she was fully clothed.”
I’m on the verge of arguing back and repeating what I told her
yesterday, but my phone beeps and vibrates with a call waiting alert that has
every fine hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
My anxiety spikes, and Myra’s words fade into the background. Without
meaning to, I blurt, “Listen, I’ve got another call waiting. Can I ring you
back?”
“Sure. I need to open the store, anyway.” She hangs up.
Thunder rumbles through my phone’s receiver, making me stiffen.
“Amethyst,” a deep voice says through the sound of heavy rain. “Look
under your pillow.”
“Hello?” I pull the phone away from my ear to check its screen, but
they’ve already hung up.
Why did his voice sound so much like Xero's when he called me during
that lightning storm?
Because he’s upgraded from text messages to brief phone calls, idiot.
Maybe yesterday’s session wasn’t bullshit, and the four of us really
summoned his spirit. As Relaney suggested, it must have given him power.
If a ghost can make a stereo explode, then it sure as hell can make a phone
call.
What I can’t get over is Kayla’s death. Would Xero kill her over a
dildo? Probably not. But over the theft of his mother’s locket? Maybe.
I fire up the texting app and scroll through the messages, only to realize
he sent the photo to the phone I put in my nightstand.
Another message pops up on the screen:
Look under your pillow.
 I message back:
Who is this?
He replies with:
Do you need me to spell it out for you again? Which do you prefer:
Roman letters or Morse code?
“Asshole,” I mutter.
Another message appears:
Do it now, or there will be consequences.
“Shit.”
I should resist, but I’m still haunted by the photo of a woman choking
on a dildo. The last thing I want is to be found dead with a flogger around
my neck.
Closing my eyes, I clench my teeth and clasp the edge of the pillow. I
lift it a fraction, checking for something ominous, but all I find is the rest of
the white bedsheet. With a deep, fortifying breath, I gather my courage and
raise the pillow completely to reveal another of my red envelopes.
My name is written on the front in Xero’s spiky handwriting, along with
exactly where I’m staying at Relaney’s address: Upstairs spare bedroom, 11
Parisii Drive.
“Cute,” I mutter. “Does this contain my invitation to Hell?”
The contents are bulky, appearing more like a set of marker pens than a
piece of parchment. I turn it around and lift the flap, releasing the stench of
charred meat.
Inside are what look like fingers. To be precise, four long digits and a
thumb. A chill runs down my spine, my pulse quickens, and my breath turns
frantic and shallow.
Every instinct screams at me to deny what I’m seeing—to chalk it up to
another compound hallucination. I can’t because the coincidences are
stacking high, cemented by all the other evidence saying that it’s real.
Officer Vayne saw the letter from under my pillow. Myra just confirmed
that the photo of the woman and the dildo was Kayla. The time for hiding
behind delusions is over. I need to woman up and face this grotesque reality.
I reach into the envelope, extract the thumb, which is seared at the root,
and place it on the sheet.
“He cauterized it,” I whisper.
The phone buzzes with another message:
No man will ever touch my precious jewel. Not even with his blood.
 “This is twisted, you know,” I say through gritted teeth.
He texts back with:
Keep going.
I should be freaked out at the implications of why he’s replying to my
voice, but I’m more concerned about the owner of these fingers.
The phone buzzes again.
NOW.
“For fuck’s sake. I’ve heard of vengeful ghosts, but I didn’t know they
were impatient.”
I extract the longest finger, finding it tattooed with an D.
My stomach drops. “No…”
My phone buzzes.
KEEP GOING.
I already know what I’m going to find. Silent and frozen, I stare at the
screen, and the bastard texts again.
Don’t make me tell you a third time.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, I upend the envelope, letting the fingers
fall to the mattress. My heart skips a beat, my stomach twisting with
revulsion. The morbid side of me muses that whoever detached them did a
great job of keeping them preserved and clean.
“What do you want from me?” I ask my phone.
A message pops up saying:
Arrange them.
I lay them out in order, with the thumb on the left, since I already know
they belong to a right hand.
The letters spell BDSM.
“Gavin…” I say to the screen. “Is he dead? Did you kill him?”
He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. He wants me to find out for
myself. Xero, or whoever’s impersonating him, won’t leave me alone until
I’ve lost what’s left of my sanity.
I need to warn Myra and get the fuck away from Parisii Drive.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTEEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
You asked, so here it is: the ugly truth. The first person I killed was my
birth mother. She got shot while pregnant with me and died during an
emergency C-section. At least, that’s the story I heard from her older sister,
who took care of me until she was struck down by cancer.
After I turned seven, her condition became terminal. A man I’d never
met came to the door, claiming to be my father. He said it was time for me
to join his family. I refused because he was a stranger, and I wanted to stay
with the woman I considered my mother.
He pulled out a syringe and injected her with a poison that stopped her
heart. I had to watch her convulse until she finally ceased moving. Then he
held out his hand and ordered me to come with him.
I wasn’t allowed to pack a bag, gather photos, or bring anything from
our life. He ripped me from her cooling body, and all I managed to take was
her locket. It’s my most treasured possession and the only thing that
connects me to my previous life.
How about you? I already know about your first kill. Instead, tell me
your most painful memory.
Now that I have answered your question, I want another clip with less
teasing.
Xero
 P.S. I’m delighted you enjoyed the show and look forward to the day I
coat your face in my cum.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTEEN

AMETHYST
Even at the height of my peril, I know it’s bad manners for a house
guest to leave behind their severed fingers. I place them back into the
envelope, slide it into the overnight bag, and straighten up the sheets.
It’s seven in the morning, and the hallway echoes with distant snores. I
tiptoe down the stairs, not wanting to wake anyone with the sounds of my
panic, and step out through the front door.
The morning sun trickles down on the trees lining Parisii Drive, casting
dappled light on my car. A quick glance at the back seat confirms that it’s
empty, and I stride toward the driver’s side door.
Maybe I should have called the police, but I’m afraid of repercussions.
Xero has already murdered one person with a distant connection to me,
perhaps even two. I still don’t know what happened to Gavin, and I’m too
afraid to investigate.
I scoot inside and glance through the rearview mirror to recheck for
random corpses. Finding it empty, I start the engine, call Myra, and drive.
She answers in two rings. “Hey.”
“Xero’s ghost killed Kayla.” When she doesn’t reply, I check the
handset to see if the call is still connected. “Are you there?”
She clears her throat. “What makes you think Xero has become a
ghost?”
“Sometimes, Xero sent me things in the mail which were never
forwarded.”
“That’s not an answer. And things get lost all the time,” she says,
already defensive.
 I purse my lips, feeling like shit for speaking ill of the dead. “Was Kayla
a Xero fan?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Myra asks.
“What if she was late forwarding a few items? By the time Xero re-sent
them, she might have had two of the same thing and decided there was no
harm in keeping the duplicate.”
Myra falls silent again, seeming to think through my logic. I turn out of
Elgin Road and onto the highway connecting my suburb of Beaumont City
with Alderney Hill. Mom and Dad own one of the houses on the lower part
of the hill, where property prices are seven figures instead of eight.
One would think a couple with a mini-mansion and pool house would
be able to accommodate their daughter, but they shoved me away into No.
13 Parisii Drive after pulling me out of college.
“Okay, let’s say Kayla kept a few items for herself. Why would Xero’s
ghost even care?” Myra asks.
“One of them was his mother’s locket,” I say. “That was the only thing
he had of her before she died.”
Myra clears her throat. “How do you know Kayla took it?”
“Yesterday, Xero sent me two photos. One of him holding the locket
and the second of a woman with my hairstyle sucking down a big black
dildo.”
“Did you call the police?” she asks, her voice rising several octaves.
“They came to the house last night, but I was more concerned about the
letter he slipped under my pillow.”
She splutters. “What letter?”
I continue down the highway, recounting everything that happened after
she left, excluding the part where I bought hydrogen peroxide to clear up
the last traces of Jake’s DNA. I also skip the episodes where I encountered
Jake’s corpse. Trauma dumping has a limit, and I believe that limit is
murder and its repercussions.
Myra doesn’t speak much for the rest of the journey, already seeming
drained by my troubles. I can’t blame her. She’s tolerated my drama for
over a decade, all the time expecting me to get better.
Nothing strange has happened to me for months, and now there are two
possible deaths. Three, if you count the one I’m keeping quiet. Besides,
being haunted by a vengeful ghost is pretty exhausting.
 As I take the turn to Alderney Hill, she say, “Don’t freak out when I ask
you this, okay?”
“Go on,” I reply, my stomach tightening in anticipation.
“When was the last time you took your meds?” Before I can protest, she
adds, “Remember that time you were hooking up with that Jaimie guy, and
Mr. Lawson appeared with you in the bed?”
“He was at the edge of the mattress.”
She pauses. “Really? I thought he was in it?”
“He tried to get in,” I reply through clenched teeth, already knowing
she’s steering the conversation toward my mental health. “But let me ask
you some questions.”
She hesitates for several breaths before replying with, “Okay.”
I reach the foot of Alderney Hill, one of the most dangerous roads in
Beaumont City for its sharp gradient and hair-pin turns. The visibility here
is terrible, even in broad daylight, due to the oversized juniper trees lining
both sides of the road.
The evergreens that grow toward the sky only cast shadows, while other
trees have low-hanging branches that stretch over the narrow lane, creating
a canopy that plays tricks with the mind. Thankfully, I’ve never had an
accident, since my parents live close to the bottom. My thoughts shift back
to my argument.
“Question one, do I know where Kayla lives? No, I don’t. Two.
Remember how I texted you to check on her because I was worried and a
day later, you told me she was murdered with one of Xero’s gifts? Did I
hallucinate that? No, I didn’t.”
“Amy—”
“And you might want to check on Gavin.”
“Because Xero’s ghost cut off his fingers?” she asks, still sounding
doubtful.
“Want me to take them to your work?”
“Don’t,” she shrieks. “Take them to the cops.”
I turn through the gap in the juniper hedge and pull into Mom and Dad's
driveway. The iron gate is always open because they hate when delivery
people toss their packages under the shrubs.
“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say. “Just take care of yourself. Xero’s out
there, hurting everyone even vaguely connected to me. You’re my best
friend, and I don’t want you getting caught up in the rampage.”
 She sighs, and I can already tell she’s skeptical. “Alright… I’ll sleep
with my crucifix. Love you. Got to go.”
I park in the carport and open the door, letting in the overwhelming
scent of juniper, which makes my sinuses itch. Sneezing, I walk across the
gravel courtyard toward the front, knowing I’m ruining my parents’
aesthetic. Their house is one of the oldest in the district and was originally a
brothel. The mock Tudor architecture, with its pitched roof, intricate
brickwork, and exposed wooden beams, creates the feel of an old tavern.
Memories of the house's history flood my mind as I approach the oak
door. Legend has it that gangsters used tunnels at the top of the hill to roll
barrels into the storeroom. I once traveled up there out of curiosity, but all I
found were dense evergreens and a pair of rude assholes armed with
machine guns.
Mom and Dad are so proud of the house’s checkered past that they
restored the wood beams and leaded glass windows to impress their fancy
guests at their candle-lit suppers. They’d be horrified to find their half-
crazed daughter here, screaming about seeing corpses. They act like they’ve
lived here my entire life, but I remember them moving in furniture while I
was recovering from the accident.
Forcing down a flurry of nerves about their reaction to my unannounced
visit, I ring the bell and listen for footsteps. When there’s only silence, I
glance at the garden path, debating if Mom will get mad if I use the spare
key under the rock by her hedge maze.
The door opens, and I flinch backward. Mom stands in the doorway, her
smile morphing into something sour.
Standing in front of Mom is like looking into an aged filter, providing a
major glow up. She has the same emerald-green eyes as me, with deep gold
flecks, the same button nose, and full lips with high peaks. Her bone
structure is more defined than mine and framed with shoulder-length hair
that’s so brown it appears black.
The personal trainer, Pilates and protein diet have given her lean
muscles, affording her the appearance of a woman in her thirties, even
though she’s just turned fifty.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her gaze dropping to my bag. “I
already have my hands full with Clive.”
“Something’s happened, Mom. Let me in, please?” I clasp my hands,
cringing at having to beg for crumbs.
 It’s been like this since the accident. Maybe even before. Dad once
explained that Mom can’t stand to look at me out of guilt, but does she
always have to be so cold?
I’m not usually so needy or desperate for her validation, but she’s been
a lifeline since my last prescription got changed. Sometimes, the drugs are
like trying to fight through Jello. Other times, it’s like trying to navigate
dense fog. Everything is muffled, making me feel like a prisoner in my own
mind. I can barely function, let alone manage to get employment.
My social media platform was supposed to earn me some independence.
I planned on using my completed manuscript to earn an advance, so I could
start paying my own medical expenses. Dr. Saint is an okay enough
psychiatrist, but she reports everything to Mom.
Mom purses her lips and glances over my shoulder, as though she’s
checking to see if anyone has spotted her in the presence of her mildly
unhinged daughter who’s bleached the left half of her hair blonde.
“I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I add.
Her eyes harden, making me feel like I’m ten again and a burden. After
the accident, there was a time when I was wholly dependent on Mom for
everything, including going to the bathroom. I shift on my feet and try not
to squirm. After what feels like an eternity, she turns on her heel and walks
down the wood-paneled hallway toward the kitchen.
It’s Tudor style, like the rest of the mansion, with a pair of oak beams
running along the ceiling and into a wall of matching cabinets. Strangely,
for a couple with so much money to spend, they don’t have a housekeeper
or even a part-time cleaner. Mom takes care of everything, which is why
she can’t stand having guests… At least that’s what she says whenever I ask
if I can spend the weekend.
Uncle Clive sits with his head bowed on a high stool at the marble
island. I’ve never met the man in person and have only seen him in old
photos, but he’s instantly recognizable. He’s a paler, gaunter, beaten-down
version of Dad, with dirty blonde hair falling around his face in greasy
clumps.
“Clive,” Mom says, her voice suspiciously bright. “Say hello to
Amethyst.”
Flinching, he stares across the kitchen at me through shifty eyes, his
fingers tightening on his glass. Nostrils flaring, he stares up at me and
scowls. “Amethyst.”
 Goosebumps break out across my skin. Something about this man is off,
and I’m not just talking about his appearance. My gaze wanders down the
rolled-up sleeves of his rumpled shirt, where I find bandages.
“What happened?” I ask.
Mom rushes across the kitchen and ushers me out. “Don’t talk about
that,” she whisper-hisses. “He’s… sensitive.”
“What happened to his arms?” I whisper back.
“Vigilante mob.” She lowers her voice until it’s barely audible. “They
tracked him down to his new address and set fire to his house.”
I glance into the kitchen. Maybe my memory is fucked, but I’ve barely
heard of Uncle Clive, let alone about him having problems with the law.
“What did he do?”
Mom yanks me further down the hallway. “He just got out of prison.”
“For what?”
“He’s innocent. Do you hear me?” she asks, her tone laced with venom.
“O-Okay. When did he get out?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“And how long was he inside?” I ask, my voice artificially light.
“Nearly fifteen years. Why do you ask?”
I shake my head, my mind whirring with possibilities. All this time, I
assumed Jake was responsible for the threatening note and the photo
because he attacked me on the same day. That assumption was too
simplistic, too convenient.
Creepy stalkers don’t send a message one hour, then pounce the next.
They like the suspense. Jake’s build-up were all those trolling comments he
wrote on social media and the DMs threatening my life. His threats were
always digital until he turned up on my doorstep.
What if the polaroid and scrawled note came from someone else who’s
out of touch with the internet age? An older psychopath who likes to
terrorize young women using analogue methods? A chill races down my
spine at the thought.
Besides, only a handful of people know my real address, so I assumed
there was only one enemy. My new stalker could get every detail they want
about me from Mom.
Fear coils in my gut, tightening its grip, but I still manage to nod.
That’s a brilliant deduction.
 Jake wasn’t more than a few years older than me and couldn’t have
taken that photo. The culprit had to be older and more likely someone who
knew me before the supposed accident.
I finally have a potential lead: a strange uncle of dubious moral
character who’s just been released for a crime so heinous that people are
still trying to set him on fire.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETEEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
You’re determined to know my history. In exchange, I want to know
yours.
Yes, I moved in with my biological father, who already had a wife and
three sons. I was the same age as the youngest, and my father thought it was
a good idea to enroll me in their school.
It was a disaster. My father was always away on business, leaving me
with my resentful stepfamily. I had more in common with the housekeeper’s
daughters, whom I later discovered were also his illegitimate children.
I didn’t kill my stepmother and brothers because they filled each day
with torment and humiliation. They were petty, hateful, and spiteful, but it
was easy to understand the source of their anger.
They couldn’t punish my father for burdening them with a changeling,
so they made me the scapegoat.
The trial attorney painted a picture of me as a jealous interloper, lashing
out because I was denied their life of luxury, but that’s nowhere close to the
truth. I adored the simple life I had with my mother.
I’m sorry to hear about the accident. What happened to the drivers, and
do you still have problems with your memory?
Xero
P.S. You naughty girl. I forbid you from using a common dildo when I
can commission you a mold of my cock.
OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY

AMETHYST
Maybe I should have parked somewhere and slept in the car instead of
coming back to Mom and Dad’s. Mom acts like I’m a danger to her
precious Uncle Clive.
When I kept asking what he might have done to warrant a vigilante
mob, she whisper-hissed that Clive was suicidal and dragged me upstairs, as
if the mere sight of me would send him into a spiral. Now, I’m sitting in my
former room, where everything I once owned has been neatly packed away
in a trunk at the foot of the bed.
It’s been redecorated with white walls and a new ceiling beam to match
the exterior woodwork. My old bed has been replaced by a mahogany four-
poster with drapes, and all the photos she plastered over the wall to remind
me of my childhood have been replaced by tasteful landscape paintings.
Mom acts like my entire existence revolves around the accident that
shattered my mind. She recoils from my presence and avoids looking me
full in the face. I could say she’s freaked out because I killed Mr. Lawson,
but she’s cringed away from me since I can remember.
Leaning against the windowsill, I gaze out into manicured gardens,
where Uncle Clive sits on a bench by the edge of the trees, staring up into
my room. He looks thinner from the distance, almost scarecrow-like in a
tweed jacket and brown pants that are too short for his jangly limbs.
Perhaps he bought the clothes second-hand or borrowed them from Dad.
Raising a hand, I wave, but he only lifts his chin. He sees me but refuses
to engage, much like the rest of the family.
 Turning away from Dad’s peculiar younger brother, I head for the trunk
at the foot of the four-poster, which is secured by a combination lock. I set
it to my birthday, 0916, and it springs open. Inside are the photo albums
Mom and Dad made me pour over when I first awoke from my coma. I leaf
through the pages, finding pictures of me as a child with younger versions
of my parents, along with relatives I don’t recognize, but there isn’t a single
one containing Uncle Clive.
I pick up my phone and search for the name Clive Crowley and find
nothing helpful. Then I add keywords like prison, arrest, vigilante, and
sentencing, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.
A knock on the door has me scrambling to my feet. Mom strides in with
a tray.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her gaze dropping to the screen.
“Looking up Uncle Clive online. Why can’t I find any details on his
conviction? Shouldn’t there be a public record?”
“Do you expect him to have set up a social media presence from
prison?” She sets the tray down on a side table and grips the four-poster
bed’s footboard. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, stop. Your uncle is
already fragile and doesn’t need another person breaking his spirit.”
“What did he do?” I ask again.
She folds her arms. “If you can’t stick to my rules, you can leave.”
My throat tightens at the thought of returning to Parisii Drive, where
Xero’s ghost can and absolutely will haunt me in my sleep. “Fine. I’ll stop
asking about him,” I mutter. “But I need some answers about my memory.”
“What’s happened?” She tilts her head like an owl, her brows pulling
together. “Are they returning?”
“I don’t know,” I lie, not wanting to tell her that everything before the
age of ten is still hidden behind a blank wall.
She closes the distance between us and places both hands on my
shoulders. “What do you remember?”
“Snippets.”
“Of what?” she asks, her voice hardening.
I stare into her green eyes, seeing subtle differences between them and
my own. They’re slightly bloodshot and ringed with dark circles that she’s
hidden with concealer. Didn’t she say something earlier about having high
blood pressure? At the time, I dismissed it as an excuse, but she’s obviously
stressed.
 “Nothing specific,” I mutter. “Mostly images from around the house.”
Her features relax and she releases my shoulders.
“Can I show you something?” I ask.
“What?” she asks, her voice unnaturally relaxed.
I scroll to the photo app, bring out the polaroid of me as a child, and
thrust it in her face. “What’s this?”
Horror flashes across her features, before they’re schooled into a mask
of false composure. “Where did you get that?”
My breath quickens. She recognizes exactly what she’s looking at. “My
mailbox,” I reply. “Do you recognize it?”
“Let me see.” She makes that strange head tilt again and squints,
making a show of studying the image. “The resemblance is uncanny, but
I… But that’s not you. You should delete it.”
I expand the image with my fingers and focus on the girl’s stomach.
“What do you call this?”
“Photoshop?”
“Who would know my scars intimately enough to superimpose them on
a photo of a child who looks uncannily like me?” I ask.
Mom’s jaw works up and down in a peculiar chewing motion, as if she’s
tasting different lies to see which one she thinks will be the most palatable.
I stare at this rare shift in our dynamic. I’m usually the one scrambling
around for explanations.
“Amethyst,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t give you those answers.
Perhaps you should look closer to home.”
“What does that mean?”
“You have a podcast dedicated to a known murderer. There are videos
of you online…” She lowers her voice. “Twerking to obscene lyrics and
advertising a romance book between you and a deranged killer. It’s like
you’re begging to be raped.”
My eyes widen, and angry heat rises to my cheeks. I stare at her for
several heartbeats, wondering if that was an auditory hallucination.
Mom has never been one to sugarcoat her words, but this is a new level
of bluntness. I know it’s been a while since I last visited or even spoke to
her at length on the phone, but I barely recognize this woman.
“What did you say?” I ask.
Her lips purse, and her shoulders tense as though shifting gears from
defensive to attacking. “Someone needs to tell you this is a man’s world.
Women who flaunt themselves and advertise their fetishes are always going
to be prey.”
“If that’s true, then why are you housing a predator?”
She flinches. “What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Clive,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Vigilante mobs don’t
track down bank robbers and you’re working so hard to hide the reason he
went to jail. What happened to me when I was little? Was it him?”
“Amethyst Magnolia Crowley!” Her hand flies out to slap me across the
face, but I grab her wrist before the blow lands.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth, Mom?” I demand. “What happened to
me when I was young? And don’t give me that car accident story.”
She pulls at her arm. “Let me go.”
“Not until you give me something.”
“If someone is sending you doctored photos, it’s probably because you
put everything out there online. What did you tell your murderer in all those
letters?” she hisses. “If you mailed him nudes, then anyone intercepting
them who knows about your memory problems is going to take advantage.”
My breath catches, and my fingers loosen around her wrist. Not because
I believe her bullshit, but because it strikes a chord. My letters had to go
through a prison mailroom and would be read by staff to make sure they’re
not subversive. That’s why Xero always insisted on texting the nudes.
“You see,” she says as she backs around the four-poster. “Some of your
videos get millions of views. I read the comments. There are men out there,
writing lascivious filth about everything you post, and others calling you a
killer’s whore. How many of those send you private death threats?”
More than I can count, but none of them were as persistent as Jake.
“Didn’t you say one of them tracked you down to your home?” she asks
from the doorway.
“He did.”
She nods. “There you go. Maybe you should look to one of your online
admirers instead of your family.”
“But it wasn’t him.”
“What are you talking about? Did you ask him?”
“I didn’t need to. The man who came to attack me was in his twenties.”
“So, what?”
“And that image was an aged Polaroid. How many people my age have
that kind of camera or keep physical photos long enough for the border to
turn yellow?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.” Her voice rises several octaves, becoming
shrill.
“I can’t, because⁠—”
“Don’t.” She raises a palm. “Don’t tell me a thing. We went through hell
with what you did to that teacher. And… And… We warned you that the
next incident will land you in an institution.”
The threat hits like a slap, and it feels like every drop of blood drains
from my face and gathers in my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs like
a caged animal desperate to break free.
I have no recollection of that threat. My mind was a jumble the moment
my parents and Dr. Saint changed my prescription to convince the
authorities that I was mentally disturbed from Mr. Lawson’s sexual abuse.
The shock dissipates, replaced by a hot surge of anger that tightens my
jaw so hard my teeth grind. I breathe hard, trying to stay calm, so I can form
the words without stumbling.
“Why would you say something like that to a thirteen-year-old girl with
a brain injury unless something specific happened in the past?”
Her lips tremble, and she swallows over and over, confirming my
suspicions that I didn’t lose my memory from a car accident.
“Uncle Clive did something to me, and I fought back.”
“What?” she asks, her eyes going comically round.
“That’s why you were so desperate to keep us apart. You don’t want him
triggering any memories. It’s also why you were more upset that I’d pushed
Mr. Lawson off the roof, and you didn’t give a shit that he got me pregnant
or forced me into a miscarriage⁠—”
“Amethyst—”
“And two nights ago, when I called you in tears, saying that a man had
attacked me in my home⁠—”
“Enough!” She claps her hands over her ears. “Stop. I won’t hear it. I
won’t!”
I flash my teeth. “If there’s something wrong with me, I need to know,
so I can get help.”
“Just stop,” she says, her voice breaking. “Stop or leave. Please.”
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” I yell.
Her face shutters, and her shoulders rise to her ears. “If you want to
know what happened to you, ask Dr. Saint for recordings of your early
sessions. In fact, I’ll book an emergency appointment.”
My jaw drops. I kept meaning to call the psychiatrist, but things kept
happening to make me forget. I’ve seen that woman for years, and I expect
she has mountains of material.
Mom turns on her heel, leaving me staring at her back. “Lunch is on the
desk. Don’t come downstairs.”
Why the hell would I want to if my uncle is a predator?

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-ONE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Yes, my father knew he was putting me into a hostile home, but that was
part of his plan. My stepmother relegated me to the basement, which she’d
sectioned off to create a windowless bedroom. It was an eight-by-eight-foot
space with a fold-up bed and a desk.
The first month was agonizing. I wasn’t allowed games, toys, books, or
anything to distract me from my grief. Eventually, my stepmother grew
tired of being my jailer, so she delegated my care to the housekeeper, who
allowed me to stay in her cottage with the girls. Whenever my father was
due to return home, I was forced to return to the basement.
Most of the physical violence happened at school. My older brothers
didn’t attack me directly, but they were very popular. Any student who
wanted to earn their praise could do so by shoving me to the floor in front
of them, ambushing me in hallways, or pouring food over my head in the
lunchroom.
The brother who was the same age as me attacked directly. I always
fought back, but he came with reinforcements. For years, I wondered why
my father didn’t leave me in foster care, until I discovered he was
purposefully erasing my empathy.
Did you research the accident online? DUIs that lead to children being
injured often make the news. I’m glad you cut down on the alcohol and
meds. Anything that gives you blackouts and destroys your ability to
function can’t be beneficial.
Xero.
P.S. The molding kit arrived yesterday. Expect something silicone in the
mail.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-TWO

AMETHYST
I spend the rest of the day in my old bedroom, puzzling through a slew
of unanswered questions:
One: What’s real and what am I hallucinating?
Answer: The letters are real, as confirmed by Officer Vayne. Both Myra
and Mom saw photos of the naked picture. I called Gavin’s number, which
went to voicemail, and he isn’t answering my texts. The red envelope
containing the fingers is still in my overnight bag, which means they have
to be real.
Jake was dead before I buried his corpse. I even checked his pulse. If
someone had found him in that grave, then there would be an investigation,
so he’s a hallucination. Can I say the same about the Grim Reaper in black
robes? He’s everywhere. In my periphery, in my room at night, and in my
dreams. I’m certain he’s Xero’s ghost.
Two: If Xero is a ghost, how did he amputate Gavin’s fingers and choke
Kayla to death with that dildo?
Answer: He’s working with an accomplice. Whoever helped him mail
gifts to Kayla’s address is probably helping him with his revenge. Maybe
the answer is simpler, and it’s a copycat working alone, pretending to be his
ghost?
Three: Who sent that naked photo? If it’s a fake as everyone keeps
saying, how does anyone know the exact locations of my scars?
Answer: All clues point to Uncle Clive. He’s fresh out of prison,
mysterious, and is still being persecuted for the type of crime that attracts
vigilantes. Mom admitted he was locked up during the time I forgot. What
if he did this to me and took the photo as a trophy?
Four: How do I free myself from being tormented?
Answer: I need to find out who’s behind the photos and Xero’s ghost,
lure them into a private spot, and make sure they never leave. Instead of
burying the evidence, I’ll set it on fire.
The photo albums Mom and Dad used to make me review when I was
younger still don’t jog any memories from the past. Everything is so
carefully curated, as though there are missing friends and family they don’t
want me to discover. The most prominent of them is Uncle Clive.
I went to Mom and Dad’s room to search for more albums, only to find
Dad’s half of the closet filled with Mom’s clothes. It looks like they’re
having marital problems. On her bookshelf, I found another album
containing scanned images dating back from his childhood in the seventies
and eighties, where he clearly has a younger brother who looks like Uncle
Clive.
After searching through pictures of grandparents I thought were long
dead and friends he never invited to the house, I return to my room where
there’s a missed call and a voicemail. It’s Dr. Saint’s assistant, confirming
the time of my emergency appointment: tomorrow at 7:30 AM.
Mom eventually gains a conscience and calls me down for dinner, but
Uncle Clive is conveniently absent. According to her, he needed an early
night. When I pluck up the courage to ask again what he went to prison for,
she replies with a rehearsed answer that he embezzled money from a
school.
I keep checking my phone for messages from Xero, but he’s
suspiciously quiet. Is he satisfied with his revenge, or has he moved onto
another victim? I’m tempted to write a heartfelt apology, along with the
reason why I was late for the wedding, but think better of it. It’s stupid to
provoke a vengeful spirit.
Apologizing for wrongs that can never be put right is more about
relieving the wrongdoer’s guilt. All that does is re-traumatize the victim.
When I told Mr. Lawson we were finished, he kept wailing about being
sorry. Sometimes in horrific detail. Each word was a hot poker to my heart
that added a new dimension to the pain. He kept repeating his crime over
and over until it sounded like gloating.
 How did he expect me to move on with those constant reminders of the
agony and blood? He never once bothered to explain why he got me
pregnant just to kill the baby.
Sometimes, the only apology needed is the wrongdoer’s death.

Later that night, a strange sensation jolts me awake. My fingers throb and
tingle, enclosed in something warm and wet. My heart pounds hard enough
to burst. With a panicked gasp, I pull back my arm and stare at my
glistening digits.
Why did that feel like someone was sucking my fingers?
I bring them to my nose and inhale, instantly recognizing the scent of
spearmint, and I freeze.
Panic grabs my throat in a grip that cuts off my air. Someone was in my
room. Under my fucking bed.
Realization hits like a cold shower, and shivers run down my spine.
Some filthy bastard pulled my arm down the side of the mattress to molest
my fingers.
Goosebumps break out across my skin, and adrenaline courses through
my veins, making every nerve ending vibrate with terror. My body seizes,
too scared to move or breathe or make the smallest sound.
Oh shit. He’s still here.
My pulse accelerates to a drumroll. Who the hell is lurking under my
bed? My mind races with possibilities, all of them equally terrifying. It
could be a ghost, a creepy uncle, an unknown human stalker, or a creature
beyond imagination.
Even more sinister is the supposition that the sights and smells and
sensations could be symptoms of a splintering psyche.
Should I scream for help? No. They’d either run away or attack. Should
I ignore it and pretend I’ve fallen asleep again? Hell no. The finger sucking
could be the prelude to something even more nefarious.
My eyes dart around in the dark, each jerky movement in time with my
panicked breaths, every muscle coiling with tension. My fingers twitch,
ready to snatch anything within reach that could serve as a weapon.
 There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. I can smash it and use one of
the pieces as a shank, but I’m more likely to slice open my own artery.
My gaze lands on a fountain pen with a sharp nib. I could stab the
finger-sucking bastard in the eye. When he’s screaming for mercy, I can
knock him unconscious with the lampshade.
Yes. That sounds like a plan.
I inch my arm to the side of the mattress, being careful not to make any
noise. My fingers wrap around the pen and remove its cap. All I have to do
is pretend to sleep again, and he’ll emerge from his hiding spot, ready for
another taste.
Then, I hold my breath and wait.
I wait to attack for what feels like half the night, lying poised with that
damned pen. My muscles tremble and beads of sweat roll down my brow.
What is he doing? Why hasn’t he returned to fondle my digits with his
tongue? What if he’s moved onto my underwear? What if he’s slithered
away?
A mad dog of anxiety races through my mind with questions and
thoughts and speculations. It snarls and snaps and foams at the mouth,
chasing its tail until my consciousness is consumed by froth.
He wants me to make the first move. Or maybe he’s fallen asleep. My
patience thins to its last fraying threads. I can’t stay in this position,
anticipating an attack that will never materialize.
My adrenaline simmers to the brink of boiling over. I spring from the
mattress, flip on the lamp, and check under the bed.
It’s empty.
I pace around the room, ripping open every closet and searching every
corner with frantic urgency. I can’t stop, even though each creak of the
floorboard feels like another blow to my splintering sanity. I even check the
bathroom, but there’s nothing. No sign of an intruder.
My heart continues to race. My mind spins with more of those incessant
questions. Was it all in my head? If that was a tactile hallucination, how
does that explain the scent of spearmint? An olfactory delusion, maybe?
I walk to the window and scan the garden for any signs of the Grim
Reaper. There’s no sight of him lurking among the trees.
My phone buzzes, making me flinch. I check for a message, finding
none. The time is 2:43—less than five hours before my appointment with
Dr. Saint. Maybe I should talk to her about my prescription. Maybe I should
start taking my meds again, even if they make me lethargic and screw with
my memory. Anything to ease this overwhelming confusion.
Returning to my bedside, I down my glass of water to wash away any
notion of finger-sucking bastards. I can deal with them in the morning.
Yawning, I set down the glass, slide back under the covers, and drift into
slumber.
Someone is out to get me, and only part of it is in my head. I need to
end the hallucinations so I know the difference between what’s real and
what’s imagined.

Hours later, I wake up again in a haze. I’m stretched out across the mattress,
with the headrest and pillows on my right side and both legs dangling off
the edge. The Grim Reaper from last night stands between my spread legs,
his eyes glowing in the dark.
Moonlight shines through the window, illuminating the hood of his
cloak. From this angle, he appears nearly seven feet tall.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“You know my name,” he says, his voice so deep I feel it in the marrow
of my bones. He sounds so familiar that it hurts.
“Xero?”
He nods.
I try to rise from the bed, but my arms and torso feel bound by ropes.
When I raise my head, all the white fabric of my nightgown is gathered
around my upper thighs. With a shiver, I slide my gaze up the specter’s
black expanse, stopping before I reach his eyes.
He’s a faceless being that fills the room with an inky blackness, his
presence so dense that it’s almost tangible. Silence stretches out for
suffocating moments, bearing down on my lungs, until the words spill from
my lips.
“Are you here to kill me?” I blurt.
He shakes his head.
“Are you here for revenge?”
He nods.
I gulp. “What do you want?”
 He points a skeletal finger between my legs.
My heart lurches into my throat, choking off my words with its frantic
beat. The pulsing becomes unbearable, throbbing so hard its vibrations
reach my clit.
This is just a dream. An advanced sleep disorder brought on by stress. If
I can shake myself awake, I can end the nightmare. But when that bony
finger jabs the air again, I flinch.
“What does that even mean?” I whisper.
“Show me your pussy,” he replies, his voice guttural.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “What are you going to do?”
“Show me,” he commands.
“But I can’t move my arms.”
“Now!”
A whimper lodges in my throat. I try to twitch my fingers, try to break
out of what I hope is sleep paralysis, but they only brush against my thighs.
Panic courses through my system as I attempt to jerk my arms apart, but
they remain pinned down by unseen bindings.
I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling to force my brain to reset. If this isn’t
a dream, then I’m having some sort of episode, triggered by the return of
Uncle Clive. My mind is in crisis, and it’s throwing out all kinds of
distractions to stop me from accessing the memories I suppressed. Now, I’m
imagining Xero’s ghost wanting me to flash him in the dark.
When I open my eyes again, I’m looking at the window. Has he gone?
Cold fingers slide on my inner thighs, and I raise my head to find those
glowing, white eyes hovering between my spread legs.
“I won’t ask you twice,” he says, his cool breath pebbling the skin on
my inner thighs.
“What if I don’t?” I whisper.
“Then that would make you a liar,” he says, that deep, sonorous voice
making my nerves tingle. “You swore that our connection would be eternal
and pledged yourself to me in this life and the next.”
My throat tightens, and the backs of my eyes sting. “I said those things
to Xero.”
“I am Xero.”
“How do I know you’re not an impostor?”
“Who else would punish a man for taking advantage of you? Gavin lost
his fingers because he stole from my woman.”
 My breath quickens, and my chest fills with a twisted sense of warmth. I
don’t know why my body is impressed by an apparitional avenger. Violence
isn’t exciting. It’s just a necessity.
“Is it really you?” I ask.
He nods.
“Tell me something else?”
“The last time we spoke on the phone, you told me your deepest desire.”
My breath stills.
“It wasn’t just for me to tie you up, fuck you in your sleep, or fill every
hole until you passed out from an orgasm overload. For once in your life,
you wanted a man to embrace your darkness and not treat you like a fragile
creature who needed fixing.”
“How…” I gulp. “How do you know?”
“Because you told me.”
“Because you’re Xero?” I whisper.
He nods again.
“How did you survive the execution?” I ask.
“I didn’t.” He blows a stream of cold air on my thigh. “Are you going to
show me that sweet pussy?”
“Turn on the light,” I say.
“Show me in the dark.”
My head swims, and my eyelids flutter. I’m torn between wanting to
please him and being terrified of another disappointment. Within my
restraints, I work up the fabric of my nightgown with trembling fingers,
exposing my thighs to the cool air.
Common sense reminds me that I should focus on breaking out of this
dream and get ready for my appointment with Dr. Saint. I should ground
myself to reality with deep breathing. However, the part of me that’s
desperate to break away from her and Mom’s controlling influences urges
me to ignore my rational thoughts.
And when Xero draws closer, my clit swells. The delicious ache
between my thighs overtakes any sane reasoning.
“I can’t raise it any higher. Can you help?” I whisper.
His pale fingers emerge from the side of the mattress, and he lifts my
hem, exposing the tops of my thighs. Shivering at the unexpected chill, I
push my legs further apart.
 Part of me acknowledges the ridiculousness of flashing the ghost of an
executed prisoner. Another part of me hasn’t felt so excited since Xero first
replied to my letter.
“No panties?” he asks, his voice thickening with arousal.
“I usually sleep naked, but⁠—”
“It’s alright, my precious little jewel. I wouldn’t want you exposing
what’s mine.”
The butterflies in my stomach take flight and flutter around my heart.
My chest lightens. My lips part with a happy sigh. He still wants me,
despite all my mistakes.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“That’s entirely up to you, my love,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want me to lick your sweet pussy?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then you will tell me something.”
“What?”
“Did you ever love me?”
My breath catches. “Of course.” Seconds pass, and the air thickens,
pushing down on my chest like a lead weight. “I-I’ve never been in love.
I’ve been manipulated, infatuated, but I don’t know what it means to love
someone who isn’t a friend.”
He nods. “Did you mean what you said in your letters?”
“Every word.”
“And the sex contract?”
“It was a fantasy. Something to brighten up my nights. I consented to all
the things I marked off, but I never thought they would happen in real life.”
“So, when you got the chance to marry me and consummate our love,
you ran.”
“I was attacked.”
“Do not bend the truth!”
My eyes widen. How the hell would he know I fudged the timeline? “A-
Alright. On my way out, I found a threatening note and a picture, and I
called the police. By the time they left, I arrived at the penitentiary late. The
woman at the door wouldn’t let me in”
“Excuses.”
 “No.” I stare into those glowing eyes within the depths of his hood.
“That’s the truth.”
“You didn’t love me enough to put aside the threat. You didn’t trust me
to protect you from your enemies.”
“But you were going to die…” My voice trails off. “How was I
supposed to know you’d come back as a vengeful spirit?”
His snarl sends every fine hair on my body standing to red alert.
“Because I said we would be together, even if it meant defying death.”
He said all of that more than once. I dismissed it as meaningless fluff
fueled by lust—the kind of word salad men use when they’re hot and horny
and hungry to hook up.
“What now?” I ask, the ache in my clit subsiding.
He draws so close to my pussy that his cool presence sends a shiver
through my core. “Tell me you consent, and I will make you come.”
“Consent to what?”
“Everything on that sex contract,” he says, his mouth ghosting over my
folds.
Since none of this is technically real, and I meant everything I said in
those letters, I have nothing to lose. It’s been an eternity since someone
other than myself gave me an orgasm, so why don’t I take advantage of my
imagination?
“Fuck, yeah,” I say, my hips lifting.
He pulls back. “You must be sure.”
“I am. I am.”
“Good girl.”
Rising, he clamps a hand over my face, pressing a wad of fabric into my
nose. I gasp at his touch, inhaling an overwhelming scent of chemicals.
My eyes water. My sinuses sting. I thrash my head from side to side,
trying to break free, but his grip is like iron. The edges of my vision blur,
turning the room into a kaleidoscope of darkness.
“Sleep, my love,” he says.
Stomach lurching, I cling to consciousness, but everything goes black.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-THREE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
My father is too intelligent to admit to engineering my cruel upbringing.
He allowed the situation to escalate until hatred seeped into my blood. The
brothers always put me into fights I couldn’t win, and every day brought
with it pain and humiliation.
Some attacks left me unconscious. I sustained cracked ribs, a broken
nose, fractured fingers, a dislocated shoulder, and bleeding from one of my
ears. Dread was my constant companion. These people didn’t care if I lived
or died.
Things changed when the two older brothers left our elementary school,
leaving just me and the youngest. You must understand that daily violence
and cruelty had robbed me of all mercy. Each injury deepened my hatred
and sharpened my need for vengeance.
One day, the youngest brother cornered me in the bathroom with two
friends, and something inside me snapped. Every ounce of resentment that
festered in my soul broke free. I let loose and pummeled his face.
His friends tried to intervene, but my fury had surpassed the point of
pain. I slammed that bastard’s face into a urinal and didn’t stop until a
teacher pulled me off.
My brother got taken away on a stretcher, and I was escorted to the
principal’s office. When he gave me a speech about being the better person,
I spat blood over his desk. That sanctimonious bastard sat back for years,
saying nothing as I served as the school punching bag.
When they called my father, I expected him to arrive with a syringe and
put me down like a rabid dog. As he walked me out of the school in silence,
I wanted to vomit. I didn’t think I would survive to see the end of the day.
Do you know what he said?
What do you think your parents are hiding? It may be worse than
allowing you to sit in the back seat of their car without a belt. How often do
they avoid the subject of your accident?
Xero.
P.S. Did you receive the toy?

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
The next morning, I wake up so horny I can’t even think straight. Sweat
coats my skin and drenches the tangled sheets. My clit aches, feeling twice
its usual size, and the pulse between my legs pounds in sync with my rapid
heartbeat.
I’m in the throes of withdrawal. By now, Xero would have woken me
with morning phone sex, ending with an explosive orgasm. But he’s no
longer corporeal and my libido is fucked.
My fingers wander beneath the sheets, tracing a line down my belly in
search of relief. When I reach my clit, it’s so sensitive that I gasp at the first
touch.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I rub gentle circles over my swollen
flesh. Sensation races across my nerves, and I flinch. The jerky movement
rocks the four-poster with an almighty creak.
I freeze.
There’s no way I can stroke myself to orgasm within earshot of Mom.
Or more importantly, Uncle Clive.
Sighing, I withdraw my hand. I slip my fingers beneath the pillow out of
habit and trace the outline of another envelope. When I pull it out, there’s a
note inside in Xero’s handwriting that says:

Your toes taste delicious when you sleep.

Xero.
 P.S. So does your pussy.

My stomach plummets toward the wooden floorboards, and I choke on

air.
Toes?
Memories from last night filter through my skull, each one tugging at
the edges of my consciousness. With a shake of my head, I shove them
away. Denial seems the best way to preserve my sanity. At least until I can
tell the difference between hallucinations, reality, and erotic nightmares.
I arrive at Dr. Saint’s office at 7:25 AM, only to find it locked. The wide
front window offers a view of the receptionist’s desk and waiting area,
which are both empty. Maybe there’s no activity because I’m five minutes
early? I refuse to believe my brain fabricated a fake appointment.
Leaning my back against the glass, I stare out into the street. At this
time of the morning, it’s deserted, save for the occasional person opening
their stores. On the other side of the road, a large man lumbers out of the
Phoenix nightclub, locks the doors, and walks toward a black SUV. He
glances in the direction of the Wonderland Fetish Store and then toward me.
I dip my head, not wanting to make eye contact.
I’m trying to resist the urge to dismiss what happened last night as
another hallucination, brought on by a) the trauma of finding an envelope
filled with fingers and b) the appearance of Uncle Clive.
There’s an urban legend about a woman waking up in the middle of the
night with a tongue licking her hand. Assuming it’s her dog, she pets it and
falls asleep. The next morning, she wakes up to find her dog murdered
along with a note in its blood that says, HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.
My brain must have conjured it up because the alternative can’t be true.
Ghosts don’t enter locked rooms to hide under beds and suck women’s
fingers. Ghosts also don’t offer women cunnilingus only to knock them
unconscious and leave them with the female equivalent of blue balls. That
kind of shit is only the product of a malfunctioning mind.
The black SUV drives away, and someone behind me taps on the glass.
I turn around, finding Dr. Saint standing on the other side with her hand
encased in a bandage, wearing a tank top and leggings instead of her usual
skirt and blouse.
 She’s a tall woman in her late-thirties, who usually wears her shoulder-
length hair loose. Today, it’s tied back in a severe bun as if she’s cut short
her session at the gym.
Opening the door, she lets me in without a word and then walks in
silence across the waiting area. I drag my feet, feeling bad for interrupting
her regular schedule.
Her office is set up like a cozy living room, complete with wall lamps, a
bookshelf, and a squishy brown velvet sofa. The furniture has been moved
around a little, so her desk is closer to the door. I sit in an armchair,
watching her rifle through a pile of papers.
“Amethyst Crowley,” she says, her voice sharp. “I haven’t seen you in
years.”
My hackles rise at the accusation, even though it’s true.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask.
Pausing from what she’s doing behind the desk, she glances down at the
bandage and scowls. “Letter opener. Tell me what’s happening. Your mother
says you believe you’re the target of a conspiracy.”
I purse my lips. If I didn’t rely on Mom and Dad to cover my medical
bill, I would work with a more professional therapist who didn’t discuss my
case notes with third parties. There are rumors going around that Dr. Saint
will see anyone for a price and even has clients in the mafia.
“Is it a conspiracy if she avoids questions about my past?” I ask.
Dr. Saint’s eyes soften. She leans across the desk and offers me a half-
smile. “Are your memories returning?”
I’m not paranoid, but she always used to sit closer, within touching
distance, so she could slide over the box of tissues. Now, she’s hiding
behind a desk like she expects me to attack.
If I tell her the truth, she’s likely to relay that information to Mom, and
I’ll never find out what happened before the so-called accident.
“There are snippets,” I say. “It’s hard to put them into context because I
don’t know what happened in my past.”
She nods. “Did they resurface before or after you encountered your
uncle?”
My heart skips at the suggestion that Uncle Clive is a player in my
missing memories. Not wanting to commit to anything, I say, “Both.”
I tell her about the photo and the threatening note I gave to the police
and offer to show her the images on my phone. She remains behind the
desk, saying she’ll view them from a distance.
Something is off about the doctor. She’s skittish and seems ready to
bolt. Does she think I’m a threat, or did something happen to put her on
edge? Not wanting to succumb to my paranoia, I continue.
“Someone is also sending messages from the grave.”
She straightens in her seat. “Xero Greaves?”
“Mom told you?”
“Several of your posts have gone viral on social media,” she says, not
even attempting to hide her judgment. “Did you start communicating with
him before or after you stopped taking your meds?”
“I couldn’t function with the blackouts.”
“And you didn’t think to speak to me about the side effects?”
“I did.” My teeth click shut.
Did I? I can’t remember if I left a message on her voicemail or spoke to
her directly. That time in my life is a blur. I barely even remember what
prompted me to write to Xero in the first place. I know he was the one who
encouraged me to stop taking the drugs.
I shake off the thought. “How can I spot a hallucination?”
She leans forward, her gaze sharpening. “What type of hallucinations
are you experiencing?”
“I keep seeing a ghost who looks like the Grim Reaper. When I ask who
he is, he says I already know.”
When she doesn’t respond, I elaborate on my encounters with Xero,
making sure to avoid talking about Jake. If Dr. Saint can run her mouth
about me to Mom, then she sure as hell can tell the police. I also tell her
about the erotic dreams, the seance, and the death of Kayla.
She leans back into her seat and folds her arms. “I think your mind is
trying to make sense of stressful events by generating hallucinations of a
ghost.”
“I didn’t make it up.”
“Of course not. The hallucinations are your mind’s way of coping.
You’ve been through quite a lot recently. Missing the execution of a man
you’d formed a deep connection with, a colleague’s mysterious death, and
encountering a man from your childhood. Those are many traumatic
events.”
“Okay, so what can you tell me about my past?”
 She tilts her head. “We can work together to explore the fragments of
your memory and piece together a clearer picture of your history.”
Frustration bubbles in my gut, threatening to erupt. I was hoping she
would lay out my childhood, or at least what she knows. After all, she is
Mom and Dad’s therapist. One or both of them would have confided to her
about the time I can’t remember.
“My mom mentioned you would let me have a recording of our early
sessions,” I say.
The corners of her lips pinch. “Providing session recordings directly to
clients isn’t standard practice, but we can explore alternative ways to give
you support.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her attempt to get me back on her
couch. Even though I don’t pay for the sessions myself, I don’t like the idea
of her holding the recordings over my head like a carrot.
“Can’t you just email me the files?” I ask.
“That’s not possible,” she replies.
I grind my teeth. “Can you at least tell me what happened in my past?”
“Amethyst, I understand your frustration, but delving into your past is a
delicate process that requires time and care. It's not something we can
simply uncover in one session.”
My hands curl into fists. “Who says I was asking for an info dump? I
just want access to my recordings. You’re supposed to help, and all you’re
doing is fleecing our family of money.”
Flinching, she clasps her hands together on the desk, trying to maintain
her composure. “We need to approach your memories with sensitivity and
care. Healing takes time, and we can’t rush⁠—”
“It’s been fourteen fucking years, and I can’t remember a thing.”
Her eyes widen at the inconsistency, but she has the good sense not to
mention my lie about the snippets. “Amethyst⁠—”
“No,” I snap. “If you can’t give me the recordings, then there’s no point
in continuing. Just give me my prescription, and I’ll leave.”
When I rise off the armchair, she scrambles out of her seat and edges
toward the door, as though challenging her is all the evidence she needs to
diagnose me as feral.
My jaw tightens. What’s wrong with this woman? It’s me who should
be jumpy. I’m the one who’s being beleaguered by ghosts and online trolls.
 “I’ll send it to the pharmacy,” she says. “It should be ready for you
when it opens.”
“Thanks,” I reply through clenched teeth and head for the door, sneering
at her as she flinches.
My phone rings from an unknown number, and my heart skips several
beats. Hoping to prove to her that Xero’s ghost still exists, I answer and
place the call on speakerphone.
“Hello?”
“It’s Officer Bridges. I called the prison this morning. Mr. Greaves’s
phone was smashed during an altercation, but it’s still in their possession.
Was there anything else you wanted me to check?”
There goes my theory that a crooked prison guard stole his handset.
Shit.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-FIVE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I also thought my father would threaten my life, but he demanded to see
my bloody hands and asked what went through my head as I tried to beat
my brother to death.
Since we were in the school’s parking lot, I didn’t think he would inject
me with poison, so I told the truth. I hadn’t done anything to deserve daily
beatings. It wasn’t fair that I got to sleep in a box while everyone else had
rooms. Having nothing to lose but my life, I told him to release me into
foster care.
He stared at me for the longest time before saying, “I’m proud of you,
son.”
And then he smiled.
I thought it was a trick. Many others approached me as a friend, only to
lure me into an ambush to gain my brothers’ favor. I backed away, refusing
to get into the car because I thought that moment would be my last.
When he reached out to touch my shoulder, I ran.
It’s nearly impossible to get lost in Queen’s Gardens, since it’s a gated
community of mansions surrounded by high fences. A security guard picked
me up hours later and delivered me to my father, who wasn’t the least bit
angry that I’d bolted.
He took me into his study, sat me down on the leather sofa, poured me a
glass of scotch, and made me drink. I was ten years old, and the only
alcohol I’d ever tasted was my mother’s rum and raisin ice cream.
My father reported that I’d put my brother in a coma and asked what I
thought the older two would do when they returned from middle school.
You need to understand that I lived in a constant state of stress. I had
enemies at school, but the worst were at home. Only three people alive in
the world saw me as worthy of life: the housekeeper and her two daughters.
When I didn’t answer, he outlined how his sons would exact their
revenge. His tone was calm, almost detached, as if he wasn’t detailing my
gruesome demise.
I was drunk, terrified, and wanted to throw up. I pictured him standing
by with my stepmother, watching the brothers beat me to death.
Then he made me an offer that he would come to regret.
Xero
P.S. The toy should have arrived by now. Let me know if you don’t get
it by Friday, and I’ll commission another mold.

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-SIX

AMETHYST
After picking up my prescription, I walk over to Wonderland.
Wonderland is a sex supermarket designed to look like a red room of pain
with its black furniture and scarlet walls. It sells everything from dirty
books to dungeon furniture, including fetish clothes and toys.
Myra appears from behind a table crammed with dildos, only to
disappear behind a pair of mannequins dressed head to toe in leather. I try
the door, but it’s locked, so I knock on the glass.
Up until last year, Myra worked for a literary agent, but then her boss
was caught embezzling clients’ funds. The entire team got fired, including
Myra. No other company in the industry would employ her after the
scandal, forcing her to give up her downtown studio. Now, Myra does this
part-time gig to pay off her student loans while she builds her freelance
business.
The owner of Wonderland made her audition for this new job in one of
their basement playrooms, where she discovered he’s a Dom with a pierced
cock. Apparently, he’s really hot, comes from old money, and lives in a
mansion at the top of Alderney Hill. He’s our age, and his family owns all
the stores on this block. She thinks he’s the ultimate catch, but I can’t get
over his red flags.
What kind of man demands kinky sex from a woman to qualify her for a
job?
This is where Myra and I are different. I have sexual hangups and she’s
a free spirit. I’m coddled by Mom and Dad, while she’s fiercely
independent.
 Myra could have turned to her parents for help while she was building
up her business. They’re both wealthy lawyers with a real estate business
and live in a mansion in Queen’s Gardens. She won’t accept a dime from
them because they want her to go to law school, like her older sister,
Martina, who’s a high-profile attorney.
When she reappears from behind the mannequins, I knock on the glass
again and wave. She startles before jogging over to me with a broad smile.
The door opens, letting out a cloud of rosemary and sage.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Just came from the therapist.” I hold up my bag from the pharmacy.
Her smile fades and she moves aside to let me in. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I step into the store and set down my drugs on the counter. “Just
wanted to get back on my meds so my mind could sift through what’s real
and what isn’t.”
She nods. “Good idea. Are you still seeing ghosts?”
“Dreaming about them, now,” I mutter. “Any word from your boss?”
“Cesare hasn’t called,” she replies with a sigh. “I’m beginning to think
he’s found someone else.”
“You said he runs lots of businesses…” I leave the rest of the sentence
hanging. A man who has sex with one woman as part of their interview
process is likely to do the same with another.
“Maybe he’s found fresh meat,” she replies with a shrug. “I’m already
over him. Have you completed the manuscript?”
I shuffle on my feet and grimace. “I have writer’s block.”
She frowns. “Because you didn’t go to the wedding?”
“That’s part of it,” I reply with a grimace.
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about making your story
public? Not after I bought us tickets for the book fair⁠—”
“No…” I raise my palms. “It’s nothing like that. People don’t want to
read about me wallowing in my guilt.”
“But they might want to read about the ghosts.” She rubs her chin.
“There’s only one,” I lie.
She waves away that comment. “You said Xero’s ghost sent you a text
about Kayla keeping one of his sex toys. Why not include that in the book?”
“And profit from her death?” I whisper, trying not to sound scandalized.
“How is this different from writing about Xero’s?”
 Guilt claws its way through my chest, and my shoulders sag. She has a
point, but something about this situation doesn’t sit right.
“What’s wrong?”
“Xero said my relationship with him was a sham to sell a book.” I
mutter.
“Was that before or after his execution?” She disappears into a
storeroom and emerges with a cardboard box.
I fold my arms. “What are you saying?”
“Answer my question. When did Xero accuse you of faking your
relationship?”
“A few hours after his official time of death.”
Myra sets the box down and begins pulling out crotchless panty sets,
marking their quantity off on the inventory sheet. “There you go,” she
replies with a nod. I raise my brows, prompting her to continue, and she
adds, “You’re devastated for letting him die alone, and now the guilt is
manifesting as his ghost.”
“Since when did you become an expert in mental health?”
She turns around, places both hands on my shoulders, and looks me in
the eyes. I can’t stand to see myself reflected in her irises, so I focus on the
bridge of her nose.
“Who do you see every time you try to sleep with a man?” she asks.
Stepping back, I turn toward a rack of leather cuffs. “It’s not every
time.”
“You’re too afraid of intimacy to try hooking up with anyone else. What
Mr. Lawson did to you was grooming and abuse. He deserved to die, but
you still have unresolved issues.”
Someone needs to tell my subconscious, because it hasn’t gotten the
message. It would find a way to screw with my happiness even if I met Mr.
Perfect, who was alive and not behind bars.
“I know,” I reply, “That’s why I’m going to take my meds.”
“Don’t they make you dizzy and sleepy?” she asks.
“And a bunch of other unwanted symptoms.” I run my fingers through
my curls. “But I’ll put up with anything as long as it helps me sift through
the delusions and what’s real.”
With a sigh, she opens another box containing silver nipple clamps, and
I help her put them on the shelves. I really want to finish that manuscript,
but writer’s block is real. Sometimes, I wonder if she thinks I’m a lost
cause. After completing the restocking, she leads me behind the counter.
“Have you read Dracula?” she asks.
What kind of question is that? Have I read a staple piece of Gothic
literature among the dozens I have on my shelves? Myra knows my favorite
subject at school was English Lit. She might as well have asked if I’m
familiar with Poe.
“Of course,” I reply with a frown.
“And Frankenstein?”
“What are you getting at?”
“What do they have in common, apart from being about monsters?”
I chew my bottom lip. “They were both written in the eighteen-
hundreds, both major players in the horror genre?”
“What else?”
“Umm… There’s at least a hundred movies based on both?”
She shakes her head. “Think about the structure.”
“Dracula had a few chapters at the beginning like a regular novel, then
it was journal entries, newspaper clippings, and letters. Then Frankenstein
also used letters and different points of view?”
She claps her hands together. “Do the same. You’ve scanned the letters,
right?”
“Yes?”
“So we’ll include those in the manuscript. I’ll forward you the emails I
sent Kayla to set up the mailing address and that kind of thing. We’ll reprint
transcripts of your viral videos where you comment on newspaper articles,
along with the letters you both exchanged.”
I rub the back of my head. “There’s a lot of personal information about
my past.”
“Then we delete anything you find intrusive.”
“What about all the work I’ve done so far?”
“Shove it in. I’ll cut down any duplicates.”
“And the ending?”
“Write your speculation on what happened to his soul.” She makes jazz
hands. “We’ll include text message exchanges between you and me about
what happened to Kayla, and then⁠—”
She freezes.
 My brow furrows, and I wait for her to complete the thought, but her
eyes go wide. I turn to see what’s gotten her so spooked, but all I see is a
rack of canes.
“Myra?” I tap her shoulder.
“You don’t know, do you?”
“What?”
“I drove to Gavin’s apartment after work and rang the bell. The guy next
door said he left the day before in an ambulance but hasn’t yet returned.”
My breath hitches. I already know the rest of that story, but still ask,
“What happened?”
“He says a masked man broke in, and forced him to drink two bottles of
cognac, but he passed out after the first. He woke up later, covered in vomit
and booze, with his hand burned. All five of his fingers were missing.”

After leaving Myra at work, I drove straight back to Mom and Dad’s, where
I took my medication. Within minutes, I went straight to sleep and spent the
rest of the morning in bed. They say it takes several days to see its
effects, but in my case, the delusions rolled away by the evening.
The drugs numbed the shock of Myra confirming Gavin’s injury, and by
the time I thought to check the overnight bag, the envelope and the fingers
inside it were gone. I tried calling to check on his wellbeing, but I think he’s
blocked my number.
I probably shouldn’t have flown into a rage at Dr. Saint. She was
obviously rattled about something other than me, and had agreed to an
emergency appointment, despite reeling from whatever happened to her
bandaged hand.
Mom had gotten my hopes up with the suggestion that I might be able
to listen to my recordings, and getting turned down by the doctor ignited
my temper. It’s no excuse for lashing out, but I need to uncover the mystery
of that photo.
The next few days pass in a drowsy haze as the drugs work their magic
on my mind. In between lengthy naps, I type Xero’s letters into a document,
along with my replies. I rework parts of the original manuscript into journal
entries until I have fifty-thousand words of content.
 One night, I awaken tangled in sheets and covered in sweat from erotic
nightmares. My clit throbs so hard that I have to relieve the pressure with
my fingers and bite down on my bottom lip to stifle my moans. Every
dream involves the same creature—a masked and hooded figure with
glowing eyes.
During bouts of lucidity, I type out transcripts of my viral videos to add
to the manuscript, along with some of the worst troll comments. Since I
can’t come up with a satisfying ending, I’m using a bit of creative license
with a cyber-stalking subplot about an unknown copycat.
The transcribing goes well until my entire account gets banned for
community guidelines violations again, making my videos, along with the
troll comments I needed to pad out the manuscript, go poof.
All that bullshit I went through with Gavin was for nothing. I’ve lost my
account, along with a large chunk of my cash.
Mom continues to keep me separated from Uncle Clive, but I catch
glimpses of him sitting in the garden with his gaze fixed on my window.
Meanwhile, my stalker sends disturbing dick pics set against a black
backdrop.
On the seventh day, she comes in under the pretext of changing my
sheets and asks about my plans to return to Parisii Drive. I mumble
something about needing a safe space to complete my manuscript. When
she continues pressing me to leave, I ask her why Dad hasn’t come home,
which has her rushing out.
That night, I bolt awake in the middle of the night to the thud of heavy
footsteps. Cold air swirls around the room, and the fine hairs on the back of
my neck stand to attention.
Pins and needles prickle across my skin, awakening every nerve ending
through the fog of drugs. My heart races in a sluggish rhythm, and my
stomach roils with cold dread.
It’s happening again.
Every nightmare returns to full clarity. The Grim Reaper who haunts my
dreams will step out of the shadows to demand answers. Then, after he’s
interrogated me until my voice is hoarse, he’ll begin the sexual torment.
He’ll edge me until I’m on the brink of release, and then he’ll leave me
humiliated, frustrated, and begging him to let me come. When I’m crying
out for release, he’ll drag me into unconsciousness and return the next night
to continue the eternal edging.
 Just when I think I’m in sleep paralysis, I twitch my fingers, but they
respond to my command. My eyes snap open to a dark figure obscured by
one of my bedposts.
Alarm squeezes my chest. This isn’t the tall, hulking grim reaper who
teases me in my sleep. He’s shorter, more slender, more sinister.
“Who’s there?” I ask, my voice catching.
Uncle Clive steps out from the shadows, the whites of his eyes glowing
in the semi-darkness, his bony hands clutching a pillow. His tawny hair
stands up at all angles like he’s run his fingers back and forth through his
scalp the entire night.
I scramble back across the mattress until I’m pressed against the
headboard, then I scream, “What are you doing?”
He rushes at me with the pillow and snarls, “I know what you did!”

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 TWENTY-SEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I will never get tired of hearing your sleepy, sultry voice. Before I die, I
will have you wake up in my arms. Once I savor you with all five of my
senses, I will know that everything I suffered was worthwhile, because I
wouldn’t have otherwise enjoyed this moment of bliss.
The clip of you in the cream camisole will forever be seared in my
mind. Your luscious breasts and beautiful pink pussy are but snippets of a
portrait of perfection. May I see a complete nude?
I can’t tell you in writing how I smuggled in a penis molding kit. Let’s
just say the guards only get to read my incoming mail. The volume of
correspondence I receive is too vast for them to scrutinize every piece.
Your letter is the only one that makes my heart skip. Everyone else’s
goes into a pile that I donate to other prisoners.
The offer my father made that he would come to regret is a long story,
involving corruption and conspiracies that stretch across the higher
echelons of society. After sharing this information, you will never look at
men in power the same way.
It involves children being forced to commit the most heinous acts of
depravity. Are you sure you want to be burdened? If the wrong people knew
you had this information, they would stop at nothing to ensure your silence.
Let me know how you wish to proceed. I will deny you nothing, but you
must know that obtaining this information comes with risks.
 Xero
P.S. How is your memory, now that you’ve stopped taking the
medication?

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST
I return shaken to Parisii Drive, having spent the night sleeping in my
car. Mom rushed into the bedroom after I screamed and tried to convince
me that what I saw was a hallucination.
It wasn’t.
The vision of Uncle Clive hovering over me is hermetically sealed in
my brain and playing on repeat. I don’t understand why Mom would fight
so hard to protect a predator. It’s obvious that he planned to suffocate me
with that pillow.
The words, ‘I know what you did’ run through my mind like a mantra.
Was he talking about the time I pushed Mr. Lawson off the school’s roof
garden? Men who get hounded by vigilante mobs probably despise girls
who take justice into their own hands.
At this time of the morning, my road is quiet, save for the distant
rumble of traffic. Sunlight warms the townhouses’ facades, making the road
look like it isn’t a murder spot. I step out of the car and hover outside my
door, wondering what I’ll find inside. Jake’s corpse? The Grim Reaper?
Another red envelope containing Gavin’s left hand?
If Myra lived alone, I would drive straight to her place, but she’s
crashing on a friend’s couch. Besides, I love her too much to bring her into
contact with an angry ghost.
Suppressing a shudder, I open my front door and step inside. The
narrow hallway is exactly as I left it, but the house smells different. I sniff
the air, filling my senses with the scent of sawdust, dirt, and formaldehyde.
Or maybe what I’m sniffing is just hydrogen peroxide and blood?
 I walk around, checking what might have changed in my week’s
absence. There’s a bottle of Armagnac on the living room table but no glass.
I must have left it there the day Gavin came to restore my account.
The green room is exactly the same, save for the faint smell of
chemicals. I rub the back of my neck, wondering what it could mean, and
continue to the kitchen.
My heart pounds as I glance around at the tiled floor and black cabinets,
finding no traces of Jake’s corpse. It’s over. I got away with killing that
asshole and disposing of his body. I won’t allow myself to feel an ounce of
guilt because it was self-defense. If Jake wanted to stay alive, he shouldn’t
have tracked me down and shoved his way into my home.
Fuck that guy. I hope he’s burning in hell.
As I turn back toward the hallway, my gaze lands on a flash of white.
On the kitchen table lies a sheet of paper, still warped from being creased.
Holding my breath, I walk over to scan its contents.
It’s a contract.
My stomach plummets.
Staring up at me is the agreement I signed with Xero. It’s written in his
spiky handwriting and was meant to be a bit of fun—something to spice up
the phone sex, where I let him know which sexual practices I wanted to
explore and the ones that were hard limits.
With trembling fingers, I pick up the four sheets and review what I
checked. I agreed to all forms of breath play, humiliation, facials, bondage,
exhibitionism, voyeurism and a whole host of kinks. I wanted to try
everything except watersports and scat.
After glaring at my signature on the back, I glance over my shoulder
toward the hallway, expecting to see Xero’s ghost. When he doesn’t
materialize, I turn to the window and peer down the length of the garden but
find no one standing by the trees.
I’m not hallucinating this piece of paper.
Someone or something has been in my house, and I won’t stick around
to find out who.
A knock sounds on the front door, making my heart clench with alarm. I
set down the sex contract and creep on tiptoes down the hallway toward the
sound. My pulse pounds through my eardrums, sending its reverberations to
my bones.
 What if I open the door and find Jake’s corpse? That’s ridiculous.
Nothing of the sort will happen because I’m back on the meds.
One cautious glance through the peephole tells me that I got rattled for
nothing. It’s only Mrs. Baker. Relief loosens my chest, mingled with a
touch of frustration. Why the hell am I always on edge? Every sound isn’t a
bad omen. Shaking off those thoughts, I open the door.
Mrs. Baker is a retired actress in her late seventies, whom I’ve never
seen without bright red lipstick or a smile. No matter the time of day, she’s
always decked in something glamorous. This morning, it’s a cream
cashmere sweater with matching lounge pants, which she’s paired with a
string of pearls.
“Amethyst,” she says, her voice carrying like she’s onstage. “Reverend
Tom said you wanted to see me.”
It takes a moment to register that she’s talking about the time I knocked
on her door after she’d gone to sleep.
“Oh, it was nothing.” I run a hand through the blonde side of my curls.
“I just wanted to know if you had a free room.”
She remains standing on the doorstep, waiting for me to elaborate, so I
word-vomit the same garbled story about a friend who wanted a place to
stay. When she continues staring, I gulp. What will I do if she mentions me
dragging Jake’s corpse down to the cemetery?
“Have you completed the work?” she asks.
My brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been gone for a week. I presume it’s because you were having
work done to your house?”
I shift on my feet, wondering if she’s confusing me with Reverend Tom,
who’s having his rectory fumigated. When Mrs. Baker tilts her head,
expecting an answer, I mutter, “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Because my boarders don’t appreciate the noise.” She walks away,
leaving a cloud of Chanel N°5.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to ask what she means, so I retreat
into the house. My body is finally getting used to the drugs, and my mind
no longer feels so sluggish. It’s time to focus on completing the manuscript
so I can at least have a draft ready in time for the book fair.
Ten hours later, after a couple of catnaps and copious amounts of caffeine,
I’m sitting in my upstairs study, staring at the computer screen. The room is
dark since I haven’t moved since I started working. I finally have seventy-
thousand words, but I’m struggling with the final chapters. The heroine of
my reworked story missed the execution because a copycat killer tried to
make her his first victim, but she fought for her life and chased him away
with scalding water.
The copycat then attacks her online presence, trying to isolate her from
her fans. Then he returns the next day and forces her to watch a video of the
execution. The heroine smashes a bottle of Armagnac over his head and
drives away.
I stare at the manuscript, wondering what the fuck I’m writing. “This is
going around in circles.”
There’s no point in fretting when I have an agent, so I email the latest
version to Myra with a note asking what she thinks. If her response is
lukewarm, then I’ll scrap the last twenty-thousand words and pad out the
middle.
Maybe I could turn the morning phone sex to conjugal visits? I could
bring the wedding forward, perhaps to the midpoint, and then fill the rest of
the pages with smut.
The sound of smashing glass has me rising off my seat and walking to
the window. Outside, Sparrow stands beneath a streetlight and tosses a
bottle into the road, letting it splinter into pieces. His brother, Wilder, grabs
his arm, urging him to stop, but Sparrow shoves him aside.
My lips purse. He’s probably pissed because Relaney finally ordered
them to leave. The pair continue jostling each other, causing an almighty
ruckus. I glance around at the other windows, finding that I’m the only
person watching. Someone needs to call the cops. No one wants to walk or
drive over that broken glass.
I’m about to retreat from the window when Wilder turns around and
waves me over. I point at my chest and he nods, seeming to want me to
calm down his brother.
That’s not going to happen. I don’t want to get involved.
When I return to my laptop, the screen is blank. I turn it back on, only to
find it restored to factory settings. My breath catches. My gut roils with
dread. All my files, all my photos, all my documents are gone.
Along with my fucking manuscript.
 Panic punches through my ribcage and squeezes my heart. I gape at the
screen, not quite believing my laptop could just delete itself, so I call Myra
and reboot.
She answers in one ring. “Hey⁠—”
“Do you have the latest version of the manuscript?” I ask, my voice
quickening.
“About that.” Hesitating, she draws in a long breath. “I’m not feeling
that extra storyline. People want to read about the sexy killer with the
pierced cock, not some bumbling copycat the same height as the heroine.”
“Right, but do you still have a copy?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“My computer just wiped everything. All my files are gone.”
“Oh, shit,” she shrieks. “Let me check.”
I clasp an arm over my belly, which won’t stop sinking with impending
doom. It’s not just the manuscript I’ve lost, but all my replies to Xero’s
letters. They were scanned before mailing, and the originals are in the
penitentiary. As I wait for Myra to get back to the phone, I walk to my little
filing cabinet to check on the letters I received from Xero.
It’s empty. They’re gone.
All that’s left is a note in Xero’s spiky handwriting that says one word:
NO.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Whoever left the contract also broke
into my house and took the letters.
“Amy?” Myra’s voice sounds from the receiver.
I bring the phone to my ear. “Yes?”
“My laptop got hit with a virus.”
I slump down on my desk chair, my lungs deflating. “You’re joking.”
“No. I also logged into my email and every single message containing
the manuscript has been deleted.”
My breath hitches. “It’s the ghost.”
“It isn’t,” she says, her voice strained. “It’s a hacker. Someone out there
doesn’t want you to release the book. Probably an online troll.”
I gulp over and over, my breath quickening. “Maybe this is a sign that
we shouldn’t. All the letters Xero sent me are missing from my filing
cabinet. I know you bought us tickets for the book fair, but I can pay you
back⁠—”
 “We’re going,” she says, her voice laced with steel. “I believe in you
and your talent. If the epistolary story doesn’t work out, we’ll find
something else. Something better. Something spicier. People have gotten
book contracts with far fewer followers.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “But I’ve been banned.”
“Set up a second account. You can rebuild your following. Do it now.”
She hangs up, presumably to get her computer fixed.
Instead of setting up a new account as she suggested, I walk to the
bedroom and refresh my overnight bag. That sex contract didn’t appear on
the kitchen table for no reason. But my consent only extends to Xero, and
I’ll be damned if I fall asleep in this house to be molested by a malevolent
presence.
By the time I step outside, Sparrow and Wilder are gone, as are all
traces of the broken bottles. I ring Relaney’s doorbell, and she answers
within seconds.
Her huge blonde afro is held back by a headband made of white fabric
that matches her floaty, white mumu, and the lava lamps cluttering her
hallway shine through the loose strands with reds and blues and greens.
“Amethyst,” she says with a broad smile. “Where have you been? I
thought you’d return for another seance.”
“I’m here now. Can I stay the night?

OceanofPDF.com
 TWENTY-NINE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I’m glad you’re feeling better. I knew the medication was causing your
memory lapses. Society is so fixated on molding its drones to the same
mindset that it’s willing to iron out any deviations with drugs.
The attorney your parents hired should never have drugged you for what
happened with your music teacher. He was the worst kind of predator and
needed to be destroyed. They should have given you protection, not
prescriptions.
I would never see your scars as ugly. Each is a sign of a challenge we
survived. If yours are truly as vivid as you claim, then I would treat each
one with the utmost love. Without them, I would never have you. However,
I won’t press for you to send full nudes.
Your comment about my online notoriety made me laugh. I knew I was
popular from all the fan mail I received, but I had no idea people were
making posts on social media about my life. If talking about me on the
internet makes you happy, then you have my permission to set up an official
fan club.
Tell everyone out there that I appreciate their love and support. I can’t
reply to every letter, as the volume of mail I receive is more than one
prisoner can manage, but if you relay one or two questions in each letter, I
will provide answers for the fans.
 Tell me what else they want to know. I’ll do my best to supply you with
content for the fan club’s social media.
Since you asked about my father’s proposal, I will tell you the story in
multiple parts. My father is still alive and an extremely dangerous man, as
are his associates. For your own safety and my peace of mind, do not share
the next parts of my story. Not even with your best friend.
Xero.
P.S. I remade the toy and it’s in the mail. Let me know the moment you
receive the package.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY

AMETHYST
Relaney ushers me into her living room, where a computer tablet plays
new age pipe music. The mattresses on the far left of the room are now
bare, with sheets folded neatly on the side, and all the clothes now reside in
large laundry bags.
Gone are the candles, replaced by small lamps, and there isn’t a trace of
burning incense. It looks like they’re not taking any more chances with fire
hazards.
Ezekiel and Chappy sit around the low table, drinking beer from cans,
which they set aside the moment they realize I’m not Relaney. Both men sit
straight and gaze up at me, their eyes wide and expectant.
I shouldn’t be here, hiding out from my stalker, but I don’t know what
else to do. After a week of taking my meds, he’s still messing with my life.
There may or may not be a ghost, but someone has been in my house. I’m
too much of a coward to confront him while home alone, but if this is a
haunting, maybe he’ll speak to me through another séance.
Relaney’s bony hands land on my shoulders, and she marches me to the
table. “Sit, sit,” she says, her voice breathy with excitement. “We tried to
summon the spirit again several times after you left, but it didn’t answer our
call.”
I lower myself onto the cushion beside Chappy, who gives me a broad
smile.
“Good to see you back, babe. Hope you brought the spirits.”
I’m about to reply when Sparrow and Wilder walk in through the
beaded curtains and take their places at the wall. Nobody seems to care that
Sparrow was throwing bottles into the street, so I focus my attention on
Relaney.
“You have a very powerful aura,” she says. “Such great potential for
mediumship. I could teach you.”
“It’s not really my thing,” I reply with a shake of my head.
Her face falls. “What’s wrong?”
“I think my spirit doesn’t want me to write a book. Can you ask him
why?”
Her brows pull together. “Of course. But you should reconsider my
offer. We could go places with your spiritual power.”
I try not to wrinkle my nose. “Maybe later.”
Chappy takes my hand. “We can learn together,” he says, his voice
lowering several octaves. “I can help you.”
My gaze darts to Relaney, who gives me an encouraging nod. When
Ezekiel cracks a smile, I wonder if this trio has ever managed to speak to
the dead. They seem so eager for me to join their little cult.
Pulling away my hand, I rub the back of my neck. “Could we start the
seance?”
With a nod, Relaney asks us to link hands again, and she talks us
through the same meditation as before. This time, I ignore Sparrow and
Wilder’s snickering. I sure as hell didn’t hallucinate the sex contract, empty
filing cabinet, missing manuscript, and Xero’s one-word note.
He’s stopped sending me texts, and I need answers.
“Is anybody out there?” Relaney asks.
The lightbulbs in the lamps all flicker and pop, making me suck in a
sharp breath. Darkness descends across the room, and every fine hair on the
back of my neck stands on end.
“Wonderful,” Relaney says, her voice quickening.
My stomach dips. “Is that you, Xero?”
One knock.
“Yes,” Chappy says, sounding triumphant.
“Don’t interrupt,” Relaney snaps.
Beside me, Chappy flinches. One of the brothers standing by the wall
chuckles. I’m too invested in what Xero will say to crack open an eye.
“Continue, Amethyst,” she says.
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “Did you delete my
manuscript?”
 One knock.
“Why?”
I fall silent as he makes a series of knocks, and Ezekiel translates them
into letters.
“M… Y… Space. P… R… O⁠—”
“Your property?” I snap.
One knock.
“Then why did you delete the scans of my letters?”
“M… I… N… E,” Ezekiel says.
I grind my teeth. “Let me get this straight. The letters you wrote belong
to you, and so do the letters I wrote. What about the extra twenty-thousand
words I produced last week without your input?”
“A… L… S… O⁠—”
“Also yours?”
One knock.
Ezekiel clears his throat. “Could you please refrain from interrupting the
spirit?”
“Tell the spirit to start making sense. I don’t belong to him or anyone
else.”
Two knocks.
I shake my head, my skin prickling with annoyance. “What right do you
have over my life? We’re not even married.”
Two knocks.
“But I wasn’t even at the wedding.”
Relaney sighs. “Relationships are different in the spirit realm.”
“Are you taking his side?” I ask.
She falls silent.
There’s another series of knocks, but Ezekiel remains quiet, probably so
I won’t interfere when he’s translating for the spirit. I crack open an eye to
find him frowning.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“It’s not very nice,” he says.
“Tell me.”
“He said he wants to break you.”
One knock.
My stomach flips. “Why?”
 Ezekiel waits for the next sequence of knocks to finish before
translating. “He called you a betrayer.”
I swallow hard. “Can I say something?”
One knock.
“Xero, this isn’t healthy.” My throat tightens. “I know you’re upset with
me, but you can’t keep destroying my work. Writing is all I have⁠—”
A loud crash echoes in the room, cutting off my words. My eyes snap
open, and Sparrow advances on me with a broken bottle.
“You murdering bitch!” he screams.
Heart leaping into my throat, I scramble to my feet. “What are you
doing?”
Relaney grabs my arm. “You’ve broken the circle.”
Wilder grabs Sparrow’s wrist, trying to hold him back, but Sparrow
breaks away from his brother, his eyes filled with the same kind of madness
as Uncle Clive’s.
Moonlight streams in through the front window, hitting the sharp edge
of the glass. Sparrow bares his teeth and snarls, “I’ll make sure you never
stab another man again.”
As I back away from the madman, my feet tangle on the edge of a rug. I
tumble backward, landing hard on the wooden floor. Pain explodes in the
back of my head, and my vision fills with stars.
“Amethyst,” Relaney screams. “Chappy, help her!”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to process the shock of falling as well as
Sparrow’s wild accusation. Was he the one who’s been breaking into my
house? What if he saw me dragging Jake’s body into the cemetery and
decided to teach me a lesson? He’s certainly tall enough to impersonate that
Grim Reaper. Maybe too thin, but a determined psychopath can do a lot
with a little extra padding.
A warm hand lands on my arm, and I open my eyes. Chappy kneels
beside me with a crooked smile. I stare over his shoulder at where Wilder
has gotten control of Sparrow and jostles him out through the beaded
curtain. Seconds later, the door slams shut, and two figures run past the
living room window.
“Still with us, babe?” Chappy asks.
“He came at me with a bottle,” I rasp.
“Xero Greaves?”
“Sparrow. Didn’t you see?”
 Chappy glances at Relaney, who drops to her knees, her eyes magnified
by her glasses. “Who is Sparrow?” she asks, enunciating each word the way
people do when they’re speaking with someone who’s simple or unwell.
“Another killer?”
“He’s Wilder’s brother. The man who always stands by the wall.”
Relaney stares down at me, her thin brows furrowing. “Which wall,
dear?”
My lips part, but realization hits me like a punch to the back of the head.
Don’t tell me I hallucinated the two brothers? Panic rises to my throat,
forcing down my words. If they were just figments of my imagination, then
does that mean I’m immune to my medication?
“Can you see spirits, babe?” Chappy helps me sit up, his large hand on
my shoulder.
“It’s just a…” I blink away the spots. “It’s a compound hallucination.
That’s a thing.”
He shakes his head. “You’re gifted.”
“Not really.”
“You are a true medium.” Relaney taps the space in the middle of my
forehead. “You have a powerful third-eye chakra.”
“Um… okay.” I glance toward the window, looking for signs of the
brothers. When I don’t see them lurking about, I turn my attention back to
Relaney. “Sorry for ruining the séance. Can I still stay the night?”
“Of course you can. You’re always welcome.”
I try to rise, but Chappy scoops me into his arms and cradles me to his
chest.
“Let me carry you upstairs, babe.”
“Put me down.” I give his shoulder a gentle shove.
Relaney appears at my side. “That was a very nasty crack. You might be
concussed.”
“I’d rather walk.”
The moment Chappy sets me on my feet, blood rushes south, leaving
me lightheaded, and the room spins. I sway on my feet, splaying out both
arms for balance.
Chappy grabs me by the waist before I fall. “Whoa. Do you need a
doctor?”
“See?” Relaney takes my arm, her brow creasing. “You need help.”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh.
 Chappy picks me up again, along with my overnight bag, and carries me
across the room. I glance over his shoulder to find Ezekiel and Relaney
with their arms wrapped around each other, seeing us off with broad smiles.
I hope they don’t think I want to become their fourth.
Chappy carries me up the stairs, gazing down at me with awe. “You’re
powerful.”
“I’m just being stalked by a ghost,” I mutter.
“Relaney is great and all, but I’ve never met a true clairvoyant.”
“It’s hallucinations. Sometimes I see things when I’m stressed.”
“Dead people?” he asks with a knowing smile.
“Nothing like the boy in the movie, and it only happens under extreme
circumstances.”
“I knew it.” He reaches the top of the stairs and opens the door to the
spare room.
My chest deflates. It’s impossible to explain that the hallucinations are a
trauma response to people I’ve killed or allowed to die. Xero appearing to
me as the Grim Reaper is one thing, but I’m not about to admit to the
reasons why I sometimes see Mr. Lawson and Jake.
Chappy lays me on the bed and sets down my bag. “We can talk about it
tomorrow. I’ll even make you breakfast.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, my head still pounding.
Drawing back, he scoots to the end of the bed and removes my left
shoe.
I raise my head and wince at a rush of pain. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you relax,” he replies and slips off the right. “I know a little
reflexology. It can ease the pain in your head.”
“No, thanks,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “Ticklish.”
He scoots up the mattress, his brown eyes boring into mine. “If you
don’t want a foot massage, how about I eat your pussy?”
My breath hitches, and my cheeks grow hot. “Wh-What?”
He grins, his eyes sparkling. “Relaney’s got Ezekiel. Now, I’ve got
you.” He waggles his tongue. “I can make you feel real good.”
My heart races, and the pulse between my legs pounds so hard that its
vibrations reach my toes. It’s too soon. I can’t take up any offers, especially
from one of Relaney’s men.
Or can I?
 Beneath the scraggly beard and messy hair is a handsome man with
hints of muscles showing through his green shirt. If I squint hard enough, he
could pass for a hot surfer dude.
I’ve hooked up with men in the past but never gotten close to an
orgasm. Either we get interrupted, or they’re completely inept, or I seize up
at the reminder of Mr. Lawson. For the longest time, my brain associated
sexual pleasure with miscarriages or the man I killed.
The only man who ever made me climax was Xero.
I can’t say if it was his voice, his filthy words, or the safety that he was
behind bars. Phone sex with him gave me explosive orgasms, which only
got better when I played with his dildo.
“How about it?” Chappy runs his long fingers down my thigh, making
me fidget.
The question hangs in the air, leaving the kind of tension I feel across
every inch of my skin. My throat tightens. I glance around the room for
signs of Xero’s ghost. My clit swells and my libido urges me to take him up
on his offer, but I shove back the little traitor.
“I pledged my life to Xero,” I murmur. “My body belongs to him.”
His brows pull together. “Are you sure, babe? You’re still young and
hot, and he wouldn’t want you pining away for him your entire life.”
I swallow hard, my heart thumping against my ribcage. Even if a part of
my mind is already imagining that hot tongue sliding between my thighs,
my heart shrivels at the thought of betraying Xero.
“I can’t.”
“Here’s what you’re missing.” He extends his tongue. It’s long and thick
and pierced with a silver stud.
Tingles shoot down my spine and settle in my pussy. I bite down on my
bottom lip and stifle a groan. How long has it been since I gained pleasure
from something other than my fingers or a toy? Thinking about the last man
who made me climax sends a surge of anger that makes me want to throw
him off another rooftop.
Shaking my head, I meet his gaze. “Good night, Chappy. My answer is
no.”
He makes flicking motions with the tip of his tongue. It’s so suggestive
that the ache between my legs intensifies. I squeeze my thighs and force my
breath to slow.
“The answer is still no,” I mutter.
 Shoulders sagging, Chappy rises off the bed and makes his way toward
the door. As he steps out into the hallway, he says, “I’ll check on you later,
in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
When he turns back to me and winks, I make a mental note to jam a
chair under the doorknob and keep a knife beneath my pillow. If he returns
while I’m sleeping, he’ll get a nasty surprise.
Hours later, I wake up disoriented. I’m standing upright in the dark,
precariously balanced on a rickety chair. My eyes adjust to the moonlight
streaming through the window, revealing a hooded figure standing by the
door.
Cold shock barrels through my system, sending chills down my spine. I
jerk forward, making the chair creak, and feel a sharp tug on my neck. My
fingers reach up and close around a thick rope encircling my throat.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, barely able to say the words.
“Your punishment,” growls a low, menacing voice.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-ONE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I’m delighted you’ve finally received the toy. Yes, it’s true to life.
Before you ask, you may not show it on social media. The intimacy we
share is sacred.
Until the day I die and beyond, my cock and any replicas thereof are for
your pleasure only. I trust you feel the same. If you don’t, any man who
touches you will either lose body parts or die.
In answer to the fans’ questions:
My favorite color is red. Its exact shade in hexadecimal code is 330000.
It reminds me so much of the dried blood of my enemies. It’s also the
reason why I enjoy red velvet cake.
My choice of last meal wouldn’t be liver, fava beans, and chianti. It
would be you. I would devour every inch of your delectable body from your
luscious lips to your pretty pussy. I would lap your juices, drink your piss,
lick your sweat. No part of you will remain untouched.
If you’re not on the menu, then I will choose a smoked salmon croque
madame with a crisp chardonnay.
Here’s the part you’ve been waiting for. Do not let these letters fall into
the wrong hands.
My father made me two offers. The first was to attend the same middle
school as the older brothers and look forward to more of the same torment.
The second was a school for elite students, where I would have a fresh start.
 I was ten years old and still terrified I would be punished for hurting his
precious son. If I had known the second option would cost me my soul, I
would have chosen eight more years of hell with my brothers.
This so-called elite school was a facility for training children to become
assassins. Are you sure you want to know more?
Xero
P.S. I’m glad the toy finally arrived. Have it ready for our next call.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-TWO

AMETHYST
In an instant, my mind goes from half asleep to blind panic. Flinching, I
sway on the chair, only for it to groan beneath my feet. I tip forward, but get
pulled back by the rope around my neck.
Not a rope.
A noose.
Cold panic rushes through my veins, turning my skin to ice. Every pulse
point in my body pounds, leaving me feeling like a raw nerve. Sensation
floods my clit, even though not a single part of me finds this situation
erotic.
One false move and the chair beneath my feet will topple over, leaving
me hanging. I could choke or worse, break my neck.
Cool air swirls around my skin, making my nipples tighten. The figure
shifts in the shadows, seeming intrigued.
Shit.
Has he stripped me naked?
“Xero?” I whisper.
He inclines his head.
I blink over and over, trying to force my vision to adjust to the lack of
light. My eyes are still sluggish, not yet caught up with my mind’s state of
alarm. The chair beneath my feet creaks again, threatening to collapse with
the barest movement. Tightening my leg muscles, I force my body to stay
steady.
“Why are you doing this? Because of the wedding?”
 Silence stretches out for several frantic heartbeats. Tension mounts until
every fine hair on my body quivers, urging me to do something—anything
—to break free. I reach behind my head and examine the contours of the
knot. It consists of loops and coils woven too tightly for my fingers to
unravel.
The rope extends to a sturdy-looking light fixture that glints in the
moonlight. It looks like my only way out of this mess is to convince Xero to
cut me loose or to pull down the ceiling.
“You were tempted,” he says in a voice so hoarse and deep that I barely
recognize it as Xero’s.
My breath quickens. “Tempted by what?”
He doesn’t answer, and my mind scrambles to fill the gap. This can’t be
about Gavin. I refused his advances point blank. The only man hot enough
to tempt me is the priest staying with Mrs. Baker, but our conversation was
brief.
“Disappointing,” he says.
My stomach flip flops. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me refresh your memory.”
Something rumbles between my legs, teasing my swollen clit. Jolts of
pleasure shoot through my core, causing me to shiver. I jerk and teeter
forward, nearly losing my footing. With a gasp, I splay out my arms for
balance.
“What the hell?” I yell.
“Silence,” he snaps. “Unless you want me to punish Relaney and
Ezekiel.”
My breath catches. Why didn’t he mention Chappy? Whatever’s lodged
in my pussy continues to torment my aching clit and throw my mind off
balance. How the hell did I sleep through its insertion? How didn’t I wake
up while being hung from the ceiling?
None of that matters if I fail to counter his accusation. I try to clear my
thoughts. Why would he think I was tempted by Chappy?
I force my mind back to the events of yesterday and last night. There
was another seance, but the details are fuzzy. I asked about my manuscript,
but I can’t recall what he said.
“Xero,” I whisper. “I don’t remember. The medication made me
forget⁠—”
“I told you to stop taking those drugs,” he snaps.
 “You don’t understand,” I sob. “I keep seeing things. I don’t know
what’s real anymore.”
He tilts his head again.
I gulp. “One time, a dead body fell out of my closet. Then it reappeared
in my car. I get strange texts, letters, and photos. Things keep appearing and
disappearing. Like that envelope full of fingers. Then there’s you.”
“What about me?” he asks.
“You’re everywhere. In my thoughts, in my dreams. Sometimes, I look
out of the window, and you’re staring back. Other times, I wake up at night
and you’re torturing me to insanity.”
He drifts closer. “Tell me about this torture.”
“I don’t know if it’s real.”
“Talk.”
I gulp. This is insane. I shouldn’t negotiate with sexual terrorists, but
I’m the one standing on a chair with a noose around my neck. Xero’s pale
eyes shine through the dark, gleaming with an intensity that demands
answers.
“There was this one time, you were standing between my legs and
rubbing my clit, telling me I couldn’t come unless I begged. When I did
what you asked, you knocked me unconscious.”
“Did you come?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I cry, every molecule of pent-up sexual frustration
twisting into anguish. “Every morning, I wake up feeling horny and
desperate.”
He nods. “I see.”
“What?” My voice cracks.
“The reason why you were so tempted.”
My mind races faster than the high-speed train, trying to decipher what
he’s left unsaid between the tracks, but the toy vibrating against my clit
derails my thoughts. My knees tremble with a fresh burst of sensation,
forcing me to bite down on my bottom lip to stifle a whimper.
This is beyond sexual torture. This is psychological warfare. My body
convulses, rocking the chair beneath my feet.
“Xero, I don’t remember. What are you talking about?”
“Last night, that bearded bastard carried you to bed and offered to lick
your pussy. You were about to say yes.”
My eyes widen. “That didn’t happen.”
 The buzzing between my legs intensifies, making them buckle. I drop a
few inches, only for the noose around my neck to tighten. I’m going to die.
Die with a toy in my pussy. Die with rigor mortis of the clit. Die in a
perpetual state of arousal and become a horny ghost.
I can’t think of anything more humiliating.
“What did I tell you about lying?” he growls.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t remember⁠—”
“Because that medication screws with your memory.” He punctuates
that sentence with a press of the toy’s remote, cranking its intensity to
eleven.
My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I moan. I’m so close. Just a
few more seconds. My hips jerk, chasing an orgasm that feels tantalizingly
within reach. Just as the first wave of ecstasy draws close, Xero lowers the
toy’s intensity.
“No!” I cry. “I mean yes.”
“Next time you allow a man to touch you, not only will he die, but you
will be punished.”
“But I didn’t⁠—”
“Do. Not. Lie. To. Me,” he snarls.
I flinch, and my weight shifts onto my heels, only for the chair I’m
standing on to rock backward, threatening to leave me hanging. Terror grips
my throat, and my stomach plummets to my feet. This insane, sadistic
specter would probably enjoy watching me hang.
“Will you be a good girl for me, or will I have to drill that message into
you with pain?”
“I-I’ll be good.”
He nods, seeming convinced of my sincerity. That or the confidence that
he has my life dangling by a noose.
“Stop talking to the police.”
“Why?” I clap a hand over my mouth. A woman at the mercy of a
spectral psychopath is in no position to demand answers. “A-Alright, I
won’t talk to them.”
“No more séances.”
“Fine.”
“No more overnight stays.”
“Okay.”
 He steps back, seeming to meld into the shadows. His eyes are pale but
not glowing, as though stringing me up has dimmed his power. I make a
mental note that ghosts are capable of exhaustion. If I’m going to exorcize
him, then I’ll need him to exert himself and become weak.
“I’ve agreed to everything you asked,” I say. “Now, will you release the
noose?”
“Free yourself.”
“How?”
“Jump.”
My stomach plummets to the creaky floorboards. “You want me to
die?”
He doesn’t answer. Relaney once told me that spirits are cryptic. This
one doesn’t just want me frustrated, isolated, and defeated, but deceased.
He’s determined to torture me until my mind shatters, or I do something to
put an end to my torment.
Another realization hits me like a slap. Xero doesn’t want me taking my
medication because he wants me to hallucinate. I now understand why his
eyes no longer glow. The drugs might not work one hundred percent, but
they make it easier for me to distinguish what’s real and what’s in my
head… And what belongs to another realm.
Maybe Relaney and the others are right and I really am clairvoyant, and
Xero doesn’t want medication to suppress my abilities. He needs me to be
able to see him because he draws power from my fear.
Well, fuck this vengeful ghost.
I’ll agree to everything he wants, play along with his sick game, and do
whatever I can to escape this mess. After he’s cut me down, I’ll continue
taking my meds until he’s nothing but a figment.
“Xero, is there something else I can do besides jumping?” I ask.
“Come for me,” he rasps.
I reach down, my fingers skimming the lace of my panties.
“No hands. Touch your tits,” he says.
My jaw clenches. If this perverted poltergeist wants a show, I’ll give
him something to make him wish he was still alive. I cup my breasts,
making sure to rub slow circles over them, exactly the way Xero used to
instruct me during phone sex.
“Good girl,” he croons.
 The praise goes straight to my traitorous clit, which aches and swells. I
roll my hips, trying to get a little more friction against whatever he’s shoved
into my panties, and finally start feeling good.
My eyes flutter closed, and I breathe through parted lips, trying to shut
out the voyeuristic vestige and focus on the sensations.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps.
Ignoring his demand, I roll my nipples between my fingers.
“Look at me when I’m haunting you,” he snarls.
Death has brought out an unpleasant aspect of Xero’s personality. He
never used to be this much of an asshole when he was alive. At least not to
me. Forget what I said about playing along. He can get fucked. I won’t let
him ruin another of my orgasms.
The buzzing between my legs stops, and I crack open an eye.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Obey me or the pleasure will stop.”
“Fine,” I snap, opening both eyes.
Outside, clouds drift over the moon, encasing the room in complete
darkness. Xero’s eyes are no longer visible, and all I can see is a vague
outline of his cloak.
“I have a question.” When he doesn’t answer, I continue. “Why do you
come to me as the Grim Reaper?”
“You know the answer.”
“Because you’re a killer?”
“Precisely.”
The buzzing restarts, making me groan. Shockwaves of pleasure course
through my core. My clit swells and throbs, feeling like it’s doubled in size.
Rolling my hips, I let out a throaty moan and lose myself in the sensations.
“Pinch your nipples,” he says.
“Like this?” I close my fingers around my tem and pull.
“Harder,” he growls.
I pinch so hard that pain shoots down to my clit, and tears gather in the
corners of my eyes. The muscles of my pussy tighten around an object the
girth of my finger, making me realize there isn’t just a toy in my panties but
within my walls.
The vibrations press against a spot inside my core that sets off an
explosion of sensations. I release my nipples with a gasp. This is even
hotter than our morning phone calls.
 “That’s my girl,” he rumbles. “Now, slap them.”
“Slap what?”
“Your tits.”
“Why?” I screech.
“Obey me,” he roars, making all the fine hairs on the back of my neck
want to uproot themselves and fly out of the window.
What the fuck am I doing? Xero isn’t just a dead killer. He’s the ghost
who murdered Kayla and then cut off Gavin’s fingers. Why the hell would I
antagonize him when he has me one broken chair leg away from death?
“Sorry. Sorry.” I slap my breast, making it jiggle.
“Harder,” he rasps, his voice breathy.
I slap the other.
“More.”
Burning heat spreads across my skin, igniting every nerve with
humiliation. My face heats at with embarrassment, and tears stream down
my cheeks as I’m forced to attack my breasts.
He never made me hurt myself during our morning phone sex, yet I’m
compelled to obey. My fingers tremble with a cocktail of unwanted
emotions: fear, excitement, arousal, and shame. I should plead for mercy,
yet I can’t stop. I deliver another stinging slap, with a burst of pain that my
brain morphs into pleasure.
The toy in my pussy buzzes and thrums, delivering pulses of ecstasy. I
grind my hips, desperate for more friction, chasing that elusive climax.
“You like that, little ghost?” he asks.
“It’s not me who’s dead,” I reply from between clenched teeth.
“How do you know for sure?”
“Because—” I hesitate, my hands falling to my sides. “Stop messing
with my head!”
Xero chuckles. “Because you feel pain?”
“Maybe?”
“Nothing hurts more than spending months opening up to a woman,
making her the focus of my entire existence, only to discover the
relationship was a sham.”
“It wasn’t⁠—”
“Your rival fangirl, Lizzie Bath, estimates that the creator fund paid you
over two-hundred thousand dollars.”
My stomach lurches. “No⁠—”
 “And the book deal you’re negotiating could earn you millions. You
monetized our relationship.”
The noose tightens around my throat, cutting off my air. If anyone is
monetizing anything, it’s Lizzie Bath. All that stupid bitch does is cosplay
me, replaying my videos and adding her own bland commentary.
Now, she’s picking numbers out of her ass about how much I
supposedly earned. Her videos are still online, while mine are banned. She’s
the one making the fortune, not me.
I want to say all this, but the noose cuts off my air. My lungs spasm,
desperate for oxygen. Transparent spots dance before my eyes, and I see the
beginnings of a constellation of stars.
“Oh, God,” I moan.
“That’s right,” he growls. “I am your vengeful god, and I will feast on
your agony.”
“Please!”
“You’re not slapping those tits.”
My arms flail, trying to obey this spiteful psychopath, but also fighting
to keep myself upright. I slap my breast, imagining it’s his face.
The buzzing between my legs gets stronger, setting every nerve alight. I
lose my balance all over again and sob.
“Come for your god, little ghost,” he rumbles.
“I can’t.”
“Now!”
My entire world condenses into the sensations building up between my
thighs. The toy throbs mercilessly at my clit, while the projection inside my
pussy grazes my G-spot over and over until the edges of my vision darken.
I slap my breast again, wincing at the sharp pain, only to gasp when it
morphs into a pleasure that pushes me toward the precipice.
For a few tense heartbeats, my muscles seize and my entire body teeters
over the edge, then the rope tugs at my neck and something inside me
snaps. I come so hard that my body convulses and knocks down the chair. I
hang from the ceiling, the orgasm tearing through my nervous system like a
lightning storm.
Is this why the French call orgasms la pétite mort? Because I’m on the
brink of death.
My eyes bulge. My vision fades to black, but my orgasm still rages. I
spasm and convulse on the end of the rope until the ceiling rumbles like
thunder.
Chunks of plaster rain down on my head before tumbling down in an
avalanche. I hit the floorboards with a thud. The pressure of the noose eases
from around my neck, and I gasp for air. Dusty particles burn my throat,
and I erupt into hacking coughs.
Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, I hear a scream.
I scramble to my feet in the dark, stumble over the rubble, and fling
open the bedroom door.
Chappy hangs from the ceiling by a noose identical to the one around
my neck.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-THREE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I hope this letter finally reaches you. Please forgive the absence of the
morning phone calls. The reason I have been quiet is not my fault.
Usually, I’m aroused after our conversations, but I manage to tuck my
erection into the waistband of my pants and return to my cell to relieve the
pressure. Last week, I lost control.
Hearing you pleasure your sweet pussy with a replica of my cock left
me lightheaded, disoriented, and aflame with the urge to release. I rushed to
my cell, unleashed my erection, and came all over my hand.
Unfortunately, the guard who supervises death row’s morning exercises
watched me masturbate through a hatch in the door. The next morning, after
I downloaded a clip of you playing with the toy, she came into my cell and
dropped to her knees.
She wanted me to fuck her throat. Take pleasure from her filthy mouth.
I declined.
The following morning, she refused to allow me close to the blind spot
and has done so on subsequent days. My mail has also mysteriously
stopped. I’m not ignoring your letters, but this woman is bent on punishing
me for my fidelity.
Yesterday, she offered me a concession. Ten minutes in the blind spot in
exchange for allowing her to watch me stroke my cock.
I’m torn.
 My instincts scream at me to put this woman in her place, but she is one
of the most lenient prison guards. Her replacement may confiscate my
phone and destroy my letters, robbing me of my sole means of
communication with you.
You have become my lifeline, and I’m tempted to give in to her
demands. But the thought of being unfaithful to you in any way revolts me
to my very core. In my darkest hours, I wonder if this woman is the
punishment for my sins.
So, I appeal to you, dear Amethyst. If you forbid me from complying
with her degrading requests, I will oblige without a second thought. I will
endure the relentless torment of not hearing your voice or reading your
beautiful words. I will endure the solitude that will come with the loss of
our correspondence.
If you demand my fidelity, then it’s yours. I would rather live an eternity
in isolation than taint our bond with such betrayal.
In answer to the fans’ questions:
I was never diagnosed with psychopathy. I feel emotions with intensity.
I feel joy, wonder, and can love with all my heart. But, on the other hand, I
can feel an all-consuming rage.
No, I did not kill animals as a child. In fact, my neighbors had a black-
and-white cat named Bianca, who used to come to my backyard. I fed her
scraps I saved from dinner. Her mewls of gratitude were some of the purest
sounds of happiness I have ever heard.
I apologize for stalling my story. Please let me know how you wish me
to proceed.
Yours,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
I stand frozen in the hallway, staring up at Chappy’s unmoving body,
which hangs from a rope. Ezekiel and Relaney fill the house with screams,
but I’m still gasping for air.
My eyes water. My throat is still clogged with plaster dust. My mind is
still trying to catch up with the night’s events. I still don’t remember how
we went from a séance to a slaughter.
“Is he dead?” Relaney screams.
Ezekiel ascends the stairs, each step making the treads groan. Realizing
I’m half naked, I retreat into the spare bedroom and peep through the door.
“Chappy?” Ezekiel asks.
When the taller man doesn’t answer, Ezekiel continues to the top of the
stairs and turns on the light.
“Oh, fuck,” he roars.
“What is it?” Relaney screeches.
“There’s blood.” He gags. “It’s pouring from his mouth.”
My breath catches. I shut the door and rest my head on the wood, all the
while trembling at the presence in my room. It’s strange how it’s finally
dawning on me, after all this time, that Xero is dangerous. I knew he was a
killer all along, yet I still wrote him those letters.
Even after discovering the extent of his murdering, I continued our
relationship. I felt safe in the knowledge that he couldn’t touch me on death
row. I could open up to him in a way I couldn’t with other men because our
association would be finite.
 Now, as a ghost, his actions are a betrayal of our sacred bond. Sure, I
failed him, but the Xero I grew to love knew me to the depths of my soul.
He would have understood why I wasn't at the wedding.
I thought I knew him, but seeing Chappy's body tore off my rose-tinted
contacts. Xero isn't just a tortured soul who avenged his childhood
tormentors. He's a murderer. I can't allow him to continue this jealous
killing spree. I need to end this, even if it means taking a boatload of my
meds.
Relaney rushes up the stairs and wails at Ezekiel to check that I’m alive.
When he doesn’t make a move, she sobs harder.
“Turn around,” Xero says.
“No.”
“I will not ask you twice. Turn, or watch your other friends swing.”
I push back from the door to meet his eyes.
The entire room is encased in darkness. I turn to the window, but the
curtains are now shut.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
“Watching.”
My stomach churns. “What do you want from me?”
“Get dressed. Go downstairs and return to number 13. Shower off that
dust and wait for me on your bed.”
“What about the police?”
“Mention anything about ghosts and you’ll become one.”
“So, I’m still alive?”
He chuckles. “Without me to brighten your days and nights, you’d still
be dead inside.”
I swallow hard, hating that he’s right. Writing to Xero was the most
exciting thing that ever happened to me, which isn’t difficult, considering
over a third of my memories are blank. It’s almost like I didn’t exist before
the age of ten, but the photos I found in Mom’s album prove otherwise.
A knock sounds on the door. “Amethyst?” Ezekiel asks. “Are you
alright?”
“Get rid of him,” Xero hisses. “If he sees any part of your body, I won’t
just pluck out all four of his eyes. Trust me when I say you won’t like where
I’ll put them.”
Shudders run down my spine, and I grimace. Somehow, I don’t think
he’ll stuff them into an envelope under my pillow. Ignoring Xero, I say,
“I’m fine.”
“Come out,” Ezekiel says. “Relaney’s just called for an ambulance and
the police.”
“Wait a minute. Let me get dressed.”
My fingers fumble around the wall for a light switch, which I know is
stupid, considering I just pulled down the entire ceiling. I flip it anyway and
am not surprised when nothing happens.
I find a second switch that activates faint wall lamps, but when I turn
around to look at Xero’s ghost, he’s gone. All that’s left of his presence is a
broken chair and a room strewn with rubble.
“Xero?” I whisper.
His lack of answer gives me another clue to his vulnerabilities. Ghosts
disappear in the light.
By the time I find my overnight bag and put on what’s left of my
clothes, a heavy fist pounds on my door. I open it to find Officer Vayne
standing in the hallway, his walrus mustache twitching.
The cop’s beady eyes sweep up and down my body. I’m not sure what
he’s trying to find because everything is covered in dust.
“What can you tell me about what happened to Mr. Wright?”
My gaze darts to Chappy’s swinging corpse, and it takes a second for
me to realize they’re one and the same.
“Miss Crowley?” he asks.
“I woke up last night to a lot of screaming, and I got scared. Then
Ezekiel knocked on my door to ask if I was alright.”
He glances over my shoulder. “And the rubble?”
Shit.
I should have led with the ceiling falling down on my head. Clutching
my temples, I sway on my feet.
“My medication always makes me drowsy and disoriented. The ceiling
thing must have woken me first and then I heard all the screaming. I’m
sorry. It’s still jumbled.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Your pills.”
I walk to my overnight bag, extract two bottles, and shove them in the
officer’s face.
He has to squint to read the labels. “What do they do?”
 “Am I a suspect?”
He bares his teeth. “This information may be helpful in our
investigation.”
“If you’re suggesting that a five-foot five woman can drag a fully grown
man out of bed and lift his body up in the air and hang him, then I think
you’re the one who needs the pills.”
He shoves the bottles back into my hands. “How do you explain the red
marks around your neck?”
“What marks?” My fingers twitch toward my throat, which is still raw
from being suspended from a noose.
He glances up at the ceiling, his eyes darkening. “Ms. Cymbal and Mr.
Janus were woken up by a crash and went upstairs to find Mr. Wright
hanging. I think the murderer tried to hang you and failed.”
My eyes widen. Maybe he’s not so useless, after all. “Oh.”
“Ms. Greaves, I believe tonight was supposed to be a double murder.”
My brows rise, and I step back. “You finally believe I have a stalker?”
He nods. “Parisii Drive is no longer safe for you. Someone out there
wants you dead. Is there anywhere you can go?”
I shake my head.
“Friends, parents… lover?”
“No.” Why the hell does he keep asking me that?
He sighs. “Book a hotel. Whoever killed Mr. Wright will probably
return to finish you.”
I want to roll my eyes at this outlandish suggestion. Who has hotel
money in this economy? With the creator fund no longer supporting my
lifestyle, I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bills.
Actually, I do. If I call Mom and Dad, they’ll gladly transfer any
amount of money to keep me on the other side of town. Their rejection
doesn’t just sting—it’s a gaping wound.
“Can the police provide protective custody?” I ask.
“I’ll double the patrols down Parisii Drive,” he mutters, ignoring my
request. “Speak to your neighbors to see if any unusual characters have
been hanging around. Keep your windows closed and don’t open the door
to strangers.”
Later, I descend the stairs to find a forensic team piling in through the
front door. A homicide detective takes me to Relaney’s kitchen to make a
statement. With Xero’s warning not to speak to the cops, I regurgitate a
more polished version of the bullshit I told Officer Vayne.
As I’m about to leave the house, Relaney steps into my path and stares
down at me through bloodshot eyes. “Chappy was only responding to your
advances. He didn’t have to die.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were flirting with him the entire night and the time before. If you
didn’t want him in your room, you should have said no.”
My jaw drops. How the hell did she know Chappy was trying to hook
up with me? Did she arrange it in an attempt to lure me into her stupid cult?
I glance over my shoulder to see if any of the people in white jumpsuits
overheard her accusation. They’re all too busy collecting evidence to notice
the ramblings of a grief-stricken woman.
Leaning into her, I whisper, “I didn’t hang Chappy, and I sure as hell
didn’t invite him into my room.”
“But you control the spirits,” she whispers back. “Mark my words,
Amethyst Crowley, you may command the dark, but one day you will be
consumed.”
Cold seeps into my bones, turning my blood to sludge. She doesn’t
know what she’s saying. I’m no killer, nor do I consort with evil spirits.
Well, not on purpose. Fuck. When did I start lying to myself? I was
slapping my own tits and coming at Xero’s command moments before I
found Chappy hanging. And technically, I am a killer. Even if I did have a
good reason.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
She gestures at the open door. “Get out of my sight.”
I step out into the chilly morning. “One more thing.”
“What?” she snaps.
“How do I get rid of a ghost?”
“Google is your friend.” She slams the door.
When I turn around, Parisii Drive is jammed with cop cars. Every
resident either stands in their open doorways or gapes at me from their
windows. My skin itches from the intensity of their stares. When a pair of
men in black suits exit a car at the end of the road, I duck my head and
scurry back to number 13.
The discomfort only accelerates when the door closes behind me, and
I’m trapped in my haunted house.
 Xero told me to take a shower and wait for him in bed. The thought of
him emerging from the shadows to finish me off with that thick, silicone
dildo makes my pussy throb.
This is insanity. A man just got murdered, and my body is thrumming
with desire. It’s just like Dr. Saint said. I have violence-induced arousal
because the wires of my libido are jumbled. Even so, I can’t have a
relationship with a vengeful spirit.
I refuse to be the puppet to his perverted proclivities. There’s so much
more at stake here than my dignity. If I continue along this path, I might
lose my sanity, my very soul. Mom might find out I’m communing with the
dead and carry out her threat to have me institutionalized.
Shudders travel across my skin, reminding me that I’m still covered in
shit. Before I know it, I’m tearing through the hallway, into the kitchen, and
washing off the plaster with my wet fingers.
Xero’s invisible presence looms over me like a noose of Damocles, and
an invisible chill sweeps down my spine. His malevolent gaze bores into the
back of my head, but I refuse to turn around and meet those glowing eyes.
I have to remind myself that ghosts are powerless in the light. It’s
morning, and no longer dark. Until nightfall, I’m safe from his grasp. After
that, all I need to do is keep my bedroom bright.
The thought gives me the courage to creep upstairs, so I turn to the door.
As I pass the kitchen table, my gaze falls on the sex contract. Several items
are now underlined in a color that resembles dried blood.
Breast slapping
Degradation
Erotic asphyxiation
Forced orgasm
Humiliation
Somnophilia
Toys
“Bastard,” I whisper. “What are you saying? That I consented?”
But I did consent. In my letters. During phone sex. During those strange
conversations I had with him in my dreams. I’ve never once told him no.
A sick part of my psyche, the one I want to suppress with prescription
drugs, enjoys Xero’s attention. It revels in the thought that a man wanted
me so much that he rose from his own death to carry out my sickest
fantasies and slay any man who comes too close. I’m ashamed to admit that
being loved so unconditionally, even if it’s twisted, is intoxicating.
Shaking off that thought, I hurry upstairs and enter my bedroom. The
comforter has been drawn back, revealing the silk sheets, but beneath the
pillow is a flash of red.
My breath stills.
Another envelope?
“Xero?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. The room is drenched in
morning light. That murdering monster draws power from the dark, and
possibly even from my terror.
On legs that won’t stop trembling, I approach the bed, already guessing
what’s inside the envelope. It’s probably that letter I wrote him about
wanting to be dragged around on a collar and leash.
When I finally muster the courage to pick it up, it’s heavier than a few
sheets of paper. My fingers shake as I tear it open and check its contents.
Inside that fucking envelope is an extra-long tongue.
And it’s studded.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-FIVE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Thank you for your blessing. I will maintain the boundary you set.
When I stroke my cock, I will not make eye contact with the prison guard.
Instead, I will close my eyes and think of you. You own my heart, my mind,
my body… My very soul.
One day, Officer McMurphy will regret the moment she decided to
exploit my solitude for her sexual satisfaction. The next time she
approaches me on her hands and knees, she will lose an eye.
Congratulations on finding an agent. You mentioned that you enjoyed
writing, but I had no idea it was more than a hobby. Have you published
before? I would love to read your work.
Yes, the school for assassins is exactly as described. We learned self-
defense, poisons, anatomy and basic physiology, and how to blend
seamlessly into any crowd.
The most valuable thing they taught us was the art of manipulation—
how to lure a target, isolate them, and strike when they least expected the
blow.
Before you ask if my father knew the true nature of the school, you need
to understand that he was its founder. He and a group of associates run a
firm of assassins that take in new recruits around the age of fourteen.
My father wanted a younger intake that was more malleable and easier
to shape into the perfect weapon. The years I spent being bullied by the
brothers and their cohorts were nothing more than an elaborate plot to
prepare me for his shiny new program.
I excelled at the training and even gained the admiration of my peers.
My time at this school for assassins was happier, but I knew it was a
product of his manipulations.
Each time I killed a man, I imagined he was my father. Each successful
mission tore a little piece of my soul. I lost my childhood, my humanity
dissolving into the flow of blood on my hands. Over time, I even lost the
will to destroy my father.
Fan questions:
Am I mistaking love for limerence? That’s an insightful question. Let
me answer with a question of my own. Is it limerence if the feelings of that
obsessive attachment are reciprocated? The love I had for my mother is real
and still endures. She loved me until the day she died.
I expect the questioner wants to know about my romantic connections.
The life of a killer is lonely, and showing vulnerabilities will be exploited.
That said, I have found a woman for whom I feel a desperate longing. She
doesn’t just see past my darkness, she embraces it. She is the one who
shares my message with the world.
In answer to the second question: I’m not sure what happened to Bianca
the cat. After my mother died, I moved into my father’s house, never to
return. Her owners treated her well, and I like to hope she lived a happy life
and died of natural causes.
Yours,
Xero
P.S. I will send the photos you asked for as soon as I can. Hopefully,
some will work as backgrounds for the fan club.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-SIX

AMETHYST
Chappy is dead. His tongue is in an envelope under my pillow. I nearly
got hanged, and I’ve run out of vodka. Xero can’t expect me to lie on my
bed all day just to wait for him to start severing body parts.
After the world’s fastest shower, I walk through the cemetery to catch
the bus that goes to my favorite discount supermarket. They do home
delivery, but I might be dead in twenty-four hours.
If Xero plans on dragging me into the afterlife for eternal punishment,
then I’m going to need a motherfucking drink.
When I reach its double doors, I grab a basket and head straight for the
booze. Thanks to Gavin, I have only $48 until Mom sends my monthly
allowance.
I cringe at the thought of still being dependent on my parents at the age
of twenty-four. It’s hard to keep a job on strong medication that fucks with
my sleep schedule and short-term memory.
Some days, all I want to do is rot in bed. Then bam! I wake up, ready to
kick ass. The only time I feel normal is when I’m not taking the pills. That’s
when ideas flow to me like water. I can regulate my weight. I even have the
motivation to write.
However, the medication acts as a buffer from trauma. If I take it for
long enough, I can look in the mirror for a count of three without seeing a
monster. And I’m not haunted by people who don’t exist.
Besides, Mom and Dad will withdraw their financial support if I don’t
pretend to take my pills, and I might even get institutionalized. It’s not like I
sit around doing nothing. I’ve written manuscripts and tried to get them
published. I also got several jobs. The last was at the karaoke bar across the
road from Wonderland. It was great, until the manager fired me for turning
up late for my shifts.
I did ghostwriting for a few clients, but they hated that I couldn’t stick
to their outlines. My mind doesn’t work in straight lines like a normal
wannabe author. It’s more of a free spirit. I can’t tame my thoughts, only
suppress them.
The store’s liquor section spans four aisles, with a significant portion of
it dedicated to vodka. Since I have no idea how long Xero will continue
tormenting me on this mortal plane, I load the cheapest brands into my
basket.
“Amethyst?” says a deep voice.
I continue walking toward the cash registers. My mind is either playing
tricks on me, or someone has recognized my face from social media. It
happens more times than I would like and never ends well, especially with
men. They either sneer at me because I’m simping for a serial killer, want to
sleep with me because they know I’m not getting laid, or want to snuff out
my life. It’s one of the reasons I don’t enjoy leaving the house.
“Amethyst,” the voice says, sounding more insistent.
I quicken my pace and dart into the frozen aisle, where I pass displays
of ice cream. Heavy footsteps hurry after me, but they could mean anything
from a stalker to an auditory hallucination.
When a large hand lands on my shoulder, I freeze.
“I thought it was you,” says the voice. “Not many women have your
hair color.”
Cringing, I turn my head, only to lock gazes with Whatshisname, Mrs.
Baker’s hot priest. “Oh, hi.”
He beams. It’s one of those genuine smiles that makes the corners of the
eyes crinkle and transforms him from intimidatingly handsome to
endearing… if you like them wholesome and clean-cut. I want to glance
over my shoulder to see who he’s grinning at, but I remember he already
called my name twice.
“Reverend…” Heat floods my cheeks at already forgetting his name.
“Tom. Call me Tom,” he says, his gray eyes sparkling.
He’s far too good looking to be a priest with his strong brow, perfectly
straight nose, and a jaw like Batman. In the store’s strip light, his caramel-
colored hair even sweeps around his face like a halo.
 I try not to gaze at lips that look soft enough to kiss. Men like him
prefer church girls, not sinners. That’s if they’re not already bound by vows
of celibacy. But I’ve read enough smutty romance to know that sort of thing
won’t stop a pervy priest.
“There was a lot of police activity on the drive this morning. Do you
know what happened?”
My heart sinks a little into my stomach. I have no idea why I’m
disappointed he only wants gossip about the street. It’s not like I wanted to
get anything started. Besides, if Xero can kill a man and carve out his
tongue for offering to lick my pussy, then chatting up a sexy priest would be
like writing his name in a Death Note.
Reverend Tom leans into me, his lips so close to my ear that my skin
tingles with static electricity. “You can confide in me anytime.”
Tingles spread across my skin. I jump back, my eyes flying open, my
cheeks burning. “I think one of Relaney’s friends was found hanging,” I
blurt. “And the police came to investigate.”
His brow furrows. “But it wasn’t a suicide.”
“What makes you think that?” My voice rises several guilty octaves.
“They only send in forensic teams for murders.” He nods, as though he
knows all about about criminal investigations.
I shuffle on my feet, not knowing what he wants me to say. Chappy sure
as hell didn’t cut out his own tongue and hang himself from the ceiling.
“Do you know anything about evil spirits?” I ask.
His eyes widen. “You think he was possessed?”
“Umm… maybe? I’m just asking. I thought, because you deal with the
supernatural, you might know something about getting rid of ghosts.”
He looks at me for several heartbeats, like he’s trying and failing to
solve a nonsensical riddle. “So, you’re afraid the man’s spirit will linger?”
My jaw tightens. Why am I continuing this conversation? I should pay
for my booze and leave. But Catholic priests cast out demons in the movies.
Maybe vicars of his denomination can do something similar?
“I’ve heard salt can create a barrier,” he says, his eyes dancing with
amusement. “And, of course, there’s holy water.”
“Where can I buy it?” I blurt.
He chuckles, the sound rich. “Come with me.”
I walk with Reverend Tom through the supermarket, to the aisle that
sells bottled water. A few women we pass cast him admiring glances and
smiles. I can’t blame them. He’s stunning if you like them vanilla. I,
however, do not.
All the while, the phone in my purse buzzes with messages. Knowing
my luck, it won’t be Myra telling me she’s found my manuscript and has set
up a bunch of meetings for the book fair.
Reverend Tom picks up a bottle of Evian and wiggles his fingers.
“Watch this.”
“Wait.” I rush down the aisle, my vodka clinking within the metal
basket, and grab two plastic water bottles of a brand I don’t recognize. “Can
you do it with a cheaper one?”
He smirks. “Of course.”
I bounce on my heels, my heart soaring as he blesses the water. When
he places it in my basket, I beam.
“Thank you. This is awesome!”
He gives me that look again. The one where he thinks I might be
unhinged. His gaze flickers with questions he’s too polite to ask. Smile
fading, he says, “Amethyst, are you alright?”
“Of course. What do you mean?”
As his gaze travels down to my neck, my stomach plummets to the
linoleum. If Officer Vayne noticed red marks on it hours ago this morning,
then they’ve probably already turned purple. Dipping my chin, I try to make
them less noticeable, but it only makes his brows pinch with concern.
“I’m only next door if you need to talk about anything. You know that,
right?” he asks.
My throat tightens. Does he think I’m suicidal?
“Amethyst.”
“Right.” I rub the back of my neck. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m
fine.”
He glances down at the vodka before meeting my eyes with a knowing
look. It’s like he can read everything I’m trying to hide. “There’s always
hope, even in the darkest times. You only need to ask.”
“Sure.” Bowing my head, I pick up my shopping and scurry away like a
rat.
As I round the corner, an older woman cries out his name and hurries
over to him with a group of friends. I need help, alright, but he’s not the
man for the job.
 Only a heavy-duty exorcist can solve my problems, but I don’t have a
hotline to the Winchester brothers, Abraham Van Helsing, or any other
legendary supernatural hunter. Relaney is right. Google is my friend.
When I return to Parisii Drive, it’s still rammed with police vehicles,
blocking everyone else from leaving the road. I pause at a lamp post, and
gape at a picture of JakeRake69 on a poster.

MISSING PERSON
Name: Jake Ryland
Age: 32
Height: 6 feet
Build: Athletic
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Blue
Last Seen: Last Friday at 6:00 PM
Last Location: Parisii Drive
Description: Jake Ryland was last seen wearing a
black leather jacket, blue jeans, and white sneakers. He
has a scar on his left cheek.
If you have any information regarding Jake’s
whereabouts, please contact Dale Ryland at (555) 789-
4321.
A reward is offered for any information leading to Jake
Ryland's location. You can reach us confidentially at
help@X-CiteMedia.com.

What.
The.
 Fuck?
That company name sounds familiar. Reaching into my bag, I pull out
my phone, finding dozens of messages from the unknown number. Right
now, my troubles are bigger than a possessive ghost. How the hell did
Jake’s family track him down to Parisii Drive?
I fire up the app and navigate to the UnofficialXerofan club, where
Lizzie Bath has already uploaded fifteen new videos since the last reaction
one she made of me reading out Xero’s last letter.
On her bio are a bunch of URLs, including the affiliate link for the
company selling Xero’s execution video.
Just as I suspected. It’s X-Cite Media.
Shit.
A group of men in white jumpsuits amble toward me, too preoccupied
in their conversation to notice I’m freaking out. How the hell is Jake
connected to the people who are renting out execution videos for $99.99 a
day?
As the men approach, I notice another pair emerge from my doorstep,
one of them looking suspiciously similar to the man I killed. They each hold
stacks of paper, which I assume are more of those missing person’s posters.
The pair move onto number 11, where a burly officer shoos them away.
One of them hands him some papers, but I’m too busy crossing the road and
ducking behind a van to notice if it’s accepted.
My heart pounds hard enough to alert them of my presence as I continue
on the other side of the road, watching them move from number 9 to 7 to 5.
As they reach number 3, I cross over to Mrs. Baker’s and knock on her
door.
The old woman answers with a bright smile that falters the moment she
realizes I’m not Reverend Tom. “Amethyst. How lovely it is to see you
again. What can I do to help?”
Out of desperation, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m
locked out,” I rasp. “Is there any chance I can wait here until my friend
comes with the spare key?”
She steps aside and gestures for me to enter her drawing room, which is
identical to Relaney’s living room in size, with a trio of tall windows that
flood its gray walls with light. A pea-green sofa sits beneath the windows,
opposite a pair of brown leather armchairs.
 Tall flames crackle in the fireplace, filling the room with the scent of
burning resin. I glance in the hearth to find it crammed with pinecones. On
a low coffee table in the middle of the room sits a chintzy tea service,
complete with a bowl of sugar cubes and silver tongs.
“This is… nice,” I murmur.
“Reverend Tom appreciates all these little touches.” Mrs. Baker guides
me to sit on the armchair and plops down on the sofa with a happy sigh.
“He wants me to help furnish the rectory after the fumigators have left.”
“Oh.” I glance out of the window, where police vehicles still jam the
road.
“Did you hear?” she asks, her voice lowering. “Relaney Cymbal got
taken away in handcuffs.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“They found a cannabis farm in her basement.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” she replies with a nod. “I saw a team taking out all the
paraphernalia. There were fully grown plants, grow lights, hydroponic
systems, irrigation equipment, and pots. All loaded into a van.”
My jaw drops. “No way. I didn’t even know she had a basement.”
Mrs. Baker flicks her head toward the back of the room. “Haven’t you
noticed Parisii Drive is built on a slope that inclines down to the cemetery?”
“Yes?” I reply, remembering how easy it was to drag Jake’s body
downhill instead of on flat ground. “What about it?”
“Each house contains a crawl space for access to plumbing, electrical
wiring, ventilation, and HVAC systems. Some use them for storage or
utilities, but it seems like Ms. Cymbal employed hers for more nefarious
purposes.”
“I had no idea,” I say, my voice breathy.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” She waves a hand. “Your house is a new
build and probably doesn’t require a lick of maintenance. Tea?”
I gulp. “Yes, please.”
Mrs. Baker rises off the sofa to pour me a steaming cup. As she hands it
to me, I stare down at its contents, still reeling from the news. Poor
Relaney. In the space of a few hours, she went from losing one of her
friends to getting arrested for the production of drugs.
She would have gotten away with running a cannabis farm if it hadn’t
been for Xero hanging a man from the ceiling.
 My phone buzzes, breaking me out of my thoughts. I take a sip of tea,
remembering why I came to hide out with Mrs. Baker.
“Have you seen the missing person photos?” I ask, prompting her to
spill some more gossip.
She takes a long sip, keeping me on the edge of my seat. As a former
actress, Mrs. Baker is an expert in theatrics, and I don’t begrudge her
attempt to draw out the suspense. Thanks to her generosity, I’ve avoided
encountering Jake’s brother.
“Well,” she says, her voice breathy with excitement. “Two men knocked
on the door, asking if I’d seen the missing man. Apparently, he parked here
on Friday and just vanished.”
“Really?” I reply, my stomach churning.
She nods. “The missing man left his car parked outside number 11.”
My throat tightens. Jake fucking led them straight to my doorstep.
Humming, I hold my features into what I hope is a mask of curiosity.
“Do you know what I think?” she asks.
“What?”
“Relaney Cymbal is always entertaining unsavory characters. I should
have known she was up to no good!”
I tune out the gossip, my mind whirring. If Jake’s brother suspects he’s
dead, it’s only a matter of time before suspicion falls to his killer.
Me.
The doorbell rings again, and Mrs. Baker springs out of her seat. “That
will be Reverend Tom!”
My phone buzzes once more. With a sigh, I glance down at the screen to
find a string of messages from Xero. The last of them says:
You are racking up the punishments.
Come home, now.
YOU BELONG TO ME.
A photo pops up on the screen of me with Reverend Tom, taken from
the water aisle. The priest leans into my ear to say something, but that’s not
the most disturbing element. Xero has drawn a noose in red around his
neck.
I don’t need any further explanation. If I keep talking to Reverend Tom,
he’ll be the next to die.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-SEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Our conversation this morning meant everything to me. I hope you
understand that my attraction to you goes deeper than your beauty and the
blood on your hands.
I find you to be a queen among killers. You’re a kindred spirit, who is
equally as imprisoned as I. Under my guidance, I will free you of the
shackles of your psychiatrist and parents.
You are loving. You are strong. You are sane. You are mine. I am all you
need to survive. If they withdraw financial support for not taking
medication, let them. I will meet your needs.
Would you believe that I came to enjoy my missions as a child assassin?
At first, my tutors explained that our targets were powerful criminals who
evaded justice. We needed to render them unconscious to allow a team of
investigators to infiltrate their homes and gather enough evidence to hand to
the police.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but I swallowed their lies and even pictured
myself as a Dickens-style pickpocket, targeting rich marks and exacting a
form of street justice. It was easy enough to get close to these men. I would
attend functions or crowded events, pretending to seek out my parents.
As a small child, I would get the freedom to roam wherever I pleased
and was almost invisible to security staff. All that was required of me was
to inject a target with a potent poison, using a needle with a narrow gauge.
 The girls in my intake were not so fortunate. I didn’t know about this
until much later, but they attended extra classes, where they were taught to
be Lolita assassins.
You may be aware of the term in popular culture being used as a
seductive or sexually precocious young girl, but our female counterparts
were anything but. They were mostly runaways, although one of them was
the daughter of our tutor with a background similar to mine.
While the boys returned from missions triumphant and ready to enjoy
rewards like new games for our consoles, the girls came back traumatized
and withdrawn. Some girls never returned at all.
Our tutors explained that they weren’t like us. They were weak and
couldn’t handle the pressure. I was too young to understand the true cause
of their anguish.
Fan questions:
I don’t have a celebrity crush as I refuse to fixate on a stranger without
knowing what’s in her heart. Of course, there are some I believe are visually
pleasing, but it’s all a facade. With enough time, any half-trained assassin
can change their appearance and make themselves unrecognizable. I do,
however, enjoy female characters who rise from the ashes of degradation
and defeat to exact revenge on their abusers.
Unfortunately, Bianca the cat was my last pet. I prefer cats over dogs
because they’re aloof, independent, and have a mysterious allure that keeps
me intrigued. Affection from a dog is easy, attention from a cat feels like a
reward. Do I like a particular breed more than others? I’ve always been
intrigued by giant Maine Coons.
Yours,
Xero
P.S. Were the photos I sent alright? I forwarded them at the lowest
resolution so as not to encroach on our time together at the blind spot.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST
I don’t linger at Mrs. Baker’s. Instead, I return home with a plan to
avoid Xero’s next round of punishments. Cold sweat breaks out across my
skin and trickles down my back. Despite the mounting terror, there’s a pull I
can’t shake—a mix of fear and longing that twists my psyche into knots.
When Xero was alive, his attention was like basking in the sun. He was
my lover, my idol, my muse. With his love and guidance, I had a place in
the world. I felt valued, seen. I flourished. Now that he’s dead, it’s like
wilting under a storm cloud, not knowing when lightning will strike. Now
he’s a ghost, the security I used to feel with him has now morphed to dread.
I remove all the curtains from the windows and check every flashlight,
lampshade, and lightbulb in the house to make sure they’re working. Then,
I extract the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the stairs and hoover
the floors until they shine.
The plan is to make a salt circle around my bed, so he won’t attack me
in my sleep. It’s a flimsy defense and probably fictional, but I’ve run out of
options. I can’t believe I once used to fantasize about him escaping prison
to spend the night. The thought of him coming for me after dark makes me
shiver.
Even if I could convince Mrs. Baker to let me stay, Xero could float
through the walls and murder Reverend Tom in a jealous rage. He might
even plant something terrible in the old woman’s house to get her in trouble
with the police.
I’ve never felt so isolated. Never felt so lonely. Never felt so desperately
in need of company. Last week, I would have poured out my feelings in a
letter, or opened my heart to Xero in the morning and found solace in his
words. Now, my savior has become my tormentor.
Mom isn’t answering my calls, and Dad’s phone is disconnected.
Whatever happened with Uncle Clive spooked her enough to tell me never
to return. Besides, Xero can travel across town to haunt my dreams.
I can’t stay with Myra. She sleeps on a sofa in a house full of men. I
don’t want to get any of them murdered, so I’ll remain here.
After cleaning the downstairs, I go to the bedroom. The red envelope I
found under the pillow is missing, which could mean anything. I no longer
give a shit if it was a hallucination. Chappy is dead, police are swarming the
street, and people are searching for the man I killed.
Lord knows I need a fucking break.
But first, I need to move my bed.
Its wooden frame slides away from the wall with a little effort, and I
vacuum away the cobwebs and dust. Then I pour a generous amount of salt
around its perimeter and bring the bottles and my laptop to the bed.
My phone buzzes.
What are you doing?
I ignore Xero’s message. He can’t touch me during the day. This
morning just proves that light makes him incorporeal. He’s probably
zipping through the mobile phone networks, waiting for his moment to
strike.
Yeah, I’m making up the lore as I go along, based on everything I’ve
observed. The last time I asked Xero how he was texting me from beyond
the grave, he told me it was electromagnetic radiation.
I crack open my bottle of holy water, take a sip, and wince at the
overwhelming taste of plastic. This is a good sign, since Reverend Tom’s
religious juju must have warped the molecules. I wash it down with a
mouthful of vodka and sigh.
Xero messages again with:
Don’t get drunk.
Scoffing, I take a hearty swig of vodka. This brand tastes almost as bad
as the water, but I’m not drinking for my enjoyment—this is the quickest
way to dull this relentless pain. Pain at his betrayal. Pain at the thought of
his next move. When he comes for me after sundown, I’m going to need
every bit of help to face his wrath.
 Stomach churning, I crack open the laptop and start a new document.
Writing always distracted me from my shit show of a life. Maybe it can help
me pass the time until Xero comes to reap my soul.
I’ll write an erotic ghost story. What it should feel like to be haunted
instead of hunted. Losing myself in this fictional world is a hundred times
better than facing reality. Maybe Xero can get a few ideas.
Nodding, I type the introduction, which is loosely based on the truth.
Instead of returning from burying Jake, I’m in the back of a limousine,
crying about the death of my sexy assassin, Nero.
Nero is a good name.
The phone buzzes. I ignore it because I’m in the flow.
I write a flashback where I share a night of passion with Nero. He’s
doing me from behind, holding my hair like reins. He leans in with his chest
pressed against my back, and growls, ‘No matter where you hide, I will
always find you. Even beyond death.’
Pausing, I look up from my computer and stare out through the window
into the backyard.
“Why would he even say something so foreshadowy?” I mutter, my
mind scrambling for answers. “Maybe it’s the night before a dangerous
mission, where he’s sneaking into a party to murder an entire family?”
Nodding again, I add that to the manuscript. “Yes!”
The next few hours are a frenzy of typing. Words flow from my
fingertips like holy water, and I don’t go back to edit. Fixing typos at this
stage will only stifle my creativity.
Xero stops trying to get my attention. I hope that’s because he’s worn
out his electromagnetic powers. It must be exhausting for a disembodied
spirit to hang two people. One in execution, and the other for perversion.
My pussy throbs at the reminder of how he forced me to torture my own
nipples while the vibrations on my clit intensified. If I’d known a man was
dead or dying on the other side of the door, I probably wouldn’t have
cooperated.
At least I’d like to think so.
When my stomach rumbles, I hop off the bed with two of my bottles,
making sure not to disturb the salt barrier, and hurry down to the kitchen.
It’s about lunchtime, anyway, when the sun is at its strongest, so I have
nothing to fear from Xero.
I open the refrigerator, and my shoulders sag.
 It’s empty, save for a jar of mayonnaise that has turned yellow. I threw
out a bunch of stuff the day after I killed Jake.
Inside the cupboards are the usual herbs, spices, tins of tuna, and other
canned goods so old that the labels have fallen away. I run a hand through
my curls. Did I have to use up the last of my money on two bottles of
vodka?
Yes, because I needed to dull the edges of my dread.
Tonight, Xero will come for me, and the only thing stopping my mind
from collapsing into a puddle of terror and guilt is booze.
With a shiver, I open the icebox, finding a loaf of bread. I’ve learned the
hard way that the type I like has a short shelf life, and freezing is the only
way I can enjoy it without having to pluck out mold.
I pry free a couple of slices and pop them in the toaster. If I didn’t have
a manuscript to write, I would take time to defrost them, but instead, I make
toast. In minutes, I’ve created a tuna mayo sandwich, which I wash down
with a cocktail of holy water and vodka.
Afterward, I walk upstairs, feeling buzzed from lunch, and hop back
onto the bed. When I open the laptop, the screen is blank.
“No,” I whisper.
The phone buzzes with a message that makes my heart jump into the
back of my throat. Ignoring it, I reboot my computer, only to find the file
gone. Panic tightens my chest, making my breath come in shallow gasps.
Sweat breaks out across my brow as I log into my cloud storage system to
check for autosaved versions of the manuscript, but there’s nothing.
My spirits plummets, and any comfort I obtained from the vodka fades
into the background. The bastard deleted my ghost story.
The phone buzzes again, and every fine hair on the back of my neck
stands on end. Dread pools in my belly as my mind flickers through a dozen
painful scenarios. Will it be a picture of Reverend Tom’s corpse or some
man’s body parts? Or a preview of how he plans to attack me after dark?
With a deep breath, I force myself to look at the screen.
Keep ignoring me and I will continue to destroy your work.
My heart pounds as I text back:
What do you want?
Three dots appear on the screen, making my heart beat faster. Is he
using spectral hands to type the message or is he possessing some poor
bastard with a phone? Finally, the response comes:
 Your complete destruction.
My breath catches, and I type back with shaky fingers:
Why?
The next answer is immediate.
Because I crave your pain.
“You’re a sadist,” I whisper to the screen, my voice hoarse.
He messages back with:
I never pretended I wasn’t.
“What’s the point in writing anything if you’re going to destroy my
work?” I shout, my voice cracking with frustration. My hands clench into
fists, and my vision blurs with tears of anger and despair. Everything I’ve
worked for is slipping away, destroyed by the very person I once trusted.
“You’re determined to ruin my life.”
When he replies with a thumbs-up emoji, my nostrils flare. I toss the
phone on the other side of the bed. What do I have left if I can’t write my
erotic ghost story?
The rest of my young adult series?
Xero really liked Rapunzelita.
I shake off that thought. People don’t want to read fractured fairy tales
about girls who don’t get nasty with the villain. At least not my audience. I
sent book one of the Rapunzelita series to multiple agents and didn’t receive
any replies. Myra was nice enough to read it for me, but she said it wasn’t
the sort of thing her agency promoted.
My gaze lands on the vodka bottle, my desperate means of escape. I
crack it open and take two long swallows, welcoming the burn. Within
seconds, the world feels a little less painful, a little less real.
When life gives you setbacks, you don’t have to keep pushing forward.
Sometimes, it’s okay to get wasted. There’s no rush. Your problems will
still wait for you in the morning, ready to crush you all over again.
After I realized no one was interested in Rapunzelita, I spent months
wallowing in rejection, completely dependent on Dr. Saint and Mom’s
validation until I fixated on Xero’s mugshot. He wasn’t dark and brooding,
like most anti-heroes, but eerily compelling with his chiseled features and
ice-cold irises.
Driven by madness or a desperate need for someone to appreciate my
talent, I drafted him a letter, painting myself as a mysterious and troubled
heroine. His attention once filled the void of my loneliness, but now, it’s
reduced me to seeking oblivion in budget booze.
“Less whining,” I say to my budget-friendly bottle. “More drinking.”
After taking another gulp of cheap liquor, I flop against the headboard.
The buzzing of my phone fades into the background, muffled by an
alcoholic fog. As my vision blurs, I slide down the bed and welcome
unconsciousness.

Hours later, rhythmic knocking drags my mind out of sleep. It’s an

unearthly sound, like bones rattling against wood.
A hangover pounds through my head and my gut churns with nausea.
It’s about this time I regret trying to drown my sorrows in vodka.
I crack open an eye, expecting it to be light. All I see is the darkness of
my bedroom until the unearthly sound rips through my eardrums.
Knock, knock, knock.
Panic grips my chest, sending a surge of cold adrenaline. Every instinct
screams at me to reach for the knife under my pillow, but my arms are
pinned to my sides.
This is his doing.
Movement in the shadows pulls my attention to the corner of my
bedroom, and he steps out of the dark.
The seven-foot-tall specter drifts toward the foot of the bed, his eyes
shining with a malevolent glow.
My breath shallows.
Is this the night he finally drags me to hell, or will he continue
tormenting me to insanity?
That thought slices through my brain fog like a scythe. I thrash within
my bonds, wanting to crawl out of my skin, but my arms feel tied to the
sides of my body.
Will he pass the salt circle?
It’s supposed to repel evil spirits. I laid it perfectly. Twice.
When Xero pauses at its perimeter, terror loosens its grip around my
heart, replaced by a flicker of faith.
The salt will hold.
 Won’t it?
A cold wind sweeps into the room, extinguishing any remaining hope.
His head bows, pulling those glowing eyes away from mine and toward the
salt.
I glance toward the window. When the hell did I leave it open? Is
the salt circle broken?
He advances through my protective perimeter and passes the foot of the
bed.
Panic restarts, turning the edges of my vision black. I thrash within my
invisible restraints, my mind screaming, my gaze fixed on his glowing eyes.
Cold fingers pull back the sheets, exposing my trembling thighs to the
cool air. In one swift movement, he lifts my nightgown up around my
waist. The pulse between my legs pounds a staccato beat. Arousal floods
my clit. The muscles of my core tighten in anticipation of another night of
torture.
Terror consumes my consciousness, and my last hope before I succumb
to the darkness is that maybe, this time, he’ll allow me to come.

OceanofPDF.com
 THIRTY-NINE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
How didn’t I know what was happening to the girls? I appreciate your
frustration. Everything changed when I finally realized why they were so
upset, but that’s a story for another day.
In short, my life was sheltered. From the age of seven, I lived in a gated
community, where I had little contact with the outside world. I was not
allowed to access the internet or watch television, and my reading material
was restricted. Every child at my elementary school was part of the
community, and parents like my father wielded power over the teaching
staff.
When I was moved into the facility at the age of ten, my window to the
outside world became even more restricted. There were no friendly
housekeepers to give me another perspective on life. Everything I learned
from that moment on was spoon-fed to me by my tutors.
There was no way for me to comprehend that a grown man could see
young girls as anything but innocent children.
One by one, the girls disappeared from the facility, and by the time I
reached eleven, all that was left were ten boys. The tutors explained that the
girls had quit the program and had either returned to their families or the
streets.
Over the next several months, even some of the boys I joined with ‘left’.
Sometimes they didn’t return from missions. Other times, they were told to
pack their things and leave. Younger children would arrive every six months
to replace those who departed, and after my growth spurt, I became a
teaching assistant.
I regret helping to train child assassins. For the longest time, my moral
compass was skewed.
Stockholm syndrome is a powerful thing, especially for a child. I’m
ashamed to admit to being desperate to succeed and earn my father’s
approval. During that time, I looked back on what my father did to the
woman who raised me as a mercy killing and blamed all the cruelty I
endured on my brothers and stepmother.
My mind was so warped that I saw that man as my savior. All the tutors
at the facility revered him, as did the other boys. I even earned respect
among my peers for being his son.
When I turned fourteen, my father came to visit the facility to update
me on the status of his younger son. My attack left him with permanent
brain damage, leaving the housekeeper and my stepmother having to tend to
his most basic needs.
The news hit me harder than I expected. I hadn’t intended for my
actions to burden the housekeeper. My father added that I was too old for
the facility and gave me two options. The first was to return home to live
with his family, and the second was to join an academy, where I would train
with like-minded students.
I chose the latter, and that was the true beginning of my corruption.
Fan questions:
I do not feel remorse for my killings, although I am capable of the
emotion. Every person I tortured to death only suffered hours of torment
compared to the years of pain they inflicted on me. All I did was enact
retribution.
If I could have a superpower, it would be teleportation. I would leave
death row to appear before my fans on camera. Afterward, I would take you
upstairs and make you moan my name all night. No prison would hold my
body, and no cell would hold my spirit.
Yours,
Xero
P.S. Was the lingerie I sent your size?

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY

AMETHYST
My head no longer throbs when I wake up the next morning, but I can’t
say the same for my heart. Or my pussy. My arms and torso feel like
they’ve been encased in ropes.
The dry membranes of my throat stick together as I try to swallow, and
it feels like I’ve screamed myself hoarse.
He was here last night.
Or was that a dream?
My gaze darts to the window. It’s closed, but I’m sure last night it was
open.
I force myself up with a groan, only for a wet curl to smack me in the
eye. When I run my fingers through my hair, it’s sticky with ectoplasm.
Some of it even coats the side of my face.
What the hell happened to my salt circle? I lean across the bed, only to
find it intact. As I fall back into the pillows, my shoulder hits something
solid that sloshes.
Holy water.
I crack it open and take a lukewarm swig.
What fills my mouth tastes nothing like water or even plastic. Gagging,
I hold the bottle up to the light and swear it looks cloudy. Do I detect a trace
of salt?
My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. With a groan, I reach
across the nightstand and pick it up without looking to see who’s calling.
“What?” I croak.
 “I’m outside in the car,” Myra says, her voice brimming with
excitement.
A horn honks somewhere on the edge of my awareness. I close my eyes,
wondering why Myra drove across town to see me when she should be at
work.
“The doors open at ten, but the queues start as early as six,” she says.
“If you want a chance to pitch your novel, we have to get to the book fair
early.”
My eyes snap open.
Book fair?
Shit.
Thirty minutes later, Myra and I wait outside Beaumont Town Hall,
where a white banner proudly announces the book fair. It’s a beautiful
neoclassical building with tall columns that hold up a pediment over the
entrance. Back in the Prohibition Era, it used to be a speakeasy. At some
point in history, it was gifted to the government, and now it’s a hub of
community events.
I glance up and down the line, noticing that many attendants brought
wheeled suitcases. My chest thrums with excitement as I recognize a few
book influencers. I take a sip of the supersized spirulina smoothie Myra
bought me to chase away the dregs of my thumping hangover and sigh. This
book fair is the break I need from Xero.
Myra found an early version of my manuscript she’d printed out the
morning of Xero’s execution. The appendix contains all the letters we sent
to each other, plus some extra research I made around Xero’s crimes. It’s a
relief that mementos of our relationship still exist, although I’m not sure if I
should be pleased that she’s brought it to share with the public.
She loops her arm through mine and beams. “Ready?”
“Can we not pitch the Xero book?” I ask.
Her face falls. “What are you talking about?”
“Xero doesn’t want me sharing our story with the world.”
“Xero’s dead,” she says, her words flat. “So is his family.”
My insides churn. Every time I tell her about being haunted, she
explains it away as nightmares or hallucinations. Even the rope marks
around my neck aren’t enough proof that I’m being plagued by a vengeful
ghost. According to Myra, Chappy could have attacked me in my sleep, or
maybe one of Relaney’s many criminal associates.
 “I’ve brought a copy of Rapunzelita,” I say. “And I have a few ideas for
books that don’t include Xero.”
She closes her eyes and sighs. “Middle-grade books don’t blow up on
social media like true crime or dark romance. I wouldn’t know how to
market something without graphic murder or spice.”
Guilt claws at my heart, and my chest tightens at everything Myra has
left unsaid. I’ve wasted her money, her time, and all that effort she spent
helping me polish my manuscript.
“How about an erotic ghost story?” I ask.
She raises her brow. “Do you have a synopsis or the first few chapters?”
My spirits plummet. I did until Xero wiped my computer. If I tell the
truth, she’ll ask if I’m taking my meds.
The doors open, and the line moves forward. My heart pounds at the
thought of advancing toward my dream. Even if today yields nothing
tangible, I’ll be forever grateful to Myra for introducing me to the
publishing world.
After our tickets get scanned, we enter a conference hall filled with
chatter. Stalls line the massive space in a U-shape, adorned with tall
banners, branded tablecloths, and book displays. Authors stand behind their
tables, engaged in conversations with excited readers.
Butterflies flutter in my chest as I scan their faces, recognizing many
from social media. One day, this will be me.
Myra pulls me to the section at the far side of the hall, dedicated to
agents and publishers. Our first stop is her old firm, where a well-dressed
woman behind the table rises with a frown.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Myra tips the leather military hat she borrowed from Wonderland that
makes her look like a dominatrix. “Pitching for my new client,” she says,
her manicured fingers skimming her leather pencil skirt. “I’m sure you
recognize her from the Official Xero fan club?”
From their tense interactions, I’m sure this is the senior manager who
fired Myra along with her embezzling boss. The woman behind the table
sweeps her gaze up and down my body.
I’m wearing my signature outfit, a black corset with fastenings at the
front, long black gloves, and a mini skirt with a lace trim. I’ve paired it with
a thick black choker and a silver crucifix that dips between my breasts. On
my legs are a pair of pink stockings that match the rinse I’ve used on the
left side of my hair.
The woman tries to speak, but Myra interrupts. “Amethyst has almost
completed a book based on the letters she exchanged with Xero Greaves.”
My heart flops around my chest like a dying fish. What the hell is she
doing? I asked her not to pitch the Xero book.
The woman leans across the desk, her eyes lighting up like fireworks.
She turns to me and asks, “Do you have a synopsis or sample chapters?”
“Sorry, Beth,” Myra says with a smirk. “My other clients and I need to
work with a more reputable firm. I wish you all the best in your endeavors.”
She loops her arm through mine and walks back to the middle of the
hall, where the organizers have set up green screens, ring lights, and
backgrounds with the book fair branding for social media opportunities.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“Beth went crazy when Xero’s mugshot went viral. I once overheard her
telling my boss she was a closet Xeromaniac.”
“Is that why you talked me into writing the book? To make her regret
firing you?”
“It’s not like that. I believe in you as an author. You have a great voice,
but you’re never going to become rich with fairytale retellings.”
A dozen fantasy authors rise to the top of my mind. I’m about to counter
her point when Myra raises her finger. “Hear me out before you rattle off a
list. You already have a platform of women who love sexy serial killers.
Write what you know they would gobble up.”
My shoulders sag with the weight of my defeat. The Rapunzelita
manuscript flopped with agents, and that was after I’d wasted years on
refining its prose until it sparkled. Can I afford to trigger another spiral of
depression?
“You’re right, but I need to start fresh with a character that doesn’t
remotely resemble Xero.”
“No problem,” she replies with a smile. “Are you ready to meet some
movers and shakers?”
“Excuse me?” asks a deep voice.
I turn around and look into the eyes of a man wearing an executioner’s
hood. My gaze wanders down his muscled chest, tight abs, and even tighter
leather pants that showcase an impressive dick print.
“Oh my god,” Myra says. “It’s the Well Hung Man.”
 He chuckles. “That’s right, my dear. Can I have a photo? I’m a huge fan
of your podcast.”
Before I know it, the hangman places an arm around my shoulder and
escorts me to one of the green screens. I refuse to call him well hung, even
though the bulge in his pants confirms he lives up to his name.
A small crowd gathers around us. From what I overhear, the hangman
has five-hundred thousand followers and makes thirst traps on social media.
Apparently, he’s a big deal.
Myra takes photos and video clips, goading him into grinding against
my side for the camera. I play along, knowing she’s helping me make
content for my new account.
Another man approaches after we finish with the hangman. He wears a
three-piece suit, demon makeup, and a pair of curved horns. Myra hisses
that he’s a voice actor named Big Dick Johnson with three-hundred
thousand followers. And he tells me he would be honored if I called him BJ.
She pitches my book to him and asks if he wants to be the voice of
Xero. Then my stomach drops when he agrees to do it for free, in exchange
for a percentage of the royalties.
I hold my tongue, not wanting to make a scene in front of the expanding
crowd, but when BJ moves on to take photos with a big-name author, I yank
Myra to the side.
“What the fuck was that about?” I hiss.
“Relax,” she says. “I know what I’m doing.”
“The Xero book isn’t happening, and you can’t just give away a chunk
of my royalties.”
She glances over her shoulder before leaning in close. “Do you know
how many authors would sell their soul to work with Big Dick Johnson?”
I steal another look at the man. Beneath the snappy suit and red paint,
there’s a five-ten, balding, nice guy type with an average face and a build
marginally better than Gavin’s.
“He’s nothing special,” I mutter.
“BJ has the most panty-melting voice in the business and a fanbase who
will buy anything he produces.”
“But he agreed to voice a book that will never be published,” I snarl.
“Having Big Dick Johnson in your corner will guarantee your chances
of success,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Any book he voices will
reach the top of the charts.”
 The rest of the day is a blur. Myra introduces me to countless influential
figures in the book industry: critics, bloggers, PR company owners, editors,
and authors whose books grace the charts. I lose track of who’s who, who
does what, and who I need to impress. One thing is consistent: everyone
wants to read the Xero manuscript.
At lunchtime, two reps from a large publishing house take us out for
sushi to discuss a potential deal. Myra gets them excited with talk about my
nearly completed manuscript, and I have to interrupt before the
conversation goes too far.
I pitch my paranormal ghost romance, but they’re only interested in
Xero. When I bring up the fact that I might be working on something else
with Big Dick Johnson, they ask for a synopsis.
For the rest of the day, I sign autographs, get pulled into selfies, and
make online videos with people Myra says will help rebuild my new
account.
My head spins. I knew I had a large social media following, but nothing
seemed real until Jake appeared on my doorstep. Being recognized by
people in the book industry makes me think I might have a career as a
writer.
At the end of the evening, I’m ready to go home, but BJ invites us to the
Capello Casino to discuss our potential collaboration.
Myra accepts his invitation before I can suggest we do a video call, and
we exit the town hall, where BJ leads us to a stretch limo and disappears
inside.
My phone chooses that moment to buzz. I glance at the nearest
lamppost, wondering if there’s enough light on the street to repel Xero. It’s
a wonder that he’s been quiet the entire day.
As Myra follows BJ into the limo, I grab her arm. “Let’s go back to my
place.”
“Are you seeing things again?” she asks with a frown.
I shake my head. “No, but–”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“This doesn’t feel right. Whoever has a business meeting in a casino?”
Her eyes soften. “This won’t be like the other times. I swear. We’ll go
straight to the bar and stay for a few cocktails. You can pitch your ghost
book, and we’ll leave together. Alright?”
 BJ pops his head out of the limo door, his eyebrows etched with
concern. “What’s the hold up? Are we going to discuss this audiobook or
not?”
“Coming!” Myra grabs my hand and pulls me into the limousine.
Its interior is white leather with wood trim and a minibar tucked into a
corner. Jazz filters through the speakers, and BJ lounges on a plush seat,
pouring champagne into a flute.
On his other side is a bulky blond man wearing a gray sweater. His eyes
light up, and he scoots across the leather seat and pats the space beside it.
“Amethyst, sit here.”
My brows pull together, and I sit opposite. “Um…”
“It’s me.” He points at his broad chest.
I take in his small eyes, chubby cheeks, and weak chin, not recognizing
a single thing about his round, unremarkable face.
“The Well Hung Man?” he says with a hopeful smile.
“Oh!”
I sit beside Myra for the short journey to the casino and allow myself a
few sips of champagne. The hangman tries to speak to me, but I’m
exhausted from a whole day of meeting people, posing for photos, and
pitching my new book.
Tonight, the champagne hits differently. Maybe it’s because I’m
fatigued. Or because of the bubbles rising off its surface are also alcoholic.
It usually takes me a while to feel the effects of drink.
The effervescence tickles my nostrils and dance across my tongue. My
eyes droop, and I sink deeper into the plush leather seat. By the time the
limo stops, I’m so drunk that I slump like a ragdoll beside the hangman.
“Is she out?” BJ asks.
“Not yet,” the hangman replies. “Is yours?”
“She sucked it down.” BJ leans forward and knocks on the partition
separating us from the driver. “Make another loop. Take us through the VIP
entrance. Tell the concierge we’ve got two sleeping beauties who need
discreet handling.”

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-ONE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Your words of compassion haunt my days, but that video of you in the
red lingerie haunts my nights. I replay that clip after lights out while
inhaling your pussy-scented letters to remind myself that beyond these bars,
I have my perfect soulmate.
The letters you send me are so precious, yet I find myself wanting to
fuck each one of them and smother the sheets of paper in my cum. Help me
preserve your words by including extra sheets of paper in the envelope.
Please smear them with your heavenly scent.
I mark my decision not to return to my father’s home as the beginning
of my corruption because that’s when I learned the truth of my assignments.
Before then, I almost believed my targets were evil men I rendered
unconscious to give the authorities time to search their homes.
During induction week at the new academy, the lead instructor informed
us that we were training to become assassins: contract killers who
eliminated targets for payment. When the man listed the methods we would
master, I finally realized what we had done.
We hadn’t been sedating our targets, but injecting them with a deadly
poison.
I was shocked but stoic. As one of the youngest children in this new
facility, I couldn’t afford to show any horror or upset. We boys had been
conditioned into believing emotions were weaknesses, and I wasn’t about to
become the target of bullies again.
It took several weeks for me to process the weight of what I had done.
Over four years, I must have killed at least thirty men. When I confided this
to the new facility’s counselor, his eyes lit up, and he told me I had a
promising future as an assassin.
By then, I was so brainwashed that I accepted his words as praise. The
initial shock I felt at being a murderer melted away, replaced by a perverse
sense of achievement.
Over the next four years, I focused on my studies. We learned modern
languages, ancient languages, chemistry, anatomy and physiology, weapons,
hand-to-hand combat, etiquette, hacking, urban warfare tactics, tracking and
surveillance, psychology, and an array of other skills required to become an
assassin.
Think of the academy as a high school for contract killers, set within a
fortified campus hidden deep within a forest. I’m pained to say that, outside
of the time I spent with my mother, the four years I studied there were the
best of my life.
There were two types of students: permanent borders and those who
only trained with us during the weekends. The weekend students were those
who already attended other boarding schools. I learned much later that my
father’s company employed handlers, who would groom ostracized students
to attend the classes on the pretext of learning self-defense.
It was a clever yet diabolical way to guarantee that the academy had a
constant supply of fresh recruits.
Fan questions:
Why would I forgive my father and stepfamily? I may have spared some
grace for the brothers, as they were children following the lead of their evil
parents, but each one of them grew up to become even more corrupt. There
will be no forgiveness until I’ve purged that entire bloodline.
Music wasn’t part of my upbringing, but I enjoy several classical tunes.
Camille Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre, Giuseppe Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G
minor, and of course, Beethoven’s Funeral March.
I remain your humble admirer,
Xero
P.S. If you could add lipstick kisses to one of the blank sheets, I can
imagine what color will stain my cock when I come down your throat.
OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-TWO

AMETHYST
Agony pulses through my temples, forcing me out of a dreamless
sleep. Sunlight sears through my eyelids, which feel like they’ve been glued
shut. I groan, trying to push my way through a sludge of semi-
consciousness.
The surface beneath my face feels familiar, even though I don’t
remember Myra driving me back home. Hell, I barely recall what happened
after the end of the book fair.
Xero was right about my medication. What’s the point of taking those
pills when they do nothing to stop the hallucinations and instead give me
blackouts?
A yawn pushes its way through my dry throat. I force my eyes open,
only to flinch at the bright light. Blinking back the glare, I dredge my mind
back and try to piece together the fragments.
I remember feeling like a celebrity at the book fair, as well as an
impostor. Everyone was so excited about the Xero book, and I barely got
the chance to pitch any new ideas.
“That’s not what’s important,” I rasp.
What the hell happened?
The man cosplaying the devil invited Myra and me to discuss an
audiobook. We went to his limo and met… What was his fucking name?
The hangman? Whatever.
I grope about for my phone, trying to sift through a bunch of irrelevant
memories. There was alcohol, a limo ride, and a glimpse of the casino.
Beyond that, everything else is a blur.
 When I can’t find my phone, I roll onto my side and squint at the
nightstand. I find my earrings, the bedside lamp, and Xero’s dildo. There’s
also a small bottle containing a urine-colored liquid with a label that says,
DRINK ME.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” I lean down the side of the bed to
see if I dropped the phone on the floor, but all I see is the charger cable, and
no sign of my phone.
Did I leave it in Myra’s car?
“Ugh!” I flop back on the bed, and I catch a glimpse of metal.
When I turn toward the other side of the bed, there’s a knife poking out
of a shredded pillow. Beneath it is a note.
Dread rolls around my insides like a boulder and settles in my churning
stomach. Is Xero the cause of what happened last night?
Sucking in a sharp breath, I reach out and pull the paper free, careful not
to loosen any more feathers. I hold the note up to the light and squint to
focus on Xero’s spidery handwriting.
It says,

You are a danger to yourself and are hereby grounded.

X
P.S. Be a good girl and drink your hangover remedy.

Grounded?
I sit bolt upright. The pain receptors inside my skull screech with
protest, but I ignore them, scramble off the bed, and land in an awkward
crouch.
“Fuck.” Head spinning, I drag my carcass upright and inch forward,
only for something to catch around my neck. It’s my leather choker, only
the buckle at the back is attached to a metal leash.
“What the hell?”
I turn around, finding the chain tethering me to a hook attached to the
wooden bedpost. My heart races, and I breathe hard through flared nostrils.
How dare Xero try to keep me tethered like a dog?
With a snarl, I unbuckle the choker, letting it and the chain fall to the
floor with a thud. I glance down at my body, finding myself wearing a
cream camisole and matching shorts.
My brow furrows. Is he dressing me up like a doll now?
Trying not to freak out, I run downstairs to the front door, finding it
locked. My hands curl into fists and I swallow back a scream.
It’s a double cylinder deadbolt, which requires a key to open it on both
sides. That way, if an intruder snuck in through the window, he couldn't
easily unlock the door with the usual knob.
I thought it was a great security measure until now. That black-hearted
bastard just locked me in my own home. Doesn’t he realize I can climb out
of the window? I walk to the living room and yank open the heavy curtains.
The road is still busier than usual, with marked and unmarked police
cars occupying empty parking spots. My fingers close around the window
handle, but it’s jammed.
When one of the police detectives from the other day exits Relaney’s
house, I duck away and hide behind the curtain.
The doorbell rings, and I freeze. He probably has follow-up questions
about Chappy’s murder. If I tell him I can’t open the door because I’m
locked in, that will only arouse his suspicions.
As if I need the extra attention.
A thud sounds from the back of my house, turning my attention toward
the kitchen. I remain frozen, not daring to creak the floorboards. The
detective will return to number 11 once he realizes I’m not home.
Ten minutes pass until I decide to investigate the sound. After snatching
the half empty bottle of Armagnac to wield as a club, I creep out of the
living room and down the hallway.
When I reach the kitchen, each wooden cabinet has been flung open,
their contents strewn across the counter. Most of them were out of date, but
did he really have to scatter my food? Even the refrigerator door hangs open
with my last remaining bottle of holy water gone.
Shit.
How am I going to protect myself from Xero’s wrath?
This is a distraction. He wants me too busy cleaning up his mess to
focus on escape. After closing the refrigerator, I turn my attention away
from the cluttered counters and try the back door.
I’m not even shocked when it’s jammed.
Did he do something to me in my sleep? I turn to the sex contract on the
kitchen table to find a new note in that infernal handwriting:
 If you want your freedom, you must earn it tonight.

The last three words are underlined twice in what looks to be blood. I
put the note aside and check the sex contract to find what else he’s
underlined.
Collaring
Facials
Fear play
Humiliation
Raising a shoulder, I mutter, “You forget that I’m a hermit. Keeping me
locked up is more frustrating than frightening.”
I set down the contract and make my way up the stairs with the
Armagnac. Xero might have taken my phone, but I can always email Myra
or Mom. They both have keys to my house. If Mom can’t stand the sight of
me, she can push the key through the letterbox so I can let myself out.
As I reach the top of the stairs, a memory slides into place. The
hangman went with us to the casino and had a face that looked like he’d
been dropped from a great height.
Shaking off that thought, I continue toward my study, where I left my
laptop to charge. What happened next, and how the hell did I get home?
I sit at my desk, fire up my computer, and open the email client. After
typing out a quick message to Myra, I click send. An error message pops up
that says:
OFFLINE MODE ACTIVATED.
“What?”
I check the outbox, finding my email unsent. The footer says
NETWORK OFFLINE. My jaw tightens. Maybe he’s just disconnected me
from the internet. I glance at the menu bar at the top right of the screen and
click the Wi-Fi icon, finding a bunch of secure networks that aren’t mine.
He’s turned off my internet, so I can’t communicate with the outside
world.
Ducking beneath my desk, I check for my router, but it’s gone.
“Shit.”
The cable company set up my internet connection, and my
troubleshooting skills don’t extend beyond turning the router off and back
on again.
 Is Xero trying to replicate his conditions on death row? Rising off my
seat, I leave in search of the spare handset I left in my nightstand.
I enter my room, looking for signs that it’s been hit by a malevolent
ghost, but everything is just as I left it. Sunlight streams through the
windows, illuminating my black sheets and the collar and chain still
attached to the bed.
Heart pounding, I approach the nightstand and open the drawer. The
phone I left there is still intact, so I connect it to the charger.
But when I search for the SIM card, it’s gone.
“Fuck you, Xero,” I mutter.
There’s no reply, no rebuke or retribution, because Xero’s powers are at
their weakest during the day. He’s waiting for nightfall, when he can strike
at me from the shadows. And he’s locked me up, so I can’t get help or holy
water.
Anger wells up in my chest, burning through the mounting dread. I
square my shoulders, curl my fists, and storm into the bathroom. I can’t let
him control my life.
If he’s planning something humiliating for me tonight, then I’ll be ready
for him. But first, I need a fucking bath.

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-THREE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Thank you for supplying the extra sheets. The one with your lip print
will stay on my pillow while I grind my cock against the other you soaked
with your juices. Fucking pieces of paper you’ve touched is the closest this
sinner will know of heaven.
That officer still watches me masturbate each morning. After finishing
with me, she crawls into another prisoner’s cell so he can fuck her throat.
She then takes him for his morning exercise before sliding into another
prisoner’s room. The man in the cell next to mine says they have sex. By
then, I’m already too engrossed in calisthenics to care.
No, I didn’t carry out any assignments at the academy. The focus was
mainly on preparing the students to qualify for a place at the firm. Do not
disclose its name to anyone, but it’s called the Moirai.
Merely mentioning it in public will risk becoming a person of interest.
It’s the largest firm of assassins in the country, boasting clients at the
highest levels of society.
In answer to your question, the academy made me happy because it was
the first place since I was removed from my home where I felt a sense of
belonging.
I thrived there compared to the facility, where I was content but stifled
from spending so much time underground. At that age, I also appreciated
the presence of girls. They were capable, strong, and happy, compared to
the ones from earlier.
In my final year at the academy, the housekeeper’s eldest daughter
joined. Months later, the other arrived, distressed. Without her sister around
to keep her company, my father’s youngest son became her tormentor.
The next time I saw my father, I asked why he allowed his sons to bully
me and the housekeeper’s daughter. That’s when he said he’d
institutionalized his son and added that the girls were my half-sisters and I
had to take care of them.
I’m ashamed to admit to being so shocked by the revelation that I forgot
to press him for answers. Based on my sister’s account of what happened to
her at home, my brother wasn’t completely brain damaged.
Old resentments started to resurface. They festered until a week before
our graduation run, when an instructor casually mentioned the word Lolita.
Remembering it from the facility, I asked what it meant. He told me to look
it up in the library, and I did.
I only read a small portion of the Vladimir Nabokov book, and
something inside me clicked into place.
The girls from my former facility were sent to men like the filthy,
middle-aged protagonist. That’s why they returned withdrawn and
traumatized. They weren’t weak, but had been abused.
I was eighteen, surrounded by fourteen-year-old recruits, knowing that
my father sent out girls even younger than them into the hands and beds of
monsters.
That’s when I knew he would die.
Fan questions:
Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance to meet the death row prisoners
you mentioned. Every day, I speak to the gentlemen who delivers the mail.
Once a week, I exchange words with the inmate who runs the library cart.
I’m still being punished for an unfortunate incident with an officer during a
strip search, which means I’m confined to my cell for twenty-three and a
half hours each day.
If I could travel anywhere in the world, I would return to Buenos Aires.
The architecture was beautiful, and I enjoyed the cuisine, especially the
steaks. It’s also the location of the La Recoleta Cemetery, one of the most
beautiful in the world.
Your humble admirer,
 Xero
P.S. Thank you for sending the Rapunzelita manuscript. I will read a
chapter a day before lights out, so a part of you will seep into my dreams.

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
After dark, I hunker down inside my windowless green room,
surrounded by bedside lamps, ring lights, flashlights, and lit computer
screens. The space is flooded with every type of illumination imaginable,
and I’m sitting within a circle of salt.
I wrap my arms around my shins, trying not to fall into despair as I take
stock of my predicament:
Xero has trapped me in my own home.
He’s sealed every door and window.
He’s confiscated my phone and turned off the internet.
I’m too paranoid to alert the police in the house next door in case they
discover traces of the man I killed.
My ghostly tormentor wants to punish me for something I can’t even
remember.
And he’s thrown away my holy water.
The worst part about this is not knowing what happened to Myra. Xero
has a nasty habit of punishing people who overstep his boundaries. Kayla
choked on the dildo she stole from him, Gavin lost his fingers for touching
me, and Chappy lost his life for making me an indecent proposal. Xero even
cut off his tongue for offering me oral.
Also, what’s he going to do to me for all my transgressions?
Hours pass, and the concern churning in my gut escalates into a full-
blown ulcer. He should be here, rattling the windows, or whatever ghosts do
when they’re thwarted, but there’s no sign of my spectral stalker.
 Is that because he’s busy chopping my best friend into little pieces for
touting the manuscript? My eyes burn at the thought of Myra being at his
mercy. For the longest time, she’s been my only source of companionship.
Unlike my parents, she’s never abandoned me and doesn’t mind that I’m
slightly unhinged. I bow my head, resting it on my bent knees.
What possessed me to write to a man caught carving out his
stepmother’s heart? How on earth did I allow his beauty to blind me to his
inner beast?
Dr. Saint would say I got caught up in the mass hysteria, and it brought
me out of a deep depression about my failed manuscripts. If I couldn’t get
agents to acknowledge my writing, then maybe I could prove myself with
Xero. But is it the same principle as a bunch of kids meddling with a ouija
board on a sleepover, not thinking their fun would land them in mortal
peril?
When he replied, I should have been satisfied with achieving his
attention, but that dopamine rush became addictive. It only got better when
I posted about it on my failing social media channel and it went viral.
Then I got caught up in the phone sex, and Xero’s story of his corrupted
childhood, then the online fame, the gifts, and Xero himself. He was so
charming. Grateful. Humble. Each conversation was a thrilling escape into
a reality where I was desired and connected.
Xero made me feel like I was the only thing making his imprisonment
tolerable. He told me I was the light to his darkness, but he was my sun and
his presence made me bloom.
If I’d known his fixation would continue beyond the grave, I probably
would have stopped at the first letter.
Probably.
Who am I trying to kid?
Xero Greaves, good or evil, alive or dead, loving me or hating me is
everything. He’s all-consuming, yet he’s the fire that animates my being.
And there’s a tiny kernel of my psyche aware of the painful truth that
without him, I cease to exist.
A sharp pop from above has me jerking backward. My stomach leaps
into my throat. He’s just broken the lightbulb, making the room darken
several watts, but the ring lights still provide ambient illumination.
Seconds later, they switch off, plunging me into semi darkness. I scoot
to the edge of the circle and lean forward, careful not to disturb the salt. My
gaze drops to the laptop, which is now running on battery power.
I glance at the SIM-less phone I left to charge, and it’s no longer
powering on the mains.
Realization has my heart skipping several beats.
That cold-hearted bastard just turned off my electricity.
The only powerful source of illumination in the room comes from a pair
of battery-operated flashlights. Both of them point at the door. But when a
knock sounds on the opposite wall, I point one at the source of the sound.
“Xero,” I whisper. “Is that you?”
One knock.
“What do you want?”
He taps out a sequence in Morse code, but there’s no Ezekiel here to
translate. He probably got arrested alongside Relaney for the basement drug
farm. If I’m going to communicate with this ghost, then I’ll have to ask
more specific questions.
“Xero, I don’t understand. Can you just talk to me?”
Two knocks.
“Why not?” I roll my eyes at my open-ended question. I know exactly
why he doesn’t want to communicate like a normal ghost. I’ve made this
room Xero-repellent. “You want me to turn off the flashlights?”
One knock.
“If I do that, will you hurt me?”
He hesitates for several seconds before replying with two knocks.
“You’re lying.”
Two knocks.
“Then why did it take you so long to answer? You want me to turn off
the light so you can slither inside and tear me to pieces.”
Two insistent knocks.
Xero is protesting too much. A sure sign that he’s now saying anything
necessary to make me drop my safeguards. “Was it another ghost who hung
me from a fucking noose?”
Two knocks.
“Well, thanks for the confession, but I think I’ll stay here until sunrise.
Then tomorrow, I’ll bang on the window and scream until the police notice
me and kick down the door.”
The sound of something heavy hitting the door sends my heart leaping
to the back of my throat. I release a strangled shriek.
 “See?” I say with a hysterical laugh. “Why would I expose myself to
your violent temper?”
The pounding continues, making every hair on my body stand on end.
It’s like being on a plane in the middle of a thunderstorm and then suddenly
losing altitude.
My heart beats hard enough to muffle the sounds outside the door, but
it’s still loud enough to rattle my bones. Cold terror seeps into my marrow,
and the pulse between my legs throbs hard enough to send reverberations to
my toes.
Images flicker in my mind’s eye, starting with the leaked crime scene
photos of the brother and stepmother Xero murdered. It’s followed by the
picture of Kayla choking to death on a throat full of silicone, the envelope
full of fingers, and then Chappy’s limp body swinging from a noose. Not to
mention the morning’s delivery of his pierced tongue.
“Myra,” a voice rasps in between the sounds of chaos.
My breath stills.
“You have my friend?”
One knock.
Shit.
“Is she hurt?” I ask, my chest tightening, my voice rising with panic.
Two knocks.
I exhale, but it’s too early to feel relief. Gulping, I pluck up the courage
to ask, “Is she a hostage?”
One knock.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, the sting spreading across my sinuses.
I couldn’t do a thing to save Kayla, Gavin, or Chappy, but if there’s a
chance I can help Myra, I’ll do whatever it takes.
I choke back a sob. Nothing with this new version of Xero is simple. I
rephrase my question to, “Will you release her if I agree to your terms?”
One knock.
“Okay… Okay. What do you want me to do? Turn off the lights?”
One knock.
“Anything else?”
One knock.
A shudder runs down my spine, and chills spread across my skin. “And
step out of the salt circle?”
One knock.
 My stomach dips. It’s that jumping-off-a-dive board sensation where
I’m free-falling into an empty swimming pool. I try to rise, but my legs
have turned to jelly. It’s too much. I’m not brave enough to sacrifice myself
to a ghost, but then a fresh set of images assaults my mind: Myra screaming
under torture, hanging from the ceiling, or lying on an operating table being
carved by shadows.
Cold panic punches me in the chest, making me scoot out of the salt
circle. I crawl on my hands and knees, turning off both flashlights and the
lamps I set around the room, and I close the laptop’s lid.
There’s a beat of silence before the ceiling flares with light. I scramble
to the farthest edge of the room, press my back to the wall, and watch the
display.
Two naked men sit side by side on a bed. The smaller of the pair is thin
with a soft body, a red face, red hands, and horns. Between his skinny
thighs are genitals resembling a trio of button mushrooms set within a
thicket of salt-and-pepper pubic hair. His companion, with a perfect body
but an unfortunate-looking face, sits with his penis tucked between his
closed legs.
Nausea clogs my throat as I recognize them from the book fair. They’re
both in the champagne-colored decor of a luxury hotel suite, but there’s no
sign of us in the background.
“Roger Stern.” Xero’s voice is so loud and deep that my bones rattle.
“Also known as Big Dick Johnson. You have been found guilty of date
rape.”
“What?” I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth. I’m breathing so hard
and fast that I barely hear the voice actor’s reply.
“Put down the gun, man,” BJ says. “I didn’t touch her. You stepped in
before I could get my dick wet.”
My lip curls with disgust. Does that mean he stripped us naked?
“Stephen Glick, also known as the Well Hung Man. You have been
found guilty of attempted date rape.”
The hangman splutters. “This wasn’t my idea. I only squeezed one tit.”
My nostrils flare. Only?
“If I hadn’t interrupted, you would have taken what was mine,” Xero
snarls.
I clutch at my throat. He’s talking about me. BJ must have targeted
Myra and left me for the hangman.
 “One of you will die tonight,” Xero says.
“Kill him,” the hangman shrieks. “He’s the one who lined their glasses
with Rohypnol. I thought tonight was going to be a regular hookup.”
BJ shakes his head. “But he touched your woman. That other chick was
fair game. He’s the one who deserves to die.”
“You make an excellent point,” Xero says.
“Yeah.” BJ gulps. “I would never encroach on another man’s territory. I
knew to steer clear of the woman who ran your official fan club.”
“But this is your modus operandi,” Xero says. “You target women with
small followings, knowing that they won’t be believed. Tonight, you invited
Amethyst and her friend, hoping they would stay silent for the promise of
you being the voice of Xero Greaves.”
“It wasn’t like that,” BJ sobs.
“How many victims have you silenced with cease-and-desist letters?
How many have you doxxed? The information is all there on your phone.”
“I swear to God,” cries the hangman, “I’m not a serial rapist.”
“What about the Helsing Island Book Fair?” BJ screeches. “Or
Southampton, or Granville?”
“Pathetic,” Xero snarls. “But since neither of you raped the girls this
time, I’ll give you one chance to earn your freedom. Whoever wins this
game gets to go free. Understood?”
They both give him eager nods.
“Get on the bed. The first man who comes inside the other gets to live.
Loser dies.”
BJ skitters backward. “But I’m not gay.”
“Then you both die.”
“No fucking way.” The hangman wrestles BJ to the bed.
I clap both hands on my mouth, watching the men grapple on the
mattress. The hangman grabs the smaller man by the neck and then holds
him down with one muscular forearm, while he pumps his own flaccid
penis, which has an overhanging foreskin.
“Fight him, not me!” BJ flails his arms and legs, trying to break free.
“Fuck, no,” the hangman snarls. “You’re the one who got me into this
mess.”
BJ grabs the hangman’s balls and yanks downward.
With a blood-curdling howl, the hangman releases his hold on BJ and
rolls backward on the mattress. BJ advances on him, already rock hard.
 “I’m going to take your ass, big boy,” BJ snarls in a deep voice. “Fuck
you hard and fast. Fill you with buckets of cum.”
The pulse between my legs pounds, and I squeeze my thighs together,
trying to stem a surge of excitement. This is wrong. Even though both men
are rapists, I should be horrified at seeing them assaulting each other.
But I’m not.
If Xero hadn’t floated to our rescue, Myra and I would have woken up
traumatized and with no memory of what happened to our bodies. We
dropped our guards, thinking the world of publishing was a tight-knit
community, and Big Dick Johnson swooped in to take advantage of our
desperation for success.
BJ pounds into his friend’s ass at a relentless pace, and the hangman
finally gets an erection. Just as his leather pants suggested, it’s long and
thick but with a narrow head, trapped within its foreskin. With an almighty
bellow, he rears off the mattress and slams his fists into BJ’s face.
My hands slide over to my eyes. I can’t watch this. No matter what
these men have done, I can’t stomach seeing them fight so hard to rape each
other.
The snarls and shouts and slaps subside, giving way to grunts and
groans. When I peek through my fingers, they’ve arranged their bodies in a
69 and are thrusting into each other’s mouths.
My clit throbs at the sounds of their fucking, then my pussy clenches
and releases and aches. I’ve never seen anything so primal, so raw. Two
men fucking each other’s throats for their own survival. This is madness.
“Does this make you horny?” asks a deep voice sounding so close to my
ear that I flinch.
I pull my hands away from my face to find a cloaked figure looming in
the shadows, his eyes glowing.
It’s Xero, and he’s holding a sack.
My gaze darts up to the scene playing out on the ceiling. How much do
I want to bet that Xero is about to present me with one or more of their
body parts?

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-FIVE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I lied. Your Rapunzelita story was so captivating that I read the entire
manuscript in a day. It ended with a cliffhanger. Have you already started its
sequel?
Turning Rapunzelita into the most dangerous person in the story was a
work of genius. The final chapter made me reassess my opinion of Dame
Gothel. Will Gothel recapture Rapunzelita before the next full moon? I
await your reply on tenterhooks.
Please extend my gratitude to the fans. Thanks to them petitioning the
warden for humane conditions, I now enjoy a full hour of exercise each
morning. There is also a new prison guard to take on the extra workload,
and I’m no longer under the control of Officer McMurphy.
The other prisoners on death row are also thankful for the extended
recreation time. One of them even provides me with Italian snacks, lovingly
prepared for him by his housekeeper. They are quite delicious.
With the new male prison guard, our daily conversations, your beautiful
letters, and the home-cooked meals, my time in prison is becoming
significantly less bleak. It’s all thanks to you, my love. You’re awakening
emotions I thought were long gone.
No, I didn’t get to confront my father. He stopped visiting the academy
after I checked out Lolita from its library. The headmaster agreed to pass on
messages, but I don’t know if they ever reached him. Even if they did, I
suspect he knew his days were numbered.
My father must have known I would piece together the facts. Perhaps he
thought he was safe because he held my sisters’ lives in his hands. The
knowledge that once I graduated from the academy, they wouldn’t have me
to watch their backs made me put aside thoughts of revenge.
The first thing I needed to do before tracking down that heartless,
conniving bastard was to extract my sisters. Failing that, I would need to
wait four years for them to graduate.
However, that idea crumbled to dust the moment I was in the thick of
the academy’s graduation run.
Fan questions:
Your campaign for more humane conditions succeeded. The warden
called me into his office to explain that he wasn’t aware of the breach in
protocol. He wants to assure the public that the guard in question has been
reprimanded, and I can confirm that he has employed an additional officer
to watch over the prisoners on Death Row.
I have been to Paris multiple times. Every visit to Europe has a detour in
Paris. I was fascinated by the Père Lachaise Cemetery, which is equally as
impressive as La Recoleta in Buenos Aires. Most importantly, I fell in love
with the catacombs.
Love,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-SIX

AMETHYST
I gape up at Xero’s dark form, my eyes bulging, my mouth opening in a
silent scream. An invisible noose tightens around my neck and jerks. My
heart tries to break out of its cage and skitter out through the door.
He’s the same impossibly large, hooded figure that haunts my erotic
nightmares. This time bringing with him the scent of burning matches.
Is that the smell of Hell or the stench of my impending damnation?
“Why are you here?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“Answer my question,” he snarls.
I glance up at the screen, where the men continue fucking each other’s
throats with wild abandon. Nothing about the way they hold on to each
other’s bodies says they’re acting under duress. It’s like a switch has flipped
and they’ve forgotten about the ghost threatening their lives.
“You want to know if that makes me horny?” I rasp, my throat
tightening with the proverbial noose of nightmares.
He nods.
Swallowing down my rising panic, I say, “No.”
“I can smell your pussy,” he growls.
A shiver runs down my spine and settles between my legs. I shuffle
backward, trying to melt into the shadows, but it doesn’t work. Xero
remains on the other side of the room, staring at me like my executioner.
My mind scrambles for something, anything, to talk myself out of this
situation, but it goes blank.
His menacing presence is distracting me from what truly matters.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “What happened to Myra?”
 “I took her.”
My breath catches. “Where?”
“Show me your pussy.”
“Why?” My voice rises several panicked octaves.
“Myra Mancini read the manuscript containing my secrets. Secrets that
will get you killed. Secrets I told you never to share.”
The weight of his words presses down on my chest, suffocating me until
my vision swims with black dots. I’m on the verge of passing out, but I
force myself to stay conscious for Myra’s sake.
“It’s not her fault,” I say, my words quickening, fueled by burning
desperation. “She didn’t know⁠—”
“She ignored the warning. Now, she must die.”
I swallow back a wail. This can’t be happening. Myra can’t—The
thought is too terrible to even contemplate. I’ve got to save her. Even if it
means throwing myself under the ghost bus.
“What if I take her punishment? What if I do everything you say?”
Xero tilts his head at an unnatural angle. “You would sacrifice yourself
for Myra?”
“Yes,” I whisper, blinking back tears. “What do you want? I’ll do
anything.”
“Show. Me. Your. Pussy,” he growls.
Sobbing and shaking, I pull down my leggings and gather the fabric
around my ankles, then I slide the cotton of my panties to the side, baring
myself to the ghoul. Cool air swirls around my exposed flesh, making my
clit throb.
Xero remains in place, those expressionless eyes glowing from within
the depths of his hood. “Take it all off.”
With trembling fingers, I slide the panties to my ankles and pull the
bunched fabric off my feet. “Is that enough?”
“All of it,” he says in a voice low enough to chill me to the marrow.
Shivering, I pull off my sweatshirt, my tank top, and my sports bra. The
draft blowing across my skin tightens it into gooseflesh. Pulling my knees
to my chest, I hug my shins, not wanting this ghost to see me completely
naked.
Of all the things I should worry about, this is the most idiotic. Xero has
molested me in my sleep countless times, which is why he underlined
somnophilia in the sex contract.
 “Open your legs,” he says, his voice so menacing and low that its
vibrations reach the marrow of my bones.
Every muscle in my body stiffens. I can’t move.
“Now,” he barks.
My heart skips several beats as I part my thighs. A cold draft swirls
across my feverish skin, adding to the mounting terror.
“You’re glistening for other men.”
The accusation hits me in the gut with an infusion of icy despair.
“No.”
I shake my head from side to side, not wanting to provoke him into a
rage. This is the malevolent monster capable of unspeakable acts of
violence. I won’t let him turn that fury onto me. Or on Myra.
“I’m wet because you saved us from those predators, and now they’re
getting to see what it feels like to be violated. I’m turned on by your power.
Nothing else.”
As he pauses, seeming to consider my claim, the walls echo with the
guttural sounds from the sinister sixty-nine.
“Good girl. Now, touch yourself.”
“How do you want it?” I whisper, trying to rekindle a spark from our
morning phone calls.
“Do it. Now,” he bellows.
Flinching, I reach down between my legs and rub my clit. It’s already
swollen from having watched the spectacle playing above. When one of the
men mumbles something around his mouthful, I resist the urge to look in
case Xero flies into a jealous rage.
I roll my nipples with the fingers of my free hand and force myself to
focus on the sensations and not the sinister spirit. Pleasure gathers in my
core, making my breath quicken. This arousal must be some kind of stress
response, because I should be sickened.
Xero’s pale eyes remain fixed on mine, burning with an intensity that
makes me quiver.
“You used to moan so prettily for me in the mornings,” he says, his
voice sharp with accusation. “Why are you silent now? Was it all for
show?”
Shit. Nothing I do seems to satisfy this specter. “Back then, I wasn’t
scared shitless. I also had toys, and you were telling me what to do.”
 He was also miles away, in a high-security prison surrounded by armed
guards without a chance in hell of making me enact the fantasies for real. I
felt so special to have caught the interest of the most infamous caged man,
and powerful because he was the hottest thing on social media, yet he chose
me above all others.
I don’t voice that part out loud. Myra’s life still hangs in the balance.
“You want a little help?” he growls.
“Yes, please.”
He tosses the bag on the floor, making my heart jolt. Every drop of
blood leaves my face and drains straight to the pulse between my legs.
“What’s inside?” I ask.
“Take a look.”
Someone in the video is coming so loudly that my ears ring with the
sound of his pleasure. Without meaning to, I glance up to find the hangman
spurting his load over BJ’s face.
BJ turns to the camera, his face a rictus of terror. “Wait. I don’t want to
die. Please. Stop.”
The screen freezes.
“What happened next?” I ask.
Xero points a skeletal digit toward the bag.
I shudder. “Am I going to encounter someone’s severed penis?”
He snaps his finger, the sharp sound making me shiver.
“Alright,” I rasp.
Shudders seize my spine and cold sweat breaks out across my skin.
Dread drags my belly across the floorboards as I crawl out of my corner and
slide my hand into the bag. This will be like the envelopes, only ten times
more macabre because I know exactly what to expect.
When my fingers brush against something warm and fleshy, every fine
hair springs to life, and I flinch. “Whose body parts are inside?”
“Yours, if you keep wasting my time,” he snarls.
Throat tightening, I fumble around inside, cringing at the suspicious
textures. I graze over something covered in coarse hair that could easily be
a testicle. Nausea seizes my gut, and I force myself not to gag. It’s still
warm from the method Xero uses to preserve body parts like Gavin’s
fingers.
Ignoring it, I search around for another object, finding something
silicone. I pull it out to discover it’s the dildo Xero commissioned from a
mold of his cock.
Relief washes through my system, and I hold it up, trying not to sound
too triumphant. “Here.”
He nods. “Stick it in your pussy.”
This time, I don’t argue. Parting my thighs wide, I run the toy over my
wet folds, trying to gather enough moisture to ease the slide.
Just as I’m about to penetrate myself with the toy, Xero raises a finger.
“Wait.”
“What for?”
He reaches into the depths of his cloak and pulls out a metal pole. It’s
about two feet long, with each end sharpening into spikes.
My stomach drops, and I glance at BJ’s frozen face on the screen. Xero
can’t want me to impale myself to death.
When he drives the metal stake into the floorboards, I shriek.
“Let’s play a game. Your first choice is to ride the spike or the toy.”
I’d rather ride away to the sunset, but I doubt that’s an option.
“The toy,” I rasp.
“Toss it,” he says.
My breath quickens, and sweat beads across my brow. “Shouldn’t I hold
on to it?”
“Then ride the spike.”
“No!” I shriek and hurl the dildo across the room, hoping he’ll ripple
like a reflection in the water. Maybe even splinter into a million pieces and
never return.
He catches the silicone toy and places it on top of the spike.
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
He steps back. “Ride.”
I gulp. “You want me to fuck that thing standing up?”
“Do it for Myra,” he replies with a sneer.
He’s right. All this procrastinating will only get my best friend hurt. I
place a damp palm on the wall and ease myself up to standing, but even that
requires every ounce of willpower and strength. On trembling legs, I walk
to the center of the room, where he’s left the stake through the floorboards.
Xero watches from the shadows, his huge body a sinister outline in the
dark. If I keep my head turned, I can almost imagine he doesn’t exist.
Picturing myself making him a sex tape, I walk to the pole, squat over
the dildo, and turn my gaze to the phone I left on the floor.
 I lower my body and shiver as its blunt tip grazes my folds. There’s a
part of me that wonders what the hell I’m doing, trying to fuck a sex toy
attached to a metal spike driven into the floorboards, when I’ve never once
been on top.
In fact, I’m so dreadfully sexually inexperienced.
Mr. Lawson made me think I was sophisticated and edgy, when I was
really young, naïve, and elated that a man of his caliber had paid me
attention. Looking back, I realize sex with him was mediocre.
We fucked over his desk, against walls, in closets, and in the girls’
locker rooms, but I don’t remember ever orgasming from penetration. At
least, not until the day he took me to his apartment and laced my food with
the abortion pill.
The bastard went down on me, and I was so bedazzled from the orgasm
that I ate a poisoned cupcake, thinking I was in the pinnacle of love.
Why the hell am I thinking about him? Because once again, I’ve
blundered into an inappropriate predicament.
“Move,” Xero growls.
He’s right. Now isn’t the time to dwell on the past. Mr. Lawson stole my
innocence, and in return for killing our baby, I took his life. If I survive the
night, then I’ll need to banish Xero back to Hell. Inhaling a deep breath, I
place a palm against the wall, push past the fear, and position the dildo’s
cool tip at my entrance.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice a low growl that bristles with raw
power. “Fuck me like you mean it. Give me a show to remember, my little
ghost.”
I lower myself into a squat, letting the dildo’s thick crown push through
my entrance. Shivers run up and down my spine, making me gasp.
“Aaah,” I moan. “I’ve never had it from this angle.”
Lashes fluttering, I sink lower, the dildo pushing deeper into my pussy
with a delicious stretch. Xero moves into my periphery, those glowing eyes
burning into my soul as I roll my hips and focus on making this pleasurable.
“Deeper,” he snarls.
The command fills me with the rush of adrenaline I need to bear down,
working the silicone deeper. As the dildo fills me to my limit, I let out a low
groan, and my thighs tremble under the stress of performing for a
poltergeist.
My head spins. At this rate, I think I’m going to faint.
 Closing my eyes, I bob up and down, fucking myself with the
impossibly thick toy. Xero assured me multiple times that it was a life-size
replica of his cock, but no man can be this big.
Sensations overwhelm my system, and my body sparks with new levels
of awareness. I’ve never felt so alive.
Ecstasy dances along my nerves as I move up and down on the pole,
building up a beautiful rhythm. I’m not sure what part of this is supposed to
be a punishment, but I shove that thought to the basement of my mind.
“Harder,” he growls. “Faster.”
“Y-Yes,” I stammer and quicken my pace until I’m riding so hard and
fast that my tits bounce.
Each stroke sets off sparks across my skin that ignite an inferno in my
core that burns brighter with every thrust. I roll my hips, making the toy’s
textures hit every pleasure spot.
“Dirty girl. No cock will ever satisfy you except my own.”
“Yes,” I cry out.
His deep laughter echoes across the room, making every fine hair on my
body stand on end. The part of me that wants to resist this lunatic ’s
humiliation only has to glance at the ceiling where BJ’s image is frozen in
perpetual terror.
The video restarts. BJ continues begging for mercy, while the hangman
rises off the bed and gapes into the camera, his chest rising and falling with
post-coital fatigue.
“Congratulations, Mr. Glick,” says Xero’s disembodied voice. “Take
your prize.”
The hangman freezes. “What do you want me to do with that?”
“Rid the world of a rapist.”
“Stephen, don’t do this.” BJ rushes out of the shot. Moments later,
there’s the sound of a heavy punch, and he spins back into the frame.
“One man must die, Mr. Glick,” Xero says. “You just won the right to
decide whether or not that will be you.”
BJ groans. “Stephen, don’t let me die. Not after all the fun we had
together.”
Features hardening, the hangman advances toward the camera. He
disappears for a moment and returns with an executioner’s ax.
“Are you fucking kidding?” BJ roars. “You’re not even going to fight
for me, after my sound bites made you go viral?”
 “Sorry, man.” The hangman raises his weapon.
My breath stills, as do my legs. I expect Xero to pause the video, but it
continues playing. A sharp sting on my ass makes me flinch. I turn around
to find Xero standing close enough to grab my throat.
“Keep fucking that dildo,” he snarls, his voice mingling with BJ’s
screams.
Terror skitters down my spine. Gasping, I pump harder, never allowing
my gaze to stray from the screen. Pressure builds up around my core. I’m so
close to climaxing that it hurts.
BJ scrambles backward on the bed, but the hangman follows after him
with the ax raised.
“Stephen, for the love of God, please. I’ll do anything!” The smaller
man presses tightly against the wall.
The hangman mounts the mattress, the muscles of his back rippling as
he swings his ax and embeds its blade in the side of Johnson’s head. Blood
spurts from the wound, and the shock hurtles my body over the edge.
An orgasm tears through my system with its own Richter scale, shaking
my legs so much that I lose control and collapse onto the floorboards. The
dildo and the pole attached to it fall along with me, making the wood crack
and groan under my weight.
I land on my hands and knees, my pussy spasming around the thick
silicone toy. I keep coming and coming to the sound of the Hangman’s
desperate sobs. What the hell is wrong with my body? What kind of sicko
gets off watching a man die?
“What have I done?” he shrieks.
The volume lowers, and I can’t hear the reply because Xero draws close
and growls in my ear, “Tell me the truth. Was everything we went through a
lie?”
Shuddering through the most intense aftershocks, I force out the words,
“But I already told you⁠—”
“Again,” he snaps.
I bow my head, my brow lying against the warm wood. “Everything I
said was true. That day, I went to the prison to get married, but I was late
because of that photo and threatening letter.”
“Why didn’t you rush to me for protection?” he asks.
“Xero, you were behind bars and hours away from death,” I sob through
panting breaths.
 “Didn’t I tell you we would be together forever?”
I laugh, the sound bitter. “Do you know how many men say that every
day? It’s just romantic bullshit they think will guarantee cheaper dates,
more sacrifices, and better fucks. My pedo music teacher said we’d be
together until the end of time, but he’s dead.”
Xero doesn’t reply, probably because he knows I’m right.
“So that’s why I called the police,” I say, my voice hoarse with
desperation. “They replayed parts of my podcast and wouldn’t leave the
fucking house out of spite because they wanted me to miss the wedding.”
The air fills with the hangman’s sobs, but they may as well be mine.
Even thinking about that day crushes my chest until every breath is an
effort.
“I fucked up, Xero, but you know how it is whenever I start thinking
about my past. That photo… It was worse than anything I could have
imagined. I panicked. I called 911. Whoever sent it was watching.”
Xero’s silence hits harder than a punch to the gut, forcing out a wail.
“As soon as they left, I drove to the prison, but the guard at the door
said your visiting privileges were revoked.” My words are garbled, thick
with tears. I’m spluttering, coughing, reliving the moment that bitch reveled
in my broken dreams.
He still doesn’t reply, and my heart shatters.
Nothing will satisfy this man. Guilt snakes through my lungs, squeezing
out a pained moan. I may as well rip open my chest and show him my heart.
“I’m sorry, Xero. I understand why you’re so angry.” I breathe hard,
trying to fill my lungs with air, but it barely reaches the back of my throat. I
clutch at my chest, feeling like it’s being crushed by an invisible weight.
“Because of me, you died alone.” My voice cracks, and rivulets of tears
spill down my cheeks and soak the floorboards. “Because of my failure,
you spent your last hours of life feeling unloved. Because of my cowardice,
you had no one on the other side of the death chamber to ease your
suffering.”
I rock back and forth, filling the room with my sobs. “I can’t face the
thought of you there, suffering without my support. It tears me apart more
than you can ever imagine.”
“I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to consummate our love. I
wanted to know what it felt like to connect with the only soul in the world
that completes mine.” I bang my fists against my thighs, but the pain
doesn’t register compared to the agony ripping through my heart. “I longed
for it, longed for you, but I ruined everything.”
“That failure will haunt me until the day I die.” Collapsing forward, I
slam my forehead to the floor, my body trembling with the force of my
grief. “If you want to punish me, then fine. But please, spare Myra. It’s me
who gave her the manuscript, and she didn’t know your backstory was true.
It’s me who betrayed you, not her.”
When there’s still no reply, I raise my head and crack open an eye, and
brace myself for the force of his vengeance.
But he’s gone.

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-SEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I understand that you haven’t polished your second manuscript, but I’m
aching to know what happens next. If it’s not too much of an imposition, I
would be delighted to read it.
They say that authors put a little piece of their soul into their work,
which makes it all the more precious. I’m not just enthralled by your story,
I’m eager for another glimpse into your spirit. There’s no pressure. If the
answer is no, I will reread book one of Rapunzelita and savor your graceful
penmanship.
The graduation run is an exam that mixes elements of an obstacle
course with the Running of the Bulls. Academy students must navigate
booby traps and fight each other for the chance to leave the academy and
become paid assassins. Imagine any popular dystopian movie where
teenagers murder each other for survival.
On the morning of the exam, we piled into armored vehicles and were
driven to an industrial complex. Our instructions were to form groups of
three, search for hidden purses containing tokens within the labyrinth, and
find our way across town to a specific location.
The game seemed simple until we realized there were only enough
purses for three-quarters of the groups, which pitted us against each other.
While we came unarmed, there were plenty of weapons littered about
the arena. It soon dawned on us that our instructors wanted us to fight.
 I’d already joined forces with two other boys I’d known from the
previous facility, and we managed to reach a purse without hurting any
other groups. However, when we checked its contents, it only contained two
tokens.
That’s when we realized our instructors wanted us to turn against each
other. Boys I had known since I was ten. It was impossible. Instead, we
decided to find another purse and donate the extra token to the other trio of
boys from our facility.
It was late, and a few successful pairs had already departed, leaving
behind dead teammates or survivors who had joined together to find purses.
What started as a fun exercise became a bloodbath. Returning to the
academy wasn’t an option. Our instructors made it clear that those who
tried to leave would face deadly consequences.
In the end, the boys we wanted to save had cornered a trio of girls.
They’d already killed one of them to obtain their purse, but they’d chosen
to stay to have ‘fun’ with the others.
All the rage that had been simmering in my heart returned. I
remembered the Lolita assassins whom I’d dismissed as weaklings, as well
as the reports my sister made of being molested by my youngest brother. I
charged in and delivered much quicker deaths than they deserved.
There were now four tokens and five students, but I was no longer in the
mood for killing fellow pawns. I handed the girls the tokens they found and
told them I would find my own way.
Fan questions:
Since being incarcerated, I’ve had more time for old hobbies and new.
For example, I’ve always enjoyed reading, and the prison library contains a
wide variety of classics. I’ve recently taken up photography and particularly
enjoy self-portraits. I get a kick out of knowing the pictures I take will be
used as greenscreen backgrounds for the fan club.
Yes, I’m aware of the small community that lives in the Paris catacombs
and was once nearly robbed by a man who claimed to be its leader. I believe
his assertions were fraudulent. When I disarmed him, he cried for mercy
like a fool.
Love,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST
I spend the entire night laid out on the wooden floor, freaked out by
Xero’s punishment and my reaction to BJ’s brutal murder. He made me
climax to what was effectively a snuff movie. I rode that dildo like it was
the last dick on earth, a part of me reveling in my humiliation.
Xero isn’t just haunting my life, he’s eroding my morality. He’s turning
me from someone who only kills in self-defense to someone who gets off
on watching death.
I don’t.
In fact, I’m so disgusted with myself that I want to sink into the
floorboards and spend the rest of my life in the crawlspace. The only thing
stopping me from disappearing forever is the thought of Myra falling to a
similar fate as those men.
I need to get up, dust myself off, and to make sure Xero holds up his
end of our bargain.
Sunlight streams in through the crack in the door by the time I muster
up the courage to move from my spot and try the front door. Finding it
unlocked, I collapse against it, my knees buckling with relief.
When I rush upstairs to check under my pillow, there’s no souvenir.
Maybe Xero thinks he’s terrorized me enough?
I take a shower, get dressed, and grab my car keys. There’s enough gas
in the tank for a return trip across town. I don’t need to ration my fuel,
because I get my allowance at the end of the month, which is in just over a
week.
 Myra lives in a downtown apartment building with a concierge. I’m not
a fan of her roommates, as they give me the creeps, and I’m sure she only
tolerates their bullshit because they allow her to live rent free.
I try her door, but a tall man in a suit answers, saying she’s gone to
work. My heart skips a beat. That has to be a good sign, right? Not wanting
to run out of gas for the return trip home, I walk several blocks down to
Wonderland, where I find her vacuuming the window display.
“Myra?” I bang on the glass.
Her head snaps up, and she freezes for several heartbeats, her eyes
widening, her breath quickening. Then her stunned expression morphs into
anguish, and she rushes to the door.
With trembling fingers, she turns the lock and then pulls me into a hug.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I should have listened to you.”
“What happened?” I murmur into her hair.
“It’s all over the news and social media. The Well Hung Man murdered
Dick Johnson and then hanged himself off the balcony with his own noose.”
I rear back with a gasp. “What do you mean?”
She pulls me further into the store. “Can you remember what happened
after the book fair?”
“My memory is spotty,” I say, my voice breathy. “Why?”
“The Well Hung Man live-streamed from Dick Johnson’s hotel room,
saying he had fucked up. He confessed to a lot of heinous shit⁠—”
“Like what?”
Myra walks around the counter and lowers herself into the seat. I follow
her, my heart pounding. Is it wrong for me to be more worried about if the
hangman mentioned our names than his apparent suicide?
She runs a shaky hand through her red hair. “The platform keeps pulling
down his videos, but here’s what I remember. He used to demand nudes
from minors and even met up with a few of them in real life. He and Dick
Johnson went to book fairs together, agreed on which women to target, and
invited them to Dick’s hotel room for ‘drinks.’
My eyes widen at the amount of venom she injects into that last word.
“Did he sound coerced?”
“More like drunk and out of his mind,” she replies with a shake of her
head. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I woke up in the wrong clothes with
no memory of the night before. I thought the worst until I realized I didn’t
feel weird down there.”
 I nod, my brow furrowing. “You woke up at home?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember driving back.” She reaches for my hand
and gulps, unable to meet my gaze. “Did anything… Did you… Did you
feel… different?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Only a headache.”
She exhales a shuddering breath. “Good. It looks like we have a
guardian angel. I mean, what if the hangman turned his blade on us?”
“It was Xero.”
Her head snaps up. “Amethyst⁠—”
“Don’t ask me if I’ve been taking my meds, because I’ve stopped. They
don’t work and all they do is make me drowsy. Before you ask, I won’t go
back to my doctor because she colluded with my parents to keep me out of
my mind.”
Her brows pull together. “So, you’re saying we were saved by a
guardian ghost?”
“You don’t have to believe me, but Xero doesn’t want that manuscript
published.”
“It’s gone,” she mutters, her shoulders sagging.
“What do you mean?”
“When I woke up, it was missing from my purse.”
“What’s your explanation for this, then?”
Myra bows her head. “I don’t want to fight, okay? But I can’t believe
that a man whose execution was publicized rose from the dead to stop you
from publishing that book. Don’t get mad at me for saying this, but it’s so…
Scooby Doo.”
“What do Kayla, Gavin, Dick Johnson, and the Well Hung Man have in
common?”
She sighs, her entire body deflating. “Listen, I don’t doubt that someone
is messing with your life, but it can’t be Xero.”
“What makes you think that?”
“First of all, he was still in prison when you received that photo of you
as a child.”
“But he’s sent me lots of things via mail,” I reply.
“Why would he turn on you and mail something so upsetting hours
before his conjugal visit? No man in history ever deliberately sabotaged his
chance of having sex.”
 “Alright,” I mutter. “Maybe that part wasn’t him, but there’s a cloaked
figure⁠—”
“Have you seen his face?” she asks.
“No, but he sounds just like Xero.”
“A deep, sexy voice like Dick Johnson’s?” she asks.
“I don’t remember that guy sounding even remotely attractive,” I mutter
and then wince because I just spoke ill of the dead. Maybe that courtesy
shouldn’t extend to a rapist.
“Narrators don’t sound like themselves all the time. They have ranges
and can do anything from boys to old men.”
“Dick Johnson isn’t my stalker,” I mutter. “He was too weedy.”
“But the Well Hung Man wasn’t,” she says.
I shake my head. “When did he hang himself?”
“You’re not answering my question. Was the Well Hung Man the same
size as the ghost costume?”
“Yes, but he’s not the ghost. It’s Xero.” I won’t back down from this. I
can’t. Not after everything I’ve seen.
Myra doubles over and sobs. “Sorry… I just can’t right now.”
I place a hand on her shoulder, my chest tightening with guilt. People
with normal brains can’t fathom the thought of executed killers rising from
the dead to become dark avengers. I’m struggling with the concept myself,
but I can’t deny that Xero is out there, both protecting me from evil and
making me sweat.
“It’s okay. Is there anything I can do?”
“Just… I’m overwhelmed…. Can I just have some space?”

I drive home, my heart as heavy as stone, wondering if Myra blames me for

all the deaths. She once asked me if my memory lapses were due to having
multiple personalities, but I laughed off that suggestion.
But what if she’s right? What if a vigilante killer resides in the back of
my head, ready to defend me from all predators? Even if that were possible,
I could never intimidate a pair of men into attacking each other. I shake my
head, not knowing enough about the condition to even speculate.
 One thing is for sure: Myra may not want to acknowledge Xero’s ghost,
but she sure as hell can’t deny his antics.
A shudder runs down my spine at that callous thought. Murdering and
maiming people shouldn’t be described so frivolously. Didn’t I learn
anything from last night?
By now, the police vehicles have left Parisii Drive, but the car parked
outside number 11 still remains. I’m tempted to tear down the missing
person photos, but I don’t want to attract the wrong attention.
As I’m unlocking the door, a large figure steps out of number 15. I
hurry inside in case it’s Reverend Tom. There’s no point dragging the priest
into my train wreck of a life.
I walk to the kitchen to find the mess gone, and the refrigerator stocked
with groceries. On the table, there are two new words underlined on the sex
contract: obedience and voyeurism.
Written in that blood-colored ink is the word, Erotophonophilia.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap.
Xero doesn’t answer, but I swear I hear him chuckle. I turn around in a
circle, wondering if my mind has added him to the roster of people I
hallucinate.
When I return to the green room, he’s already repaired the floorboard,
and there’s no sign of the metal stake. I pick up my laptop and take it
upstairs, only to find that it’s fully charged and connected to the internet.
Even my phone has been returned to the bedside table.
Things go quiet for the next few days. I stay offline, not wanting to read
about the supposed murder-suicide. It doesn’t add up. The hangman had
been so desperate to survive the night that he swung an ax into his partner-
in-crime’s neck. Why the hell would he confess to a string of atrocities
before committing suicide?
My mind conjures up the unsolicited answer: It’s because he was a
different kind of monster.
What if he felt guilt about being forced to kill his friend? That’s what
people who aren’t like us do. Feel things. I shake off that annoying thought.
I felt something after killing Jake and Mr. Lawson, but it wasn’t remorse.
More like the fear of getting caught.
I scan my laptop’s files to find that Xero returned the ghost story
manuscript. At the bottom is a sentence I didn’t write:
 How can I stay mad at someone so beautiful and talented?
You have my permission to write fantasies of how you
want me to pleasure you at night.

“Fucker,” I mutter under my breath and delete his words, but that
doesn’t stop me from continuing the story.
For the next few days, Xero leaves me alone to write. I ignore every
knock on the door, knowing it’s either the police or Reverend Tom checking
on me, concerned about my bruised neck and my conduct at the
supermarket when I was desperate for holy water and vodka.
I gave in to temptation, looked up erotophonophilia, and shuddered. It’s
a fetish for murdering others. Nothing about watching the hangman murder
Dick Johnson was erotic. If I climaxed, it was because Xero’s dildo hit the
right spots. That’s it. Nothing more.
By now, homicide detectives would have found Myra and me on the
security footage from the exhibition, the limousine, and the casino. They’ll
want to question us both about what happened the night of the book fair.
But nobody rings my number, and I don’t make any calls. I don’t even
leave the house.
Most nights, I wake up feeling a presence at my back. I don’t dare turn
around or switch on the light. That shit didn’t work out for Cupid and
Psyche. Instead, I lie on my side, relax into the warm embrace, and return to
sleep.
It feels like we’ve reached a truce. Now that I’ve given up on sharing
his story, he’s no longer a threat. At least not to me.
One evening, as I’m putting the finishing touches to the erotic ghost
romance, I’m interrupted by an insistent knock on the door. Ignoring it, I
focus on the manuscript, but whoever’s outside powers up a drill.
Heart pounding, I run downstairs to the kitchen and grab a knife. I
unlock the back door and step outside to escape, when two masked men in
black emerge from the backyard.
“There you are,” one of them says.
I step backward. “Who are you? What do you want?”
He turns to his friend. “Uncanny, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen her look this frightened,” he replies with a chuckle.
My stomach churns. They’re not the police. Police wouldn’t snicker at a
criminal’s terror. They have to be online trolls. Or fans of BJ and the
Hangman who’ve come for revenge.
I point my knife at the pair. “Stay back or I’ll slit your throats.”
“Scary,” one of them says.
“Sexy.” The other snaps his teeth in my direction, making me flinch.
Backing toward the hallway, I swing my knife at the intruders, only to
bump into a large body from behind. Thick arms wrap around my waist and
lift me off the floor.
“You’re coming with us, doll,” the man growls into my ear. “But first, I
want a taste.”
I open my mouth to scream, but a gloved hand clamps over it. When I
swing the knife backward and hit flesh, he roars.
The one who snapped his teeth rushes forward to grab my wrist, and
another punches me on the temple. Pain explodes across my skull, and I see
stars.
“Bitch.” He grabs my neck and squeezes.
“Don’t do it,” I hear one of them say through the haze of agony.
He scoffs. “The boss won’t know if you don’t run your mouth.”
“What about the body cams, asshole?”
“Turn them off,” he growls.
The man holding me slams my front onto the kitchen table so hard that
the wood buckles. I thrash, trying to break free, but he’s too strong, too
heavy, too determined to teach me a lesson. Three men in black surround
us, each touching their crotches in anticipation of a show.
My stomach plummets. This can’t be happening.
“Xero!” I scream, hoping my voice reaches him in Hell.
“Shut the fuck up.” The man punches me in the back of my head,
knocking my face into the wood.
I lie on the kitchen table, my vision blurry with tears. Who could hate
me so much to order me brutalized by a gang of men?
The urge to close my eyes is overwhelming. If Myra is right and I have
a second personality that murders people behind my back, then I want it to
take over.
Just as the man holding me to the table yanks down my leggings, I catch
a glimpse of movement from beyond the kitchen. The cupboard beneath the
stairs opens, and a large man steps out.
His hair is a blonde so pale that it borders on platinum, with ice-blue
eyes that glint with rage.
It’s Xero, looking perfectly alive and furious as hell.
And he’s holding an executioner’s ax.

OceanofPDF.com
 FORTY-NINE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I can’t thank you enough for the next installment of Rapunzelita. You
say it’s unpolished, but I enjoy your voice. It reflects your sunny personality
and gives me a deeper insight into the inner workings of your mind. I’ve
thoroughly enjoyed what I’ve read so far.
The other boys were shocked that I’d killed my friends in cold blood,
but they understood in part what had triggered my anger. I let them believe
it was just to protect those girls from assault. My emotions were running
too high to communicate my theories on what the your girls in our facility
had endured.
You are correct in saying that I had little experience of the outside
world, but my knowledge of it was extensive. Classes at the academy
equipped me with everything I needed to survive.
I followed the quartet at a distance to make sure they arrived safely at
the address given, which happened to be the firm’s headquarters. It’s in an
abandoned parking lot on the outskirts of Beaumont City. The tokens
operated a turnstile, which I believe led to an entrance.
After watching them disappear through the door, I returned to the
industrial buildings to join those who survived but didn’t find tokens to
move on to the next stage. There were seven, including me. Everyone was
hungry, tired, and to varying extents, injured.
 Armed people we didn’t recognize ordered us into the back of a vehicle.
I had spotted surveillance cameras while hunting for the purses and wasn’t
surprised to discover what appeared to be operatives emerging from hidden
doorways.
I asked if we were going back to the academy and was struck with the
butt of a gun. In the four years of living there, no student ever returned from
a graduation run. The operatives informed us that we would spend the rest
of our careers at the Moirai, cleaning up after the elite assassins.
An hour later, we were enrolled in the janitorial program. As new
recruits, we learned to dispose of bodies, destroy forensic evidence, and
sanitize crime scenes.
Our work was inspected by an asshole who called himself The Cleaner
and took delight in mocking and ridiculing us for the smallest of mistakes.
The difference between me and him was that I didn’t graduate on purpose.
There was no denying that he resented the world for his failure.
We slept in narrow bunk beds within a large recreational vehicle
designed to break our spirits, and our rations were half the amount we’d
received at the academy. Those who satisfied The Cleaner’s exacting
standards were granted the opportunity for softer work in the headquarters,
where there were paths for advancement into maintenance, security, tech
support, and medicine.
You may ask why the Moirai allowed failures to continue breathing. No
secret society would remain hidden for long if they employed outsiders to
perform menial work. Recruiting from the general public is a surefire way
to be infiltrated by spies and law enforcement.
The firm is a profit-making organization that spent a fortune clothing,
feeding, and accommodating us from childhood, let alone all that
specialized training. Its leaders found a way to guarantee a return on their
investment. I’ll explain how in a future letter.
I did everything I could to ingratiate myself with that bastard. If I could
access HQ, then I could get my revenge.
Fan questions:
I have finally met the other death row inmates. Last Sunday, the warden
allowed me to attend the chaplain, and there’s talk of a basketball team and
a book club. Thank you, fans, from the bottom of my heart, for
campaigning for our wellbeing.
 My favorite author is Dickens, whose commentary on society is as true
today as it was back in his time. Great Expectations and Oliver Twist hold a
special place in my heart. His writing is nothing short of genius and yours,
my love, is just as spellbinding. The only thing I have on my wishlist is
seeing your manuscript in print.
Love,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY

AMETHYST
Disbelief crashes through my system at the sight of a man I thought was
dead. Xero emerges from the cupboard under the stairs, his face startlingly
familiar but without the piercings. Imposing, muscular, and platinum
blonde, with cheekbones as sharp as his piercing blue eyes.
My heart flutters with hope, which swells with a burst of joy. He looks
like an angel, a vision I’ve longed for in my darkest moments.
The man pinning me to the table spanks my ass, but I’m too numb from
the shock of seeing Xero to flinch. Xero stalks into the kitchen with the
grace of a predator, raises the ax, and swings the flat of it into an onlooker’s
skull.
With a pained roar, the man crumples to the kitchen tiles, drawing the
attention of the other three.
As the rapist’s weight releases my upper body, I jerk backward to elbow
him, but he’s already charging at Xero.
All three men advance on him, and I scramble on the kitchen floor for
the knife they forced out of my hand. My fight-or-flight kicks me in the gut,
urging me to move.
Xero is alive.
But he’s surrounded.
I need to stay behind to even the odds.
Darting around the men, I grab the fallen knife and search for a way to
help Xero. One of the attackers stumbles in my direction and I stab him in
the back. The blade lodges in his ribs, making him whirl around. Before he
can throw a punch, a figure charges at me from nowhere.
 It’s Mr. Lawson, and he’s pissed. His round glasses dangle off the side
of his face, their lenses smashed. His bony features twist into a rictus of
rage.
Shock punches me in the gut, and I stagger backward.
“Amethyst Crowley,” my abuser roars over the sound of the fight.
Then he lurches.
Common sense says I’m hallucinating, but my hind brain sends a surge
of cold terror that seizes control, rooting me to the spot.
A fist hits my temple, sending an explosion of pain that has me flying
toward the door. For a split second, I think it belongs to Mr. Lawson, but
then the man I stabbed reaches for my throat.
Xero knocks him to the side and bellows, “Run!”
I scramble to my feet, adrenaline powering my steps. Before I know it,
my body is already halfway down the unlit backyard and heading toward
the trees.
My heart thrashes, consumed with a mix of hope and guilt. Xero is
alive. The one person in this entire world who made me feel profound love
is back in my life, yet I left him alone with a bunch of predators.
How the hell can I abandon him? How can I leave the only man who
ever made me feel cherished and seen?
Regret churns in my gut. I can’t fail him. Not again. I need to turn back.
Xero would never leave me to fend for myself. But what if my presence
puts us both in more danger?
I glance over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s
happening through the kitchen window.
Mr. Lawson barrels out through the back door on a collision course
directly for me.
Terror grips my chest, but guilt gnaws at me harder. I run back toward
Xero, but Jake materializes, looking decomposed. With a scream, I pick up
speed and continue through the evergreens bordering my backyard and
enter the cemetery. Xero saved me, and now I’m running away like a
coward.
At this time of the night, the only illumination should come from the
moon or a gravedigger’s flashlight. But as I sprint through the tall
mausoleums I spot a faint light in the distance from the windows of the new
rectory.
I can get Xero some help. Maybe Father Thomas⁠—
 Change of plan. He’d call the police and where would that leave Xero?
Maybe I should go back with a shovel.
My mind is so frantic that it takes a second to notice a man strolling
toward me on the walkway. I skid to a halt, swallowing a scream. He’s tall,
with the same build as Sparrow.
I dart into a side path to sneak past. Heavy footsteps rush from behind. I
whirl around and lock gazes with Wilder. Not wanting to wrestle with a
potential ghost, I take a sharp turn.
Blood roars between my ears, muffling the sounds of our footfalls.
Sweat prickles my skin, my lungs burn, and my muscles scream for mercy.
They’re trying to wear me out, break my spirit. Stop me from claiming the
man I love. I slow to conserve energy, but they herd me like sheepdogs
away from my house.
Away from Xero.
Moonlight gleams off tombstones as another figure shimmers into
existence—Mr. Lawson. Again. Even though I know it’s a hallucination, I
avoid him by turning left.
Oh.
Up ahead is the memorial statue I ordered for Xero, paid for by the fan
club. It’s a cloaked reaper standing beside a large scroll, holding a scythe.
At his back are a pair of wings that stretch down to the monument’s base.
Memories rush back at once. This is where I dragged Jake’s body. At the
time, I was blinded by shock, the near-death experience, and the ghost. It
didn’t register that I used Xero’s grave. Part of me knew he’d be buried here
after the execution, but I was running on pure instinct.
Shit.
“The president finally pays me a visit,” says a deep voice.
I whirl around, finding only the quartet of dead men who herded me to
Xero’s grave.
“What do you want?” I ask.
The phantoms step aside, revealing Xero. Only this time, he’s the Grim
Reaper from my nightmares. Imposing, as usual, wearing that infernal black
cloak.
I blink over and over, wondering if this is another layer of
hallucinations. Because how could he have escaped those men?
“You desecrated my grave,” he says.
 My heart spasms, not knowing whether to clench out of relief or fear.
Seeing him alive is overwhelming, even if his voice shakes with fury.
“But you weren’t even dead,” I reply through rapid breaths.
“That’s not the point,” he snarls.
I walk backward, over the dirt, until my ass hits the edge of the statue.
Part of me wants to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness. The other
part wants to scream at him for letting me think he was dead.
He advances on me, the same grim specter that stalked me through the
graveyard and nearly drove me insane.
“Amethyst Crowley,” he says in the same tone of voice he used to
sentence Dick Johnson to death. “I find you guilty of treachery.”
“But you already punished me,” I reply, my voice trembling. “Please,
Xero. I already explained why I wasn’t at the chaplain.”
“Where were you going tonight? I expected you to wait.”
My gaze darts to the rectory, which is barely a hundred feet away. If I
scream, Reverend Tom⁠—
No. If I scream, Xero will kill him. He already warned me what would
happen if I flirted with another man. Besides, I don’t want to fight. I want to
make things right.
“Answer my question,” he growls.
“I was seeing things” I say, already knowing how stupid it sounds.
“Sorry,” I rasp. “I wasn’t thinking. I panicked⁠—“
“And your first instinct was to run to the rectory?”
I flinch at the accusation. Before I can choose my words, I snap, “Well,
you lied.”
He closes the distance between us, towering over me, his hood making
him all the more imposing. Grabbing my neck, he snarls, “How?”
I splutter, my eyes widening, my vision trying to adjust to what’s inside
the hood. It’s hard to tell if he’s masked or covering his face with black
paint, but I can’t see the whites of his eyes.
Raising a hand, I reach for his cheek. Part of me thinks I’m still
hallucinating. The other part yearns to touch him just so I know he’s real.
He shakes me so hard my teeth rattle. Right. I accused him of being a
liar and he wants details.
“I mourned your death,” I say, my eyes brimming with tears. “You made
me think you were a ghost. I even tried to put your spirit to rest.”
“I never told you I was dead.”
 My mouth opens and closes. I dial my mind back to the text messages
he sent and remember one string of conversation. “But I asked if you were
alive, and you said⁠—”
“’How is that possible when you ripped out my heart?’” he replies.
“You jilted me when I needed you the most.”
The guilt I felt about Xero’s final hours being steeped in misery
evaporates in a surge of frustration. He told me he didn’t survive his
execution. That’s a downright lie.
“I explained a hundred times why I was late for our wedding, yet you
still won’t give me grace. How long were you planning on making my life
miserable?”
“As long as it takes for you to realize that you’re mine,” he snarls.
“Circumstances have changed.”
My fingers close around his wrist. The flesh beneath his black gloves is
warm, melting away some of my anger. He really is alive, but that doesn’t
mean I need to fall at his feet. My heart aches with the love I still feel for
him, but the anger of his deception burns just as fiercely.
Can’t he cut me some slack? I just escaped getting killed.
“I don’t date liars.” I try shoving him off, but it’s like moving a
mausoleum.
“You pledged yourself to me, in this lifetime and the next.”
I pull out of his grip, ignoring the part of me that still longs for our
connection. “That’s before I knew you were the type of man to impersonate
a vengeful ghost.”
His bitter laugh makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on
end. It’s the kind of maniacal sound you only hear in horror movies when
the girl is trapped in an asylum.
“You want forgiveness?”
I stiffen, wondering if it was a mistake to call his bluff.
“I’ll give you a chance to earn it,” he says. “You can even have a head
start. If you can make it back to the house before I catch you, I’ll give you
anything you want, including your freedom.”
My stomach drops, and my breath shallows. What is he saying? I didn’t
ask him to leave. Not wanting to provoke him further, I square my
shoulders.
“And if I lose?” I whisper.
 He leans in, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Then I seal our union
by fucking you over my grave.”

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-ONE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I devoured book two of Rapunzelita and enjoyed every second. Is there
a third installment? Now that her lycanthropy is under control, I can
imagine the villagers wanting revenge for her little accidents.
My father only visited once during my time with The Cleaner. He
wanted to know why the capable young man he’d forged like a blade had
given up his opportunity to excel as an assassin.
He expected me to rant about my sisters, or the girls he had exploited,
or even the barbaric nature of the graduation ceremony. When I calmly
explained that I’d grown out of the need to earn his favor, he became livid.
What followed was a heated monologue about how I had turned his
youngest son into a vegetable for nothing. Obviously, it was an
exaggeration, as I believed my youngest sister over his lies. He asked if I
wanted to waste my life cleaning up crime scenes, and I frustrated him with
my positive reply.
He left, telling me he was ashamed to be my father. Perhaps it was
supposed to sting, but I couldn’t get those girls out of my mind. All I cared
about was destroying him and his organization. Over the next several
months, I worked diligently with The Cleaner until he promoted me to the
role of team leader.
I ran my own RV and had the freedom to move across town. I met other
members of the firm, ranging from maintenance crews to experienced
assassins. I helped cover up mistakes that could get operatives killed, made
contacts, and most importantly, learned secrets.
Over the rest of the year, I discovered several facts about the firm,
starting with the way it treated its assassins as disposable. My role included
covering up deaths of operatives who were killed during their missions, and
disposing of those who abandoned their stations. I discovered that each of
us was embedded with multiple trackers, so we could never escape.
I befriended many disgruntled employees who felt they were trapped,
including a woman who worked on the tracking team, who helped me
remove the devices embedded beneath my flesh in exchange for returning
the favor. I made sure to keep them on my person at all times, until the
moment was right for us to make our move.
Fan questions:
Thanks to your relentless support, our book club will soon be a reality.
From next week, all 18 inmates of death row will congregate in the rec
room on Wednesdays to discuss a work of literature. The warden suggests
the Bible, as that’s the only book the prison holds in any measure of
quantity. If possible, I would like to add twenty copies of Dickens The
Haunted Man and The Ghost's Bargain to my wishlist, so the guards
attending may enjoy some culture.
I didn’t think I was capable of romantic love until recently. The woman
who holds my heart is as strong and fierce as she is beautiful. During the
day, I picture her hard at work writing her book and at night, she haunts my
dreams. She embraces my darkness and accepts my corrupted soul. That
woman, dear fans, is the one reading out these words.
Love,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-TWO

AMETHYST
I stare up into the dark abyss of Xero’s hood, my heart hammering so
violently that it threatens to break free. He towers over me, his chest rising
and falling with even breaths.
Clouds of condensation escape his mask. How could I have missed this
obvious sign of life?
The moon emerges from behind the clouds and reflects on his hooded
cloak, turning its edges silver. Up close, it’s actually a long leather coat with
a hood. He wears a mask of some sort that clings tightly to the contours of
his angular face. Instead of those cold blue eyes I’ve come to love, he wears
lenses with black sclera.
My breath quickens. The weight of my predicament crushes my chest.
Xero isn’t just alive and hiding out in my house. He’s here because I failed.
The elation of his survival fades, leaving a growing pit of dread. All
those murders and maimings I thought were the acts of a vengeful ghost
were the mayhem of a killer who’s been preparing his next victim.
Now, he thinks I’m his prey.
And he wants to play a game.
If I lose, I’ll never fix what I’ve destroyed.
My mind whirrs for a solution. Can I make it back to the house before
Xero? Impossible. He’s a foot taller than me and built like a titan. I
wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Why would I agree to play a game I’m going to lose?” I ask.
“I’m giving you a head start,” he replies with a throaty chuckle that
makes my skin tingle. It’s the same sensual laugh I used to hear each
morning on the phone when he’d call me from the prison blind spot. I shove
off the nostalgia, and the tears it brings, and focus on the threat.
“Why would I trust a single thing you say?” I ask, trying to keep my
voice from trembling.
Xero exhales through the mask, the sound making me shiver. “Fine
words for the woman who strung me along for months to get a book deal.”
My lips part with a protest, but he raises a gloved finger. Painted on its
surface are bones. No wonder I thought he was the Grim Reaper in the dark.
“You’re going to accuse me of using our relationship to get published,”
I yell, my face growing hot with shame. “If anyone’s to blame for that, it’s
you and your letters. You kept talking about my book, and people wanted it
to be about you. Everyone kept reaching out, demanding excerpts, and I
wrote it because that’s what people wanted.”
He doesn’t even flinch at the accusation.
“You have a count of ten to run,” he snarls. “When I catch you,
everything that happens next will be with your enthusiastic consent.”
Panic punches me in the stomach, knocking me backward. “Wait. What
if I don’t want to run?”
“One,” he growls.
Before he even finishes enunciating the next word, I’m bolting through
the graveyard, away from the rectory, away from the only man who might
be able to protect me from Xero.
Who am I trying to kid? Reverend Tom might look buff, but a man of
the cloth is no match for a crazed killer.
I sprint toward the mausoleums, my feet pounding on the grass. Wind
whips past my ears and through the loose strands of my hair. I glance over
my shoulder to see if he’s cheating, but he stands with his back to the Grim
Reaper memorial, looking like it’s come to life.
Fuck. He’s so majestic. Like a death god sent to earth to reap the
wicked. Shivers skitter down my spine and my core floods with sensation. I
shouldn’t look too deeply into my body’s reaction. It’s just an inappropriate
fear response.
“Two,” he says, his voice as cold as my impending death.
My stomach drops. I pick up my pace, losing all traces of fatigue. I
don’t want to be Xero’s chew toy, but there’s a sick part of me that gets
excited at the thought of finally getting fucked.
 Jake jumps out from behind a tall headstone and stands in my path. He
crouches low with his arms spread wide, looking like he wants to scoop me
up in his arms. Again.
Screw this.
No figment of my imagination will stop me from earning my
forgiveness.
With a scream, I charge at the hallucination, which skitters backward,
looking like he doesn’t want to be touched. Fury powers my steps and I
barrel forward, daring him to get in my way.
He ducks behind a headstone and vanishes out of sight. If Xero hadn’t
just counted three, I would laugh, but I focus on getting away.
The spot I purchased from the cemetery using the fan club’s donations
is a five-minute walk from my backyard. I can’t believe I once thought I’d
visit his grave every day after the execution, lay flowers on the base of the
Grim Reaper, and cry for our love that would endure the ages.
All romantic notions crumble to dust when he bellows, “Four.”
Shit.
I dart between two elegant mausoleums and take the fastest route to the
trees bordering my backyard. Mr. Lawson jumps out from behind an onyx
tomb and raises his arms the way he did when he plummeted off the edge of
the roof garden. I charge through the specter and keep it moving.
Silence stretches across the cemetery, broken only by the pounding of
my heart. Blood roars through my ears, urging me to run faster, harder, to
keep going even if something ruptures.
My thighs ache. My lungs burn. Sweat pours freely down my brow.
There’s no time to wipe my eyes. Not when forgiveness is so close. Not
when this mad dog is nipping at my heels, eager to take a bite.
My surroundings fade into blurs of black and white and gray,
illuminated by the light of the moon. I lose track of time, of place, of
everything but the approach of heavy footsteps.
When the hell did Xero get to ten?
I dart to the left, hoping to lose him in a small path stretching between
two mausoleums, but a tall dark figure awaits straight ahead. Alarm grips
my throat, making my breath catch. Is that Xero or another hallucination?
He’s too skinny. Not nearly as imposing, and he isn’t wearing a cloak. I
sprint toward Sparrow and wait for him to disappear in a puff of smoke.
 The tall figure shrinks back behind a tomb as though not wanting me to
realize he’s a figment of my imagination. Joke’s on him, because no
hallucination can compare with the real threat of Xero.
I burst onto the broad walkway that leads to the copse of trees. Xero’s
heavy footsteps have quieted, sounding like he’s taken a wrong turn.
Triumph flares in my chest, but I won’t crow with victory until I’m safely
behind the kitchen door.
When I run beneath the thick canopy of a eucalyptus tree, my heart
soars. Safety is a minute away. Thirty seconds, tops. But then something
moves in my periphery.
Up ahead, another tall figure steps out from behind a tree. Another
stupid hallucination, trying to get in my way.
Oh, no you don’t.
Lowering my head, I charge forward, not wanting my steps to falter.
And I crash into a wall of unmoving muscle.
Strong arms wrap around my back and lift me off the ground. My
stomach lurches, and I scream.
“Eager little thing,” Xero says, his words choked with emotion. “You
ran into my arms. Were you trying to get me on my back, little ghost? If you
want to fuck me like a cowgirl, then you’ll have to beg.”
“Wait,” I ask through panting breaths. “How did you get here so
quickly?”
“I knew your destination,” he replies as he carries me back out of the
trees and back into the cemetery.
“Xero, let go of me.”
He pauses. “Ah, yes. Primal makes you horny. You want the sensation
of being hunted, not trapped.”
Then the sadistic motherfucker sets me on my feet.
I stare up at him, my eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“You have my permission to run back to the grave.”
“No.” I step backward, my gaze darting to the trees.
“As you wish.” He reaches for my shoulder, but I skitter out of range.
Xero steps forward with a low growl that hits me straight between the
legs. I turn around and bolt.
This time, there’s no head start. I glance over my shoulder to find him
advancing toward me at a steady stride. His legs are so long that he doesn’t
even need to break a sweat.
 With a scream, I run down the walkway, passing mausoleums and the
occasional figure in black. My ears fill with Xero’s excited breaths. He
thinks this is foreplay, but I’m running for my life.
The new rectory looms ahead, and it feels like I’m stuck in an endless
loop of failing to escape. Xero hovers so close, his fingers brush the curls
off the back of my neck. Every fine hair on my body stands alert and a
scream rips from my throat.
His low chuckle goes straight to my clit. “You’re so excitable. I wonder
how you will break?”
“Fuck off,” I scream.
“That’s the plan.”
A whimper catches in my throat. What the hell am I doing, allowing this
fiend to run me ragged? Why am I playing a game I can never win? My
terror is so acute that the shadowy figures appearing and disappearing
around the graveyard evaporate into dust. Why would my mind conjure up
phantoms when there’s a demon dogging my steps?
I reach the edge of the cemetery, and my feet carry me toward the path
leading to the rectory.
“No,” he growls and tackles me onto the lawn.
I land face-first on the turf, my hands barely breaking my fall. When I
shriek, blades of grass slip between my lips. Spitting them out, I roll to the
side, trying to dislodge the heavy weight on my back, but Xero’s erection
digs into my thigh.
Damn.
It’s as long and thick as the dildo, but burning with the heat of his
arousal. Part of me wants to reach between our bodies to confirm it’s real,
but I shake off that thought.
Using a dildo made from the mold of a murderer is one thing. Getting
pummeled into the dirt by said killer is another. Hate sex with the man I
love is a special level of depravity.
“Get off me.”
I elbow him in the ribs, but he only responds with a soft grunt. Using his
momentary surprise as leverage, I crawl out from under his larger body.
Xero grabs my hip, but I scramble to my knees, making sure to kick him
in the face on the way up.
“Fuck.” He reels back with a hand hovering over his nose.
“That’s right.” I rise to my feet, kick him in the temple, and run.
 A large hand closes around my ankle and yanks me back to the ground.
With a scream, I break my fall with my forearms. Pushing down on my
palms, I dig my feet into the soil, but Xero launches his body over mine,
laying his chest on my back.
“Got you.”
“No.” I try crawling out from beneath him, but he wraps an arm around
my waist and pins me down with his superior weight.
“Is this what you want, little ghost?” He presses his thick cock between
my ass cheeks. “For me to pound into you good and hard so it hurts?”
“You’re a murderer,” I scream. “I hate you.”
He stiffens. I wish I could see the shock on his face, but everything’s
covered in that stupid mask. Instead, he growls in my ear. “What does that
make you?”
“Let go of me.” I thrash in his grip. “I only ever kill in self-defense.”
He laughs, the sound bitter. “You’re a vengeful little viper, and you’re
mine.”
His large hand closes around the back of my neck, and he drags us both
to our feet. I punch backward, but he absorbs the blows without so much as
flinching.
“Where are we going?” I shriek, part of me hoping Reverend Tom will
hear and call the police.
“You know where,” he snarls and marches me through the graveyard
toward the Grim Reaper statue.
I inhale, my nostrils filling with the scent of flowers. When I take a
closer look at the statue, its base is covered with bouquets. Another thing I
didn’t notice before?
“You didn’t visit my place of rest once,” he snarls. “Didn’t lay a single
flower.”
He’s right. I collected the funds, bought the plot, ordered the memorial,
and sent the payment. But I missed the email from the firm that told me it
had been installed. Somehow, during the mayhem of murders, medication,
and midnight molestings, I missed his funeral.
“Xero—”
“No more excuses.” He throws me onto the freshly tilled dirt.
“Wait!”
“It’s time to seal our union.”
OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-THREE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I never saw my father in person again, but we communicated
occasionally via burner phones. A year of making contacts across the firm
gave me the groundwork I needed to free a number of like-minded
operatives from the Moirai’s shackles.
Some of them were recently qualified assassins who were already
disillusioned by the unfair business practices. Most were support workers
who had gone through the academy and were disgruntled over their
working conditions.
In my previous letter, I promised to describe how the firm recouped its
investment in the children it trained. Their solution was a system of debt
bondage.
Anyone who fails to arrive at HQ with a token fails to graduate and then
becomes beholden to the firm for the costs associated with their time at the
academy. Many start out with debts of two-hundred thousand dollars, which
is slowly paid off the longer an employee works for the firm.
For instance, a cleaner earning $40,000 a year sees half their wages
garnished to settle their debt. After deductions for food, accommodation,
uniforms, and taxes, they’re left with just $12,000. That doesn’t include
potential fines or medical expenses.
With compound interest, it would take 17 years to clear their debt to the
firm and gain freedom. No wonder our boss was so miserable. Who could
ever prosper, knowing they were enslaved?
It was easy to gather followers, especially with the promise of freedom.
I didn’t just meet cleaners and maintenance staff, but medics and those who
managed the firm’s computer systems, who were equally enslaved.
Over the year, we all carried out our duties, keeping our trackers close
so as not to arouse suspicion. We communicated via burner phones and
congregated at night in safe houses. We diverted calls to the firm and stole
assassination jobs to build up funds in a communal bank account. We used
that money to create a hideout protected from our masters.
And during the next graduation run, we enacted the first stage of our
plan.
Fan questions:
The book club was a great success. The other inmates were touched by
the outpouring of love. They thank you for the books, gifts, and snacks.
There were lively discussions, plenty of wonderful food, and much lifted
spirits. I enclose photos. We’ve inspired many inmates from the general
population to start their own book clubs. With your permission, I would like
to donate the books we’ve read to spread the joy. Next week, we would like
to read George Orwell’s Animal Farm.
Please don’t be hard on the warden. My visitation rights were revoked
when I lashed out at a guard who touched my intimate piercings without my
consent. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and I wasn’t yet accustomed to the
daily indignities that come with being an inmate. I would give my soul for
the opportunity to receive visits, but the rules are the rules.
Love,
Xero

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
No. I can’t let this happen. Not in the dirt. Not on the grave where I
buried Jake’s corpse. Not with Xero still furious at me for a litany of sins.
Xero promised me a room. A bed. A kitchenette. We were supposed to
eat red velvet cake and sip Armagnac. He was going to take me slowly, kiss
each inch of my skin until my toes curled.
He wasn’t supposed to fuck me on top of his own grave.
I throw back my head, managing only to hit Xero’s cheekbone. With a
snarl, he pushes my face into the earth. Soil invades my nostrils, slips
through my lips, and rolls onto my tongue. I want to jerk free, but I can’t
break out from under his weight.
“Xero,” I scream, the sound muffled. “I can’t breathe.”
The rest of his body pins mine to the ground. I rock from side to side,
trying to throw him off, but that only lodges that impossibly thick erection
between my clothed ass cheeks.
Heaven help me. I can’t take that kind of girth.
Gripping my hair, he jerks my head to the side, finally allowing me to
breathe. The leather of his hood brushes against my cheek as I gasp for air.
“Don’t do this,” I say. “Not here.”
“You swore to devote yourself to me until the end of days,” he snarls,
rolling his hips into mine. “But the moment I was announced dead, you
performed for an audience on social media. I thought you’d visit the next
morning. Even the day after. Then you disappeared across town and forgot
my name.”
“What difference does it make?” I scream. “You’re not even dead.”
 “Oh, but I am, my little ghost⁠—”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
“What do you prefer? Clout chaser? Runaway bride? Mercenary little
murderer?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t also use me,” I snarl.
He laughs, the sound so maniacal that my heart skips several beats. The
thick shaft pushing into my ass jerks with the force of his bitter mirth.
Sweat breaks out across my brow. Is this the laugh he made when the
police caught him tearing out his stepmother’s heart? Will he even leave me
intact? Shivering, I freeze beneath his larger body, realizing the foolishness
of inciting a madman.
Because there’s no doubt about it.
Xero Greaves is insane.
“Used you?” he says, his voice a low snarl. “Before I replied to your
letter, you were a sleepy little dormouse so subdued by prescription drugs
that you didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”
I don’t reply because he’s right. It takes a moment like this, where my
blood runs hot and cold, to realize that I was overmedicated.
“Now that I’m officially dead, it’s only fitting that I fuck you on my
grave.”
A scream tears from my lips, which has him grinding that thick cock
into my ass. I reach between our bodies, trying to grab it, but I can’t even
graze it with my finger.
“Dirty girl. You want this.”
“Fuck off.” I clench my teeth, not wanting to give him any kind of
satisfaction.
“Oh, I’ll be fucking, alright.” He grabs the waistband of my leggings
and yanks them down to my knees. “This sweet little pussy is mine.”
“No—”
He slips his fingers beneath the lace of my panties and over my slick
folds. Then he groans to find me aroused. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” I snap, my hips jerking away from his touch.
He slides a thick finger into my opening, rubbing against pleasure
centers that light up my nerves like fireworks. “You’re so wet.”
I swallow back a moan. That’s because my traitorous pussy hasn’t
gotten the memo that we’re in the presence of a mass murderer. “You don’t
know what you’re talking about. Women get yeast infections⁠—”
 He silences me with a hard spank that sends a sting straight to my clit.
“Lie to me all you want. That will only earn you a punishment. But your
body screams the truth.”
“You’re wrong. I⁠—”
“Suck it.” He brings his wet finger to my mouth before I can finish my
denial.
“What?” I whisper.
“Lick your arousal off my fingers.”
“Or what?”
“I can fuck you all night, keep you on the edge, bring you to the brink
of orgasm and never let you come. If you don’t submit to my commands,
I’ll make you so frustrated you’ll beg for death.”
Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about la pétite mort.
Parting my lips, I take in his finger and let him slide it into my mouth.
Even if I didn’t see it glistening, there’s no denying the arousal, especially
when he’s rubbing it against my tongue.
I clench my jaw, sinking my teeth into the digit, but all that does is
make him moan.
“What are you?” I say around his finger. “A masochist?”
“Only if you’re the one giving me the pain. Since you like biting so
much, I’ll add that to the list of things I’ll do when I fuck you in the dirt.”
My jaw relaxes, and he pulls out of my mouth.
Drawing back to give me space, he says, “Raise those fucking hips,
little ghost. Let me see that pretty little cunt under the light of the moon.”
“No.”
“Very well.”
His body weight shifts. When I glance over my shoulder, he reaches
into his leather coat and pulls out a twelve-inch knife.
“What the fuck?” I crawl on my belly, trying to get away, my pussy
grazing the blades of grass, but he grabs the fabric gathered between my
knees and cuts it loose.
Advancing on me, he places a heavy hand between my shoulder blades
and cuts through the back of my hoodie and tank top. Cool metal slides
across my skin as he divests me of my clothes.
Terror races through my veins, cold and sharp. The sensation gathers in
the pulse behind my aching clit. This isn’t normal. No part of my body
should find this situation exciting, but the bundle of nerves between my legs
throbs in time with my pounding heart.
“This is the same blade I used to remove that bastard’s fingers and the
other bastard’s tongue,” he says so casually that I can’t help but interpret his
words as a threat.
Shivers seize my spine, but I force my body to hold still. The last thing I
need is for Xero’s knife to slice through my skin.
He cuts the fabric, exposing my back to the elements and making me
tremble. Then he rolls me over so I’m lying face-up and straddles my hips.
Shoving at his immovable thighs, I stare up into the depths of his hood.
Moonlight lights him from behind, casting his face in complete shadow. At
this angle, I can’t see anything apart from his pale irises.
“Won’t you let me see your face?” I ask.
“And ruin this for your mask kink?” he replies.
I regret the day that bastard convinced me to fill out that sex contract.
“You weren’t supposed to take it literally,” I snap. “It was for phone sex.”
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.
No. A thousand times, no. But I don’t want to admit to wanting to be
destroyed by this murdering maniac.
He pauses, the flat of his blade hovering over my belly. I’m naked from
the waist down, if you don’t count my shins, which are still encased in
leggings, and my hoodie is now backless. He could fuck me if he wanted, or
he could yank off the rest of my clothes from the front, but he doesn’t make
a move.
“What are you doing?” I ask through ragged breaths.
“I told you how I felt about the silent no,” he says.
My nostrils flare. “Where was the silent no when you were shoving
body parts under my pillow? Or all those times you edged me in my
nightmares and wouldn’t let me come? God, you’re such a hypocrite.”
He holds the knife to my throat. “Watch your tongue, little ghost. I’m
not above taking it as a trophy.”
“Then who would suck your cock?” I snap.
“I never said I wouldn’t take your throat,” he replies with a harsh
chuckle.
My hand snaps up to snatch the mask off his face, but he grabs my wrist
and pins it above my head. The hand holding the knife takes the other,
joining them together. I thrash from side to side, trying to buck him off.
 How did I ever allow myself to be fooled by his life story? Xero isn’t a
kindred spirit. He’s just a savage who wants me to beg.
Raising my chin, I glare up into those fake irises. “Go on, then. Do it.”
After slicing through what’s left of my clothes, he drags me across the
dirt, stopping directly beneath the Grim Reaper. Cool earth slides beneath
my overheated flesh, making me shiver. Just when I think he’ll take me face
to face, he rolls me onto my front. The breeze slides over my bare back,
which is already damp with dew. Then, my skin tightens into goosebumps.
Cold realization seeps into my bones as I realize that the funeral I
missed would have required something to have been buried.
“Is this grave empty?” I ask.
“No.” He kicks open my thighs, exposing my pussy to the elements.
“Is it the man I buried?”
“No.” He slides his fingers over my wet folds.
“Xero.” I gulp, my body trembling with anticipation. “Who’s buried
beneath us?”
“Someone who deserved to die.”
He enters me from behind with a hard thrust that stretches my pussy
beyond its limit. Pleasure and pain battle over control of my senses, and I
let out a guttural scream.
Not just because he lied about the dildo being lifelike. It’s not even
because he doesn’t give my inner muscles a moment to adjust to his
impossible girth. He’s longer, thicker, and the piercings don’t feel like
silicone.
“I knew you would be tight, but this is incredible,” he groans.
“Oh,” I moan through panting breaths. “You’re so big.”
He pulls out, and my muscles clamp around his girth, desperate to keep
him in place. “So sweet. So wet. I’ve been waiting to fuck you like this for
months.”
The thought of being taken on the final resting place of a stranger is
even more freaky than climaxing to the video of Big Dick Johnson’s
murder.
Xero grips my hips, delivering a hard thrust that has me seeing stars.
I raise my head and thrash my upper body, trying to move us to the
empty spot at least three feet to the right. “Xero–”
He shoves my face into the dirt and fucks me hard and fast, like a rabid
beast that’s been starved of sex. I flail my arms, clawing at the damp earth,
trying to gain a semblance of control. He’s too heavy, too strong, and the
pleasure he’s infusing into my body is too powerful to resist.
He growls into my ear. “How does it feel, being fucked on top of a
stranger's grave? Knowing that the dead are watching us?”
I scream into the dirt, my heart slamming into its cage with the force of
a pickaxe. Soil seeps into my nostrils, coating my lips and the inner
membranes of my mouth.
“Tell me how good it feels,” Xero demands, increasing his pace as I
moan into the soil.
Each time I catch my breath, Xero knocks it out of me with a brutal
thrust.
“That's right,” Xero snarls. “Let it all out. Show these dead bastards
what they’re missing.”
“Fuck,” I say with a gasp, my pussy tightening with an approaching
orgasm.
This is a thousand times more intense than our phone sex when Xero
would tell me what he wanted to do to me if he ever broke free from prison.
One of his fantasies involved chasing me through a forest and fucking me in
the mud.
His filthy words had gotten me aroused and wet beyond reason. Then he
ordered me to pleasure myself with that dildo, and I came apart.
Xero continues his relentless pace, that long, thick cock driving into my
core. He fucks me with no mercy, no restraint, as though unleashing every
ounce of sexual frustration that built up during his time behind bars.
His grunts are raw and animalistic, matching the fury of his thrusts. The
heat of his body presses down on my hips as he pounds me into the earth.
Without warning, he grabs the back of my hair and yanks my head off
the ground. I open my eyes and take a noisy breath.
I gaze up at the memorial statue, where moonlight shines down on the
angel of death and glints on the sharp blade of his scythe. The grinning
skeleton stares down at us through hollow eyes devoid of compassion.
“Do you see him?” he asks.
“Who?” I ask through a haze of pleasure.
“Look around, Amethyst,” he growls, ramming into my pussy with a
brutal thrust. “Who do you see?”
“N-nothing. No one.”
“Good girl.” He pushes my head back into the dirt.
 Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember something he once said
about chasing away my hallucinations. I never thought that was possible
until now.
Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as I’m struck with the realization.
This is the first time I’ve been with a man where I haven’t seen Mr.
Lawson.
I exhale a sob, wondering if any of this is really happening. This could
be a fever dream. A compound hallucination brought to life. How many
books have I read where the main character’s mind was trapped in a
delusion, only for the doctor to appear in the final chapter at the twist
ending?
“You’re mine, little ghost,” Xero growls, his deep voice cutting through
my spiraling thoughts. “Mine until the end of time.”
Deluded people don’t conjure up liars who fake their own deaths, haunt
innocent women, fuck them in graveyards, then give them annoying
nicknames.
Don’t they?
Xero switches up his strokes, his Prince Albert piercing rubbing against
a spot that ignites sparks of pleasure. They build in intensity, coursing
through my system with volts of electricity.
My fingers curl into fists, gathering handfuls of graveyard dirt. I grind
back into him, chasing the pleasure. He presses into me, his hot breath
ghosting against my skin.
“Mine,” he growls into my ear. “Who do you belong to?”
“Fuck off,” I scream, my words muffled by the soil.
“Choose your words wisely, little ghost. After all, I’m the one in control
of your orgasm.” Chuckling, he pulls out and rolls me onto my back.
Dark spots dance in my vision, and it takes a moment for my eyes to
adjust. He stares down at me with those pale, pitiless irises, and pulls my
knees up to my chest. How is it fair that I’m completely naked, save for a
few scraps of torn fabric, and he’s fully clothed?
“I’m not a⁠—”
His thick cock drives so deeply into my core that it knocks out my air.
The thrusts become forceful, the rhythm bordering on frantic, as he fucks
me like a feral beast.
“I said, I’m not⁠—”
 He thrusts into me so deeply that I feel every ridge, every piercing,
every thick vein of his shaft. I lose track of what the hell I wanted to say. As
he quickens his pace, my tits bounce with the violence of his movements.
His weight crushes my lungs, and it takes every effort to breathe.
Pleasure spirals up from my center, growing in intensity until it feels
like it’s me who got the electric chair.
“Do you want to come?” he asks, his thumb grazing over my clit.
“Yes,” I moan.
“Then who do you belong to?”
“Nobody.”
“Wrong answer.” He pulls back his thumb and changes the angle of his
thrusts to deny me the desperately needed relief.
“Who?” he growls into my ear, his voice making my skin tingle with
sparks of sensation.
I writhe beneath his large body, trying to create my own friction, but he
reaches for my throat.
“Myself,” I scream. “I belong to me.”
“Keep defying your soulmate. I have the rest of our lives.”
I choke at his audacity. Isn’t there some kind of rule that says nothing
counts in the heat of the moment? Xero is a fugitive. Not just from the law,
but from his criminal father. He can’t seriously expect me to join him on the
run.
His fingers tighten, cutting off my air. I gasp in a breath, but it doesn’t
reach beyond my throat. My heart races, my vision blurs, and my entire
world narrows until there’s only him and the night sky.
“Who. Do. You. Belong. To?” His deep voice seeps through the muffled
roar between my ears.
“Me.”
Xero’s weight crushes mine further into the dirt, adding to the
intoxicating sensation of surrender. If he gripped any tighter, he would snuff
out my life, and the thought of him fucking me to my dying breath makes
every nerve ending light up like fireworks.
I’m weightless, dizzy, and I swear that the stars grow brighter. As I claw
at his gloved hand, they morph into a brilliant galaxy.
“Say it,” he snarls.
My lungs burn, my pulse beats wildly against his fingers, and I gasp for
non-existent air. He fucks into me with the kind of wild abandon that makes
me think this could be our last.
Each movement brings me closer to the edge. My body is aflame,
consumed by his touch. My mind races with fear and confusion, but amid
the chaos, I come to a realization. Xero is here, alive and driven—not by a
desire for my destruction but by a soul-deep obsession. He’s dangerous,
unhinged, but his madness is rooted in a sick kind of love.
As he drives me to the brink of ecstasy, I revel in the intensity of his
feelings. In the notion that he can’t let me go.
Something shifts inside my psyche, and fear mingles with dark
exhilaration. In this terrifying game, I’m not just a pawn—I’m his queen.
He shows his love through this twisted devotion. The boundary between
terror and desire crumbles, leaving behind an inexplicable need to match his
intensity, to prove the ferocity of my devotion.
The sickest part of me rejoices that Xero wants me so badly, he’d risk
my life. The man who set social media alight, who pledged himself to me
over hundreds and thousands of others, chose me. Not as his victim or prey,
but as the woman he wanted to make his wife. Despite the danger and
madness, my chest swells with a twisted sense of pride.
In a world where I felt invisible, Xero saw and desired me above all
others.
It’s a dark, twisted love, but it’s mine.
“Amethyst,” he snarls. “Answer me.”
“You,” I say with a gasp.
“What did you say?” he barks, his hips pumping with punishing force.
“You,” I rasp. “I. Belong. To. Xero.”
He releases his grip on my throat, and I draw in a noisy breath.
The extra oxygen stokes the flames of my arousal. My body jerks and
spasms at his relentless thrusts, but his rhythm doesn’t falter.
“Come for me, little ghost,” he says, his voice raw with need. “Make
that tight little cunt ripple around my cock.”
My climax comes like a wildfire that sets my body ablaze. I convulse on
the dirt, my back arching as sensations consume my system. My walls
tighten around his thick shaft, and I’m flooded with mind-numbing bliss.
Xero's ragged breaths brush against my skin, his pleasure palpable. My
pussy spasms around his cock, trying to milk him of his cum. Just as I’m
sure he’s on the brink of climaxing, he raises a hand and presses his palm
into my face. The pungent scent of chemicals invades my nostrils and
overwhelms my senses. Alarm rings through my ears. Why does this feel so
familiar? Is this chloroform?
I struggle against unconsciousness, but my eyelids grow heavy. As I
succumb to darkness, that deep voice rattles through my skull.
“Sleep, little ghost. I’ll be there when you wake up.”

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 FIFTY-FIVE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
Our first attack on the graduation run went smoothly. The firm relied on
people like my allies to set the stage, hide the tokens, and connect cameras
so higher-ups like my father could watch from afar.
Back then, only a small number of operatives attended to transport the
losers to their fates. The first thing we did was disable them.
We also sabotaged the graduation run by supplying enough purses for
everyone. Unfortunately, some trios didn’t think to search for an additional
purse and attacked their fellow students. We intervened, saving those poor
souls, and offered them a place in our hideout.
Some refused, even after we described how the firm treated its non-
assassins, but we removed the trackers from those who agreed to come with
us, and took them straight to our safe house.
So as not to arouse too much suspicion, many of us returned to work.
The firm believed they were being poached by a rival organization and went
on the defensive. Assassins guarded the next graduation run, oblivious to
the fact that its support staff was stealing potential recruits.
After the year of my sisters’ graduation run, poaching students became
too risky. Instead, we focused on destroying the organization from within.
We took disgruntled new recruits and anyone we knew had been unfairly
indebted to the firm.
 I also abandoned my post and became the face of my rebel group. We
spread the truth about the exploitative business practices, and slowly
gathered information that proved the firm sent operatives into ambushes.
All the while, we continued to poach the firm’s clients. Many assassins
were aware of what we were doing, but didn’t interfere. I can’t think of a
single person who approved of the firm’s bullshit.
My father remained elusive. We had sentries watching HQ, his house in
Victoria Gardens, and other known hangouts, but he had gone into hiding
and didn’t want to be found. At one point, he stopped paying for my
brother’s institution fees, leaving him to get evicted.
Some say my activities got him ousted as the firm’s leader. Others
suggested he moved on to more lucrative venues. A few implied he was
dead, but I knew he was alive. I needed to find him, not just for revenge,
but to shut down the facility of child assassins.
So, out of desperation, I broadcasted the attack on my stepmother and
brother.
Fan questions:
Alcohol is strictly forbidden in the prison, so it would be irresponsible
to reveal my favorite beverage. However, I can share that I first tried it in
the Armagnac region in Gascony, southwest France. I highly recommend a
trip to one of their vineyards.
Thank you for the delivery of Animal Farm. We weren’t expecting triple
the amount of requested donations. This allows each death row inmate to
keep theirs as a memento of your good wishes, while also giving the
general population a chance to discuss fine literature.
Yes, I heard the protest from my cell and wondered if there had been a
riot. It wasn’t until the warden called me into his office and said that
followers of my unofficial fan club were gathered outside the gates,
demonstrating against my unfair punishment for the sexual harassment.
There’s a debate on whether the non-consensual touching of my genitals
could be deemed an assault, but the issue under contention is whether
prisoners should be punished for refusing to submit to invasive and
unwanted searches.
When the warden ordered me to address the crowd, I asked if he would
instate my visitation rights. He said no. Then I argued that speaking to a
crowd of unofficial fans is a form of visitation, and he sent me back to my
cell. As of today, I am still unable to receive visitors. All for the crime of
not wanting another man to handle my private parts.
Love,
Xero

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 FIFTY-SIX

AMETHYST
I wake up naked and submerged in water with my back leaning against
a muscular chest. A large hand cups my chin, keeping my head in place,
while a strong arm wraps around my waist.
A rush of memories hit me at once, and I jerk forward with a gasp, my
eyes snapping open. The arm around my middle tightens, pulling me back
into the larger body.
“Easy now,” says a familiar voice.
“X-Xero?” I whisper.
“That’s right.”
I take in my surroundings. We’re in a circular pool made of worn stone
that could date back over a century. It’s ringed by a paved walkway and
columns that stretch up the walls. Up above, moonlight shines down from a
stained-glass atrium, coloring the water’s surface.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The old rectory.”
“In the cemetery?”
“That’s the one.”
I shudder at the memory of a building so dilapidated that the city built a
small wall around its perimeter to stop sightseers from getting hurt. It’s a
gothic structure that dates back to the nineteenth century that everyone
knows is haunted. Even the gardeners who tend to the cemetery give it a
wide berth, leaving the plants growing around it to extend to over six feet.
“Isn’t it crumbling?” I ask.
“It’s perfectly safe.”
 “Are we dead?”
He chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “No, my love. We’ve never been
more alive.”
“In that case, you can let me go.” I try to jerk out of his hold, but he’s
too strong.
“Why?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. “Oh, I don’t know… How
about lying to me about being dead, terrorizing me so I think I’m losing my
mind, and then chasing me through a graveyard?”
He nuzzles my neck. “And giving you the best sex of your life?”
“I’ve had better.”
The hand cupping my chin wraps around my throat. “Be careful, little
ghost. I still haven’t forgiven your treachery.”
“Are we going to keep arguing in circles?” I snap.
His fingers tighten with the threat that he’ll cut off my air, and I clench
my teeth. Nothing good will come of starting a fight with a lunatic, even
though I’m in the right.
“Hate me later,” he murmurs into my hair. “Let me take care of you
now.”
He shifts behind my back and then produces a bar of soap. I force
myself to lean back on his chest and bide my time. Even if I wanted to walk
out, there’s no sign of my clothes. They’re probably still in tatters at his
grave.
Heat rises to my cheeks as I focus on the large hands rubbing the soap,
their movements hypnotic. They’re broad and powerful, yet capable of such
exquisite pleasure. The citrus scent fills the air, mingling with the heady
aroma of his skin, as the lather spills from his long, thick fingers. Those
digits, so deft and skillful, had toyed with my pussy until I moaned, every
touch infusing me with delicious shockwaves.
My core clenches at the memory, desire pooling low in my belly. Oh,
fuck. Why am I thinking of sex at a time like this? But it’s impossible not to
when those hands are right in front of me, reminding me of the pleasure
they can bring.
Even if Xero is telling the truth and we’re both alive, there’s still no way
I can leave this abandoned old rectory without his help.
I swallow hard, my gaze glued to the way his fingers glide over the
soap, imagining them slides over my skin, making me forget everything but
the addictiveness of his touch.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Late,” he replies and smothers my shoulders with lather.
“Are you really going to bathe me like an invalid?” I ask.
“It’s called aftercare. And yes.”
“What’s the point when you’ve spent days terrorizing me until I thought
I was going crazy? You know how I feel about my mental health.”
He runs the lather down my arms and over my hands, making sure to
cover every exposed inch of my body with soap.
“Xero?” I snap.
“Imagine how it feels to open up to a woman, have her accept every part
of you, including those you’ve never shared with a soul, only to discover
the love and devotion was a sham for her to get rich?”
“Are you talking about me?” I ask.
“If the noose fits…”
“Haven’t you punished me enough?”
“I haven’t nearly begun.” He massages my shoulders with his strong
fingers. “By the time I finish with you, you’ll regret ever having tempted
me with honeyed words.”
“This doesn’t feel so bad,” I murmur.
He laughs. It’s a low, demonic chuckle that sounds like it’s coming
straight from the pits of hell. I wonder if this is all a facade my mind
fabricated to cover up the fact that we’re both sitting in a pit of lava.
It would make a sick sort of sense. Last night, there were men at the
house. Two of them drilled through the front door and another pair charged
at me when I tried to run out through the back.
When they pinned me to the kitchen table, my mind must have
dissociated. If it can glitch when I’m trying to have consensual sex, then it
had to do something powerful to help me get through being raped.
That’s when I pictured Xero. Not the Grim Reaper version of the man,
but the platinum blond serial killer. Except I got my wires crossed, and
imagined he was living in the cupboard under the stairs, which is ridiculous.
In my imagination, he cut down the rapists with the hangman’s ax and
then I ran. Maybe that was the moment I died. Or something. Then my soul
traveled to the cemetery, and a bunch of men I killed guided me to Xero’s
grave.
“You can lift the glamor,” I say. “I know we’re finally together in hell.”
 He lathers up my breasts. “Do you still think we’re dead?”
“We’re in a Roman bath, and it’s round. This is probably the middle
circle where they keep betrayers like Brutus and Judas Iscariot.”
“Dante’s Inferno?” he asks, his voice light.
“Why not?
“Then who am I?”
“My guide.”
“I see.” He rolls my nipples between his fingers. “And what’s this?”
My pussy clenches. “Lust is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Is that so?” he murmurs into the juncture of my shoulder.
I lean to the side, crane my neck, and turn around to check that it’s
really Xero. Cold blue eyes stare out at me from chiseled features framed
with platinum blond hair.
“Take it off,” I say.
He raises his brows.
“I want to see your true face.
Xero, or the demon wearing his visage, sighs. “You’re alive, Amethyst.
And so am I.”
“Then how did I survive those men?”
“I disabled them.”
My tongue darts out to lick my lips. “Who were they?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Do you really live in the cupboard under my stairs?” I ask.
“More or less,” he replies with a deep chuckle.
“How? Last time I looked under there, it contained cleaning equipment
and junk.”
“Then we did a good job disguising the work.”
I want to ask what the hell that means, but I’m sure there are more
pressing matters. Such as what Xero is doing with his hands. They slide
down my belly and between my legs.
His fingers circle my clit, and I flinch.
“Tender?” he asks.
“Some psychopath chased me through a graveyard and fucked me in the
dirt,” I say. “And you lied about the size of your cock. It’s bigger than the
dildo.”
He huffs. “The silicone must have shrunk during the drying process.”
 My thighs part, allowing him to rub gentle circles on my clit. Maybe
another orgasm will blow out the cobwebs in my brain. If we’re both alive,
then it means I’m housing a potential fugitive, and I might be in trouble
with whoever’s connected to the quartet of men Xero disabled.
That’s too far-fetched.
This is probably my introduction to hell. Something long and hard and
thick presses into my pussy, but I dare not look down in case it’s his forked
tail.
Shit. I’d better enjoy this last taste of pleasure before he moves onto the
punishment.
Xero’s lips pepper the column of my neck with soft kisses, and the hand
not teasing my clit pinches my nipple to the point of pain. My hips jerk
forward, and my pussy tightens, eager for more.
This is insane. I should be investigating what’s really happening, but
instead, I’m reveling in the ministrations of this beautiful monster.
Sensations gather in my core, building up with intensity as his fingers
continue those maddening circles around my clit.
Steam rises from the water’s surface, thickening the air. I moan, my face
heating. I glance between my thighs to find Xero’s pierced erection and
wrap my fingers around its crown.
He groans. “Dirty girl wants my cock.”
“Yeah.” I rub the pad of my thumb over its slit, making him shiver.
He slides further down the stone bench, giving me better access to his
shaft. I run my fingers up and down that thick column of flesh, marveling at
all the piercings. How the fuck did I take such a colossal cock?
Maybe this is proof that I really am dead.
We continue touching, rubbing, stroking each other until the pleasure
gets too intense. I throw my head back, panting, gasping, all the while
trying to maintain my rhythm.
“Together?” he rumbles.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
The finger on my clit pushes down with more pressure. “Come for me,
little ghost.”
His words detonate an implosion that sends my eyes rolling to the back
of my head. Sensations erupt from my core, forcing my mouth open in a
silent scream. Hips jerking, Xero bellows his orgasm, causing the air to
tremble.
 That’s when I know he’s not human.
I collapse against his chest, my heart thundering. If this is hell, maybe
an eternity here with Xero wouldn’t be so bad. Not if he can make me come
without seeing ghosts.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs into my hair. “This is only the beginning.”
My eyes flutter shut, and I relax against his chest. I don’t have the
mental bandwidth to decipher his words.
“Xero? Is that really you?”
“Yes.”
My throat tightens. “I saw a video of the execution. You were covered
in so much blood, but it was definitely you. And then something went
wrong, and the electricity set your head on fire. They even declared you
dead.”
“All true.”
“But how?”
“Rest, my love. We have more pressing issues.” Scooping me into his
arms, he rises out of the bath.
I glance around the stone walls, wondering how on earth anyone can
escape Death Row. It doesn’t make any logical sense, but then neither does
my theory that we’re in hell. I have so many questions that I don’t even
know where to start.
Xero carries me through an archway into a stone room that looks like it
was once used for spa treatments. Light shines from Perspex lamps atop a
stone table that takes up the room’s center. Wooden benches line one wall,
while the other is lined with boarded-up windows.
From the crumbling walls and exposed brickwork, I’m beginning to
believe we really are in the abandoned rectory.
He sets me down on the bench and wraps my body in fluffy towels. I
grab one to create a turban around my hair, while Xero kneels at my feet
and takes hold of my ankle.
“What are you doing?”
He places my foot on his thigh. “Taking care of what’s mine.”
His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and I stare down into ice-blue eyes.
Up close, his irises are insane. They’re the color of a winter sky with
starbursts of white. The only thing distinguishing the irises from the sclera
is the tiniest ring of indigo.
 I’m about to ask if they’re contacts, but then I remember I’m in the
presence of a killer with a grudge.
“I thought you hated me.”
“What do you think?” he asks.
A lump forms in my throat, and I gulp. The words I want to say tremble
on the edge of my lips. My heart races with fragile hope. Dare I say it?
Xero’s lips graze my ear, and I pluck up the courage to whisper, “You...
you love me?”
“And?”
“And you hate me in equal measure?”
The corner of his lips lifts.
“What if I told you that I wasn’t trying to monetize our relationship?” I
rasp.
“Then I would tell you to find a more convincing lie,” he replies.
Shudders seize my skeleton, and my heart rolls like a boulder toward
my sinking stomach.
“Do you want me dead?” I ask.
“Where would the fun be in that, little ghost?” he replies with a smile.
“You’ve slithered under my skin and invaded my soul. You’ve made me
love you with all my heart.”
My breath catches. “That’s good, then?”
“That’s something a man can’t easily forgive,” he replies, his eyes
hardening.

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 FIFTY-SEVEN

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
By now, you’ve probably heard the news that my execution date has
been brought forward. The warden called me into his office, saying that the
New Alderney Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation has decided to
set it in two weeks. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or out of spite, but
they intend to give me the electric chair on your birthday.
I wanted you to get this information in writing, so you could take time
reading my request. Please do not mobilize the fan club to have my death
sentence commuted to life imprisonment. I wasn’t just caught red-handed.
The police found me clutching my stepmother’s still-beating heart.
There is no redemption for a soul as black as mine. I took delight in
murdering her and her sons. I reveled in their terror and savored their pain.
This execution must go ahead, even if it’s to rid the world of one corrupt
spirit.
The warden has implored me not to incite riots, protests, or any civil
unrest. In exchange for a discreet execution, he has granted me a request.
Three hours. Three hours before my demise in the electric chair, he will
permit me a conjugal visit. He showed me the visitation room with a queen-
sized bed, refrigerator, dining table, chairs, and a kitchenette.
Amethyst, he’s giving us a chance to be together before I die. I know
you’re a recluse. I know you’re scared. I know you have trauma. I know
some of the things we’ve discussed in our letters have been outlandish. But
I swear to you, on my blackened soul, that if you agree to the conjugal visit,
all I will give you is pleasure.
There is, however, one caveat:
New Alderney only grants conjugal visits to married couples, which
means we would need to be wed. The warden has already discussed my
situation with the prison’s chaplain, who has agreed to perform the
ceremony only with a woman with whom I have a relationship.
Many have sent letters, but I have only replied to yours. You’re the only
woman I’ve held in my heart. Marriage is a commitment. One that binds
souls for a lifetime and beyond. I realize this is a lot of pressure and I will
understand if you say no.
But if you agree to be my wife, if you agree to give this poor sinner
your hand in marriage, it will give me the taste of heaven that will sustain
my heart while my soul burns in hell.
You may ask why my execution was brought forward. Reading between
the lines of the warden’s stuttered reply, I gathered that I was becoming a
threat. Our platform triggered discussions across social media, activists
raising the issues of inhumane conditions within the prison system, corrupt
guards, violations of the Eighth Amendment, the American Correctional
Association Standards, and the Nelson Mandela Rules.
The system doesn’t want the public to have sympathy for a convicted
murderer or any other type of inmate. Those who control the prison
industrial complex want people to forget about the souls trapped within its
confines. It thrives on dehumanization, profits from the warehousing of
humans, and is the truest form the United States has of modern-day slavery.
They don’t want people to know the inmates labor for the prison’s
financial gain while being denied fair wages and basic human rights. My
execution will restore the public's indifference to their plight.
Read as much of this letter as you wish to the fans.
Love,
Xero
P.S. I won’t press for a reply to my proposal. Not even during our
morning calls. I am very much an advocate of the silent no.

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST
I sit stunned as Xero finishes drying my body, smooths lotion on my
skin, and moves me in front of a rusty mirror so he can work on my hair.
His touch is exceptionally gentle for a man with a grudge. If he can treat me
so lovingly, then what’s next for me? The hate?
Shivers run up and down my spine as he removes my turban and
reaches beneath the bench to extract a hairdryer with a diffuser attachment.
He grabs a handful of my curls and crushes them with his fists.
“Xero?” I rasp.
“Hush.” He releases his fingers and blasts my scalp with warm air.
“I’m beginning to feel like a doll,” I mutter.
He doesn’t reply, seeming too entranced by my hair. I fall silent as he
brings the curls back to life, trying not to tremble. This isn’t a dream,
because I still can’t look at my reflection, and I don’t think this is the
afterlife. If it’s real, then I really need to make him see reason before he
starts the punishment.
“That thing you said about me using you to make money wasn’t true,” I
say above the sound of the hairdryer.
“How so?”
“What I felt for you was real. You weren’t just a way for me to gain
clout.”
“Hmmmm….”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you know how many people I’ve cornered who say anything just
for the chance to stay alive?” he mutters, his words mingling with the whirr
of the dryer. “Take those two rapists I punished. Stephen Glick denied
participating in drugging girls at book festivals until his accomplice listed
some of the places they’d struck.”
My breath catches. “You think I’m running my mouth like them?”
“And you should have heard my stepmother. She blamed my father,
saying he ordered the family to make my life hell.”
“But he was the ringleader,” I say.
“Correct, and she was his willing accomplice, as were the brothers who
took delight in causing me pain. If that woman really was a victim,
wouldn’t she have shown a little compassion while my father was away on
business?”
I don’t reply. Not because I don’t agree with his question, but because
it’s heartbreaking to be lumped with a group of abusers. Not to mention, it’s
wrong. All I ever wanted was the heart of the man who wrote me those
beautiful letters.
That anger toward me came from a mistaken belief that I was a betrayer,
just like them. For Xero’s peace of mind, I need to convince him he’s
mistaken.
He leans in close and runs the tip of his nose up the column of my neck.
“At least you weren’t lying about your scent.”
“I’m not a liar,” I say through clenched teeth.
“A lie by omission is still a lie.” He kisses my neck, sending sparks of
pleasure across my skin. “You should have told me you were using our
relationship as a cash cow.”
“I wasn’t⁠—”
His hand closes around my throat, making my breath catch. Shit. This
line of conversation is getting us nowhere.
“Alright, let me say something.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a woman who turns all my content I make into a think piece.
After my first video went viral, she calculated how much money it had
made and said I was one of the highest paid new creators.”
“And?” he purrs.
“I hadn’t even joined the creator fund.”
“Explain.”
“You can only make money from your videos after you reach a certain
number of followers. My account was stagnant for months. I’d get ten,
maybe fifteen new followers a week, so it never occurred to me that my
content could ever make money.”
“But then you went viral,” he says.
“I did, and I got so many followers it was insane.”
“That’s when you got the bright idea to make money from my letters.”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Back then, I couldn’t think
straight.”
“Because of the medication.”
I nod. “Do you remember when you encouraged me to stop taking the
pills, and I started to get better?”
When Xero doesn’t immediately reply, I glance in the mirror to find him
nodding.
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “Back then, I only mentioned
that you’d replied. I didn’t read anything out until after you gave me
permission.”
He sighs. “So, I created this monster?”
“No.” My eyes sting. “Before you wrote back, I was so depressed. No
one gave a shit about my manuscripts, and I’d wasted years on a story
without a market. My parents held me at arm’s length, my psychiatrist kept
piling on the drugs, and I was too lethargic to leave the house.”
“I see.”
“Because of you, I had a friend. A lover. Someone who saw me as
special. Someone who chose me from among a crowd of other women.
Someone who made me feel needed.”
He runs his fingers through my curls. “Go on.”
“For the first time in about ten years, my mind was sharp. I still needed
medical help, and I needed my own doctor. When I heard that woman
saying my videos had made a fortune, I logged into my account and applied
for the creator fund.”
Xero sighs. “So, reports of how much you’d made were greatly
exaggerated?”
“Something like that,” I mumble. “Look, I still made an income, but I
got banned a few days ago, which means I won’t get paid for the most viral
videos.”
Xero places both hands on my shoulders and squeezes hard enough to
make me wince.
“What?” I ask.
 “If you expect me to feel sympathy because you didn’t make the fortune
they’re reporting on social media, think again.”
My shoulders sag, and I bow my head. “Is this where you cut out my
heart?”
“And spoil all my fun?” he asks. “You won’t die until I decide it’s time.
And after that, your soul will still be bound to mine.”
I grind my teeth. “What if I paid you back?”
He chuckles. “I might have forgiven you if you hadn’t ghosted me when
I needed you the most. Those three hours would have been the sweetest of
my life. A prison wedding, followed by my first prison fuck.”
“Yeah, well, you took what you wanted tonight. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, my little ghost⁠—”
“Stop calling me that!”
He slides a hand down to my breast and grips it in his fist. Shock
courses through my system and gathers between my legs.
I gasp. “Xero⁠—”
“I might have sympathized with you over the creator fund,” he snarls.
“After all, a girl’s got to make a living. I might have even understood why
you arrived late to the wedding and missed the execution. But how the fuck
do you explain the book?”
My breath stills. “I got carried away. Everyone wanted to know our
story. You know I’ve always wanted to be published, and when people
wanted to read about you and me, I just⁠—”
“Get on your knees,” he snarls.
“But—”
“Now,” he roars.
With a yelp, I slide off my seat and kneel on the stone floor. Xero looms
over me, his thick erection hovering inches away from my mouth.
Up close and in the light, it’s inhuman. Not just the length and the
unfeasible girth, but the Prince Albert, which is a thick ring of metal that
bisects an even thicker crown. My gaze travels down the twelve barbell
piercings running along the underside of his shaft.
Twelve.
I knew he had a Jacob’s Ladder. Knew it had twelve rungs. But seeing it
on a dildo is completely different from witnessing it in person.
His balls are shaved, with a mini ladder of rings. My head spins. I didn’t
even know scrotum piercings were a thing.
 “Like what you see?” he asks.
I lick my lips, my breath quickening. He has to know it’s magnificent.
Not wanting to give him any satisfaction, I say, “No.”
He slides his fingers through my hair and jerks my head backward until
I’m staring into those cold, blue eyes. Baring his teeth, he snarls, “What did
I tell you about lying?”
My nostrils flare. “Fishing for compliments?”
“How about giving me the truth?”
The silent part remains unspoken, but it hovers in the air. How about
giving him the truth for once in my life? My chest releases a harsh laugh.
“Why don’t you ask my brain?”
His eyes soften. We both know about my delusions. I wrote to him at
length about times I’ve had entire conversations with people who don’t
exist. And about the monster that lurks in the mirror.
“Tell me what you see,” he says.
“Only you.” My gaze drops down to his impressive cock.
“Do you want it?”
“Yes.” I reach for his shaft, but he snatches my wrist.
“Bad little ghosts don’t get to play with my cock,” he barks. “Arms
behind your back.”
Just as I’m doing as he asks, he tears the cord of the hairdryer out of the
wall. Then he walks around me and winds the cord around my left wrist,
followed by the right, before tying them both together. When he’s satisfied I
can’t break free, he steps away and reaches for something beneath the
bench.
With a sharp tug, he releases a thick extension cable.
“Xero?” I whisper.
“Open your mouth. Stick out your fucking tongue.”
The pulse between my thighs pounds so hard that my legs tremble. My
breath quickens, and my pussy tenses and squeezes in anticipation of being
filled. I try to tell her that we’re sore from being fucked into the dirt, but she
doesn’t want to listen.
He holds the cord taut between his hands. “I gave you an order.”
Opening my mouth, I rest my tongue on my bottom lip.
“Wider,” he snarls.
I part my jaws.
“More!”
 My breath quickens, and my heart beats in its cage like a trapped
hummingbird. I haven’t given anyone fellatio in years. Out of instinct, my
gaze darts around the chamber. I’m looking for the usual hallucination that
appears whenever I try to get intimate with a man, but the room is empty.
I suppose my brain is too overwhelmed with the threat of this apex
predator. That, and the threat of what he plans to do with the extension
cable.
Xero grabs my jaw in a punishing grip. “Do you want this cock in your
mouth or not?”
“Yes,” I say, the word muffled.
He wraps the thick extension cord around my throat, twisting its ends
around my neck. It’s both a collar, a noose, and a leash.
My traitorous pussy clenches and throbs, wanting Xero to pound into
me from behind while tugging the cable until I choke.
“Then open wide,” he says.
I practically have to unhinge my jaw to accommodate his girth.
Xero slides his fingers into my mouth first, seeming to test my reflexes.
As their tips reach the back of my throat, I gag but force myself to relax. He
tilts his head, scrutinizing my reactions with an intensity that makes my
heart flutter. The hand wrapped around the extension cord twists, pulling
me closer to my prize.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, as if I’ve earned the right to take his cock.
Sliding out his fingers, he replaces them with his bulbous crown. The
cold metal of his Prince Albert piercing glides against my tongue, and I
moan as he fills my mouth.
His hips jerk forward, pushing more of him into the warm cavity of my
throat, and a guttural groan rumbles from his chest.
“Fuck, little ghost, you feel so good.”
Humming around my mouthful, I squeeze my thighs together, wanting
to create a little friction.
“That’s right, baby. You like that, don’t you?”
I’m so full that my eyes water, and when I blink, tears roll down my
cheeks. My mind dredges up the picture Xero sent me of Kayla, choking to
death from deep-throating that humongous dildo.
Is this how I’m going to die? Will he bring out a camera and capture me
in the throes of death? Panic grips my chest, and I gag.
 He threads his fingers through my hair and murmurs, “Take it easy.
Breathe through your nose.”
Nodding, I relax my throat and focus on bringing oxygen into my
nostrils, and let Xero guide my head along his length.
He fucks me at a steady pace, and my jaw aches from accommodating
his girth. Arousal floods my pussy as I surrender to his control.
I want more.
I want to free my arms and slide my fingers over those shaved balls. I
want to swirl my tongue over his crown and make him shiver. I want to
reach between my thighs and rub my clit to give myself an explosive
climax. But my wrists are bound too tightly, and all I can do is take his
cock.
The cable constricts, sending a thrill of excitement straight to my core.
My pulse pounds so hard that its vibrations reach my clit. This reminds me
of the mornings he called to talk dirty and made me fuck myself with the
dildo, only a thousand times better. I don’t need to use my imagination or
rely only on his intoxicating voice.
Drool slips from the corners of my mouth, down my chin, and settles on
my bare breasts. I close my eyes, not wanting to think of how messy I look
with my face covered in tears and saliva.
“Eyes on me,” he growls with a tug of the extension cord.
My gaze snaps up to meet those impossibly pale irises.
His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes burning with lust as he thrusts in and
out of my mouth.
I blink away the tears and focus on my breathing. This is so degrading
and humiliating, yet I can’t get enough.
“Good little ghost. Your mouth was meant for my cock.”
I preen at the praise, even though I despise that nickname, and bob my
head in time with his movements. It’s the tiny bit of control I can get when
I’m so completely bound.
He thrusts deeper, past my gag reflex, and further into my throat. I can’t
breathe because he’s cutting off my airway. Tears stream down my face as I
struggle to take in oxygen, but he moves too hard and fast for me to catch
my breath.
“That's it, take it all,” he growls and tightens his grip on the cable.
This is it. I’m going to die. I’m going to choke on his cock.
 Euphoria floods my senses, and the edges of my vision turn black. For a
moment, I stop being that lonely, rejected recluse and become a vessel for
Xero’s pleasure.
With each failed attempt to breathe, I sink deeper into a state of blissful
surrender. I lose track of my past, my previous trauma, my sense of
propriety, and focus on the intensity of the present.
I don’t want him to stop.
A twisted part of my psyche really wants to be his little ghost.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he says with a moan.
Hot cum hits the back of my throat, floods my mouth and pours down
my chin. He pulls out and spurts all over my face.
I gasp for air, taking in noisy gulps, coughing, spluttering, struggling to
catch my breath. No amount I inhale can extinguish the fire in my lungs.
Xero continues spraying my face with cum. It’s in my eyes, up my nostrils,
in my fucking ears.
“Look at me, little ghost,” he says.
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
Chuckling, he releases the cable around my neck and wipes my face
with a towel. Still panting and gagging, I crack open an eye. Xero smirks
down at me, his eyes still glinting with malice.
“Are we even yet?” I rasp.
“Not even close,” he snarls. “This is only the start of my revenge. But
first, we need to deal with the men who want you dead.”

OceanofPDF.com
 FIFTY-NINE

Alderney State Penitentiary,

Dear Amethyst,
I can’t thank you enough for accepting my proposal. You have made me
the happiest man in existence. I swear on my soul to be as gentle as you
need and respect every one of your boundaries.
You are my salvation, my guiding light. I hold you and your dignity in
the highest esteem.
The warden gave me a final warning about the contents of my
correspondence and played a clip of you reading my letter out on social
media. I confess to being so awestruck by your radiance and confidence that
I could barely concentrate on your words.
My lawyer checked what I wrote and assured me that it contains no
libel, hate speech, or incitements of others to violence, but the warden is
willing to withdraw the conjugal visit if I step out of line.
It appears that the First Amendment doesn’t apply in New Alderney.
They don’t like the think pieces my letters inspire about the American
judiciary system, nor do they appreciate the outpouring of stories from
former inmates and those with relatives behind bars.
For the sake of our love, I implore you not to read out the contents of
this letter until after my execution.
I’ve mailed my mother’s locket and would be honored if you would
wear it when we next meet. As you know, it’s the only thing I retained of
her before she died. Please pair it with the black bodice I bought from your
Wonderland wish list and lace stockings.
Don’t worry about rings. I will supply two platinum bands. Let me take
what might be this last chance to thank you for entering my life. Your love
is the essence that flows through my veins, that makes my heart beat.
Thanks to you, I can finally connect with my humanity.
To my fans, I say thank you for your love and support. Knowing that
you’ve all donated to my funeral expenses has filled my heart to bursting.
May our souls be forever bound until the end of time.
Love,
Xero
P.S. Please don’t be discouraged. I will find a way for us to be together.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY

TWO WEEKS AGO

XERO
I run around the track, my heart pounding. Wind rushes through my
ears, and I suck in lungfuls of air. It’s still dark at this time of the morning,
without a hint of dawn, so the only illumination comes from floodlights.
Montesano runs several strides ahead, keeping his distance. Neither of
us are used to sharing rec time. We used to get thirty minutes each with
Officer McMurphy, but thanks to the fan club and Amethyst, our rec time
has now stretched to an hour.
Jynxson stands beside McMurphy, looking as awkward as ever in his
prison uniform. He tries to make conversation with the woman, but she only
has eyes for inmates. That taste for caged men might one day get her killed.
With her short hair and athletic frame, McMurphy reminds me of a strict
instructor at the Moirai Academy, except she gets off on exerting power. If
she didn’t, she would turn her unwanted attention to a flirt like Jynxson.
After ten minutes of tolerating her male colleague, she turns away from
him, steps onto the track with both hands raised, and walks into
Montesano’s path. I shake my head. She’s desperate to grab his chest.
Montesano stops several feet short of her and nods, and then the two of
them walk toward the building. Jynxson watches McMurphy’s ass until
they’re out of sight, and then it’s his turn to approach the track.
“Why didn’t you ever take her up on her offer?” Jynxson asks.
My lip curls. “I haven’t given into despair like Montesano.”
“Give the man some grace. It’s been nearly four years, and he’s lost
every single appeal.”
 “What are you saying?” I ask with a smirk. “That I deserve my place
behind bars?”
He raises his shoulders. “I’m sorry, your honor. My stepmother slipped
on the knife, which cracked open her ribcage. The police made a mistake. I
was putting her heart back in, not taking it out.”
I huff a laugh. “You’re an asshole.”
“Not a good idea to taunt the keeper of your phone.”
I glance around. My cell has been raided on the daily ever since my
letters to Amethyst included tidbits about the prison. It’s an intimidation
tactic to stop me from talking shit about the conditions because my fanbase
has become powerful.
Too powerful.
So powerful that the governor moved forward my execution date. They
don’t want crowds of people storming the prison, demanding justice for a
remorseless killer. And they certainly don’t want said killer to write about
all the corners they’re cutting.
But I’m not complaining. It’s time I left this shit hole and continued my
search for Father.
“Give it here.” I extend a hand.
Jynxson reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out my phone.
“Enjoy your sexy time.”
I snort. “What I have with Amethyst transcends phone sex.”
“Will she accept your proposal?” he asks, his throat bobbing. “It’s a lot
to ask.”
News about my execution date has spread across the prison like
syphilis, as has the warden’s proposition. If there are no more protests
between now and the day I get the chair, he will allow me a conjugal visit,
but there’s a catch:
One, I must be married.
Two, I can’t get through this loophole by marrying a random woman
because the priest won’t perform the wedding with me and a stranger.
Which leads to three, I’ve only written to two women with any
consistency. My lawyer, Martina Mancini, and Amethyst.
Jynxson’s stare burns the side of my face. He follows both my official
and unofficial fan clubs and has kept up to date on what they’re saying
about me on social media. He’s also a romantic and almost as invested in
Amethyst’s reply as I am.
 I walk off the track to a space between two buildings everyone calls the
blind spot. It’s one of the few areas accessible to prisoners where the cell
phone jammers don’t work.
“Doesn’t matter if she accepts or not,” I reply under my breath.
“What does that mean?” Jynxson says to my back.
“Amethyst is delicate,” I mutter. “It’s one thing to talk dirty with a
Death Row prisoner with no visitation rights, but this proposition might be
too real for her.”
“You think she’s been stringing you along this entire time?”
I pause at the wall, my shoulders sagging. “No, but she might not have
agreed to liking a bunch of kinky shit if she knew there was a chance we
would ever meet.”
“Right. Like the difference between jerking off to the thought of
McMurphy sitting on my face and the reality of knowing that Bossanova
takes her raw every morning after she’s sucked off Montesano.”
I don’t dignify that comment with a remark. Jynxson is all talk. If
McMurphy ever gave him a chance, he wouldn’t know what to do with her.
He shuffles on his feet and takes a few steps back. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Ignoring him, I call Amethyst’s number, resolving not to ask. By now,
she should have received my letter containing my proposal of marriage,
although the mail where she lives is unreliable.
She answers in five rings. “Xero?” she says, that soft, sleepy voice
warming my heart. “I got your letter.”
My throat dries. “Oh?”
Silence stretches for several tense heartbeats. I hold my tongue, not
wanting to push for answers. Amethyst isn’t like other women. She’s too
delicate for this cruel world. It’s hard to tell if her mind shattered before or
after she killed her abusive music teacher, but the act left her broken.
Sometimes, the letters she writes to me are sweet. Other times, they’re
filled with fantasies dark enough to make a sinner like me blush. Take her
Rapunzelita manuscript, which reads like a children’s story until the heroine
comes into contact with the moon.
“My answer is yes,” she murmurs.
My breath catches. “Amethyst, do you know what you’re saying?”
“I’ll marry you,” she replies, her sweet voice a balm to the jagged edges
of my soul. “And we’ll spend the last hours of your life together.”
 Emotion clogs my throat, and I swallow hard. “You’d leave your house
for me?”
“I’m not that much of a hermit,” she replies with a sad chuckle.
But she is. In the months we’ve exchanged letters, she’s never once
mentioned leaving her home, not even to buy groceries. At first, I thought it
was because the medication she took made her too drowsy to operate in the
outside world. But when she stopped taking those pills, the most she ever
did was have the occasional cup of tea with the old woman next door.
“I’ll be gentle,” I say, meaning every word. “Take things slow. It will be
nothing like our phone sex. I know the difference between real life and dirty
talk.”
Her breath quickens, making me wonder if she might change her mind.
What version of Amethyst will I get when she visits me in prison? The
victim or the vixen? It won’t matter. I will love them both.
“What will you do to me?” she whispers.
“I’ll treat you like you’re the most precious thing on earth⁠—”
“No,” she murmurs. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile and need
fixing. I want it rough.”
Heat rushes to my cock. “You want me to strip you naked?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
Now, I know this is just a fantasy. Amethyst has never been able to send
me a full nude, as she says the scars on her stomach are ugly.
“Your fingers would fumble over your shirt, but I would be impatient.”
“What would you say?”
“Hurry the fuck up,” I snarl. “Get naked or I’ll slice through those
fucking clothes with my knife.”
She whimpers, the desperate sound going straight to my shaft.
“Your eyes would dart to my knife⁠—”
“What does it look like?” she asks.
“Eighteen inches long with a curved blade. With a handle long and thick
enough to stick in your sweet pussy.”
“With a serrated spine?” she squeaks.
“Of course. I’ll get impatient, grab the front of your shirt and slice
through your collar.”
She squeals.
“Are you stroking your clit?”
“Y-Yes.”
 “Dirty girl. Who gave you permission to touch yourself?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
My throat spasms, and I groan. Why does the sound of her submission
make me so lightheaded? Because she’s special. My broken little doll.
“The knife will slice through your shirt and cut open your bra. I’ll run
the flat of the blade over those sweet tits. You won’t know if I’m watching
your nipples harden or trying to slice them off.”
“Don’t cut my nipples!” she shrieks.
“Then I’ll twist them so hard, your knees would buckle.”
“But then I’d cry.”
“Those tears would make me even harder. I’d keep pulling and twisting
those nipples until you mess up your mascara. Then I’ll order you to show
me your pussy.”
“Oh, no.”
“You touching yourself again?”
“I can’t help it.”
“Spank that pussy.”
Closing my eyes, I savor the sound of slapping, followed by a sweet
gasp.
“And your breasts,” I growl. “Both of them.”
She obeys.
I lean against the wall, dizzy at the mental image of her lying flat on her
bed. She’d be naked, with those blonde and black curls spilling across the
pillow. Those perfect tits would bounce with each slap, with the nipples
turning red.
“Grab the dildo,” I snarl.
“Already?”
“Girls who touch their clits without permission don’t get easy orgasms,”
I growl. “You’re going to take my cock and like it.”
“A-Alright.”
Sounds of movement fill the speaker as she reaches across to the
nightstand to take her toy. I’ve seen so many pictures of her room that I can
imagine myself standing at the foot of her bed, ordering her to defile that
delectable little body.
When she flops back down on the mattress with the groan of springs, I
straighten.
“Open your legs,” I snarl.
 “Okay.”
“Wider.”
She breathes hard. “Alright.”
“You’re going to push that dildo in as far as it will go.”
A moment later, she cries, “Ahhh. Are you sure this is a life-sized
replica of your cock? It’s so big.”
I chuckle. Amethyst always asks this question when I don’t prepare her
for the silicone toy. “One hundred percent, baby. Now, keep it deep inside
that sweet cunt. No moving.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“O-Okay. What do I do now?”
“Squeeze those pussy muscles. You’re going to prepare to take this cock
in real life. Would you like that?”
“More than anything,” she cries.
“After I cut through your flimsy skirt, I’ll slice through the elastic of
your panties and order you onto your knees. How’s it going with the dildo?”
“Can I move it yet?”
“Not unless you want to come to the sound of my silence.”
“Xero,” she whines. “Stop being so mean.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I say with a chuckle. “You’ll crawl
across the concrete floor on your hands and fucking knees until I order you
to get on the bed.”
“What will you be doing?” she asks.
“Resisting the urge to stroke my cock at the beautiful sight. When you
reach the bed, I’ll make you sit on your heels and unbutton my jumpsuit.”
“What if I’m too nervous?”
“Then I’ll hold the knife to your throat.”
“I’d definitely cry.”
“Then I’d give you something to fill those blubbering lips.”
“Your erection?”
“That’s right, baby. Think you can take it?”
“It’s too thick for my mouth.”
I groan, my real cock pushing painfully against the buttons of my
jumpsuit. These morning calls are my sweetest torture. I can’t get enough of
my little Amethyst. She’s dark, dirty, and has the kind of depth to her
personality most others lack. Most importantly, she embraces my insanity.
 “Fuck yourself with the dildo,” I growl. “Put your phone on speaker, so
I can hear.”
My ear fills with the wet sound of my dildo pounding in and out of her
aroused cunt. The mattress springs groan with the force of her movements. I
picture her laid out on the bed wearing one of her silk camisoles with her
breasts exposed and the fabric gathered around her middle.
Her creamy thighs will be spread, exposing her full bush. The left side
will be bleached blonde to match her hair, while the right will be black. The
dildo will glisten with her juices, with moisture spilling down on the black
sheets.
I can’t fucking believe she said yes.
“Sixty seconds.” Jynxson’s voice cuts through the image, making me
want to tear out his throat.
Gritting my teeth, I ignore the cock-blocking bastard and focus on
Amethyst. Time moves too quickly during phone sex, especially when
there’s an asshole breathing down my neck. In a few minutes, Officer
McMurphy will arrive with Bossanova, who will also need to use the
blindspot.
“You have a count of ten to come.”
“Can I use my fingers?”
“No. One.”
Her breath hitches and she quickens her movements, filling my ear with
the sound of chaos.
I continue counting, already knowing she’ll come before I reach eight.
Sure enough, she’s crying out my name at six. By now, all the photos in my
phone that I took of myself have been uploaded, and I’ve downloaded the
video she shot of herself during yesterday’s phone sex.
Jynxson appears in my periphery. He only does this when McMurphy
gets too close.
“Good girl,” I murmur, wishing I had more time for aftercare. “We’ll
speak again tomorrow.”
“Xero,” she blurts. “I set up a fundraiser for your funeral. We’ve already
gotten enough money to buy a plot, and we’re looking for the perfect
gravestone.”
My chest squeezes. I’m about to reply when Jynxson grabs my arm.
As I limp back to the cell, I ask Jynxson to mail Mom’s locket, so she
can wear it to our wedding. Even if our association only lasts three blissful
hours, I can’t wait for the day she becomes mine.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-ONE

Bitch,
Does this picture refresh your memory?
I’ll soon have you screaming on my table if it doesn’t.
Either way, your time is up.
Me

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-TWO

EXECUTION DAY
XERO
The rest of the week is a blur of arrangements and not just for the
wedding. If I had known communications from within Alderney State
Penitentiary would be so tedious, I might have reconsidered allowing
myself to get caught.
That’s the trouble with making plans. One small detail can throw
everything off. Before you know it, you’re stuck in a maximum security
prison with a one-way ticket to the electric chair.
On the plus side, Father won’t be able to resist coming to watch me fry.
After all, I’ve stripped him of nearly everything he holds dear.
I sit in the prison chaplain with the warden as my witness and Jynxson
as my best man. The priest rocks back and forth on his feet, looking like
he’s suffering the first stage of alcohol withdrawal.
Bowing my head, I drum my fingers on the pew. I shouldn’t feel so
damned nervous. Everything’s going to plan… Mostly.
I spoke to Amethyst this morning. The Armagnac and cake she ordered
arrived yesterday. She already has the little black outfit I want her to wear,
but is still waiting for Mom’s locket I sent her last week. According to her it
will probably arrive later today in the mail, but I’m not so sure. She never
received that first dildo, which was no big deal, but that locket is the only
thing I have of Mom.
The door at the back opens, and my heart skips several beats. I turn
around, expecting to see a five-foot-five woman in a black bodice, but
Officer McMurphy slithers inside with a sneer.
 Jynxson glances over his shoulder and groans. “What the fuck is she
doing here?”
My jaw clenches. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of being
acknowledged, even though she wasn’t invited.
Minutes pass, and I glance up at the clock. Amethyst is twenty-five
minutes late. The priest shifts on his feet, rubs the back of his neck, and
rolls his shoulders, acting like he’s the one who needs to fret about being
jilted.
Jynxson opens and closes the ring box, the sound grating on my nerves.
“Stop,” I hiss.
He stiffens.
They’re probably giving Amethyst shit through the security check. Even
though the warden gave her permission to bring a wedding cake and
alcohol, I doubt that the idiots at the gate will let her through with so much
contraband.
I glance across the pew at the warden, who sits with his legs stretched
and his arms folded over his chest. Is this why he’s here? So no one can
reach his office when they call him to confirm the concessions he made for
Amethyst?
My jaw tightens. If this is some kind of setup to keep us apart, then I’m
killing everyone, starting with him.
At half-past, McMurphy clears her throat. “Another couple needs the
chaplain.”
My shoulders tense. “She’s coming. They can wait.”
The warden rises. “Be reasonable, Greaves. We have three other
prisoners waiting to be married. After that, the priest needs to be at the
execution chamber to administer sacraments.”
“I don’t want any last rites,” I snarl.
When the door opens again, I stand, hoping to see Amethyst, but
McMurphy lets in a prisoner from the general population and his pregnant
bride-to-be. They’re flanked by four officers to add to the quartet already in
the chaplain.
I glance around the wood-paneled room, my heart pounding. “Where’s
Amethyst Crowley?”
“Looks like you’ve been stood up,” McMurphy says with a shrug, her
eyes glimmering.
“Looks like you bastards held her up,” I snarl.
 Jynxson stuffs the ring box in his pocket and places a hand on my arm.
“Calm down, Greaves. Nobody⁠—”
My fist lands on his jaw, making him stumble backward and hit the
wall. Two other officers rush in from either side, and the four McMurphy let
in charge down the aisle.
I shove past the priest and grab the warden’s throat, only for a pair of
guards to jerk me back. Jynxson appears in front of me and punches me in
the eye with a left, then a right, making my vision fill with stars.
“Not the face!” the warden roars.
Using the men grabbing my arms as leverage, I jump up and kick
Jynxson square in the chest with both feet. He falls to the ground with a
satisfying thud.
I roll forward, throwing one guard over my shoulder and elbowing the
other in the ribs. His pained roar is a symphony to my black heart. I glance
around for the warden, who darts out through the exit. McMurphy stands on
a pew, recording the fight on her phone.
The other four officers rush forward to grab my arms, but adrenaline
pushes me forward. With a primal roar, I deliver a roundhouse kick to the
one in front. He falls on his colleague like a domino.
I launch into berserker mode, fighting off a small army of assholes.
Then a sharp jolt of electricity courses through my system, bringing with it
a paralyzing pain. As my body seizes, I’m struck with another barrage of
shocks. Agony takes control of my muscles, and I convulse, trying to stay
upright against the onslaught.
“What did you expect, Greaves?” McMurphy yells over my screams.
“Women find men like you disgusting.”
She’s wrong. Amethyst said she would come. The only reason she isn’t
here is because of sabotage.
“That’s enough,” Jynxson yells.
My vision blurs. I fall on the floor on my side and welcome the
darkness. I’ve made my point. It’s time to stop before I jeopardize the
contingency plan.
Much later, I wake up in the infirmary with my body bound by thick belts.
Handcuffs restrain my wrists, and leg cuffs hold together my ankles. Both
are connected by a chain around my waist. And it feels like I’ve cracked at
least one rib.
One or more of those asshole guards must have kicked my side while I
was unconscious. That’s the trouble with ordinary men. Only brave in
numbers and invincible with compromised targets who can’t fight back.
I glance to the left, finding the cot beside me empty. To the right is
someone familiar. He’s only known here as John Doe. The last time I saw
that bastard, I was smashing his head into a urinal. I only recognize him
through the swelling of his face because of the family resemblance around
his jaw and mouth.
John’s unconscious. They keep him that way on my orders.
Harassing my sisters wasn’t enough for my freak brother. The year my
sisters moved into the academy, he snuck into the housekeeper’s bedroom,
beat her unconscious, and raped her.
Father paid her off and made her leave town, but when the same
happened to my stepmother, Father sent him to a facility. When the bills
stopped being paid, they turfed my brother into the street. A few attacks on
women later, the police picked him up and hauled him off to prison.
Turns out that Father doesn’t officially exist, and neither do my
brothers. The only reason I’m in the system is because Mom registered me
for doctors, and I originally went to school outside Victoria Gardens.
Jynxson appears at my side. “Awake now?”
“You punch like a kitten,” I mutter.
He flashes me a grin. “And you kick like a foal.” He turns to the medic.
“Leave us.”
The nurse who haunts the prison infirmary is a gray-haired scarecrow of
a man whose bowl cut dates back to 1974. He holds out a hand to accept a
pile of bills and shuffles out without a backward glance.
Thank fuck for the prison industrial complex underpaying their workers.
Fair wages would have made it difficult to bribe guards to ignore John Doe
getting beaten and shanked in the showers, and to isolate him here in the
infirmary.
I study John’s features while Jynxson takes his time untying my
shackles.
“Did you bring the hair bleach?” I ask.
 “We’re going to shave his head,” Jynxson replies.
“Doesn’t matter.” I rise off the cot and roll my shoulders. “He needs to
be platinum.”
“Fine.”
Jynxson walks to the sink and picks up the bleaching kit. After taking
off my jumpsuit, I help him strip John down to his underwear. While
Jynxson applies the bleach to my brother’s hair, I change into a prison
uniform and apply hair color wax to turn me into a brunet.
Our biggest concerns are making sure he doesn’t say anything when
he’s finally out of sedation, which is why I weave stainless steel threads
between his teeth, making sure to wire his jaws shut. It’s dirty, detailed
work, but the most poetic way to wipe out the last of Father’s bloodline and
to rid the world of another predator.
Pulling his lips aside, I give Jynxson the space he needs to secure the
wiring with copious amounts of dental cement.
“You sure this will work?” he asks.
“I could cut off and cauterize his tongue, but that kind of unnecessary
surgery leaves too many traces.”
He snickers.
A knock sounds on the door as we’re rinsing off the bleach and drying
his hair.
“Give us five minutes,” Jynxson bellows.
“Hurry,” the medic hisses.
We change my brother into my old uniform, move him to my cot, and
reattach the restraints.
As the door opens, Jynxson slams a fist into John’s face, breaking his
skin. I whirl around and clear away the evidence of our work. The medic
rushes in with a gurney.
“What the fuck?” he asks, his gaze roving over John’s bleeding face.
“Greaves was resisting,” Jynxson mutters. “The last thing we wanted
was another one-man riot.”
The medic glances at John’s empty bed. “Where did that one go?”
“Discharged,” Jynxson says.
The man hesitates, detecting bullshit, but I’m already halfway out the
door. What the fuck is he going to do? Raise the alarm and confess to taking
a bribe?
 My people are already tampering with prison records and the
surveillance footage. By now, they will have deleted John Doe from their
records, along with the attack in the showers that got him sent to the
infirmary. The officers we bribed to turn a blind eye to the beat down won’t
say a fucking thing unless they also want to become inmates.
I continue down the hallway toward the execution chamber. It’s a route
I’ve memorized based on prison schematics that were smuggled in through
my copy of The Complete Works of Charles Dickens. I enter using the key
card Bossanova supplied us today from when he fucked McMurphy.
The execution chamber is about fourteen feet wide and equally as deep,
illuminated by fluorescent bulbs that cast ominous light on the wooden
chair. I knew it wouldn’t be made of metal, but this is the first time I fully
grasp its simplicity.
Attached to it are leather straps, darkened over time, along with thick
cables that converge in a large box. I’m assuming there are more cords
running under the floor to the huge lever on the wall.
I glance at the clock, finding only two hours left. My original plan was
to spend hours making love to Amethyst. Jynxson would transport John to
the room, where we would have ample time to make the swap, along with a
bathroom to rinse out the hair bleach. I would emerge from the room
dressed in an officer’s uniform, ready to escort Amethyst to the observation
room, where she would bear witness to a new stage in our lives.
She’s probably still trying to get through security, heartbroken over
losing what she thinks is our final chance to be together. I dropped as many
hints as I could that I would survive the execution, but there’s a limit to
what one can communicate, even with Jynxson mailing my messages.
So, I slip on my executioner’s mask and wait.
Less than ninety minutes later, there’s movement in the observation
room. The governor of New Alderney walks in with the district attorney, the
deputy chief of police, and a small group of reporters wearing press passes.
I wait to see who else accompanies them, but there’s no sign of Amethyst.
Or Father.
Did he fall so far from grace when the actions of our rebel group got
him ousted from the Moirai? A man as powerful as him should have secured
his seat among these dignitaries.
Maybe I need to come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t give a damn
if his children live or die.
 He never did.
Another pair of women walk into the observation room. One of them
resembles Father’s late wife. The other is elderly and is probably her
mother. If they knew my stepmother was an abuser who married a monster,
they might not have wasted the gas money to watch her killer die.
Minutes later, the execution room’s door swings open. Jynxson and
another male guard escort John inside. His head, which has been shaved, is
now bowed, and he holds his cuffed hands to his chest.
He shuffles forward on shackled legs, looking dazed, but as they lead
him to the chair, he stops.
My breath catches. Does he finally realize his fate?
He raises his head and stares straight into my eyes. Blood pours down
one side of his swollen face, but he’s still recognizable as me.
The governor complains about his appearance, and the warden rushes
forward with an excuse. None of this matters because I’m too entranced at
the sight of my brother. Does he recognize me through the hood, or does he
only see his impending death?
As the guards wrestle him into his seat, I catch a glimpse of McMurphy
standing in the back of the room, recording my execution on her phone.
That wretched woman is determined to exploit the men she sexually
manipulates—even in their deaths.
I make a mental note to deal with her after checking up on poor
Amethyst.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-THREE

Bitch,
Still murdering men?
At least this time you’re taking responsibility for the clean-up.
Me
P.S. I’m still coming to get you.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-FOUR

XERO
Sneaking out of a prison is more difficult than I anticipated. After the
medic pronounced me dead, he also falsified John’s death certificate and
arranged for both our bodies to be transported out of the building to the city
morgue.
So, I still left the prison in a body bag.
Hours after I was supposed to marry Amethyst, I reunited with my car, a
1963 BMW with a removable roof that I lovingly pilfered from one of the
brothers I murdered. My first stop was Amethyst’s house. I needed to tell
her I was still alive.
I wasn’t expecting it to be so large. From her letters, I gathered that she
lived alone in a narrow home with one bedroom and an upstairs study. This
newly built building is sprawling.
Nevertheless, I ring the bell, bow my head, and pull down the brim of
my prison uniform hat… Just in case Amethyst doesn’t live alone.
The door opens, and a black-haired woman answers. She’s too tall and
too bug-eyed to be my girl. Her hair, however, hangs in limp curls and its
entire left side is bleached blonde.
Just like my Amethyst.
“What can I do for you?” she asks, her voice hesitant.
“I’m looking for Ms. Ravenly,” I reply.
“Who?” She hesitates, then her eyes widen with realization. “You mean
Amethyst?”
“Yes.”
 Eyes narrowing, I take in her outfit. She wears a black corset, but
doesn’t have the assets to fill the cups, and a lace skirt similar to the one
Amethyst wears on her podcast.
But there’s something familiar around her wrist.
“Where did you get that?” I point at the heart-shaped locket.
She pulls her arm around her back. “Who are you?”
I shove my way into her home, making her yelp. “Show me your wrist.”
She turns around to bolt, but I grab her by the hair.
Clamping a hand around her mouth, I muffle the inevitable scream.
Filters can work miracles, as can cosmetics and prosthetics, but no one
can tell me that this wretched creature is the woman I love.
The thief thrashes in my arms, but I hold her in place until she tires
herself out. When her muscles go limp, and she sags against my chest, I
place a hand around her throat.
“You have two choices,” I growl. “One, you answer my questions, and I
walk out. Or two, I torture them out of you and leave your twitching
corpse.”
She whimpers.
“Which is it going to be?”
“One,” she says from behind my hand.
“Good girl.”
Shivering, she presses her scrawny ass into my crotch, looking like
she’s falling into a fawn response. I hold her at arm’s length and grimace.
No pale imitation could ever distract me from my Amethyst.
“I’m going to release my hand. If you scream, then the torture begins.
Understood?”
She responds with a frantic nod.
I pull my hand from her mouth and wipe it on the fabric of my
borrowed pants. Something about this discount version of Amethyst gives
me the creeps.
“Question one: where did you get that locket?”
She raises her wrist. “My boyfriend.”
“His name?” I growl.
She tries turning her head, but I tighten my grip around her throat.
“Did I give you permission to move?”
“No, sir,” she replies, her voice breathy with excitement.
 My lip curls. Does she think this is the first chapter of a dark romance
novel? I shake off that thought and focus on the interrogation. “Tell me his
name.”
“What?” Her voice rises several octaves.
“The boyfriend who gifted you this locket. What. Is. His. Name?” I
punctuate each word with a squeeze of her throat.
“Xero,” she whispers. “Xero Greaves.”
My nostrils flare. She doesn’t even sound like my Amethyst.
“And your name?”
“Kayla Kaplinsky.”
“I see,” I lie, because I sure as fuck didn’t correspond with any such
woman. “And your connection to Amethyst Ravenly?”
Kayla hesitates for a moment before turning her head again. “Is it really
you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re Xero. No one but you ever used that last name for her.”
My jaw tenses. This is Amethyst’s return address. This is where I sent
her lingerie, gifts, and letters. And this woman is implying that her real
name isn’t even Ravenly.
I release my grip around her throat. “How are you connected to
Amethyst?”
She whirls around, her huge eyes widening as she sweeps her gaze up
and down my form. “I’m her personal assistant. Well, not really. I work for
her agent.”
“Agent?” I tilt my head.
“Amethyst is writing a book about your romance. My boss is
negotiating a million-dollar book deal.”
Fury simmers in my gut, but I hold my features in a hard mask. There’s
no point wringing this creature’s neck. I need to get the facts straight before
I overreact. Because Amethyst can’t be a two-faced woman who faked a
relationship to write a book.
“And what is your role in this?” I ask.
She straightens. “This is the address on Amethyst’s link page. When
people want to send her stuff, it goes through me.”
“You sort through her mail?”
“That’s right,” she says, her eyes softening. “I love your letters. The
way you write to her makes my heart flutter.”
 Rage pounds between my ears, muffling her next words. It’s an
outpouring of sympathy about my childhood and the injustices brought onto
me and others by Father.
I stare down at the jabbering woman, my skin crawling with revulsion.
She knows my painful history, my most intimate thoughts, and has fondled
my letters before passing them on to Amethyst.
“Did you fake your death to continue your quest for revenge?” she asks.
My brows rise. That’s a reasonable question, considering I’m standing
before her on the day of my execution. I glare down into her brown eyes,
prompting her to continue.
“Well, you finished your mission in the prison, right?”
“Which was?”
“To assassinate your third brother?”
“Oh?”
She leans against the wall. “You killed your stepmother and her two
sons, but the letter said there were three. So, I reckon that the third one
ended up in prison.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it stands to reason.” She shrugs. “He turned loopy after you
smashed his head into that urinal. By the way, I cheered when you finally
fought back. But anyway, after your dad went broke and stopped paying for
the institution, your brother probably went on a raping rampage and ended
up behind bars.”
“That’s an astute deduction.”
“But am I right?” She wiggles her brows.
I nod, my stomach roiling, acid hitting the back of my throat. Those
words were for Amethyst, not this thieving interloper.
She clasps her hands to her chest, making Mom’s locket clink against
the crap on her cheap charm bracelet. “I knew it. A trained assassin like you
doesn’t allow himself to get caught by the police for no reason. I knew you
were in prison to complete a hit.”
“What else?”
She taps her lip. “Well, the breaking news podcast says your execution
was a few hours ago. Since you’re here, then I can only assume your
brother took your place in the electric chair?”
I give her a slow clap. “Impressive.”
 Her eyes sparkle. “Xero, you’re larger than life, and I don’t just mean
your masculine beauty. Or even everything you’ve endured.”
I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.
“From the moment I saw your mugshot, the connection I’ve felt with
you has been visceral.” She clenches her fist for emphasis.
“I’m beginning to feel the same way,” I say, meaning every word, but
the only visceral proclivities veer toward her violent demise. “But I am
curious. You know so much about me, yet I know nothing about you.”
Her face falls. “That’s true.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Seriously?” she asks, her cheeks turning pink.
“Is there somewhere we can be more comfortable?” I dart my gaze up
the stairs.
She rolls her shoulders, her thin lips forming a ridiculous pout. “You
can hide out in my room.”
I incline my head. “Thank you. Kayla.”
She darts down the hallway and thunders up the stairs, taking them two
steps at a time. With long strides, I stay close, not wanting this clever little
interloper to raise the alarm. Each swing of her arm sends Mom’s locket
crashing against the banister. At this rate, she’ll ruin my precious heirloom.
Her bedroom is a large, white-walled space that overlooks the street. Its
entire left wall is covered in blown-up pictures of me from my cell.
“Where did you get those?” I ask.
“Amethyst posts them into a cloud drive so I can turn them into
slideshows.” She whirls around, her chocolate eyes bright. “Have you ever
seen any of her podcasts?”
“One of them.”
“Well, I made those backgrounds for her green screen.”
My jaw tightens. While I agreed Amethyst could use the photos, I didn’t
give her permission to share them with third parties.
She shoves a large mug in my face. “Do you like my Xero cup?”
It’s a coffee mug with a shirtless picture of me, but with someone else’s
bottom half. I can tell because his thighs are too oily and the narrow penis
bends to the side.
“Where did you get this?”
“I use the pictures to create merch.”
“Merch?”
 “I started an online store that sells pens, phone covers, notepads, key
rings, mugs… that kind of shit. It’s still new, but people are eating it up.”
My jaw tightens. “That picture isn’t accurate.”
She giggles. “Of course not, silly. You’re twice as big as that porn star.”
“And how would you know that?” I ask.
With a happy squeal, she rushes to her nightstand and opens its drawer.
All the blood drains from my face as I realize what she’s about to extract.
When she produces the silicone mold of my cock, the edges of my vision
turn red.
This woman who claims to know my soul is clearly begging for death.
“That solves the mystery of the missing dildo,” I mutter.
Her smile falters. “Do you mind? I mean, these kits are only fifty bucks.
It’s no big deal.”
Now she’s minimizing her theft.
Interesting.
“But can you take it like a good girl?” I ask, my voice lowering several
octaves.
Her eyes widen, and she draws back, her lashes lowering. It looks like
an attempt to be seductive, but I feel too violated to care.
“Name the hole,” she replies, her voice thickening with lust.
I would rather gouge out my own eyes than watch this foul bitch take
my dildo, but the punishment must fit the crime. She wanted a taste of my
cock, and now she’ll choke on it.
“Mouth,” I say. “Show me what you’ve got and deep throat this dildo.”
“On the bed?”
I sweep a hand toward her little desk. “Over there.”
She saunters across the room, her gaze sweeping up and down my body
once more. I hold still, my breath quickening at the thought of her
impending demise.
A woman intelligent enough to have guessed my reason for getting
caught should have also read the passage I wrote about McMurphy and the
other officer who tried to remove my piercings. Or is she so deluded by her
non-consensual, parasocial relationship with me that she doesn’t realize her
life is in danger?
Probably.
I’m no different from this creature, considering I fell into the same trap
with Amethyst. What did I really know about the woman I love? While I
thought we’d formed a connection of tortured souls, she leveraged our
relationship into a seven-figure book deal, merchandise, and fuck knows
what else.
Kayla slams the dildo onto the desk, activating the suction and pulling
me out of my bitter musings. She plops herself on the chair and runs her
pale tongue up the Jacob’s Ladder.
I rub my chin and frown.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Is this what you call deep-throating?”
Her eyes widen. “Of course not.” She grabs the base of the shaft and
lowers her mouth onto the crown. “Like this?”
I lean against the wall, letting my gaze wander. “That’s more like
shallow-mouthing, but it’s a start.”
“Will you teach me?” She flutters her lashes.
Ah.
She wants to be told.
Correction. She wants dirty talk.
“Eager little thing,” I say, my voice deepening. “You’re going to take
Xero’s cock like it’s your last meal.”
“Yes, sir!” she whispers.
“Hands behind your back.”
“Are you going to tie me up?”
“Only if you’re worthy.”
“And then what?”
“Focus on Xero’s cock,” I growl. “Open your dirty mouth and slide it to
the back of your throat.”
With a whimper, she shifts on her seat, her thighs clenching. “Like
this?” she asks around her mouthful, the words muffled by the silicone dick.
“Xero?”
I push off the wall and walk toward her desk. “You can do better than
that. Take it all. Take it down to the root.”
She lowers her head and gags. Tears spring to her eyes, and she pulls
back. “Xero, I can’t⁠—”
“You wanted my cock so badly that you stole its replica and turned one
of your walls into a shrine,” I snarl. “Now, worship your god or face my
wrath.”
 The gagging and choking continues, with saliva flooding the dildo’s
base. Her nose streams with the effort of taking the silicone cock.
“Good girl.” I place a hand on the back of her head and pull out my
phone with the other. “But you can take a little more.”
As I push her further down the dildo, her body thrashes, and the sounds
of choking muffle. I snap pictures of her struggles, wondering how long it
will take her to die.
Death by strangulation is usually a four-minute affair, and some people
take as much as six to choke. But death by dildo is something they didn’t
teach us at the academy.
After two minutes, she stops moving, but I hold her for an extra five to
be sure. When urine floods the floor, I release my grip on the back of her
head and step away.
I unclasp the charm bracelet, unwind Mom’s locket along with its chain,
and take a photo of it against a blank patch of wall.
The hunt for Father will have to wait, because it’s time for Amethyst to
die.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-FIVE

Bitch,
Does your blood still taste as sweet?
Me

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-SIX

XERO
After shutting down the merch store, I delete the cloud server of all
images of me and erase the woman’s hard drive. One quick search of her
phone gives me Amethyst’s full name and address. It’s Crowley, and she
lives on Parisii Drive, which backs onto the cemetery.
How serendipitous.
Amethyst also raised over fifty thousand dollars to purchase a plot in
the Parisii Cemetery and an ostentatious memorial. It’s a life-sized grim
reaper with feathery wings and a scythe. It’s apt, considering the woman
who runs my unofficial fan club calls me the Angel of Death.
If it’s death she wants, I will give it to her… slowly.
By the time I reach her road, the sun has long set, and streetlights
illuminate the townhouses. I park outside number 2 and change out of the
uniform and into black pants with a matching sweatshirt and a long leather
coat with a hood. Not wanting to reveal my face to her neighbors or
possible roommates, I pull on a mask and slip out of the car.
Parisii Drive is a quaint little neighborhood where our rebel group set
up our original safe houses. Most of them are rented out to tenants, but we
still occasionally use the tunnel we built from number 15 to smuggle items
to the cemetery and catacombs.
I walk down the quiet street, expecting to access number 13 through the
old woman’s bed-and-breakfast, but when I reach Amethyst’s house, its
door is already open.
At the sound of a muffled scream, I quicken my pace and enter, only to
find a large man bent over something or someone in the kitchen. It’s
Amethyst. She’s lying on the floor beneath his bulk.
Based on all the filthy things she checked off on her sex contract, it’s
impossible to tell if they’re playing out a consensual non-consent scene or if
she’s genuinely losing a fight.
How many other men has this woman finessed?
She punches at his thicker arms, her mouth opening and closing in a
silent scream. When our eyes meet, those pretty features twist with so much
anguish that my heart pounds with jealous rage.
Amethyst should be making those faces for me.
It should be my hands around that delicate neck.
It should be me making that ample bosom heave.
“Bitch,” he says, his voice breathy. “I’ve always wanted to see you
beneath me, screaming for mercy.”
Again, this could mean anything, but I’m not about to make
assumptions. I walk around the pair, extract a knife from the block, and
slide it across the tiled floor. If Amethyst is really in danger and was telling
the truth about killing her music teacher, she’ll use this opening to save
herself.
If this is just a kinky scene, then I’ll kill her lover and force her to
watch. I return to the doorway, keeping my gaze on her right hand. As the
man reaches between her legs, she reaches for the knife.
Good girl.
Without hesitation, she plunges the blade into his neck. Sensation surges
to my cock so quickly that I become lightheaded.
This isn’t her first stabbing.
Most civilians would aim for somewhere less vital if they used the knife
at all. I’ve seen situations where the victim held the weapon as a threat,
only for the scenario to turn around on them and escalate into their own
murder. Amethyst knew exactly what to do with the blade because she’s a
killer, like me.
Blood spurts down from the man’s neck, soaking the front of
Amethyst’s black bodice. It splatters onto her cleavage and on her pretty
face, making my fists clench.
What will she do next? Break down? Call the cops?
The man releases her throat to clutch at his wound, but Amethyst
doesn’t scramble away to safety. She rears up and delivers a violent stab to
the other side of his neck.
 My knees buckle, and sweat breaks out across my skin. The sweatpants
I’m wearing become too confining, and I have to grip the wall to stay
upright.
I have never, in my twenty-nine years of life, seen anything so erotic.
As she stumbles to her feet, her gaze locks with mine again, making my
heart skip. Just as I’m about to reach out to claim my beautiful little killer,
her eyes roll to the back of her head and she faints.
“Well done for staying alive, Little Amethyst,” I murmur. “Because I
plan on breaking you into tiny pieces.”
The letters she wrote depicted a woman of a delicate disposition who
needed coaxing into intimacy. She was broken, vulnerable, and in desperate
need of my guidance. Her psychiatrist and parents kept her under their
control with a cocktail of financial abuse and drugs. I thought Amethyst was
a butterfly that needed my help to emerge from her cocoon.
But she’s more like a black widow spider.
I played a number of video clips on the journey over to Parisii Drive. In
addition to leveraging our relationship into a million-dollar book deal and
selling doctored photos of me as merchandise, she also monetized her
videos.
Some estimates say she made eighty thousand dollars from reading
excerpts of my letters. Others say it’s as much as two hundred grand. Either
way, she’s just another parasite willing to exploit another for financial gain.
While the corpse cools and my beauty slumbers, I scroll through her
online profile. She’s still collecting money for my funeral, even after
assuring me she’s already purchased the site and memorial.
There are all manner of items on the wishlist that aren’t for the prison
book club. She’s added a new digital camera, professional studio lights, a
new computer, and several dark romance hardback books.
“Amethyst Crowley,” I mutter. “You’re a piece of work.”
At her loud gasp, I slip my phone back into my coat pocket and stand in
the doorway to watch. She scrambles to her hands and knees and cries at the
sight of the corpse. Blood spills across the black tiles, with a few splash
marks on the low cupboards. She glances around at the mess and sobs.
I note that she’s more concerned about the clean-up than about the
corpse. More importantly, why hasn’t she reacted to the sight of me
standing in her kitchen doorway?
 Scrambling to her feet, she rushes over to where she left her phone
charging on the kitchen table. She calls a number over and over, her
whimpers becoming more frantic.
Her boyfriend?
She once told me she hadn’t had a relationship since being abused by
her music teacher, because hallucinations of him kept popping up every
time she tried to get intimate with another man. Back then, I offered her my
most heartfelt support. It didn’t even occur to me that she was using our
connection for online fame.
“Mom?” she cries and puts the call on speaker.
“Amethyst, what is it?” The woman on the other end of the conversation
already sounds exhausted.
“I need your help.” Amethyst pauses, her breath quickening, but her
mother remains silent. After several uncomfortable heartbeats, she
continues. “A man came to the house. He’s one of the trolls who’s been
threatening me online⁠—”
“What happened?” the mother snaps.
“He pushed his way in…” She takes a noisy, panicked breath. “And he
said he was here to put me in my place.”
“Amethyst, where is he?”
She gulps. “On the kitchen floor. Mom, he had his hands around my
throat. He was choking me. I didn’t have any choice⁠—”
“No!” her mother shrieks. “Don’t tell me. I can’t do this anymore.”
“What?” Amethyst whispers.
I cock my head, mentally asking the same.
“Listen. You’re not a little girl anymore. You’re no longer a victim,” the
woman says, her words venomous and sharp. “You can’t attack men and
expect the legal system to give you a pass.”
Her face falls. “Even in self-defense?”
“At this rate, you’ll go to jail for murder and so will I for being an
accessory.”
My jaw drops. Who else did Amethyst kill besides her music teacher?
“Is he really dead?” the mother asks.
“No.” Amethyst clears her throat. “I just knocked him unconscious.”
“Thank God for that. One more call like this, and I’ll have you
committed.”
“Mom?”
 My brow pulls together.
“Mom?” Her voice breaks.
It looks like her mother just hung up. I knew Amethyst’s parents were
controlling, but this level of callousness reminds me too much of my past.
Everything they do adds up to nefarious manipulation, from dragging
her out of college to stay in a house they purchased on the other side of
town, to an allowance too small for a woman of her age to thrive. Add to
the mix prescription medication that renders her unable to function, and you
have a cocktail of abuse.
Knowing that she may have killed before puts her parents’ behavior into
perspective. What if this is the alternative to sending her to an institution?
Amethyst’s features harden and she turns her attention away from her
phone. With the precision of an experienced killer, she unbuttons the
corpse’s pants. I step forward, wanting to pull her away from the man’s
cock, but I force my feet to still.
Curiosity rages through my veins. What kind of woman is she really,
and what will she do next?
She takes off his shoes and slips the pants off his legs, only to wrap
them around his neck and tie into a tourniquet.
After rinsing her hands in the sink, she opens the back door, returns to
the dead man, and drags him into the dark.

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-SEVEN

Bitch,
This picture is a preview of what I plan to make you suffer before your
death.
It’s time for you to feel the humiliation and pain.
Me

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-EIGHT

XERO
It’s astounding.
Amethyst drags the corpse through her backyard and into the trees
bordering the cemetery, all the while looking over her shoulder to meet my
eyes. I don’t know what’s going on in her twisted little mind.
Does she think I’m a ghost or a hallucination? Either way, she’s taking
my presence in stride. Her reactions—both to my appearance and stabbing a
man to death—are proof that she pretended to be a delicate little flower who
needed my guidance.
All that woman ever needed from me was a knife.
Not to mention fortune and fame.
I follow her at a distance, breathing hard through my mask, ruminating
over the best way to punish such a hardened liar. She made me think I’d
found a kindred spirit, when all she saw in me was a cash cow.
Amethyst moves through the cemetery, making sure to hose down the
paving stones leading from her yard. She’s a clever little killer who’s aware
she needs to cover her tracks.
From the way her mother talked, she’s tired of covering up her
daughter’s kills. How many men, and what were the reasons?
Today’s slaying was a clear case of self-defense, and the music teacher
was righteous punishment. What I don’t understand is why Amethyst didn’t
tell me about the others… Unless she killed them before the age of ten.
Shit. How do I even know she’s telling the truth about her memory loss?
Her fragile mental state made her stand out among all the women writing to
me with their fantasies. That, and a vague sense of familiarity.
 Not to mention the heavenly scent of her pussy.
Gasping, she struggles past the path of mausoleums to the graveyard
bordering the new rectory. Up ahead is a freshly dug grave, complete with
discarded tools. Amethyst stops at its edge, grabs the broken handle of the
shovel someone discarded, and jumps in.
My jaw drops.
This woman knows exactly what she’s doing.
Footsteps approach from behind. I turn around to find Jynxson strolling
down the path. He’s discarded the prison uniform in favor of a black hoodie
and jeans.
“Xero?” he asks.
Striding toward him, I raise my finger to my masked lips, making him
stop in his tracks.
“What are you doing?” he whispers.
“Watching my obsession,” I mutter.
His brows pull together. “The president of your fan club?”
“Yeah.”
“The woman who left you at the altar?”
I bristle at the reminder. “That’s the one.”
He stares ahead at the grave, where Amethyst left that man’s corpse.
“And what is she doing?”
“Hiding a body. What do you think?”
Jynxson scratches his head, his brows creasing, seeming to mirror my
own state of confusion. In the space of six hours, I’ve gone from thinking
Amethyst was a heartbroken victim held back from completing our union
by the warder’s machinations, to the kind of black-hearted grifter who
would manipulate a man for personal gain. This third possibility transcends
the realm of fiction.
“Did you…?” he starts to ask but can’t find the words. “Are you making
her, I mean?”
“No, I didn’t catch her with another man. At least not in the way you’re
thinking. And no, I didn’t force her to do a thing.”
“Right.” He rubs his chin. “Then why are you standing there, dressed
like a reject from The Matrix? Shouldn’t you help your lady?”
“She’s a mercenary little vixen who used me to get a million-dollar
book deal.”
He hesitates. “You sure, man?”
 “Her personal assistant told me everything,” I snarl, my blood heating at
the reminder. “All those letters and morning phone calls were just content
for some prison smut book.”
Jynxson bows his head. “Damn. That’s… What are you going to do
about it?”
“Undecided.”
“If it makes you feel better, I can hit her over the head with a shovel and
cover her with dirt.”
Rage ignites in my gut, consuming all reason and restraint until all I see
is red. I whirl around, snatching the front of his shirt and snarl, “No one
touches Amethyst but me. Keep your filthy hands off her.”
He snorts. “You still love Amethyst.”
“Get fucked.”
He grins, his eyes dancing. “I’ve never seen you like this over a
woman.”
“Keep your voice down.” I drag him back toward the mausoleums.
Jynxson has always been an asshole. Even from the age of ten. He’s the
kind of dick who would lie in the bottom bunk in the middle of the night
and kick a man while he slept, just to ask him for the time. Or borrow a
man’s computer games without permission and return them splattered in
juice.
He’s matured over the eighteen years since we first joined the facility,
but not by much. And he hasn’t grown out of his shitty sense of humor. I
only keep him around because he’s talented and a loyal motherfucker.
“Are you going to kill her, then?” he asks.
“Not until I’ve solved the mystery of her mind,” I mutter.
He glances over his shoulder toward the open grave. “Didn’t you just
tell me she’s a user?”
“Who kills men and knows how to dispose of their bodies?” I ask.
“Point taken.” He folds his arms. “Do you think she could be a spy?”
“From the Moirai?”
He nods.
“No. A trained professional would have disabled the man she killed.
When I walked in on them, she was losing and about to die.”
“Okay, so what’s special about her?” he asks.
“One, when I slid over the knife, she stabbed him without hesitation.
Then she did it again.”
 “But isn’t that normal for an angry woman?”
“Two, she called her mother in tears, who ranted about all the men she’s
killed.”
Jynxson’s eyes widen. “Interesting.”
“Three, how many civilians do you know can fall calm after killing a
man and go straight to clean up?”
Our gazes meet, and my mind races back to her first letter. Amethyst
was one of multiple mentally unhinged women who wrote to me, but her
letter stood out amongst them all. While the others sent nudes, used panties,
and their poorly written fantasies, Amethyst intrigued me with well-crafted
phrases on paper scented with her heavenly pussy.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“I have no fucking idea. She saw me following her but just looked
through me, like I was a figment of her imagination.”
We stand together, debating the nature of her mental state, when a soft
grunt returns our attention to the open grave. Amethyst climbs out, her hair
in disarray. With calm precision, she rolls the corpse into the open grave
and jumps back in.
“You see?” I murmur. “She’s obviously done this before.”
“Hear me out,” Jynxson says.
“What?”
“Is she a former Lolita?”
I frown. “They stopped bringing girls after our first year. And she’s only
twenty-four.”
“They stopped bringing girls to our facility, because we kept asking
questions. What if they moved them to another one?”
My stomach drops. All this time, I thought they were a failed
experiment. None of the girls who joined the academy were former Lolitas,
so I just assumed they were disbanded. I couldn’t stand the thought of more
innocent girls being corrupted by that man.
“How the hell could he still be operating?” I snarl.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.
There’s no way you could have known.”
I nod, my gaze darting back to the grave. “There’s only one way to find
out.”
“You going to ask her?”
“She doesn’t remember anything before the age of ten.”
 “Then how?”
“Crack her open. Once she’s raving mad, I’ll extract her secrets. She
might even have leads on where he’s hiding the facility.”
“What about our backlog of paying clients?”
“Our goal is revenge. Those clients only exist to fund the search for my
father,” I snarl.
Jynxson doesn’t reply because he doesn’t want to go through this
conversation again. We’ve tried everything imaginable to smoke him out,
from ruining his business to murdering his family. I thought he would at
least attend my execution.
“What if he’s dead?” Jynxson asks.
“He’s alive,” I snarl.
“Maybe it’s time to let go and focus on taking down the Moirai.”
“I can do both.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t waste his breath. It’s different for
Jynxson. He’d been living on the streets as a child from an early age and
welcomed the chance of shelter, good food and boys his own age. For him,
the facility was a refuge.
When Mom’s condition became terminal, she made arrangements for
me to live with a friend of hers who had a daughter my age. I was plucked
from a happy home, brought into one filled with misery, and manipulated
into choosing the facility over a normal life. Seeing something similar
happen to my sisters only doubled my resentment.
“The gang wants to throw you a welcome back party,” Jynxson says.
“Later.”
“Should we at least air out your place?” he asks.
“Not yet.” I flick my head toward the open grave. “I’m staying with
her.”
“Where?”
“13 Parisii Drive.”
He whistles. “Coincidence?”
“You see why I can’t kill her? Besides, he’ll get sloppy now that he
thinks I’m dead. If she’s a former Lolita, I’ll interrogate her for clues.”
Jynxson is about to protest when Amethyst climbs out of the grave,
panting hard, and covered in even more dirt. Her stockings have come loose
from their garter belt and now gather around her ankles, making her look
like she’s been thoroughly fucked.
 My cock stirs, and the sensation is accompanied by a surge of jealousy.
She might be a lying, conniving, little ghoster, but the only man who should
dishevel her is me.
“That’s your plot.” He nods toward the grave.
“What are you talking about?”
“The one your fan club bought.”
I flash my teeth. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“Nope. Someone overheard the gravediggers talking about it earlier.”
“And she’s using it to dispose of scum?” I snarl, my jaw tightening.
He raises a shoulder. “You want someone to remove the corpse?”
“Yeah.” My hands clench into fists. “Have it dug up, embalmed, and
brought to number 13.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Smirking, Jynxson gives me a salute and disappears
behind a mausoleum.
I drift back to the graveyard, already calculating the number of ways I
will terrorize this little ghost. No one exploits my emotions. Not Father, and
certainly not some two-faced woman trying to profit from my notoriety.
She brushes the dirt off the front of her corset and hobbles back toward
the path. Every few steps, she glances in my direction and shivers.
“By the time I’m finished with you, Amethyst Crowley, you’ll be a
nervous wreck. I’ll crack you open, and after plucking every dirty secret,
I’ll grant you a messy death.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SIXTY-NINE

Bitch,
I know what you did last night.
I’ll sit back and enjoy the show.
Me.
P.S. If he doesn’t cut out your heart, I will.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY

XERO
While Amethyst cleans up the crime scene, I explore her home.
Next to the kitchen is a windowless space painted in green. It’s exactly
how she described it in her letter about the room where she would shoot for
my official fan club. I glance over my shoulder, where she’s in the kitchen
on her hands and knees, soaking up the blood with sanitary pads.
Her living room fits the image I pieced together from the few photos she
shot downstairs. It’s tasteful, with black walls, black furniture, and gilded
accessories.
I can’t help but wonder how much of this was financed by men she’s
duped. Clearly, she’s a skilled little honey trap, capable of drawing anyone
into her trust. Was the man she killed another of her victims or was his
attack on her a coincidence?
Doesn’t matter.
Amethyst will soon spill her secrets.
At the top of the stairs is a charcoal portrait that makes me grip the
bannister. It’s my mugshot, except whoever created it has depicted me as
godlike, with my pale hair forming a halo of light. What could this possibly
mean?
Ignoring it, I continue to the bedroom I once foolishly wished I could
teleport into. I’ve already committed all its corners to memory as Amethyst
shot many videos for me from all angles, except from the back wall which
overlooks the cemetery.
I open a door that leads to a large walk-in closet lined with ornate
wardrobes crammed with beautiful clothes. There’s even a floor-to-ceiling
rack of designer shoes she must have bought with all that cash she made
from monetizing our relationship.
She’s heartless, just like Father and his worthless family. A woman like
Amethyst would step over a man’s heart and crush it underfoot for profit.
There’s a phone charging on her nightstand, which I recognize as the
one I bought her specifically for our communication. I guess its security
passcode and scroll through its contents.
All the pictures I sent are in her photos app, along with the images and
clips she shot of herself. I continue scrolling forward to find a reason why
she left me at the altar and stop at a picture of a manilla envelope. It’s
addressed to ‘Bitch.’
The next one contains its contents: an image and a note, shot too far
away for me to make out any details. I swipe left to find a close-up.
It’s a prepubescent girl restrained on a gurney with a bit in her mouth.
Bulky electrodes push into her temples, secured by a headpiece. Each one is
covered in moist, white cloth, reminding me of an execution.
Flat electrodes cover multiple points over her body, like a bizarre form
of ECG. She’s naked, and even more disturbingly, covered in large scars.
“What the hell is this?” I mutter and scroll to the next image.
It’s a threatening note, signed by someone who identifies themself as
‘Me.’
I scroll back to the image of the child and expand the face. Her hair is
dark and cropped so close to her head that it almost looks tied back. Her
features are so twisted with anguish that it’s impossible to tell if this is
Amethyst, but I can’t fathom why she would keep records of something so
terrible.
The metadata says the photo was taken earlier today by another camera,
three hours before the wedding.
Intriguing.
Has Amethyst gotten herself involved with some unsavory characters,
or is she part of a larger conspiracy that could be connected to Father?
Either way, she has aroused my curiosity.
Footsteps creak up the stairs, accompanied by trembling sobs. I slip
beneath the bed and watch her enter the bedroom in bare feet.
A normal man would confront her and demand answers, but that’s not
how to interrogate an incorrigible grifter. I will break her down, shatter her
mind until it’s no longer capable of deception. And when she’s lying
beneath me, broken and trembling, I will extract the truth.
She showers, applies makeup, and styles her curls until she’s no longer
the woman who emerged from the open grave. The dying fibers of my heart
twitch to life at the proximity of the woman who taught me the meaning of
true love and then shattered the illusion.
While she livestreams about my execution in her green room, I walk
downstairs and check the cupboard under her stairs. The floorboards are
loose enough to show glimpses of a darkened crawl space. Based on the
renovations we made to several houses around the cemetery, there’ll be
ample room for me to hide out while I slowly drive her insane.
I move into the now spotless kitchen, which only proves to me that
she’s a seasoned killer and not the innocent girl driven to push her abuser
off a rooftop. Inside her refrigerator is a red velvet cake large enough for
six.
Without thinking about it, I extract the cake from where it rests on the
shelf and place it on the kitchen table. It’s decorated with images of us in
profile, about to share a kiss. She probably ordered it to make content for
her channel.
“Fuck this woman and fuck her cake.”
After yanking off the cover, I pull down my fly, stroke my cock, and
imagine her kneeling before me with tears streaming down her face. She
would beg for my forgiveness, and I would tell her to open wide. Her eyes
would widen, and she’d splutter a protest, but one yank of her pretty curls
would have her obeying.
I stick my cock into the buttercream icing, enjoying how it separates.
With gentle strokes, I shove in and out of her cake, imagining it to be her
mouth. It’s a stretch, and the only things keeping me hard are the sound of
her voice drifting in from the other room and the prospect of her walking in
on me fucking her cake.
My balls draw up as I hear her sob to the camera. Imagining she’s truly
crying for me, I quicken my thrusts. I used to enjoy the sound of her sleepy
voice, but now I’m coming to the cadence of her cries.
Her wails reach a crescendo, and heat rushes to my core. I pull out,
shooting my release over the icing. Her beautiful face and mine, depicted in
food coloring and sugar, are now besmirched by ropes of cum.
 I finish with heavy gasps, feeling both satisfied and hollow. Her ruined
cake is a petty vengeance, but only the first of many inconveniences
designed to make her think she’s losing her mind.
Afterward, I place the cake back in its box and return it to the
refrigerator, wondering what she’ll think. I wipe the junk off my cock with
kitchen towels, zip up, and step out into the night.
Like all houses on Parisii Drive, hers is built on an incline that slopes
downward toward the cemetery. I walk the width of the property and shine
my phone light on the foundations in search of a hatch that leads to the
crawl space.
“Hey,” says a voice from the trees.
I whirl around to find Jynxson emerging from the foliage with a smaller
figure with hair cropped close to his skull. Squinting in the dark, I try to
make out the new silhouette. As they approach, I recognize Tyler, an
operative we poached from the firm’s tech department.
Tyler is the one who’s been hacking into the prison system, altering
records to make sure no one notices that John was executed instead of me.
He’s grown a short beard since my incarceration, which makes him look
less young.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Jynxson hands me a manilla envelope. “A courier tossed this on her
welcome mat an hour ago and left in an unmarked car. Thought you might
want to read it first.”
Tyler raises a hand. “And I heard you wanted someone investigated.”
I flick my head toward the house. “Look up everything you can find on
Amethyst Crowley of number 13 Parisii Drive.”
“Anything in particular?”
“She probably has a juvenile record for a deadly altercation with a
teacher that happened ten to twelve years ago.”
Tyler nods. “Cool.”
“And shut down all accounts attached to the OfficialXerofan club.”
“Consider it done.”
I turn to Jynxson. “Where’s the corpse?”
“Still being embalmed,” he replies.
“Bring it as soon as it’s ready. I need someone from maintenance to
install cameras in every corner of this house and to make an opening into
the crawlspace.”
 As both men return toward the trees, I tear open the envelope and
glance at its contents. It contains cryptic notes signed by some nameless
asshole.
My jaw clenches. Who the fuck is this psychopath?
“One more thing,” I say to their retreating backs. “Intercept her mail.
Nothing reaches her unless it goes through me.”
I turn to the kitchen, my brows furrowing. That first letter could have
been the work of the man she killed, but the second?
Someone wants a taste of my prey, but they’ll have to get in line.
Amethyst Crowley is mine.
And I’m moving in.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-ONE

You,
Why are you still alive?
Me
P.S. You’ll soon be begging for death.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-TWO

PRESENT
AMETHYST
Everything aches.
My head pounds in sync with the slow beat of my heart, and my throat
feels hoarse from screaming. Every muscle burns as though I’ve just run a
marathon, and my pussy has never felt so raw.
I want to drift back into unconsciousness and sleep away the pain, but a
niggling part of my brain urges me to surface. Why? I don’t know.
The last time something like this happened, there was a horrific scandal.
Two men at my college were found dead in their dorm. Mom and Dad
freaked out that there was a killer on the loose. And before I knew it, I was
back on a cocktail of drugs that knocked me out for weeks.
To this day, I still don’t know why they pulled me out of college, but my
life soon turned into an endless blur of blackouts, prescriptions, and bed.
When I finally emerged from my haze, I was already living at number 13,
Parisii Drive.
So, I don’t want to wake up, thank you very much. I’ll probably get
blamed for something I don’t even remember.
As I drift back into slumber, my mind dredges up snatches of memories.
Not just from the quartet of men in black who broke into my home, but
from being chased through a graveyard by Xero.
Wasn’t that just a nightmare?
My throbbing clit says it wasn’t, as does my sore pussy. I crack open an
eye, but sunlight stings my retinas, so I seal it shut. What the hell did I take?
This feels worse than the time I got drunk on vodka and holy water.
 Shit.
Why am I picturing myself relaxing in a Roman bath surrounded by
stained-glass windows? That had to be another dream, because Xero is just
a ghost.
Isn’t he?
I’m trying to sift through what’s real, what’s a nightmare, and what’s
just a hallucination, but my brain won’t cooperate. Can’t it just create a
purple haze, so I know which is which?
Because there’s no way in hell Xero would fuck me on his own grave,
then knock me unconscious, give me a nice, warm bath, and blow dry my
hair. That’s too surreal.
Maybe it’s time I found a new doctor. I could apply for a credit card and
get myself into debt. Nothing matters more than my mental health because,
right now, I can’t function.
I open my eyes and wince at the force of the sunlight streaming in
through my bedroom window. From the looks of it, I’d say it was noon.
But what about those men who broke into my house?
I should be dead or captured, not put to bed. That’s not how gangs of
rapists operate.
My gaze darts around, looking for anything out of place. When I try to
rise on my elbows, my arms are restrained. I try to kick off my sheets, but
there’s something around my ankles. I pull my hand out from the cover to
find a black rope around my wrist, looking like it’s attached to the bed.
My hands are filthy, as though I’ve drawn someone’s blood.
Not again.
I glance across the bed at the other pillow for a note that says I’m
grounded. When I don’t find it, I turn toward the nightstand. Somehow, my
phone has found its way back to my bedroom and is charging.
Heavy footsteps creak on the stairs, making my stomach drop. Maybe
it’s one of the men from last night, coming up to gloat. He’s probably
connected to Jake and will interrogate me about what happened to his
fellow troll.
Cold sweat breaks out across my brow. I breathe hard, trying to muster
up some strength to break out of my bonds, but my muscles refuse to
cooperate. What the hell did I do last night besides run around a graveyard?
Did that even happen at all?
 A hulking figure walks in, holding a tray. His hoodie obscures his face,
radiating danger. I suck in a deep breath to scream but freeze as he steps
into the light.
Ice-blue eyes meet mine, framed by high cheekbones and a strong brow.
A septum piercing glints on his straight nose, and two rings punctuate his
bottom lip. Most alarming are the four jagged scratches on his cheek, raw
against his otherwise flawless skin.
My heart pounds, a volatile mix of attraction and fear.
I would know that face anywhere.
“Xero?” I whisper.
“Recognize me now?” he asks, his voice dry.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You woke up last night, thinking you were under attack,” he mutters. “I
tried to restrain your arms, but you fought like a berserker.”
“What’s that?”
He flashes me a grin so wide that my heart makes a backflip. “A
mythical warrior who goes into an alternate state. Some say they’re
possessed by spirits, but they’re supposed to be unbeatable.”
“Wait.” I gulp. “There’s no way I could have done that to you.”
He raises a brow. “Take a look at what’s under your nails.”
I shudder, already having seen the blood. At least nobody’s a corpse.
Xero continues forward with the tray and walks into the light. When he
doesn’t flicker, realization hits me in the face.
“You’re not a ghost?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
He sets down the tray. “When you mentioned blackouts, I thought you
meant dizzy spells. Tell me what you last remember?”
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, trying not to think about what
horror he wants me to dredge up from the recesses of my mind.
“I was writing my ghost romance, and some men broke into the house.
Then you stepped out from the cupboard under the stairs and killed them
with an ax.”
“They’re not dead.”
“But I saw…” I shake my head. “Xero, what’s happening? How are you
alive?”
“Didn’t I tell you we would be together after the execution?”
 “You did, but I thought you meant in spirit.”
Looking at Xero for too long is painful. He’s too pale, too perfect, too
fucking pretty. The photos didn’t do him justice, and neither did that
mugshot. He’s like a statue come to life, with a light dusting of platinum
stubble that adds to his otherworldly allure.
His intense stare pierces my soul, making it impossible to believe he’s
real. I have to drop my gaze, overwhelmed by his sheer presence.
I’ve had a psychotic break, brought on by an excess amount of stress.
That’s how Mrs. Mancini described my condition when I pushed Mr.
Lawson off the roof garden.
Myra’s mom said that I had been one of many of his young victims and
couldn’t cope with the abuse. The defense she and Dr. Saint concocted was
that I’d been driven insane by the forced abortion. When he trapped me in
the roof garden to rape me so soon after a traumatic event, my body reacted
in self-defense.
Maybe it’s happening again, except I’m imagining Xero.
“Amethyst.” He cups my cheek. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes?” I whisper.
“Did you forget last night?”
“Um… Do you mean the graveyard?” I ask.
“What else do you remember?” he asks.
“You took me to the old rectory for a bath.”
He nods, those pale eyes brightening. “Good girl. What else?”
“Waking up here with a pounding headache?”
He sighs, seeming disappointed. Oddly enough, the part of me that
always wanted to please Xero aches for a way to earn his praise. I already
told him I have gaps in my memory. What the hell did I miss that could be
so important?
“I explained everything before putting you to bed,” he says.
“I don’t remember that.” I peer at him from the corner of my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Eat your breakfast.” He places a tray on my lap.
I shake my head. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Did I give you a choice?” He grabs the back of my neck and twists my
head toward a tray containing cereal, buttered toast, and coffee. “Eat.”
My heart pounds. Memories of weeks of terror float to the surface of
my mind like flush-resistant turds. Xero can’t be trusted. This breakfast is
just another torture tactic.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say. “How are you still
alive?”
“Eat, and I’ll explain.”
“Untie my hands, and I’ll eat.”
He laughs, the sound bitter. “And if you turn on me, I’ll have to knock
you out again.”
Nothing about this situation is right, from Xero being alive and in my
bedroom to the sight of all this food I didn’t buy. This isn’t even my bread,
and I sure as hell didn’t stock any cereal and milk.
The ache in my muscles could be from fighting, but what if I was
fighting for my life? What if I tried to defend myself because Xero decided
to get revenge on me after weeks of biding his time?
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“How do I know this breakfast isn’t poisoned?”
He rears back, his eyes widening, his lips curling with offense. “Why
would I put shit in your food?”
“Well, you murdered a bunch of men. Maybe I’m the next in line for
your revenge.”
Xero makes a low, animalistic sound that’s half-exasperation, half-
growl. Goosebumps break out across my skin, and all the fine hairs on the
back of my neck stand on end. I don’t know why I’m being so calm in the
presence of a killer. Maybe it’s a freeze response, because I sure as hell
can’t fight or flee when he’s restrained my arms and legs.
He leans so close that my skin tingles at the caress of his warm breath.
“Do you think I want you dead?”
“Are you denying that you set me up to hang?” I ask, my voice
measured. “Or was that a hallucination?”
“You weren’t going to hang.”
“I don’t believe you,” I rasp. “How could you know I’d bring down the
ceiling?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it the night I left Death Row,”
he snarls, his voice so low that it penetrates the marrow of my bones. “I
could have slithered out from under your bed and smothered you in your
sleep. I could have strangled you with your sheets or stabbed your thick
skull. I could have snapped your neck, slashed your jugular vein, or shot
you in the stomach.”
 “Impressive use of alliteration,” I mutter. “But I still don’t trust a thing
you say.”
He snatches a piece of toast, takes a large bite, chews, then swallows.
After washing it down with a mouthful of coffee, he eats a spoonful of
cereal. “Is that good enough for you?”
“That depends on if you rush out of the room to throw up,” I reply.
“If I knew you’d be this infuriating, I wouldn’t have bothered replying
to your letter,” he snarls.
I grind my teeth. “Why are you even here? Don’t tell me it’s because
death will never keep us apart, because I know you want to break my
spirit.”
When he doesn’t reply, I add, “Or did another vengeful ghost say shit
about me in morse code?”
His nostrils flare. “Are you holding that over my head? After everything
you did to me?”
“I already explained a thousand times why I wasn’t at the wedding and
why I made money from the videos. Everyone else was earning from the
creator fund. What was so bad about me doing the same?”
“Eat your damn breakfast.”
“No,” I snap. “We keep going around in circles. I apologize for what I
did, then you cut me off, then you return to make me grovel. Do you know
how frightened I was when I saw you as the Grim Reaper? I didn’t know if
I was hallucinating again or being haunted.”
He breathes hard, his features tightening with repressed fury. Common
sense screams at me that I shouldn’t rile up a mass murderer who’s tied me
up in my own home and may or may not be trying to feed me poison, but
he’s pushed me beyond the point of reason.
“And another thing. Why the hell did you murder Kayla? She only took
a dildo⁠—”
Xero grabs my throat. “And my mother’s locket,” he snarls. “Did you
tell that bitch to turn the photos I sent you into pornographic merchandise?”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“Answer my question.” He punctuates that command with a shake.
How the hell did he switch things up again? It isn’t me who snuck
around an innocent woman’s life like a Scooby Doo villain, murdering
people who got too close to his possession. Now he has the nerve to accuse
me of something new?
 “I don’t know anything about the merch,” I snap. “And stop changing
the subject.”
“I’m alive,” he says.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I spit back.
“You accused me of poisoning your breakfast. I ate it. I’m not dead.”
My gaze drops down to the tray, where coffee and milk has spilled on
its surface from all that unnecessary jostling. I glance at Xero, who glares
down at me like the angel of vengeance.
“If this tray isn’t clear by the time I return, there will be consequences.”
He turns on his heel and walks toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Checking on the men I captured last night,” he says without sparing me
a glance. “I need to know if they have any accomplices before I make you
kill them.”
He disappears into the hallway, leaving me with my roiling thoughts.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-THREE

XERO
I should wring Amethyst’s neck, but she’d probably switch into that
altered state again and take out my eye. My balls still throb from the
pummeling she gave them whilst in the throes of her nightmare.
At least I understand why she lives so far away from her family and best
friend. Amethyst Crowley is a time bomb with a faulty counter. She can
hulk out when you least expect.
It makes me wonder if whoever’s out to kill her knows about these
episodes. That’s the only reason they’d send a quartet of men after a small
woman who lives alone.
After injecting the sedated intruders in the basement with a reversal
agent, I secure their restraints and walk up the stairs. By now, Amethyst
should have finished her breakfast or be prepared to face punishment.
Either option is fine. I owe her for what she did to my face. If I hadn’t
caught her in time, she might have taken out my eye.
I walk into her bedroom, prepared for anything, including another
attack. Ropes aren’t the most secure of restraints, but she was already
exhausted by the time I managed to pin her to the bed.
She’s sitting up, resting her back against the headboard, looking
breathtaking. Her face is a perfect oval, with large green eyes infused with
flecks of gold, framed by thick black lashes that make her look like a doll.
A pink flush colors her cheeks, matching the fullness of her lips. And the
way her two-toned hair frames her face makes her look like the Norse
goddess of death.
 My gaze travels down the pink camisole that hugs her perfect breasts
and skims the contour of her waist. The mere knowledge that beyond this
pretty little exterior lies a monster is more than a man like me can resist.
When I ended up at the wrong house and discovered the extent of her
deception, I thought everything about her was fraudulent. I wondered if the
story about her music teacher had been a lie—until I saw her plunge that
knife into her attacker’s neck.
Observing her reaction to being haunted was arousing, and tormenting
her made me harder than I’d ever been before. I’m addicted to her terror,
obsessed with her screams. I can’t get enough of my murderous little ghost.
“Are you just going to stand in that doorway like a stalker?” she asks.
“Did you eat your breakfast?”
“The cereal was soggy.”
“Whose fault was that?” I snap.
She tosses her head. “Yours for not reassuring me you weren’t a
poisoning psycho.”
Bristling, I stalk toward my little ghost, causing her to shrink against the
headboard. Her nipples tighten and push against the lace fabric, fueling my
desire to tear it to pieces.
“Ready to face your punishment?” I ask.
Her pretty eyes widen. “What for?”
“You know why.” I swipe her phone to the floor, snatch the tray off her
lap, and place it on the nightstand.
“But I ate the toast,” she says.
“Not good enough.”
I pull back the covers and grab her shin, only for her other foot to fly
toward my head. The rope stops her from kicking, making her cry out in
frustration.
“Don’t touch me,” she screams.
“I thought you wanted to be untied.”
“Not to get punished, and I don’t want to kill those men.”
“Why not?” I snarl and untie her first leg. “They planned on doing
worse to you.”
“Because I’m not a killer.”
I pause to stare at the woman writhing on the bed, my jaw dropping.
“You’ve killed at least two men. From the way your mother speaks, it’s
possibly more.”
 “What do you know about my mom?” She kicks out with her free leg.
“Have you forgotten that I stood over you while you made that frantic
phone call about the man you killed?”
Scowling, she screws up her lips, having been caught in a lie. “My mom
is prone to exaggeration.”
My brows rise. “And you’re more deluded than I thought.”
“Are you making fun of my hallucinations?”
I clench my jaw. “That was a figure of speech. You’re lying to yourself
if you think the music teacher and the man in the missing posters are your
only victims.”
She jerks her head to the side, trying to avoid my scrutiny. “I suppose
you’re an expert on murder.”
“Yes.” I take hold of her dainty foot, untie her ankle, and draw back
before she kicks me in the face. “Keep attacking me, and the punishments
will escalate.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want me dead.”
“No woman ever died from a spanking,” I reply.
She shifts on the mattress, her cheeks reddening, her expression finally
showing traces of the woman who captured my heart. The delicate soul with
a dark past instead of the belligerent little berserker with a fetish for
crushing my balls.
I walk around the bed to untie her wrist, and I’m surprised when she
doesn’t lash out. That doesn’t mean she isn’t waiting for the right moment
to strike.
By the time I reach her other hand, she’s thrumming with excitement. I
grab her chin and force our eyes to meet. “Don’t even think about it.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she manages to give me a nod. I
release her last restraint and step back in anticipation of an attack, but she
pulls her pretty thighs together and swings them to the edge of the bed.
“Thank you,” she mutters, her curls falling over her face. “Will you
excuse my punishment if I eat the soggy cereal?”
“Turn around and pull down your shorts,” I say.
Her gaze darts to the door and she bites her lower lip, looking like she’s
trying to measure the odds of a successful escape. Then she gives her head a
gentle shake, perhaps remembering how I caught her last night with little
effort, and rises off the bed.
 With trembling fingers, she reaches for the waistband of her shorts. My
heart kicks up several notches, and heat rushes to my cock. I hold still, not
showing even the barest trace of excitement as she turns around, treating me
to a view of her sinfully rounded ass.
The skin beneath the silk fabric is creamy and unblemished, and it takes
every effort not to reach out and touch my property. I have to remind my
cock she’s undressing for her punishment, not for my enjoyment, but the
thirsty bastard still lengthens and thickens.
I thought Amethyst was beautiful, but from behind, she’s exquisite, and
I’m not just talking about how she looked in the graveyard when I pounded
her into the dirt. Her legs are shapely, her waist tiny, and the curls cascading
down her narrow shoulders only enhance her feminine silhouette.
She hesitates before lowering her shorts and glances at me over her
shoulder with a heated gaze. My cock wants to believe it’s lust, but there’s
no denying she’s pissed. Women like Amethyst know they can coast
through life with their beauty, but I’ve never been one to fall for a pretty
face.
“I can’t do it,” she says, her voice trembling.
“Would you like me to put you over my knee?”
She shivers. “Alright.”
Fuck. After last night’s frenzy, I expected some resistance, but this
submission has me weak at the knees.
I lower myself onto the mattress, the springs groaning under my weight.
My erection presses painfully against my zipper, and I suppress a moan.
Finally, I have my good girl who used to warm my heart on cold
mornings with her heated words. She’ll fall in line after this round of
spanking, then we’ll interrogate the men downstairs and fuck in a pool of
their blood.
“Come here.” I gesture for her to come closer.
“Spank this.” She snatches the bowl, tosses its contents in my face, and
bolts toward the door.
“Fucking hell!” I lurch after her, half-blinded by the spray of cereal and
milk.
By the time I reach the door, she’s already grabbing the bannister, her
light steps turning into panicked stomps as she barrels down the stairs.
Amethyst Crowley is a creature of many personalities, and I’m not
liking this uncooperative version of her one bit.
 Cursing under my breath, I give chase and hurdle over the banister to
where she’s reached the bottom of the stairs.
She charges toward the front door, screaming like she’s trying to open
the gates of hell, but I’m faster. Grabbing her from behind, I wrap an arm
around her waist and jerk her back against my chest.
“Let go of me, you murderer!” she yells at the top of her voice.
“Help⁠—”
I clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. As she gasps and
flails and kicks, I lean into her ear and snarl, “Are you trying to get me
arrested?”
The vicious little ghost has the nerve to nod.
“Nice try, but the cops already moved out of number 11, and Mrs. Baker
in number 15 knows how to keep her mouth shut.”
She clamps her teeth around my finger, but the pain goes straight to my
cock and only makes me groan. “Keep struggling. I didn’t lay a finger on
you last night when you were having that little episode, but today, I want to
fuck a wildcat.”
Amethyst falls limp in my arms and doesn’t struggle when I lead her
into the living room and take a seat on her sofa.
Laying her across my lap, I run a hand over her rounded ass. “I was
going to give you four spanks for not eating your cereal. How many do you
think you deserve for throwing it in my face?”
“Get off me, you psycho!”
I grab her hair and pull it back to meet her defiant eyes. “Is that the way
to speak to the man keeping you alive?”
She laughs, the sound hysterical and shrill. “There’s a word when a
killer ties a woman to a bed and scares her half to death, and it isn’t alive.”
Heat flares through my veins at her audacity. “You little brat. There’s
only so much ingratitude a man can take before he snaps.”
“Let me go.” She squirms on my lap, rubbing that delectable little body
against my cock.
Frustration wells in my gut. If she were any other woman, I’d rise off
the sofa, watch her fall to the floor, walk the fuck out of number 13 Parisii
Drive, and leave her to her fate.
But she isn’t.
She captured my heart for the entire time I was in captivity, and showed
me her vulnerabilities. Made me fucking care. I devoured her manuscripts
and tasted her soul. I read her letters and inhaled her heavenly scent. And
after lights out, it was her images in my mind and her musk in my nostrils
when I stroked my cock to oblivion.
Amethyst has made me her captive in a prison based on pretty lies.
That’s not something I can easily forgive.
“Six,” I say.
“What?” she squawks.
“You can accept six spanks or twelve.”
“Why don’t you bend over, and I’ll give you twenty-four.” She grabs
the arms of the sofa and tries to launch herself up, but I pin her down with a
forearm over her shoulders.
I should be furious at her audacity, but her pretty little ass wriggles from
side to side, like the most potent form of temptation. Gritting my teeth, I
force back a wave of desire.
“Tempting as that sounds, I’ll pass.” I shove down her silk shorts,
exposing her pert little buttocks.
An almighty crash echoes from below.
She stiffens, her body going rigid. “What was that?”
“The men who attacked you last night are trying to escape,” I mutter.
“Let’s get this spanking over with, so we can kill them together before they
call for reinforcements.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
I lie on Xero’s lap, trying to consider my life choices, but it’s difficult
with a draft caressing my bare ass cheeks. What the hell led me to be stuck
between four men in my basement sent to kill me and the mass murderer
keeping me hostage in my own home?
Both have nefarious motives, but I guess Xero doesn’t want me dead. At
least not until he’s extracted every humiliating ounce of revenge.
Xero’s large, warm hand strokes my skin, making me shiver. The pulse
behind my clit pounds so hard that I have to wriggle to ease a little of the
pressure.
“Count the spanks,” he says in that familiar, deep voice.
I’m about to tell him to get lost, but the sound of heavy feet striking
wood makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
My legs stiffen. “Xero. What if they escape?”
“Then you’d better take your punishment like a good girl, so we can
handle those bastards.”
“We?” I shriek.
His hand whistles through the air and lands on my ass with a slap so
hard that the sting reaches my clit.
“Oh, fuck,” I say through clenched teeth. “One.”
Before I can even process the pain, he gives me another. My back
arches, and I inhale a noisy gasp. “Two.”
He rubs my heated skin with his large palm, soothing the pain. I can’t
relax, knowing that, at any moment, he’s going to deliver the third spank.
My body tenses in preparation for another onslaught of pain.
 “Relax, little ghost,” he growls.
“Easier said than done,” I say through clenched teeth.
The pad of his thumb dips between my cheeks to circle my pucker,
which sends pleasant tingles to my core. Shit. I never knew that part of my
body could be so sensitive. Maybe all my wires are crossed.
When his little finger slides close to my pussy, my inner muscles
tighten. I part my thighs, hoping to distract him from delivering the other
spanks.
Sure enough, his breath quickens, and the erection pressing into my hip
expands. I dip my head to hide a smirk, my body going limp.
That’s right. Xero just got out of prison, and he spent all that time inside
salivating over pictures of me and jerking off to the scent of my pussy. He’ll
soon forget about spanking me for a crime I didn’t commit and start with
the cunnilingus.
“Fuck, little ghost. You have the prettiest cunt.”
“Thank you.” I preen at the compliment and open my legs a little wider
to give him better access to my clit.
“And it’s all mine.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not about to pledge any part of my body to this
lunatic.
“Isn’t it?” he asks with a bit of bite.
“Xero—”
He delivers a slap so sharp that I whistle through my teeth.
“No wonder you were on Death Row. You’re so vicious!”
Slap!
“Oh, fuck.”
Slap, slap!
I’m wriggling from side to side, trying to launch myself off his lap, but
he’s too fast, too strong, too much of a psychopath to give me even an inch
of leeway. The spanks increase in intensity until my ass is a raw nerve.
“What the fuck?” I screech, loud enough for the neighbors across the
street. “Let go! Help me! Fire! In number thirteen!”
With a bit of luck, someone will pound on the door and Xero will slither
back to the cupboard under the stairs where he belongs. And I’ll flag down
a patrol car. Anything to make him stop.
He pauses. “That’s six.”
 Exhaling with relief, my body goes limp on his lap. “Thank fuck for
that. Can you let me up?”
He rubs slow circles on my overheated ass cheeks. “You took that
spanking like a very bad girl.”
“But I took it,” I mutter.
“Yet you failed to count them.”
“Wait.” I rear off his lap. “I did. You gave me six.”
He grabs my hair. “I don’t like liars.”
“I wasn’t⁠—”
Slap!
“Fuck!” I yell. “Seven.”
“Start again.” The next spank is so hard that my eyes water.
“One?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Keep going,” he snarls and delivers another slap.
“Two.”
The pain is so acute that my clit throbs and swells in sync with my
pulse. The humiliation makes the walls of my pussy clench. My body is so
confused about this brutality that I’m achingly aroused. Tears prick my
eyes, and I squeeze them shut, not wanting them to fall.
The next spank is equally as harsh, but he has the nerve to soothe it with
his palm. His fingers dip into my slit with a wet sound that borders on
obscene.
I clench my teeth, waiting for him to taunt me about getting turned on,
but he moves on to circle my swollen clit.
“You’re a glutton for punishment,” he says.
“What do you—” Realization hits me like a palm to the ass. I forgot to
count that last one. I squeak, “Three?”
When Xero’s finger moves off my clit, I groan. My hips rise toward his
palm, needing him to finish this spanking so I can get more of this pleasure,
but he only pushes them down.
“Please, Xero,” I say, trying not to whine. “I’m really sorry for not
eating my breakfast.”
“And?”
“And for throwing cereal and milk in your face.”
“And?”
I gulp. What else does he want from me? I already explained why I
couldn’t attend the wedding. Every other transgression in his mind was
resolved with maiming or murdering. If I start making things up to fill the
silence, I’ll only give him more ammunition.
“Sorry for accusing you of poisoning my breakfast?” I ask.
The next spank lands so hard that I cry out. My entire body shudders,
and tears leak from my closed eyes. I don’t know why it took a brutal attack
like this for me to fully realize that Xero Greaves is a monster.
“Four,” I moan.
Two more to go.
If I survive.
His thick fingers slide between my folds, gathering up all the moisture.
Then he withdraws them and moans. “You smell so good, little ghost.”
I turn around, finding him licking those fingers clean. The chaotic part
of my brain reminds me he’s distracted. I could slide off his lap, fling open
the door, and run out into the street.
Common sense reminds me that I’m no match for a trained assassin.
Xero would catch me before I leave the hallway and then restart the spanks.
This time, without the attention to my clit.
Instead of trying to escape, I reach between our bodies and run my
fingers over the thick shaft digging into my hip.
“Dirty little ghost,” he growls. “Is that your way of asking for my
cock?”
“Yes?” I say.
“Count the next two spanks like a good girl, and I’ll give you more than
you can handle.”
Shivers run down my spine. I might fear this maniac, even despise him
a little for the damage he’s done to my ass cheeks, but there’s no denying he
can make me feel good. He’s the only man who’s ever chased away my
ghosts.
He rubs my clit with up-and-down strokes that make me quiver.
Pleasure gathers in my core, and I let my thighs relax. If this is what it takes
to get another orgasm, then I’ll gladly take those two spanks.
The next slap lands with a sting my body interprets as pleasure, then
Xero rubs rapid circles over my clit. My nerves sizzle, and even more
sensation rushes south. I’m panting, gasping, so close to coming that my
toes curl.
Sweat breaks out across my brow, and I swear I feel it in the creases
behind my knees. Just as my eyes roll to the back of my head, he stops to
deliver a spank hard enough to slap me into sanity.
A climax implodes around my clit, sending shockwaves of rapture to
every inch of my being.
“Fuck,” I scream, my pussy spasming.
Xero leans into me and chuckles. “I didn’t know you got off on pain.”
I want to tell him that I don’t, but an intense spasm cuts off my ability to
speak. No one has ever made me come so hard. It feels like I’ve been
plugged into a machine that’s taken control of my motor functions, because
all I can do is jerk and spasm.
Before I can even finish, Xero eases me off his lap and onto my knees,
so I’m sitting between his spread legs. I grip his thighs, trying to stay
upright in the throes of orgasm, when he says something that’s muffled
through the roar of blood between my ears.
I stare up at him, blinking stars out of my eyes, waiting for him to repeat
the words I didn’t hear.
“Take it out,” he growls.
“Oh.”
With trembling fingers, I undo his fly and reach into his pants. His
erection springs out, nearly hitting me in the eye. My mouth waters at the
sight of his bulbous cock head. The Prince Albert piercing glints in the
sunlight, inviting me to take a closer look.
I didn’t get the chance to explore it last night, and I’m aching to run my
tongue up and down the skin above his Jacob’s Ladder. Will he shiver under
my touch or moan? I need to have this beautiful creature under my control.
My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and my head drifts forward. I’m
already salivating at the prospect of tasting Xero, but he holds me back with
a palm.
“Bad girls who throw cereal in their master’s faces don’t get to savor
their cocks.”
I rear back, my eyes narrowing, and glower up at his annoying features.
Sunlight shines behind him from the window, turning the ends of his
platinum hair into a halo.
With those angular features, full lips, and celestial blue eyes, he really
does look like the Angel of Death. Does that make me an unworthy sinner?
I’m the one on my knees, desperate to suck his cock, even though my ass
feels like it’s been dipped in hellfire.
 A thud makes the entire house shake, reminding me there’s a quartet of
murderous rapists beneath the house, trying to finish the job they started.
“Fine,” I snap, trying to rise off my feet.
He shoves me back down with a palm on my head. “You’re going
nowhere.”
“What?” I squawk.
Xero crosses his ankles behind my back, trapping me between his legs,
and then strokes his long, thick shaft with slow, up-and-down movements
that have me mesmerized. My pussy clenches and spasms, wanting to feel
every ridge, every vein, every contour within my walls.
He’s magnificent and he knows it. Why else would he refuse my
mouth?
“Keep your eyes on the prize,” he says.
“It’s nothing special,” I mutter, already cringing at such a blatant lie.
He chuckles, the sound soft. “You’re a compulsive liar.”
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. “Sometimes, when you can’t believe what your
eyes are telling you, it’s better to make up your own version of the truth.”
His eyes soften. “What do you see?”
“A dirty angel stroking his obscenely large cock.”
“I’m an angel now?” he asks with a smile of straight white teeth.
“That isn’t a compliment,” I mutter. “Lucifer was an angel.”
His grin widens, and he quickens his strokes. I don’t know which is
more enthralling, his beautiful face or that magnificent cock. This situation
is so surreal that it has to be a fever dream. Xero Greaves, the sexy voice
that speaks to me every morning when I’m half asleep, is jerking off in my
living room.
I’m even more convinced that I’m dead. Why else would he keep
calling me his little ghost?
“Stay with me, Amethyst,” he says.
“Alright,” I reply, my voice breathy.
The legs around my back tighten, pulling me closer to his cock, and his
hand quickens around that glorious shaft. A bead of precum glistens on the
tip, threatening to spill over.
My breath shallows. “Can I have a lick?”
“Not if you ask so rudely.”
Shit.
 I clear my throat, suck in a deep breath, and gaze up into those pale blue
eyes. They’re like orbs of white fire, darkened with peeks of sky blue. I
can’t tell if I’m looking into the face of my salvation or damnation, but I
know that if he doesn’t let me lick that cum off his cock, I’ll die.
“Please, Xero,” I say, my voice breathy. “Please let me have a taste?”
“And reward your misbehavior?”
What’s left of my dignity tells me to stay silent. It’s only natural for
someone to be skeptical of a man who ties them up in the middle of the
night. And I only half believe the story that I fought him like a berserker.
Apart from those scratches on his cheek, where are his bruises or any of the
damage? He could have fabricated the whole story just to make me think
I’m insane.
My gaze drops to that precarious drop of precum, and I find myself
saying, “One lick? Please?”
“Beg for it.”
“Xero,” I say. “Please. I need your cock. Let me run my tongue back
and forth over your slit. Let me have one tiny taste? I’m sorry for
everything. Please forgive me, just this once. I just want to get close to
you.”
“More,” he says, his fingers moving so quickly I can barely keep track
of the movements.
“Xero. Don’t be mean.” My mouth drifts closer to his thick crown. “Just
let me lick it. Let me kiss it. I’ll be good for the whole day if you let me
have a taste. Just a little one. After that, I won’t give you any more shit. It
just looks so good, and I didn’t get enough of it last night.”
Xero stiffens, just as my lips are inches away from his slit, and he
erupts, spurting my face with jet after jet of warm liquid. I jerk back, but his
hand is already on the crown of my head, holding me in position as he
climaxes all over my face.
Cum gets in my eyes, up my nostrils, and in my mouth. I swipe my
tongue over my lips, all traces of arousal gone.
It’s official.
Xero Greaves is an asshole.
And I hate him.
The moment his back is turned, I’m leaving him in the dust.

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-FIVE

XERO
I rise off the sofa, leaving Amethyst spluttering through a face full of
cum. It’s the least she deserves after the stunt she pulled with the cereal.
She’s aggravating and too deluded to realize her life is in danger.
Whoever sent those images and threatening notes is clearly behind those
men. I’m almost certain the mastermind is connected to her past.
If I don’t unlock her memories, she’s screwed.
Thank fuck I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get those bastards
downstairs to squeal.
I walk to the living room door and pause at its frame to glance over my
shoulder. She still kneels in front of the sofa with her silk shorts around her
knees, revealing her reddening ass cheeks.
She’s frozen with shock, even though I came over her face the day
before. Or has her mind papered over that particular memory the way it
erased last night’s violent episode?
“Get up,” I say.
Stumbling to her feet, she pulls up the shorts and turns to face me with
wide eyes. My heart skips a beat at the sight of that glistening face with
beads of cum clinging to her lashes.
“I’ve just remembered something,” she says, her voice flat.
“What?”
“The night before the book fair, I woke up with my face covered in
ectoplasm.”
“Oh?” I reply with a smirk.
“That was you, wasn’t it?”
 My smirk widens into a full-on grin. “Why did your mind jump to
ghostly substances?”
“Because you were supposed to be a—” She shakes her head. “You
were playing along. That’s why you stopped at my salt circle.”
I raise my brows, waiting for her to continue. A smaller part of my
conscience calls me out for being cruel to the woman I once loved, but how
much of what she told me was real? Amethyst presented herself as a
vulnerable little princess who needed saving from a tower of her parents’
construction. But I’m beginning to wonder if her biggest threat is herself.
A thud from below shakes the house’s foundations, making me snap out
of my musings. If I look at Amethyst for too long, I’ll fall into an endless
loop of wondering if she sees me as a cash cow or her knight in bloody
armor.
I want to make her suffer for breaking my heart. Make her cry tears of
blood for ripping me open and baring my soul.
But first, I must save her life.
“Bitch about the ectoplasm later. We have four men to dissect.”
She backs toward the sofa and crosses her arms. “I can’t.”
I stride across the room and grab her wrist. “You can and you will,” I
snarl. “Someone out there wants you captured or dead, and the only way to
know what’s happening is to ask those four men.”
“Xero, I’m not a murderer.”
“Perhaps not.” I walk into the hallway, dragging her along. “First and
foremost, you’re a liar.”
“Wait.”
Another thud makes the floors tremble. I’m impressed the quartet are
working so hard to break free, but they’re battering the wrong wall. I had
the crawl space arranged so nobody but me and the operatives who built it
know how to break out.
I continue down the hallway toward the cupboard under the stairs. It
was originally a narrow space where she kept her mop, vacuum cleaner, and
miscellaneous junk, but we created a hatch in the wooden floor that leads to
a ladder to access a vestibule within the crawl space.
Amethyst has no choice but to follow, and I keep hold of her wrist while
opening the cupboard door.
“What did you do to my house?” she snarls.
 “I planned to stay down here during the day so I could come out at night
and slowly drive you insane,” I reply. “After last night, I no longer have that
luxury.”
There’s another thud from below, followed by frantic whispering. Good.
They’re fully alert.
“Because you want to save my life?” she asks, her voice hopeful.
“Undecided. Nobody gets to torment you but me.” I press my foot on
the lever that activates the trap door, making it spring open.
“Hey. Where are my mops?”
“No need for them when we have a cleaning crew.”
“You mean there’s more of you?” She pauses. “Of course there is. You
told me as much in your letters.”
Letters she allowed to fall into another woman’s hands. I don’t rise to
the bait, already having spent enough time subduing her. Instead, I pull
Amethyst in front of me and gesture for her to go first.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“Claustrophobic?” I ask, my brow rising.
She gives her head a vigorous shake, making those curls bounce. My
heart thuds. She looks adorable with her face covered in my cum and her
round tits straining through that flimsy camisole, but that beauty is
deceptive, just like her twisted heart.
“Go.” I give her a gentle shove.
With a whimper, she descends the ladder, acting like I’m forcing her to
walk the plank into shark-infested waters. I wait for her to reach the bottom
before following her down into the vestibule. It’s a square chamber that lies
flush against the dividing wall with number 11, with a trio of deep shelves
complete with cardboard containers, designed to look like storage.
The last thing I want is for the assholes inside to look at my beautiful
little Amethyst, so I extract a disposable lab coat from one of the boxes.
“Put this on.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.”
While she covers up her delectable little body, I reach beneath one of
the shelves and flip the switch that electrifies the door.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “Stand back. We’re coming in.”
As predicted, the quartet rush at the door, only to get stunned and fall to
the floor with a satisfying thud. I turn off the current and pull on a latch that
makes the door swing into the room.
Their bodies are piled up so close to the entrance that I have to turn the
current on again to make them twitch out of the way. As soon as there’s
enough space for me and my lady, I turn it off again and pull her inside.
This torture room I’ve created in her home is directly beneath the room
she uses for filming. She turns to the manacles welded to the crawl space’s
steel columns and asks, “What is this?”
“Interrogation room.” I kick at the unconscious man at the top of the
pile.
“Who were you going to interrogate?” she asks, her voice breathy.
I don’t dignify that question with an answer. Shouldn’t she be more
concerned about the four naked men chained together on the floor? She
doesn’t show an ounce of appreciation for the effort I made to attach their
heads to their asses, human centipede style.
“Xero,” she snaps. “Did you plan on dragging me down here after
driving me insane?”
“Eventually,” I mutter. “But you’re missing the point.”
She whirls around, her eyes flashing. “Which is?”
“These four came for you last night. That bastard with his asshole
attached to his friend’s face tried to rape you on your kitchen table. Now
isn’t the time to dwell on what-ifs.”
Her pretty features twist into an expression I can only describe as
murderous, except she’s directing that anger toward me. The man who
saved her virtue. The man who fucked her hard enough to chase away the
ghosts of her past.
If my body wasn’t so mellowed out from coming all over her face, I
would bristle at the ingratitude.
The chief rapist stirs.
“Concentrate, Amethyst,” I snarl and turn her toward the man who
pinned her to the table.
She flinches. “What do you want me to do?”
I reach into my pocket and press a knife into her hand. “Hold that to his
throat and demand answers.”
“Xero, I’m not like you.” She steps back, her entire body trembling. “I
don’t kill and torture people for fun.”
My fingers wrap around her throat. “This is about your continual
survival, little ghost. The sooner you realize someone wants you dead⁠—”
 “Someone other than you?”
I grit my teeth. “You’re trying my fucking patience. I could leave you
here and wait for your fight-or-flight to kick in and turn you into a warrior,
but what if it fails?”
She shudders. “I don’t have a berserker mode.”
“Then who or what the fuck was fighting me last night?”
A groan from the floor alerts us that the man at the back of the human
centipede is alert. His gaze travels from me to Amethyst and down to her
knife, but he’s so firmly attached to his friend’s ass that he can’t make a
move until the chief rapist stumbles to his feet.
Amethyst gulps. “Did you have to tie them up like that?”
My fingers tighten around her throat. “I’m getting sick of this misplaced
compassion.”
She slashes at my arm with the knife, slicing through the fabric of my
hoody. The blade stings as it tears into my skin, and the pain goes straight to
my cock.
Has this accursed little ghost turned me into a masochist?
Her eyes widen, and she steps back. “Xero, I’m sorry⁠—”
“Don’t apologize when you’re finally in the mood.” I turn her around to
where the rapist lies on his side, finally stirring. “If he doesn’t tell you
everything you need to know, kill him. Then I’ll cut him loose, and the next
bastard in line will talk.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-SIX

AMETHYST
Every ounce of moisture leaves my throat as I stare down at my
attacker. He’s stocky, built like a bulldog with equal amounts of muscle and
fat. There’s a bald patch in his dark brown hair, which makes him look far
less imposing than he did last night.
Or was it the night before?
Time is moving so quickly. It seems almost a week ago since those men
broke into my house. Now, my entire life has changed.
He’s on his hands and knees with a ring gag around his mouth and is
naked save for some sort of harness around his hips. It’s fashioned from
chains linked together by padlocks, and attached to the bridle around his
companion’s head.
Apart from that, it’s hard to tell what else is keeping the second man’s
face attached to his ass.
Xero leans into me and growls, “What are you waiting for?”
I swallow hard, the membranes of my throat sticking together. “What do
you want me to do?”
“Torture him,” he snarls. “Ask questions.”
My gaze locks with the man’s pleading eyes. They’re a deeper shade of
blue than Xero’s and so commonplace they may as well not exist. But that
doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore his humanity. Or the horror of this entire
situation.
If Xero hadn’t emerged from the cupboard under the stairs, this man
would have raped me over the kitchen table and watched his companions
take their turns, before dragging me out for something even more nefarious.
 “Why me?” I ask.
The man grunts.
Xero shoves me in the back and hisses, “Start with a threat.”
“Like what?” I whisper back.
“Tell that bastard what you’ll do if he doesn’t talk.”
My stomach heaves. “But I don’t want to torture anyone.”
The man crawls toward me on trembling limbs, dragging his semi-
conscious friends. Tears glisten in his eyes, making my stomach churn. He
grunts something unintelligible behind his gag and I reach for the buckle,
but Xero snatches my wrist.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“I want to hear what he has to say.”
“You do not have my permission to touch another man unless it’s to
carve out his flesh,” he snarls and unfastens the man’s gag.
The bulldog groans with relief as the object falls to the floor. He gazes
up at me and raises his bound hands.
“Help me,” he rasps.
“After you tried to help yourself to my body?” I snap, already bristling
at his audacity.
Xero clamps a hand on my shoulder. “Rule number one of interrogation.
Show no compassion toward the subject or they’ll waste time begging for
mercy.”
I shrug him off. “You had the whole morning to tell me that.”
“That’s Xero Greaves,” the man says, his voice rising with panic. “He
did this to us, and he’ll do this to you.”
My pulse quickens. The worst part of that statement is it’s true. Xero is
more twisted than he appeared to be in his letters, but he hasn’t permanently
harmed me… yet.
The fingers digging into my shoulder tighten, and his lips graze my ear,
sending unsettlingly pleasant tingles across my skin. “He’s taking
advantage of your weaknesses,” Xero murmurs. “Show him the
consequences of trying to create discord among his captors.”
So, I’m a captor now?
I breathe hard, my hands breaking out in a sweat. Heat radiates from my
body, getting trapped beneath my disposable lab coat. I thought basements
were supposed to be cold, but this room is full of the heat of the men’s
despair.
 “Amethyst,” Xero snarls.
“I’m the one asking the questions.” I jab the knife at the man’s eye,
making him flinch back into the man attached to his ass. “Now, why did
you target me?”
“What did you do with Jake?” he says through clenched teeth.
“He’s dead,” I reply.
The man’s eyes widen, and his gaze darts to Xero. “Jake was my
brother.”
“Don’t look at me,” Xero says, and I can almost hear the grin in his
voice. “I only slid her the knife.”
The man’s gaze snaps back to meet mine, only his eyes are hard with
accusation.
“You’re the man whose name was on the missing person poster?” I ask.
He raises his bound hands to lunge at me, but I sidestep.
“Hey,” I snap. “Nobody would have gotten killed if you assholes didn’t
come after me. Why am I your target, anyway?”
He just stares at me through eyes so hard that the fine hairs on the back
of my neck stand on end. I search my mind for the name on the poster.
“Dale, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he snarls.
“You just tried to attack me. Again. Now I don’t see you as so much of a
victim. I want to know why the hell you and your brother came to my
house.”
“At last,” Xero mutters.
Ignoring him, I raise the knife, making Dale swallow. His Adam’s apple
bobs up and down, and I wonder how it would look if I took a slice.
“Tell me everything,” I say.
“So you and your sicko boyfriend can torture and kill me?” Dale snarls.
“It’s not like you have a choice,” I answer. “Tell me why I became your
target, and I’ll keep Xero at bay.”
Xero scoffs.
I run the tip of my blade beneath Dale’s eye, making him freeze. “That’s
right,” I say. “You’re going to tell me everything.”
“You ain’t shit without Xero Greaves at your back.”
“I never said I was.” The blade presses into his skin, loosening a bead of
blood.
 Dale’s nostrils flare. “There are much more frightening people than a
wannabe who twerks in front of the camera.”
My jaw drops. He’s seen my videos? Of course, he has. He’s the brother
of my most belligerent online troll, JakeRake69.
“Who are you talking about?” I ask.
He clamps his mouth shut.
Xero pulls me away and places me in the corner. “Stand back, little
ghost. I need room to maneuver.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
He pulls back his fist and punches Dale in the eye. Dale’s anguished
howl echoes through the small chamber, making my ears ring. I press my
back into the wall, wondering why Dale’s reacting so severely until blood
spurts from his closed eyelid.
I glance down at Xero’s fist, finding a blade sticking out between his
fingers.
“Did you just stab him in the eye?” I yell over Dale’s screeching.
Xero turns to me with his teeth bared. “Torture isn’t a civil
conversation, nor is it an argument. You need to show the target that you’re
serious about causing him harm or death.”
My heart pounds as realization settles into my skull. “You’re sick.”
He cocks his head to the side and stares at me through icy blue eyes I
once thought were beautiful. If eyes are the window to the soul, then I’m
looking into the coldest corner of hell.
“Amethyst, did you forget that the police caught me holding my
stepmother’s still-beating heart?”
My mouth opens and closes, and my mind scrambles for an answer.
Dale’s screams continue to ring through my ears, unsettling my thoughts.
Yes, I knew Xero was a murderer. No, I didn’t forget the part about the
heart. Maybe at the time, I thought it was just theoretical. Almost poetic.
So, why am I so surprised? Did I really delude myself into thinking I’d
tamed the monster?
“Dale won’t tell you anything now that he’s in pain,” I say to deflect.
Xero’s smirk makes me bristle. How can he smile when he’s just
stabbed another man in the eye? How can he be so fucking relaxed?
He turns to where Dale is hunched over and grabs a handful of his hair.
“Are you still with me, Daley-boy?”
 “Get off me,” Dale roars, his body thrashing within the tight restraints.
Blood pours freely down his cheek, sending splatters across the room.
Clutching the knife, I press my back into the corner, each breath rasping
and desperate, as if the air itself flees my lungs. This interrogation wasn’t
going too badly until Xero took over. I can’t believe I set up an entire fan
club around this creature.
He’s completely unhinged.
“Amethyst has a nice ass, doesn’t she?” Xero growls.
Dale is too busy screaming to answer the question. The man attached to
his ass tries to shrink away, as do the other men in this grotesque
arrangement. My mind tries to make sense of what the fuck is happening.
I thought Xero wanted answers. Why the hell is he bringing the
interrogation back to my body?
“Answer my fucking question,” he snarls. “Did you like looking at her
ass?”
“Yes,” Dale screams.
“Bet you got nice and hard at the thought of sticking your cock into her
sweet pussy.”
My hand flies to my chest, and my cheeks burn. Why the hell is he
talking shit about me in a room full of thugs? I thought he would be a
gentleman… At least out in public.
“Xero!”
“Stay back, little ghost,” he snarls.
He doesn’t need to ask me twice. I fumble around the wall, looking for
the secret lever to open the door and let me out. I don’t want to stick around
to be the subject of this kind of locker room talk.
“Answer me,” he growls, giving Dale’s head a shake. “Did you get an
erection?”
“Yes,” Dale sobs.
Xero plunges his knife into Dale’s remaining eye, making all four of the
men scream.
My stomach lurches. Whirling around, I clap a hand over my mouth to
muffle my own scream. This is too much. I didn’t even agree to this
interrogation, let alone becoming an accessory to a brutal torture. Now I’m
trapped in a confined space with a murderer going psycho on a bunch of
rapists.
 The thud of several bodies hitting the concrete floor has me glancing
over my shoulder. Xero’s broad back is turned to me, but his arm makes the
kind of sawing motion I only ever see when men are carving a roast.
Dale’s screams reach a crescendo, but I can barely hear the words
through the blood roaring through my ears.
Don’t tell me…
I gag.
He couldn’t be…
When Xero holds up a fleshy appendage, my vision goes double, and I
sway on my feet. Gulping for air, I force myself to stay conscious. Every
fiber of my being wants me to black out and escape this chamber of torture,
but that would mean falling into Dale’s expanding puddle of blood.
I turn back to my corner and resolve not to watch Xero’s insane
rampage, but the snap and clink of chains have my body giving into
curiosity.
Dale lies on his side, no longer attached to his thinner comrade, a ruddy-
faced man with strawberry-blond hair. His pupils are so blown that it’s
impossible to tell his true eye color, but all the blood has leached from his
face.
Xero crouches in front of the man, holding the severed penis. “Did you
see Amethyst’s ass?”
He shakes his head. “I was the one who told Dale not to do it.”
“I see,” Xero replies, not sounding like he believes a word. “And your
name is?”
“Paul,” the man replies with a shudder. “Paul Brantley.”
“Well, Paul Brantley, Dale wasn’t very cooperative, and he touched the
woman I love. You’re going to make up for his transgressions by telling me
everything you know.”
My breath catches, and I sway on my feet. Does Xero really love me or
is he just saying that to prove a point?
Paul’s gaze darts to the severed penis. “Or what?”
“Or you choke on Dale’s cock. Then I slice off yours and ask the next
guy the same questions. If none of you cock-less wonders want to speak,
then I’ll gouge out your eyes. If that doesn’t loosen your tongues, then I’ll
cut them out, too.”
Paul shudders. “Oh, God.”
 “I prefer the Angel of Death, but God also works,” Xero says with a
dazzling smile.
My pussy chooses that moment to flutter. I wonder if the superficial
bitch realizes that she’s simping for a psychopath.
Xero dangles the penis in his face. “Are you ready to talk?”
“What do you want to know?” Paul blurts.
“Who sent you?” Xero asks.
“My boss?”
“Elaborate.”
Paul gulps. “I’ll tell you in exchange for my freedom.”
“I’m listening,” Xero says.
“You’ve got to set me free first.”
Xero cocks his head. “Let me guess, you’ll send the information I want
in the mail?”
Paul’s entire body sags, realizing the futility of making demands. “I was
only following orders, okay? The boss said to bring her to him, unhurt, but
Dale decided he wanted a taste.”
“Go on.”
“We’re scouts from X-Cite Media. We make⁠—”
“Snuff movies,” Xero mutters. “I saw what you did with my execution.”
Paul’s mouth opens and closes, and I can tell he wants to know how
Xero survived the electric chair. He seems to think better of asking and
says, “The boss wanted to stage a sequel. There’s even a replica electric
chair in the studio for her.”
My jaw drops. “But why me?”
Paul bows his head. “He’s been obsessed since you went viral. He won’t
stop sending emails demanding where you’re located.”
“His name?” Xero asks.
“Delta.”
Xero hisses through his teeth. “Where do I find him?”
“Do you know him?” I ask.
“Yes.” Xero turns to the smaller man and barks, “Where?”
As Paul rattles off an address on the other side of town, Xero sets down
the severed penis and turns to where I’m huddled in the corner.
“Xero?” I whisper.
“Time to take down the asshole who wants to make you a snuff movie
star.”
OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-SEVEN

XERO
Delta could be anyone.
I won’t give in to false hope until I have more information.
For now, I’ll focus on Amethyst. Her performance during that
interrogation was disappointing. She was hesitant, skittish, and squeamish.
There was no sign of the girl who murdered her music teacher for the
forced abortion, and not a trace of the young woman who plunged a knife
into her attacker’s throat.
And absolutely not a peep from last night’s crazed beast I had to wrestle
into submission.
I can’t work out if she has multiple personalities or reserves that
darkness for moments of peril. Either way, she needs to bring out her inner
demoness. Someone wants her to die on camera, and she can’t afford to
remain demure.
Paul gives me more information about his organization. In addition to
trafficking victims to make snuff movies, the patrons who subscribe to their
membership site get the chance to vote on a selection of women they want
to appear in upcoming productions.
Since they regularly broadcast footage from state executions, the boss
decided to showcase Amethyst in a video that mirrored my death.
After injecting Paul and his cohorts with a sedative, I leave them
languishing in Dale’s blood and escort Amethyst back up the ladder. She
trembles at my touch, as she should, because her inability to gain answers
has earned her a punishment.
 The moment we step out of the cupboard under the stairs, I scoop her
into my arms and carry her into the little green room.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“You failed your first lesson in interrogation,” I growl into her ear, my
cock stirring at the prospect of having her at my mercy.
She thrashes in my arms, which only gets me hot. When I set her on her
feet, she bolts toward the door. Her hands scramble over the new locking
mechanism, which will only open with my fingerprints.
“Get on your knees,” I say, my voice deepening.
“No.” She whimpers, once again trying to shrink into the wall.
The lab coat conceals that slender waist, the curve of her hips, and the
swell of her ass, and all I want to do is rip it to shreds.
“Do you know what happens to disobedient little ghosts?” I snarl.
She shivers, rustling the plastic covering her enticing curves. My lips
lift into a smile. She’s a pretty little present I need to unravel, and I’m not
just talking about her wrapper.
I want to break through that timid little shell and see what layers I
discover beneath. I want to expose the killer queen. I want her covered in
those men’s blood with their entrails between her fingers as she demands
more of my cock.
Fuck. From the first letter she sent, I knew she had potential, but last
night’s performance took my appreciation for her to a new level. I can’t tell
if she’s a sleeper agent with repressed memories or a natural. Either way,
she has me intrigued.
“Answer my question, Amethyst,” I say.
“Why? Are you going to spank me again?”
“Nothing so arousing,” I reply with a chuckle. “At least not for you.”
“Then why should I move from this corner?” she squeaks.
“You have two options. Accept your punishment like a good girl and I
might even let you come, or I’ll wrestle you into submission like I did last
night and punish you anyway.”
“That’s hardly a choice,” she mutters.
“You heard the man downstairs,” I say. “His boss wants you
electrocuted for views. I want to make sure you can fight your way out of
any predicament with any number of assailants.”
“But you already captured the men.”
 “Their boss is still at large, as are other employees who will come after
you to make that movie.”
She glances over her shoulder, her eyes widening. “What are you
saying? This punishment will help me survive?”
I nod.
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. “Alright, then.”
I raise a finger. “Take off the gown.”
She pulls it over her hips and lifts it off her head, stretching the silk
across her glorious breasts. The fabric rides up, exposing a peek of her
rounded belly.
I groan, my cock hardening at the sight of her perfect curves, but my
smile fades at the first peek of her scar. It’s too thick to be surgical. Either
the story about the car accident was true, or someone stuck a blade in her
flesh and tried to tear her open.
The only person who knows the truth about what happened to her is her
mother… Or perhaps that seedy-looking man who lives in her mother’s
house.
She tosses the lab coat on the floor and takes her first step in my
direction.
“Crawl to me on your hands and knees,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because it’s an order.”
Huffing, she drops to her knees, making those breasts bounce.
Resentment burns through those fiery green orbs as she prostrates before
me on the floor.
Her generous breasts sway with her movements, making me wish I’d
ordered her to remove the camisole. Next time. Her perky little ass wiggles
with each step, putting a strain on my self-control.
I move backward, giving her the space to crawl and decide against
walking around her to see if groveling for me is making her wet. Why
bother, when I can make her change position?
“You’re doing so well,” I say with a smirk.
Her features harden with resentment, yet her eyes glaze with arousal. I
know she fantasizes about being made to crawl. As she reaches my feet, I
fight the urge to reach down and cup her breasts.
“Good girls get rewards. Bad girls get taught a lesson,” I say, my voice
thickening with lust. “Now, lie on your belly.”
 “What are you going to do?”
“If you can’t fight off an attacker, or you’re overpowered, the next thing
he’ll do after taking what he wants is tie you up for transportation.”
Her lips part with a rebuttal, but I raise my brow.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say.
She shakes her head. “What do I have to do?”
I repeat my order, and she lies flat on the ground with her arms
trembling at her sides.
“Like this?” she asks, her voice wavering.
Kneeling beside her, I take hold of her wrist. “If they get you into this
position, the next thing they’ll want to do is secure your wrists and ankles,
so you can’t scratch out their eyes, kick them in the face, or escape. Your
job is to stop them.”
“How?” she asks.
Taking hold of her slender ankle, I bend one leg, followed by the other.
“By not cooperating. By fighting with every ounce of your strength, and
definitely not by staying still.”
She wriggles, but I deliver a hard spank to her already reddened cheeks.
Her soft groan goes straight to my cock, but I ignore the urge to explore.
Instead, I fold a rope in half, forming a curved loop where the two ends
meet.
“Today isn’t about resisting. I’m going to show you a hog tie and have
you escape it. After you’re successful, we’ll try the same again in a
confined space.”
“What kind of space?” she whispers.
“The trunk of a car.” I hold her feet together and wrap the doubled-over
rope around her ankles, making sure to thread its end through the starting
loop.
She shivers, her body falling limp. “Shit.”
This is her submissive side. The part that enjoyed fantasizing about
being tied up and used. I’m surprised she’s being so docile—and a little
disappointed, really—but I don’t complain. Once she’s secure, I need to
send out a team to scope out the studio.
I plan on razing the building to the ground, but not before I locate this
Delta.
Call it my lingering daddy issues, but the use of that particular Greek
letter is eerily familiar. I never revealed this to Amethyst in our letters, but
each boy in our first facility was named after a Greek letter. I was Chi
because my first name began with the letter X. Father’s first name is
Dalton.
Crossing the loose ends over each other, I create a double tie around her
ankles to make sure it’s a challenge. If Amethyst can’t muster up the will to
fight, then she must learn how to break free from bindings.
When I lift her hands behind her back, she raises her head. “What are
you doing?”
“Securing your wrists.”
“But how can I escape with my arms bound?” she asks.
“That’s for you to figure out.”
I raise her arms behind her back, making the silk of her camisole glide
up and expose another scar. This one runs diagonally from the crest of her
hip to the base of her spine.
With a frown, I fold the rope in half and slide it underneath her wrists,
making sure it pulls tight.
She jerks back her arms, but it’s too late. The rope has already bound
them together.
“Wait,” she says, her voice rising with panic. “You’re not going to teach
me?”
“Experience is the best teacher. After you’ve failed a few times, you’ll
figure out the best way to slither out of these ropes.”
“I thought you said bad girls get taught lessons. This isn’t fair.”
After creating a double-column tie around her wrists, I sit back on my
heels. “Do you think the next set of henchmen Delta sends after you will
knock first or ask you nicely to get into their vehicle?”
She doesn’t answer, but the pain in her eyes tells me she’s finally gotten
the message.
“And the next time anyone tries to tie you up, don’t just lie there. Fight
like they’re going to set you on fire because what they’ll do to you will be
worse.”
Her breath quickens, and she rolls to the side, her chest rising and
falling beneath the silk camisole. “Alright. What’s next?”
I rise to my feet and walk around my delectable little ghost. “You know
what to do. Break free.”
She gazes up at me, her eyes widening. “But⁠—”
“If you don’t figure it out, you will be punished.”
OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-EIGHT

XERO
As expected, Amethyst failed at escaping a hogtie. Most civilians
would, considering it took us an entire lesson at the academy to free
ourselves from this form of bondage.
The trick to it is starting with simpler restraints and building up from
there, but I needed to impress upon her the seriousness of her situation.
When I took her down to the basement, she cringed at the sight of her
attackers, even knowing that they were sent to make her the victim of a
snuff movie.
Every woman I know would fly into a murderous rage, shove me aside,
and slash at those men until she got all the answers. Amethyst stood in the
corner with her back turned.
Being in the clutches of an assassin is like tiptoeing through a graveyard
compared to this shit. If getting attacked by four men wasn’t enough to
sharpen her resolve, then feeling helpless while hogtied might make her
come to her senses.
After leaving her whining in the green room, I gather a small team in
the kitchen. Jynxson to take the lead, Tyler for his hacking skills, and the
Spring brothers, fraternal twins I recruited from the first graduation run I
raided, for backup.
They are the best people I know for making themselves inconspicuous.
Their talents have allowed us to infiltrate any organization and get the
lowdown on their inner workings.
After updating Tyler and Jynxson on the situation, I take the twins down
to the basement, where we continue the interrogation. When Paul stopped
being talkative, he joined Dale on the pile of bodies. Between the next two
men, we extracted more information about X-Cite Media’s operations,
including the name and phone number of a talent scout.
I untie Amethyst for brunch and check on her throughout the day,
dishing out basic instructions on how to tie knots and untie them, along
with the tips and tricks required to break free from numerous bindings. By
the time I’m ready to meet the X-Cite Media scout, I take her upstairs and
leave her in a hogtie.
Number 13 is heavily guarded. We’ve changed the doors, reinforced the
locks, and have people stationed in the basement, in cars parked on Parisii
Drive, and in her backyard. Anyone trying to get to Amethyst will be
captured and interrogated. The hunch that someone connected to Father is
behind the snuff movies is too impossible to resist.
After sundown, I drive to a less salubrious neighborhood within
Beaumont City, where the townhouses that aren’t owned by slum landlords
are run by pimps. This red-light district is so shitty that no one bothers to
change the streetlights, and the only illumination comes from headlights.
Hookers march the sidewalks, dodging addicts that shuffle past like the
walking dead. As I park outside the address Paul gave up, I can’t help but
wonder what kind of corruption allows an entire section of town to fall to
such ruin.
“I’m in place,” I say into my earpiece.
“We’ve stopped around the corner,” Jynxson replies.
We’ve come in separate vehicles because any organization that can lose
five enforcers is large enough to have people watching their recruiter. The
twins are already scoping out the out-of-town studio with a view to
infiltrate the operation.
The purpose of tonight’s meeting is to get close enough to meet their
leader, who may or may not be Father. Failing that, I want to learn more
about its business operations, including how they obtain the women they
murder on camera.
I step out of the car and walk up the stairs of the only townhouse with
boarded-up windows from its basement level to the roof. It’s sandwiched
between two crumbling buildings, yet security lights flare to life,
illuminating an unusually sturdy-looking front door.
“Who’s there?” a voice asks through the intercom.
 “Xavier Wetwang,” I mutter, wanting to throttle Tyler for choosing that
name.
He snickers. “Come through.”
According to my hacker, the male talent working for X-Cite Media give
themselves stage names like Long Dong Netherthong, Hugh Cockermouth,
and Doug Fingringhoe. Tyler looked up the last names, and they’re all
places in England. According to him, Wetwang is a village in Yorkshire.
The door buzzes, and I step into a darkened mailroom with security
cameras on all four corners of the ceiling. Mail lockers fill the walls on the
left and right, and another door stands straight ahead.
“Close the door behind you,” says the voice.
I pull it shut.
After the locking mechanisms click into place, he asks, “Are you
armed?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Leave your shit in a locker.” A hatch on my left swings open. “And I
mean everything.”
This was to be expected, although I thought the security staff would pat
me down. Moirai assassins are trained to enter situations unarmed and able
to fashion weapons or shields out of anything–including our kicking and
screaming enemies. Our most lethal possessions are our brains, followed by
our hands.
After depositing the knife and pistol I brought, the door ahead swings
open into a chandelier-lit hallway of white walls and marble-tiled floors.
This is exactly the level of sophistication Father would enjoy, and my
anticipation rises. I doubt he or his associates would be holed up in a district
like this, but I’m not taking any chances.
My hair is darkened with a temporary pigment, and I’m wearing
contacts, contouring, fake tan, and temporary facial tattoos to obscure the
features that went viral on social media. And just in case their cameras have
facial recognition technology, I’ve inserted prosthetics to alter my jawline
and cheeks.
Two armed men step out from a doorway and order me to get into
position for a pat down. I take an inventory of their weapons in case I’ll
need them later. Once satisfied I’m unarmed, they march me to a room at
the back of the house, where the recruiter awaits.
 A floppy-haired bastard in his thirties dressed in a tweed suit peers up at
me through round spectacles. He looks more at home balancing books than
shooting snuff, but I maintain a poker face.
“Mr. Wetwang?” he asks.
I nod.
“Leave us.” He waves the men away but doesn’t offer me a seat.
The recruiter leans back in his chair, resting his steepled fingers on his
narrow chest. “What brings you to X-Cite Media? You don’t look like the
type of man who needs help satisfying his darker urges.”
“I’m not looking for a place on Death Row,” I mutter.
He snorts, the corner of his lip lifting into a smile. “And you think you
have what it takes to perform for our company?”
“If you’re asking if I can maintain a hard-on while the camera rolls, that
depends on who I have to fuck,” I reply.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says with a frown.
I raise a shoulder. “I figured anyone can snap a neck or stick someone
with a knife. The hardest part is maintaining an erection, knowing you’re
producing other men’s jerk-off material.”
He nods. “Let me tell you how the organization works. You submit a
video of at least ten minutes, which will go through an authenticity and
quality control process. If we accept it, then we remit fifty percent of net
receipts.”
My jaw ticks, but I smooth out my expression. The Spring brothers
already confirmed the existence of a studio on the outskirts of town. I
shouldn’t expect this asshole to lay out the inner workings of his business to
a stranger who may or may not be an undercover cop.
“Don’t you hire actors to perform on camera for you?” I ask.
He inclines his head. “All our male talent submit videos they’ve shot. If
they’re popular with our subscribers, we’ll invite them to our studio.”
In other words, the only way I can penetrate their inner circle is through
making my own snuff movies. That’s the kind of requirement undercover
cops are reluctant to fulfill for fear of public uproar.
“That’s fair.” I reach into my pocket and extract my phone. “Before I
leave, I want you to take a look at my portfolio.”
He leans forward in his seat as I slide the handset across the desk. It’s
prefilled with a bunch of kills I made before allowing myself to get
arrested.
 One of the reasons I didn’t want Amethyst to publish my letters was
because they contained more than just kernels of the truth. After defecting
from the Moirai, we really did set up a rival organization to undercut our
former employers.
With the help of operatives that maintained the firm’s computer system,
we would reroute client calls. Not only would we perform assassinations at
a discount, but we would provide video evidence of the work. It made us
the fastest-growing firm of assassins and also the Moirai’s biggest threat.
The recruiter scrolls through the videos, his breath quickening. “So, you
do both men and women?”
I incline my head. “Of course.”
He continues to some of the shirtless footage I shot earlier of myself,
jerking off to the sight of Amethyst whining and struggling within her
bindings. I try not to cringe when he replays a cum shot and force myself
not to wring his neck when he reaches beneath the desk to adjust his
erection.
“But where’s the fucking?” he asks.
“I have specific tastes.”
The recruiter’s gaze travels up my body and lingers on my face, and
there’s a light in his eyes I’m aching to extinguish. It’s sick fucks like him
who are so desensitized to real life that they have to watch torture and
murder to get off.
He licks his lips. “You have that footage?”
“It’s compromised.”
“What does that mean?”
“My face is in it.”
He nods, seeming to understand, yet still eager for more. “May I see it?”
“May I be blunt?”
His brows pull together. “About what?”
I slide into the seat that he didn’t offer and pluck the phone out of his
hands. “No offense, but you don’t look like the type of man with the power
to run an operation like this.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t incriminate myself with just anyone. Arrange a meeting with
the man in charge, and we can negotiate.”
“What do you want from us?”
 “A six-figure signing fee, plus fifty percent of royalties for each video.
You supply the girls. I perform in a mask. My only role is to slash and
fuck.”
“I’m not…” He shakes his head. “I’m not authorized… I mean to say
this is highly unusual.”
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I rise to my feet.
“When your boss asks why xxxwetwang.com is stealing subscribers
from X-Cite Media, be sure to explain that Xavier Wetwang offered you the
opportunity for a partnership.”
He pulls out his phone, types in the URL, and gapes. “What is this?”
“My social media debut. The market is crying out for hot psychopaths,
and most of the assholes online don’t know how to handle a knife, let alone
their dicks. Mobfluencers have thriving channels, so why can’t I? If cartels
and serial killers can become famous behind bars, then it’s time for me to
get my slice of the pie.”
I walk to the door, my heart thudding. If this bluff falls flat, then I still
have the Spring brothers scoping out the studio. The RFID reader case
around my handset will have cloned the recruiter’s phone, and there’s
already a small team waiting to follow the bastard home.
Not to mention that Tyler is hacking into the house’s surveillance.
Even if Father isn’t connected to this operation, it’s still the kind of
setup I need to destroy. Anyone who plucks innocent people from their lives
deserves to go down in flames. Anyone who sets attackers on my Amethyst
needs to die slowly.
“Wait,” says the recruiter.
I pause at the doorway.
“If you’re as prolific as you claim, my boss will be interested in opening
negotiations.”
Triumph flares in my chest, but I keep my features even. “Set up the
meeting.”

OceanofPDF.com
 SEVENTY-NINE

AMETHYST
I’m at home alone, hogtied to the bed, waiting for Xero to return.
Dread trickles down my spine, mingled with a twisted sense of arousal.
I wish I could make up my mind about him. What kind of man ties up his
woman for so long? When we talked about bondage on the phone, it didn’t
feel so lonely. I pictured him here in the room, giving me gentle guidance,
maybe a little praise.
The man is a menace.
He kitted out my crawl space with a prison and real-life captives. Then
he made me perform the interrogations. I knew he had villainous traits. I
didn’t expect to see them up close. I wanted to be the object of his desire,
not the Bonnie to his Clyde.
After witnessing how he tortured those men, my fear of him grew but so
did this sick desire. I want to believe in the man I fell for, but he’s more
complex than I expected.
I also had no idea my back was so flexible. In this position, my fingers
can reach my feet. It’s easier to work on the ropes around my ankles first.
There’s a series of loops I need to unravel, which takes more time than it
did when Xero gave me easier restraints.
The knots are tight, with fibers digging into my skin, but I’m
determined to keep trying. My fingers are losing sensation from the effort,
but I twist them anyway and pick through the knots. Sweat trickles down
my forehead, stinging my eyes, and I curse the day I found Xero’s mugshot.
I scrolled past multiple times, but he was all over social media. That
hauntingly beautiful face of the man they called the Angel of Death. I
would blame the voices in my head for urging me to write that first letter,
but I’d only be blaming myself.
Xero Greaves filled a void in my life, and my obsession with him might
cost me everything. The worst part of this is that if given another chance, I
might do it all over again. He’s frightening enough to make my hair stand
on end, yet my nerves tingle and the pulse between my legs throb.
Then there’s the side of him that’s caring. That’s the man who captured
my heart. Whenever that aspect of his personality emerges, I feel hope for
our relationship–even longing. He’s maddening, addictive, my worst
nightmare and my most fervent dream.
I’m glad he’s alive–I want him so much, yet there’s a part of me that’s
terrified I might not be able to return to what we had. I want that sensual
man who brought out my sexuality on the phone. The sensitive soul who
captured my heart with his penmanship. Those sweet memories feel like a
distant dream, overshadowed by his true darkness.
My fingers trace the coarse strands of the rope, searching for a gap, a
weak spot, anything I can use to my advantage. When that doesn’t work, I
roll to the side and groan.
What I need is to dial back our relationship to the time before things
went to shit. Before his vengeful ghost arc, and before forces collided to
make him think I was a mercenary who used him for clout.
Better still, Xero could train me to use a gun. If I had been armed the
other night, I could have shot the men at the front door instead of running
out through the back door in a blind panic.
The sound of creeping footsteps breaks through my gasps and struggles,
making me stiffen with alarm.
“Xero?” I whisper.
Whoever’s ascending my stairs doesn’t answer.
“Did you hear that, Xero?” I say in a louder voice, pretending he’s with
me in case there’s an intruder.
Xero disappeared nearly two hours ago on an errand, telling me to break
out of his hogtie or else. What if one of the rapists has found their way out
of the basement and is looking for revenge?
My bedroom door creaks open, and my heart leaps into my throat. I
twist around, my eyes widening.
It’s a dark-haired man with dull brown eyes, angular features, and a
sharp grin. He wears a black suit with a black shirt unbuttoned to his
breastbone, showcasing a bronze chest covered in black tattoos.
My heart slams against my chest, making my pulse skyrocket. Despite
his obvious attractiveness, everything about him is off. He looks familiar,
like someone whose face should grace the background of a real crime
podcast or the FBI Most Wanted.
“Looking for this?” he asks, holding up a knife.
His voice is so achingly beloved that I’d recognize it in my dreams.
My breath shallows, and relief makes my muscles melt into the
mattress. I blink the spots out of my eyes. “Xero?”
He leans against the doorframe, accentuating the lines of his incredible
physique. Tall and muscular, with bulges in all the right places. It’s enough
to make a woman groan.
“Like the disguise?” he asks.
I shift uncomfortably on the mattress. Seeing him like this is unsettling.
It’s a harsh reminder of how much he’s changed from the man who haunts
my dreams.
Shaking my head, I say, “No. Take it off.”
His gaze softens, and his lips curve with a smile. “How far do you want
me to go?”
My breath shallows, and the muscles of my pussy spasms. The danger
he exudes is intoxicating. I’m drawn to it, even though my common sense
screams red alert. My instincts want me to run, but I’m addicted to the
thrill.
“All of it,” I say, my voice breathy. “Better still, untie these ropes.”
“You’re quite demanding for someone in your position,” he says, his
eyes sharpening. “Especially considering I ordered you to break free of
your restraints.”
I grit my teeth and shoot him my most venomous glare. Was someone
else writing those beautiful letters? The Xero I fell in love with was gentle,
patient, and keen to ease me into the world of BDSM. The asshole standing
in front of me is a sexual tyrant.
“If you taught me how to break out of a hogtie, maybe I’d have made
some progress,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Can you feel your hands and feet?”
“No, and I probably have gangrene.”
His smirk widens into a grin. “You’re cute when you’re being
dramatic.”
 “I’m not,” I reply, my voice shrill. “These ropes are cutting into my
skin. What if I get bedsores?”
He tosses over the knife, sending a rush of adrenaline that sets my
nerves alight. I roll to the side with a shriek. The knife bounces dangerously
close to my face before settling within reach.
“Hey, you could have taken out my eye!” I yell, shooting him my most
venomous glare.
“Cut yourself free.”
“How?”
His brows rise. “Do I need to trigger your fight-or-flight to get you
motivated? Say the word. I’m more than willing to oblige.”
My muscles stiffen. Fear and arousal battle in my core for dominance,
leaving me aching. I know he’s testing my limits, pushing me to see how far
I’ll go. This overwhelming presence is a confusing cocktail, making it
impossible to think straight.
“Asshole.” The word tumbles from my lips.
The smile fades from his handsome features, which morph from playful
to sinister. My breath hitches as he reaches into his pocket, triggering my
prey instincts. What will he do next? When he extracts a gun, adrenaline
kicks me in the gut, and I flinch within my restraints.
Moments pass in silence, filled by the frantic thrashing of my pulse. It
beats so hard and fast that my clit throbs. Sweat breaks out across my brow
as I consider my options. Should I get moving? Should I speak?
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice rising.
“Giving you a sense of urgency.”
When a jar of Vaseline appears in his hand, a shiver zips down my spine
and settles between my legs. I’ve read enough smutty books to know what
happens next. Rolling toward the knife, I fumble for its handle.
“Good girl.” He stalks toward the bed, the tent in his pants expanding.
Xero is aroused by my terror, but only if he’s the one making me scared.
He’s like an emotional vampire that feeds off my panic. The worst part is
that our early morning conversations have trained my body to get excited
by danger.
I got off on the thought of a caged beast who craved my degradation.
But I was safe in this bedroom, listening to his dirty and depraved words
while fucking myself with his dildo.
 Now, the thought of him lubricating a gun with Vaseline to stick it
somewhere obscene heats my blood. My pussy clenches and throbs, even
though every shred of my fraying common sense tells me I should be
horrified. I rock from side to side, not knowing if I’m trying to escape or
creating desperately needed friction.
Why is he watching me from so far away? He needs to come closer.
“I see lots of pretty jiggling but no cutting,” he growls, sending a shiver
of unwanted pleasure down my spine.
He closes the distance, advancing on me with menacing strides. My
heart leaps to the back of my throat. “Wait!”
I close my fingers around the knife and turn it in my bound hands.
When the sawing motion I make behind my back does nothing to the ropes,
I realize it’s upside-down.
“You have a count from ten to free yourself, or this gun gets your anal
virginity,” he murmurs, fingers brushing against my cheek, igniting a flare
of heat in my core.
Sparks ignite across my skin. My asshole clenches. “Is it loaded?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he mutters, his breath warm against
my ear, making my skin tingle.
Cold panic explodes through my chest, turning my veins into ice. With a
strangled scream, I force my fingers to flip the knife, turning its blade
toward the ropes.
My backyard lights system streams in through the window, glinting on
Xero’s gun. Ignoring the impending threat, I slice into the stubborn rope.
“Ten,” he says, his artificially darkened eyes tracking my every move,
his touch lingering on my arm, infusing me with a rush of heat.
My heart skips a beat. I make a sawing motion between my ankles,
feeling the ropes give. I would stick that knife into his hand, but that would
ruin the game. It would also incite his anger. I don’t want Angry Xero, even
if he makes me wet.
“Nine.”
“I’m trying,” I scream and quicken my pace, his fingers trailing down
my back, making my skin burn with desire.
The bastard rocks forward, his thick erection pressing into the fabric of
his pants. For a moment, I’m mesmerized by the outline of his Jacob’s
Ladder piercings until I realize they’re just a distraction.
“Eight.”
 The rope between my ankles gives way, and my legs flop to the
mattress. Circulation returns to my feet with a burst of pins and needles,
accompanied by a sharp pain. There’s no time to check if I’ve cut through
my skin. My arms are tied behind my back, and the bindings around my
wrists will be a bitch.
“Seven.”
“Fuck!”
I roll to the edge of the mattress, swing my legs to the floor, and sit up.
The knife remains between my fingers, but the angle of the ropes is
impossible. I waste precious seconds fumbling about until the blade finally
digs into the rope.
“Six,” Xero says, his hand resting on my thigh, shocking me with a jolt
of arousal.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit!
Bending over double, I saw at the ropes, ignoring the burn of my
forearm. It’s like every muscle attached to those bones has colluded to give
me tennis elbow, tendonitis, and carpal tunnel.
But I keep going to preserve the sanctity of my asshole.
“Five.”
Adrenaline surges through every blood vessel, making my skin tingle.
My focus is so amplified that the entire world disappears. It’s just me, the
knife, the rope, and the overarching threat of Xero Greaves.
Blood roars between my ears, muffling his accursed countdown. Sweat
drenches my brow, trickling down on my thighs, and my entire upper body
screams for mercy. I remain bent over, forcing my hands to continue
cutting.
He says something, his hand stroking my hair, sending a rush of
conflicting sensations through my tingling scalp, but I’m too far gone to
decipher even the simplest of words. Each agonizing motion inches me
closer to freedom. The rope frays, giving way under the blade.
So.
Fucking.
Close.
The bindings around my wrists releases, letting my arms flop down
from their forced position.
 “One,” he says.
“Fuck,” I scream.
“Good effort,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear, making my
exhausted body shiver with arousal.
He pats my head like I’m a pet, but I’m too relieved to bristle.
Exhaustion seeps into my bones, making me feel like a broken doll that’s
been mauled by a rabid dog.
Just as I’m about to dissolve into a puddle of relief, he threads his
fingers through my hair and raises my head with a jerk, making my scalp
burn.
“What?” I snap.
Those featureless brown eyes stare down at me, unblinking. Lips
twitching, he says, “You still have ropes around your wrists and ankles.”
“Meaning what?”
“Technically, you’re still restrained.”
My jaw drops. “No. My arms are free. So are my legs. If I wanted to, I
could run.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But that wasn’t the point,” I say, my voice rising.
Xero releases my hair, letting my head flop down toward my lap. “If the
men who broke into your house tied you up and tossed you in the back of
their vehicle, would you stay in place after cutting yourself free?”
“Of course not, but⁠—”
“No buts, little ghost. You failed to run in the face of a threat, which
only makes me conclude that you want to take my gun like a good girl.”
“I don’t want it,” I blurt.
“I see.”
My head snaps up. “What does that mean?”
“If you want my cock instead, you only need to ask,” he says with what
he thinks is a kind smile. “It’s all yours.”
“I…” My throat dries, and my gaze drops down to the erection pushing
through his pants. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I swallow hard. “Are you
going to give me anal?”
“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice lowering several octaves.
He knows I want it. I used to beg him for another dildo, because I
wanted to try double penetration, since Xero banned me from sticking
anything else in my pussy except tampons.
 “Tongue-tied, little ghost?” he asks, his voice light with amusement.
I glance up at him, not knowing if this is a trick. “I thought I was being
punished?”
He runs his fingers down the side of my cheek. “It will be if I don’t
allow you to come.”
“Wait.” I rise off the bed on shaky legs. “How is that even fair? Where’s
my incentive for playing your games if you keep tricking me with
technicalities?”
“You think this is a game?” His fingers slide down my neck.
My throat tightens, and my prey instincts scream at me to flee. “It is
when you keep turning me on then get an erection from watching me
struggle and panic.”
He grabs my throat and eases me back on the bed. “You forget the
purpose of this training. Tonight, I walked into an elegant house occupied
by people associated with X-Cite Media. Two of my men are scouting the
studio where they record those movies, and they say it’s staffed with at least
twelve guards.”
“How does letting you fuck me in the ass with a gun change that?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “My methods are brutal to reflect the severity
of the threat. While I’m figuring out that firm’s weaknesses and how to take
down that leader, I also need to use any method necessary to prepare you
for what’s coming.”
Prepare me for what’s coming or get pleasure from making me squirm?
I don’t voice that because he’s unpredictable.
“Then why don’t we just run away?” I ask.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Have you seen the videos on that site?”
I lower my lashes. “Not really. Everything’s behind a paywall, and I
thought it was just violent-looking porn.”
“It’s real, at least the short-term rentals. X-Cite Media is a front for
something much bigger and more dangerous than you can imagine, and I
need to prepare you for anything.”
“We can leave town. You can help me change my name⁠—”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re safe here at 13 Parisii Drive. I have people stationed by all
entrances. All you have to do is follow my lead.”
 In other words, I’m bait. Xero needs me here to lure more of those men
so he can find their leader. Bowing my head, I clench my jaw.
Xero and his minions can do what they like, but I didn’t sign up to
become a pawn in a game of deadly pornographers. I also don’t want to
become a killer.
What happened to all those promises he made to love and protect me to
the end of my days? I pictured life with Xero Greaves to be filled with fine
food, overseas travel, and sexy adventures. Why does he need me as bait
anyway? He has a whole army of trained assassins.
The discrepancy between his words and actions tears at my heart.
If I don’t speak up for myself now, I’ll be embroiled in a world of
murder, mayhem, and madness.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY

XERO
Amethyst shifts on the mattress, her gaze drifting to the dildo on her
nightstand. I tilt my head, wondering if she understands the importance of
this training. I could show her the stalker’s letters and pictures, but her mind
is unpredictable. If I allow her to fall back into delusions, she’ll become
unreachable.
I thought she might hallucinate after I took her to the basement or when
I made her practice breaking out of bindings. So far she’s been clear-headed
without her medication, and I’m reluctant to cause further mental damage.
She’s dealing with enough real threats. Dredging up pictures from a past
she can’t remember might splinter her fragile state.
On another note, my hackers looked into Amethyst’s finances. She was
right about her parents keeping her financially dependent. All the
expensive-looking items I found in her walk-in closet were all purchased by
her mother.
I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed at the items I found on her wishlist, or
even her attempts to launch a writing career based on her online fame. She
had no choice and was just trying to survive.
If I had been a better man, I would have asked the right questions. Or
taken better care of my little ghost instead of reveling in her punishment.
Now, I’m addicted to watching her squirm.
“Alright then,” she says, the amber flecks in her pretty green eyes
blazing with defiance. “If you’re going to imprison me like a princess in the
tower, then you’ll have to keep me appeased.”
 “You’re not Rapunzelita,” I say, my voice flat. “You shouldn’t need the
full moon to unlock your inner beast.”
Her lips pinch into a tight line. “She was a fictional character.”
“Some authors use stories to bare their souls,” I mutter.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Take off the ropes,” I say.
As she leans forward on the mattress and unties the bindings I placed
around her ankles, I slide off my jacket and walk toward her closet.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Getting changed.”
“But you can’t go in there.”
I turn to her and smirk. “It’s where I keep my clothes.”
She slides off the bed, pushes past me, and flings open the closet door.
Her squawk of outrage loosens a band of tension I’ve held around my chest
since the moment I heard her getting attacked.
Grabbing the dildo from her nightstand, I follow Amethyst to find her
gaping at the right side of her closet space, which is now filled with my
shirts, pants, shoes, jackets, and a bunch of items suitable for a gentleman
about town who’s just escaped Death Row.
“What have you done with my stuff?” she screeches as I set down the
toy on her mirrored dressing table.
“I sorted through the items I didn’t like and put them in boxes.”
She whirls around, her eyes flashing. “You don’t have the right to touch
my things.”
I raise a brow, daring her to elaborate, but she glances away and pouts.
That’s what I thought.
“Where are they?” she mutters.
“Cupboard under the stairs.”
Her jaw drops. “With those men?”
I place my hands on her shoulders. “In storage boxes set on shelves
three feet above ground. They’ll be perfectly safe. These crawlspaces don’t
flood.”
She walks along her side of the closet, pulling open drawers. “Where
are my costumes? And all my heels?”
“You won’t need them while you’re training.”
“Fuck this.” She rushes to the other side of the closet and yanks one of
my jackets off its hanger. “You can’t come into my life and turn it upside
down⁠—”
I grab her by the neck, making her flinch.
“When will you understand? The life you thought you had is over.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part with a gasp.
“Someone powerful sent five men after you. Five.” I punctuate the word
with a gentle shake. “Your enemy is powerful and has guards more skilled
than the assholes in the basement.”
“Let go of me,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Not until you explain, in your own words, what’s happening to you.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and jerks her head to the side, refusing to
acknowledge the harsh truth. A tear rolls down her cheek, and it takes every
effort not to trace the line of water with my tongue.
Amethyst needs to break through the delusion that I’m the biggest threat
to her life and recognize she’s in serious danger.
“Amethyst,” I bark.
Her eyes snap open.
“Tell. Me. Why. I’m. Here.”
“To ruin my life.”
“Wrong answer.”
“For revenge.”
I pause. She’s not wrong. I did, after all, convert her crawlspace into a
lair to terrorize her for retribution and sexual gratification, but she needs to
understand I no longer hold a grudge. She’s mine, and I take care of my
possessions.
“Okay. Why am I here, now?”
“Because you’re territorial.”
“Go on…”
“You came here to toy with my mind, but someone else got to me first.
They’re spoiling your fun, so you want to take them out.”
I lean into her, so we’re breathing the same air. The warmth of her lips
radiates into mine, drawing me in for a taste. Everything about this woman
is alluring, even the madness she wears as a cloak.
“Correct,” I reply. “We have a truce until every one of those bastards
threatening your life is dead.”
“And then?” she whispers, her breath quickening.
“Then every twisted fantasy we talked about will come true.”
She whimpers, the sound going straight to my cock.
 “Take off your camisole.”
She stares up at me, her eyes widening, her bottom lip trembling so
invitingly that it takes every effort not to seize it between my teeth.
Amethyst’s terror is like Marsala wine—rich, dark, and complex. I never
know which version I’ll get. The cold killer, the fainting damsel, or last
night’s crazed savage.
The more facets of her personality I uncover, the deeper I’m enthralled.
When she doesn’t move, I take my knife from her loose fingers and
slide it beneath her camisole’s lace hem.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Something we discussed last month, when you wanted to know what
I’d do if I teleported into your bedroom.”
She shivers, her pupils dilating. “But that was just talk.”
My fingers tighten around her neck. “I have seen your soul, and it
belongs to me. I have seen your fantasies, your darkest desires, the deepest
chambers of your heart. Everything you yearn for will be made real.”
As her eyes flutter shut, I slide the blade up her torso, slicing through
the silk fabric until it falls away, revealing those perfect breasts.
I run the cool metal over each nipple, making them pebble.
“Xero,” she whispers, her voice breathy. “Are you going to stick the hilt
in my pussy?”
“Topping from the bottom, little ghost?” I ask with a smirk.
Cheeks darkening, she shakes her head. “It was just a question.”
“Take off your shorts.”
She bows her head, breathing so hard and fast that I’m mesmerized by
the rise and fall of her tits. My little ghost might complain and whine, but
she’s spent her entire life sleepwalking. I’m the only man who makes her
truly awake.
My blade finds the waistband of her silk shorts, and I cut it with a single
slash. The silk fabric falls into a puddle by her feet, leaving her gloriously
naked.
“Hands on the shoe rack,” I command.
“What?”
“Do it.” I spin her around, place each of her hands on a shelf, and kick
her legs apart.
The sight of her spread out for me makes sensation rush south. My heart
pounds, my breath quickens as I take in every delicious curve and contour.
Her pert ass cheeks, glowing with red handprints, taper down into shapely
thighs that part to reveal a tantalizing peek of heaven.
Her trembling triggers every predator instinct, and the heady yet
familiar scent of her arousal wafts up, urging me to claim what’s mine.
She glances up at me over her shoulder. “Wait⁠—”
My response is a spank hard enough to make her hiss. Her ass jiggles,
so I slap the other cheek, and chuckle as her hips buck.
I reach for the dildo I left on her dressing table and flip open a jar of
something creamy.
“Wait,” she says, her voice trembling. “That’s my collagen cream. It’s
over two hundred dollars a jar.”
My eyes narrow. “Your virgin asshole deserves only the very best.”
Her jaw clicks shut.
When she doesn’t complain any further, I stick my fingers in the cool
substance, scoop out a generous amount, and circle her tight little pucker.
“I’m going to stretch your sweet little hole with this cream. Keep it nice and
supple for my cock.”
Her breath catches. “I’ve never had anyone else’s fingers up there.”
“But you’ve used the toy?” I ask.
She gives me a shaky nod.
“Did you practice like I told you?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Good girl. Then you’ll find my fingers a breeze.”
I slip one lubricated digit through the tight ring of muscle, and it feels
like being welcomed home. We both exhale long moans. How many
mornings did we spend, miles apart, exchanging this fantasy? How many
nights did I picture her trapped against me in this same position? Virtually
every single one since I received her letter.
“Greedy little ghost,” I murmur against her cheek. “You’ve been aching
for my cock.”
“Let me have it. Please.”
For a single heartbeat, I wonder if I’m standing within the prison’s blind
spot with a raging erection and my back turned to the world, imagining I’m
with Amethyst. I blink and realize it’s real. I’m out of prison. In her
bedroom closet. About to fill her sweet virgin ass.
My finger slides in and out of her greedy little hole and is soon joined
by another. Amethyst throws her head back and rolls her hips, desperate for
more.
That’s one thing she can’t fake. Her naked desire. Our sexual
compatibility. It’s the one raw, unguarded truth between us, a beacon amidst
the deceit and betrayal.
But as those tight muscles grip my fingers, a pang of sadness grips my
heart. I want Amethyst.
Desperately.
But I can’t trust her, not anymore. The woman I thought I knew, the
woman who owned my heart, turned out to be a mirage. And yet, in
moments like this, she’s utter perfection, as if the universe made her for me.
My mind drifts back to those sweet mornings, the whispered promises,
the dreams we wove of a possible future. I wanted what we had to be real. I
wanted to believe in her, in us. But the illusion shattered, leaving only this
aching void.
She lied to me, used me, but that doesn’t erase the way her body
responds to mine, the way her eyes darken with need.
I shove the sadness aside, burying it deep where it can’t interfere with
the here and now. This moment, her vulnerability, her raw desire—are
mine.
As much as it hurts, I can’t release this twisted connection. She’s mine,
even if she hasn’t realized it yet.
I lean closer, my breath mingling with hers. “Good girl,” I murmur.
“You’re taking my fingers so well.”
“More, Xero. I need it.”
I reach around with my other hand to rub her clit, and she’s soaked.
“Fuck. Look at the mess you’ve made of my fingers. You’re my perfect
little ghost.”
She exhales a strangled moan.
“If you want my cock, you’re going to lick those fingers clean.” I bring
them to her lips.
She sucks on them so hard that my knees buckle. I want to throw her
onto her knees and fuck her mouth. Come so deeply down her throat that
her breath is forever tainted by my cum. I shove aside that thought for now
and focus on her ass.
Her walls spasm around my fingers, seeming eager to be stretched.
Pulling out, I unfasten my fly and extract my cock. Even though it streams
enough precum to lubricate the slide, I coat my shaft with more of her
collagen cream.
“You ready for me, little ghost?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even as I
line up my crown with her virgin pucker.
“Yes,”
I press forward, pushing through the ring of muscle once more. Her
body gives way, sucking me into her tight, hot heat.
She gasps, her frame stiffening, her muscles clamping so hard around
my shaft that it takes every ounce of self-control not to push deeper. She’s
too fragile. Too precious. I won’t add to her trauma by pushing her body too
far.
Gritting my teeth, I wrap an arm around her waist and hold her close.
“You feel so fucking good,” I say, my lips grazing her ear. “But I need you
to relax.”
She gives me a shaky nod. “A-Alright.”
The frantic beat of her heart against mine matches the rhythm of the
muscles squeezing my cock. Every pulse draws me deeper, nearly driving
me insane.
I’ve never felt so close to another human. Never opened my heart and
soul. Our videos, letters, and daily conversations have etched this woman
into my psyche. She might have more faces than a pack of playing cards,
and there’s no guarantee that anything between us was ever real, but nobody
else matches me so completely.
Muscles relaxing, she bows her head, and I push further into her tight
heat. Lowering my lips to the juncture of her neck, I nip at her soft flesh.
“If I had fangs, I would claim you. Inject your veins with venom and
forever mark you as mine.”
I draw back, feeling her sphincter muscles tighten around my shaft,
trying to keep me in. As my cock head stretches her hole, I snap my hips
and reenter her to the hilt.
“Oh, God!” she cries.
“That’s right, little ghost, but I prefer Xero.”
I build up a rhythm of slow, deep thrusts that elicit throaty moans. Her
grip around my cock is so tight it borders on painful. Fucking her ass is
intimate, raw, intense. A paradise I never knew existed.
My hand slips from her waist and over to the dildo I left on the dressing
table. Picking it up, I guide it to her wet pussy.
 “You’re going to take my cock and my dildo,” I murmur against her
neck. “Can you do that for me, little ghost?”
She gasps, her body quivering with anticipation. “Oh, fuck.”
“That’s right. I’m going to fill your ass until it feels like I’m hitting the
back of your throat. Then I’ll slide a silicone replica of my cock into your
sweet pussy and make you speak in tongues.”
“Please,” she says through clenched teeth. “Do it.”
At her words, the last vestiges of my self-control snaps, and I give into
our shared fantasy. I push the dildo deep into her pussy, timing it with my
thrust.
Her back arches, and she releases a choked moan. “Xero.”
“Two cocks, little ghost,” I say, my voice thick with arousal. “That’s my
greedy little slut.”
I quicken the pace, taking her harder, deeper, the dual cocks moving in
sync. She squirms against my chest, gasping and moaning my name.
Her juices seep down, coating both my fingers and the base of the dildo.
She releases the shelf and digs her fingernails into the hand wrapped around
her waist.
“Good girl,” I growl against the shell of her ear. “You’re taking my
cocks so well.”
Her body trembles, and her cries become erratic as I pound into those
tight holes, driving us closer to the edge.
“You like that, don’t you?” I growl into her ear. “I wish I’d brought
another dildo to fill your mouth.”
“Xero, can I come?”
My eyes roll to the back of my head. “I love it when you ask for
permission because your pleasure is mine.”
“Yours,” she says, her voice hoarse.
“We’ll come together,” I say, the words escaping my throat in a growl.
She writhes against my chest, and her inner muscles tighten around my
cock and the dildo. Her orgasm is so close I can almost taste the change in
the air. It reminds me of how the atmosphere shifts at the onset of a
thunderstorm, only far sweeter.
“Good girl. Squeezing me so tight,” I say through clenched teeth,
clinging onto the frayed edges of my control. I’m determined not to come
first.
 Twisting the dildo, I rub the silicone Jacob’s Ladder against her g-spot,
making her gasp and twitch. “Come for me, little ghost. Now.”
She shatters around my shaft, her muscles rippling, pumping, squeezing,
milking me through my climax.
My body tenses as I explode inside her tight ass, and I continue
thrusting, riding out both our orgasms. As I reach the peak of my euphoria, I
stare down at the beautiful little creature writhing in my arms, lost in the
throes of ecstasy. Her cries echo off the walls, filling the closet with the
symphony of our mingled pleasure.
“That’s it, little ghost. I want you to come so hard you’ll wake the
dead.”
As we drift down from our orgasm, her body collapses against mine.
The dildo slips out of her pussy and lands on the floorboards with a soft
thud.
I pull her close, hugging her from behind. Amethyst is mine. Mine to
possess, mine to control, mine to please. And I will do anything, kill
anyone, to keep her safe.
Nothing can come between us now. Not Father, not X-Cite Media, not
even this mystery stalker can get between me and what’s mine.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-ONE

AMETHYST
An incessant ringing wakes me up from the most relaxing sleep I’ve
enjoyed since… ever. Last night, after fucking me senseless, Xero carried
me to the shower and cradled me to his chest.
Being with him reminded me so much of how I imagined we’d be
together while I read his heartfelt letters. For a brief moment, I allowed
myself to feel protected. I know our truce is only temporary until he’s dealt
with the evil production company. After that, he’ll return to being my worst
tormentor, and I’ll start finding body parts beneath my pillow again.
For now, I’ll bask in the afterglow. It’s a distraction from the shock of
nearly getting abducted by four crazy men and discovering that Xero
survived his execution. Once I’ve gotten my head straight, I’ll work on
making him change his mind about using me as bait.
The ringing continues, followed by frantic knocking.
“Who is that?” I croak.
Xero pulls me into his broad chest. “Ignore it.”
“What if it’s those men?”
“It isn’t.”
I elbow him in the ribs, making him grunt. “How the hell can you tell
that from the vantage point of being spooned around my back?”
“Because, little ghost, I have men watching the street and patrolling
your backyard. Not to mention the cemetery. Any more assholes coming for
you will be eliminated.”
“Amethyst Crowley,” screeches a familiar female voice. “I know you’re
inside. How dare you change those locks?”
 My heart skips a beat. “It’s my mom.”
Xero growls. “What does she want?”
I scoot to the edge of the mattress, trying to put some distance between
him and me, but he pulls me back into his chest.
“Open the door, young lady,” she yells, her voice shrill.
“Release me, or she’ll make a scene,” I hiss.
“Let her.”
“Xero.” I wriggle in his grip, trying to break free, but he’s too big, too
strong, too pigheaded to give me an inch of leeway. His deep chuckle
reverberates against my back, like he thinks my family strife is one big
joke.
“That’s it,” Mom screams. “I’m calling the police to perform a wellness
check. And a locksmith. If this is another of your psychotic episodes, you’re
going straight to an institution.”
Groaning, Xero releases his grip around my waist. “What does she
want? This woman never fails to push you away.”
I flinch at the barb. It only stings because it’s true. It’s a painful thing to
have to admit to being unloved by your own mom and dad. Everything I do
is a disappointment, from surviving the car crash I can’t remember to being
dragged out of college.
It doesn’t matter that they control nearly every aspect of my life.
Nothing is ever enough.
“I’m not leaving,” Mom screeches.
I roll out of bed, slip on a robe, and race to the door. “Stay here,” I say,
casting Xero a glare over my shoulder. “If she knows you’re alive, there’ll
be a swat team here in minutes.”
His broad grin makes my breath catch. It’s as bright as his hair, which
glows in the morning light like spun platinum. I shake off that thought.
How can a twisted soul like his be encased in such an exterior so beautiful?
If life were fair, he’d have red skin and sprout horns.
“Amethyst,” I hear Mom hissing through the letterbox.
“Coming!” I charge through the upstairs landing and down the stairs.
When the letterbox snaps shut with a dull clink, I imagine her stepping
back with a huff to settle her ruffled feathers.
My steps falter at the bottom of the stairs. The glass panels on my front
door are gone. Although it’s painted the same shade of black as before, it
looks heavier, sturdier, and without the usual wood grain.
 I rub the back of my head and frown. Did Xero mention replacing my
front door?
It’s too late to ask, so I continue forward, where there’s now a digital
lock with a touchpad and fingerprint sensor.
“Hold on a second.” I press my index finger to the scanner, but nothing
happens.
A deeper voice I don’t recognize murmurs something to Mom, but she
replies in a tone so soft that I wonder if she’s brought Uncle Clive. All her
compassion these days seems to go toward him.
It takes a few tries to realize the reader needs my thumbprint, and the
mechanism unlocks with several noisy whirrs. I pull down the handle and
open the door.
“Finally!” She strides past me into the living room, leaving behind a
cloud of perfume.
I glance into the street to see who she was talking to, but it’s empty,
save for a few figures sitting in their cars. They’re probably Xero’s people.
Closing the door, I turn toward where she’s disappeared and ask,
“Mom?”
“Come here,” she says from the living room’s interior, her voice stiff.
My heart races, and I run through everything that happened since she
turfed me out of her house. Then my heart sinks when I remember my
altercation with Dr. Saint. If this is an intervention, then she should have
brought Dad. And Myra.
I step into the living room, my pulse pounding so hard, every nerve
ending throbs with anxiety. “What’s wrong?”
Mom perches on the edge of my armchair, balancing a diamond-
encrusted Birkin bag on her knees.
“Of all the heinous things I’ve tolerated from you, this crosses the line,”
she says, her voice trembling.
“What did I do now?” I ask.
“Pornography,” she hisses through clenched teeth.
My brows rise. I know she pays my phone bill, but I didn’t think she
was keeping tabs on my digital footprint. “If it’s about that website I visited,
it was just a link I clicked⁠—”
“Don’t play ignorant with me, Amethyst Crowley,” she says, every
word etched with disgust. “I tolerated the killing because you said it was
self-defense. I even tolerated the way you humiliated me all over social
media. But this…”
She bows her head, her shoulders trembling with silent sobs.
Alarm punches me in the chest. This reminds me so much of my first
semester at college, when Mom and Dad turned up at my dorm to drive me
home. There was no talk, no explanation, just the crushing weight of their
disappointment.
“What did I do?” I whisper.
“Public nudity?” she asks, her voice breaking. “Rough sex on a
convicted murder’s grave? How could you?”
On instinct, my lips form a denial, but realization seeps through my
skull before I can utter the words. Then my jaw falls loose from its hinges,
and I gasp.
Nights ago, Xero tore off my clothes and fucked me on his grave. But I
didn’t see a single soul while we were having sex.
“How?” I whisper. “Who?”
She raises her head, her eyes venomous and sharp. “An anonymous note
came in through the mail, telling me the precious daughter I spent over a
million dollars trying to protect had finally found a profession.”
My breath quickens, and I shake my head.
“I knew writing fiction would lead you to ruin, but I never thought it
was a slippery slope to humiliating yourself on social media and doing
porn.”
Bristling, I bite back, “Will you stop being so judgmental? There’s
nothing wrong with adult content as long as it’s consensual.”
She flinches, her nostrils flaring. “What are you saying?”
“I didn’t make a movie. Besides, how do you know it was me?”
“Don’t you think I’d recognize my own daughter, even if she was
being… taken by a masked man dressed as the Grim Reaper?”
“Mom,” I snap my fingers. “Focus. What if someone impersonated me
with artificial intelligence?”
“Nonsense.”
“Isn’t that what you said about the photo I showed you of me as a child?
You’d be surprised at what they can do with AI.”
When she clamps her mouth shut, my eyes narrow. If she doesn’t
believe in AI, then that photo of a younger version of me has to be real.
 I advance on her, my fists curling. My memory of that night may be
spotty, but I won’t let her come into my home hurling accusations and then
clamming up when I need answers.
“Show me the video,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Why?”
“I want to see if it’s even real.”
With a huff, she burrows into her purse and extracts her phone. After
tapping a few icons, she fires up a video. There’s a montage from Xero’s
official funeral, which I realize was the morning after the book fair. I
couldn’t attend because he had locked me in the house.
Hundreds of mourners in black gather around the grave as the coffin is
lowered into the earth. Shivers run down my spine at the thought of who
could be inside.
My breath shallows during a time lapse, showing the graveyard going
dark, and then a large figure stepping out from behind the Grim Reaper
statue. His face is in shadows, obscured by the hood of a black leather coat,
but there’s no mistaking the pale eyes glowing in the moonlight.
It’s Xero.
Or at least his ghost version.
Betrayal punches me in the gut, and I try not to double over. Out of the
corner of my eye, Mom watches me with the diligence of a predator. This is
the woman who never looks me in full in the face because something within
my soul is too rotten for her to withstand.
My eyes burn as the movie cuts to a woman with my hair, my build, and
the clothes I wore the night those men broke into my room. She’s running
for her life, fleeing, pursued by the dark figure striding forward with
unwavering confidence.
“I can’t watch this.”
“So, it’s you, then?” she asks.
I shake my head. “It can’t be.”
In the next scene, she’s being tackled to the ground. The phone slips
from my fingers and lands on the wooden floorboard.
Mom sets down her bag, picks up the handset, and leaves it on the sofa
beside her to play. “I thought it was a rape scene at first,” she says, her
voice hoarse. “Because no woman in her right mind would consent to this
filth.”
 I breathe hard, my ears ringing, but not loud enough to muffle the
soundtrack or her vengeful words.
“Dr. Saint said some women are just unlucky and fall into patterns of
abuse. She said if it happens when they’re young enough, they sometimes
gravitate to predators.”
A tight fist squeezes my heart, sending pain radiating through my chest.
“What the hell are you saying?”
She shakes her head. “Your past is etched into your DNA. I thought you
were fighting against it, but nothing can erase the taint.”
My pulse thuds harder, faster, more frantically, as I puzzle out her
cryptic words. There’s so much to unpack. “Are you blaming me for Mr.
Lawson? Or did something else happen earlier?”
“You crave degradation, pain, and humiliation.”
“What are you talking about?” I shriek.
“I should have listened to my instincts.”
“Mom!”
She shoots out of her seat, finally looking me in the eyes. “Consider
yourself disowned. No more bail outs. No more cover-ups. No more
financial support, no more pretending you’re a broken little innocent. As of
today, I’m childless.”
My stomach plummets to the floorboards. “What the hell does that
mean?”
“I give up. I’m done. The house goes on the market tomorrow.”
Panicked thoughts race through my mind as I try to make sense of her
rant. There’s more to what she’s saying than the incident when I was
thirteen, and it’s probably related to something I did before I was ten.
Before I can even process her words, Mom is already heading toward the
door.
“Don’t leave without giving me answers.” I grab her wrist, but she
twists me into an armlock and presses me against the wall.
“I’m relieved this happened because I finally have proof I need to stop
treating you like a victim,” she snarls. “This is the last time you see me,
girl. Come to my house, and I won’t just call the police. I’ll have you
committed.”
“Let go of me.” I struggle against her, but she shoves back.
“That’s enough,” Xero’s voice booms from the stairs.
Mom jumps back with a gasp. “You!”
I freeze. What will Xero do to her if she calls the police?

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-TWO

XERO
Amethyst’s mother has more red flags than a communist rally and not
because of all that screaming. After overhearing her dismissive treatment of
the troll’s attack, I expected to find a shitload of dirt on the woman, but she
didn’t have so much as a speeding ticket. That in itself was suspicious.
Not only did someone powerful cover up the murder of her music
teacher, but the coroner’s report claimed it was a suicide. No scandal
involving Cuthbert Lawson and a young girl could be found in the New
Alderney Times, only Lawson’s meager obituary.
We checked the background of Melonie Crowley, whose records don’t
portray her as a three-dimensional person until she moved to New Alderney
to become a socialite. This is typical of people in witness protection or who
have bought a new ID, but there are no further clues to her true identity.
I swing out of bed as Amethyst lets her into the house, and put on a
hoodie and a pair of joggers. Even if the house’s deed is in Melonie’s name,
it still feels like she’s encroaching on my territory.
Mrs. Crowley’s voice carries upstairs, with her complaints about
Amethyst’s social media presence. When she mentions public sex, I slip on
my mask and walk out of the bedroom.
Who filmed Amethyst and me, and where were they hiding? The only
person I saw in the graveyard was Jynxson. He’s been with me from nearly
the beginning and would never stab me in the back.
At the mother’s spiteful words, I walk out of the bedroom and continue
through the upstairs landing to the top of the stairs. Melonie Crowley holds
Amethyst in a full nelson and is driving her into the wall.
 My nostrils flare. What kind of mother brutalizes her own daughter?
“That’s enough!” I charge down the stairs, ready to throttle the older
woman.
Melonie staggers backward, leaving Amethyst slumped against the wall.
She turns to the front door, trying to escape, but her fingerprints won’t
activate the security lock.
I gather Amethyst in my arms. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” she replies, still sounding shaken. Tears glisten in her eyes, and
her creamy skin is flushed. I’ve never seen her look so miserable.
“Go to the kitchen while I have a word with your mother.”
Her eyes widen. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about her.”
“Xero,” she whispers.
“Go!”
When she doesn’t move, I walk her down the hallway toward the
kitchen. Her gaze darts to the cupboard under the stairs, and she shudders.
“I won’t hurt her,” I murmur into her curls, “but nobody disrespects my
girl.”
She breathes hard, her head bowing. “You’d better not.”
I press a kiss on her temple and guide her into a dining chair. “Just a few
questions. Nothing more.”
After leaving Amethyst at the table, I turn to where Melonie Crowley
still scrambles at the door. There’s a phone pressed to her ear, and she’s
reciting Amethyst’s address.
“What are you doing, Mrs. Crowley?” I ask.
She whirls around, her eyes hardening. “I know who you are.”
I flash my teeth at her from behind the mask and continue stalking
toward my prey. “Go on.”
“You’re the man from the video who assaulted my daughter.”
“Assaulted?” I raise a brow, but the expression is lost behind the black
fabric. “A moment ago, you accused Amethyst of craving humiliation,
degradation, and pain. Now, you’re calling me a rapist. Make up your
mind.”
Her nostrils flare. “You don’t scare me.”
“Then you’re foolish.”
“I’ve already called the police.”
 My hand whips out and snatches her throat. “Then I’d better make what
I’m about to do quick.”
“Let go of me, you deviant—” I cut off her tirade and slam her in the
wall with twice the amount of force she used against Amethyst.
Wincing, she cries out but still manages to jab me in the ribs. The punch
barely makes an impact, but I’m impressed with her attempt to fight. She
brings her knee between my legs, but I move out of range.
“Tell me why you allow your daughter to be overmedicated.”
Her eyes widen. “What are you talking about?”
I lift her off her feet, making her gasp. “Why doesn’t Amethyst
remember anything from before the age of ten?”
She shakes her head.
“Don’t give me that car accident bullshit.”
“Who are you?” she rasps.
“I’m the one asking the questions.”
Melonie flops about, her nails digging into my fingers, trying to pry
them off her neck. Her eyes bulge, and her face darkens to a deep shade of
purple. There’s more to Amethyst’s past than a simple car accident, and
based on her mother’s level of stubbornness, what she’s hiding has to be
big.
Amethyst’s footsteps thunder down the hallway, and she grabs at my
arm. “Stop it. You’re killing her.”
“Stay out of this.”
“You can’t go around hurting people for fun,” she screams.
“Watch me.”
Sharp pain slices into my arm. My glare snaps to the source of the
disturbance, and I find Amethyst holding a knife.
I release her mother’s neck, letting her crumple to the floor, and turn to
glare at my naughty little ghost. “Why would you defend your long-time
abuser?”
Amethyst backs away, using her little kitchen knife as a shield. “Get
away from her.”
I flash her a grin. “Girls who attack their masters get punished.”
“T-Try it and I’ll carve out your eyes.”
Warmth fills my chest, and I suppress the urge to chuckle. I can’t mock
my pretty little ghost’s attempts to be ferocious. It’s this kind of fire she’ll
need to survive.
 “You bastard,” screeches a voice from behind.
A weight lands on my back. It’s Melonie scaling me like a demented
koala, trying to get me into a neck lock. Resisting the urge to throw her over
my shoulder and onto the stairs, I slam us both backward into the wall.
“Stop!” Amethyst screams, charging at me with the knife.
“That’s not very nice, little ghost.” I grab her wrist and squeeze, making
her drop her weapon. “But it’s a start. You need to activate that killer
instinct all the time. Not just when someone’s life is under threat.”
Her gaze darts to the left, just as light footsteps disappear into the living
room. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Melonie’s pathetic attempt to
gather a weapon.
She’ll probably return in a few moments brandishing a liquor bottle to
smash over my head. I’ll disarm her and continue the interrogation, but I’m
more interested in reigniting her daughter’s violent urges.
“Well, I know you’re capable of far worse,” she says through panting
breaths. “My mom might have her problems, but she doesn’t deserve your
brand of sadism.”
A gust of wind blows in from behind, drawing my attention away from
Amethyst. As I turn back toward the living room, she screams, “Mom, run!”
Shit.
Breaking into a run, I burst through the door to find Melonie escaping
through the living room window. By the time I vault across the wooden
floor, she’s already slithered out into the street.
I whirl around and charge back to the hallway. Amethyst is already
racing out through the front door in her silk gown, chasing down her
escaping mother and stopping her from disappearing into her vehicle. Mrs.
Crowley jerks her arm away and sticks a finger into Amethyst’s face. The
pair screech at each other like a pair of savage birds, filling the street with
the sound of their chaos.
Neighbors from across the road stand in their doorways, watching the
mother-daughter showdown. I skulk behind the door, debating whether I
should rush out and scoop up my little ghost.
Blood drips from my arm onto the floor, making me grimace. One
downside of allowing myself to get arrested last time was getting my DNA
into the system. Tyler has already deleted it from the FBI’s central database,
but there’s no guarantee that other parties haven’t made copies or backups.
So, I seethe behind the door, silently urging my little ghost to return.
 As if sensing my malicious intent, she turns back to the door and
grimaces.
“Amethyst?” Heavy footsteps approach from the house next door,
belonging to the flirtatious priest. “Is everything alright?”
“Tell him,” Melonie hisses. “Confess your sins.”
Amethyst turns to the priest and rubs the back of her head. “It’s nothing.
Just a family squabble.”
His brow furrows, and he glances from mother to daughter. “Are you
sure? If there’s anything I can do to help⁠—”
“Someone needs to talk sense into this girl,” Melonie snaps. “Before it’s
too late and she gets herself killed.”
The priest stands befuddled, looking like he wants to pull Amethyst into
a hug. We researched Reverend Thomas Dinsdale the moment he appeared
on the radar, and he’s clean.
His background is unremarkable, from his two-parent family in a
middle-class neighborhood to the athletic scholarship he received to study
theology at New Alderney University.
After he earned a Master's degree in Divinity, the church fast-tracked
him into the priesthood, where he served as an associate pastor at St.
Clement’s Church before being appointed to St. Anne’s in the cemetery. His
denomination allows priests to marry, but there’s no sign of a girlfriend.
And he doesn’t seem interested in men.
“Let’s talk about this inside.” Reverend Thomas ushers them toward
Mrs. Baker’s house.
I grind my teeth, resisting the urge to storm out and grab my little ghost.
At the first sight of a six-foot-six man in black, concealing his features
behind a mask, one of the assholes will call the police. Especially with
Melonie screaming that I assaulted her daughter.
Amethyst backs toward the house. “No, thank you,” she says to the
priest. “We don’t need any help.”
“You’re sure?” the reverend asks, his gaze lingering on her gown’s
neckline.
I step forward, wanting to garrote the pathetic opportunist with his
collar. Amethyst is mine.
Melonie strides to her turquoise Aston Martin. “Forty-eight hours.
That’s how long you have to vacate my house before I list it for auction.”
“You can’t do this, Mom.”
 “I should have institutionalized you a long time ago.”
Amethyst charges at her mother, still holding the knife.
“Get away from me, you psychopath.” Melonie dives into her car.
The street fills with shocked gasps, and adrenaline kicks me in the gut.
Ignoring all caution, I rush out through the door, grab Amethyst by the
waist, and lift her off her feet.
“Let go of me, you asshole!” she screeches.
Before Reverend Thomas or any other of Parisii Drive’s busybodies can
interfere, I’ve already carried her into the hallway and slammed the door
shut.
Amethyst slashes at my face as I set her down, but I grab her wrist
before the blade strikes.
“You filmed us!” she screams. “Then you posted the footage online.”
“I didn’t.”
“Stop lying.” She swipes a clawed hand at my eyes, which I also catch.
Rage twists her pretty features, and she thrashes in my grip, trying to
free her arms. When that doesn’t work, she rams her head into my
midsection.
“I hate you,” she yells. “You’re ruining my life.”
“Let it all out, little ghost,” I say.
She stomps on my foot with no impact. “How could you do this to me?
First, you skulk around my house, pretending to be a ghost, then you put
body parts under my pillow, then you delete my manuscript, and now
you’re making revenge porn?”
Her only saving grace is that she hasn’t mentioned all the men I killed in
her name.
“It wasn’t me,” I say.
“Who else would want to dress up as the Grim Reaper and ruin my
life?”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
I pull her wrists together to restrain her with one hand and lift her chin.
She glares up at me, her eyes tearing up with pent-up anger.
“Hate me if you want, little ghost. It doesn’t change the fact that you
belong to me, and I take care of what’s mine. Someone else shot that
footage, and it wasn’t me. Before you ask, my people wouldn’t do
something that would get them killed.”
 “Then who⁠—”
“Think, Amethyst,” I snarl. “Who was responsible for making you late
for our wedding?”
Her features fall, and she stares up at me through wide eyes. “The
person who sent that photo?”
I nod.
Her gaze darts to the door. “You don’t think…”
“That your mother could have sent it?” I ask. “You tell me. Is she
capable of doing something so spiteful?”
Amethyst bows her head. “No… Maybe… I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But one thing is for certain. She didn’t make that decision
to sell the house on the spur of the moment.”
Real estate prices in this suburb are now at an all-time high. Mrs.
Crowley could release a hell of a lot of equity if she sold number 13. That’s
a shitty motive, but people have done a lot worse for far less.
I now have a compelling new lead. The next time I interrogate Melonie
Crowley, I’ll make sure Amethyst doesn’t get in the way.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-THREE

AMETHYST
All signs of the person who sent that naked photo of me as a child point
to Mom. Or Uncle Clive. She was sick of me years ago, even before I killed
Mr. Lawson. Why else would she send me to a boarding school less than a
thirty-minute drive from home?
I lean against the wall, my gaze drifting to the slash I made on Xero’s
arm. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I thought she was about to end up like the men
downstairs.”
He pulls me into a half-hug. “I’m proud of you, little ghost. It’s the first
time you’ve shown some backbone when it wasn’t your life at stake.”
“What are we going to do about my mom?”
He gazes at the closed door. “We’ll pay her a visit on our terms and get
some answers about your past.”
“How are we going to avoid the police?”
“Let her try to call them. When we visit her after dark, I’ll make sure to
cut the phone lines.”
The knot in my stomach from when she hurled out those filthy
accusations twists with guilt. Setting a man like Xero on Mom is like
signing her death warrant or a permission slip to remove body parts. Even if
she is trying to scare me out of my own home, she’s still taken care of me
my entire life.
“No hurting her.”
“I promise.” He presses his lips to my temple and steers me back toward
the stairs. I’m beginning to think his definition of ‘hurt’ and mine aren’t the
same. What else could explain him grabbing her around by the throat so
callously? “But in the meantime, we’ll get dressed and change location.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want your mother or the authorities interrupting your training,
and we need to dig deeper into her past. Based on the lack of information I
found on your family, she might be connected.”
“To who?”
“That’s what I want to know,” he mutters.
The doorbell rings as we shower, and numerous voices shout through
the letterbox, demanding that we open the door. Xero already placed locks
on all the downstairs rooms, so even if someone broke in through the
windows, they couldn’t reach us upstairs.
Several minutes later, we’re both changed and walking down the stairs
with overnight bags. Xero wears his black ski mask as a precaution, but
whoever was so desperate to reach us has gone.
We continue to the cupboard under the stairs, but this time into the
space beneath the kitchen, where there’s enough headroom for Xero
because of the ground’s downward slope.
This part of the crawlspace encompasses the width of the house and is
supported by large brick pillars, but there’s an area toward the garden that’s
sectioned off to create a box room.
“What’s over there?” I ask.
“My study.”
“What’s inside?”
“Computers,” he mutters.
I walk toward it, but a low moan drifts from the other side of the wall.
Shivers skitter across my spine, and I spin around toward the source of the
sound. “Don’t tell me those men are still alive?”
“The two surviving ones are a treasure trove of information, but neither
is willing to explain why their firm was so keen to have you star in its
movie.”
“What have they said so far?”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Mostly bullshit surrounding
your social media presence. None of them will admit to sending you the
polaroid or the threatening letter.”
Shuddering, I allow Xero to guide me through a doorway that leads to
Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace. Hers is arranged like a basement storeroom, with
every wall covered in tall shelves laden with Perspex boxes containing
bottled water, groceries, and canned goods.
I glance up at the ceiling to find a network of cables and pipes enclosed
in protective covers.
“Is this how you faked the scéance?” I ask.
Xero chuckles. “What do you mean?”
“Did you use the crawlspaces to sneak into Relaney’s house, pretending
to be a vengeful ghost?”
“Yes.”
I meet his eyes, but all he does is raise his brows, daring me to
challenge him. My shoulders sag. I’m homeless, horny, and hunted by
psychopaths. The last thing I need to do is anger him over a few knocks.
“Did I ever tell you number 11 Parisii Drive was one of our first safe
houses?”
“Um…” My brow furrows. So much has happened since the night those
men attacked that I’m still reeling from all manner of heinous discoveries.
“Maybe?”
He continues to a row of shelves filled with kitchen appliances and
reaches behind a large toaster, where I can only assume there’s a hidden
lever. Sure enough, the shelf swings inward, releasing a gust of cold, musty
air.
I stare into a dark passageway leading into fuck knows where.
“This runs beneath Mrs. Baker’s backyard and stretches to the entrance
of the catacombs,” he says.
“Okay?” I reply, imagining tunnels lined with skull bones.
Kayla pulled images of the catacombs in Paris off the internet to serve
as a background while I read out Xero’s answers to the fan questions. They
were creepy as hell, and the thought of being so close to death makes every
fine hair on the back of my neck stiffen.
“Are there really catacombs running beneath the cemetery?” I ask.
“Come on. I’ll explain.”
He takes me through a tunnel he and his colleagues from the firm built
nearly a decade ago after they bought the safe house. Motion sensor lights
illuminate the way as he explains how they excavated the space in secret
and reinforced the walls with concrete and steel ribs.
I try to imagine a younger version of Xero, tunneling through the earth
with comrades by his side, but all I can muster are scenes from The Great
Escape.
“How many passageway did you dig?” I ask.
“We have three running from safe houses into the cemetery. Multiple
others stretch across the city.”
“You excavated those, too?”
He shakes his head. “The catacombs extend several miles and connect
to sewers, subways, utility passages, interconnecting basements, and
underground parking lots.”
“Are you saying you can get from one end of the city to another without
ever setting a foot above ground?”
“More or less,” he replies with a dark chuckle.
As we venture deeper, away from Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace, the
temperature drops. I lean closer into his side for safety and suppress a
shiver. “You never did get to finish your life story.”
He hums. “It’s ongoing. We’re still looking for my father, as well as the
facility where he keeps the child assassins.”
“Do you think it’s still running?”
“The last boy I poached from the graduation run said he’d come from
the facility. That was last year. He told me he’d been recruited at the age of
eight⁠—”
“Eight?” I say with a gasp, my voice echoing.
“You see why he needs to be stopped?” he snarls. “The boy also said
that none of his younger classmates had joined the academy, which could
mean anything, since my father was ousted from the firm.”
“And you think he’s still alive?”
“I have no doubt. The man is an opportunist and a cockroach who’s
probably found another use for the children too old to perform as child
assassins.”
I bow my head, my breath shallowing. “If you have such an important
mission, why are you wasting all this time on me?”
He pauses to look me full in the face, his eyes burning through mine
with an intensity that makes my heart flip. I swallow hard, expecting him to
launch into a speech about ghosting and revenge, but he cups my cheek.
“I spent seven months incarcerated. Longer, if you count the length of
my trial. You can’t imagine Death Row. I was surrounded by the shit stains
of society, and I’m not talking about the inmates. You were the purest thing
in my world.”
 “Even though I murdered someone?”
“It was a righteous killing.” He leans down, our lips nearly touching.
“You saved countless little girls from abuse, which makes you the highest
form of heroine.”
The air sizzles, and my heart pounds so hard that its vibrations reach the
outer layers of my skin. No one ever saw me as special. I had that moment
at the book fair, but all those people saw in me was my connection to Xero.
My lips tingle in anticipation of a kiss. I lean in, letting my eyes flutter
shut, but Xero draws back.
“Come, little ghost. No rest for the wicked.”
“But I thought you said⁠—”
“Three things can be right at once. First, you’re a conniving little ghost.
Second, I know you’re using me for protection and online fame. And third,
I love you, without reservation, restraint, or reason, but that doesn’t mean I
won’t crush your spirit.”
My jaw drops, and my stomach tumbles to the tunnel’s concrete floor.
His words are a knife to the gut, each one twisting deeper. How can he love
me and want to destroy me at the same time?
My cheeks heat at the accusation that I’m a user. At one point, I thought
he was my soulmate. Part of me still does. The shame is tempered by his
declaration of love, but the way he spits it out feels like a cruel joke. His
love is a double-edged sword, promising both ecstasy and agony.
“Well, I hate you,” I blurt, already cringing at sounding so clumsy.
His pale eyes soften, and his lips twitch upward into a tiny smirk.
“There will be time enough for us to hate each other later.”
He strides onward, leaving me behind. I turn around and stare into the
dark, wondering if I can make it back to Mrs. Baker’s basement. He’d
probably enjoy chasing me through a creepy tunnel and then fucking me
against the cold concrete wall.
I clench my fists, anger bubbling up to mask the hurt. He acts like he
cares, but his words scream otherwise. Is this some twisted game to him?
Playing with my heart, making me doubt every step I take? His soft eyes
and tiny smirk feel like a lie, a facade to keep me ensnared.
Shoulders sagging, I glare at his retreating figure, wishing all manner of
hateful shit on that broad back. If I’d known he’d be such an unforgiving
prick, I might not have written that first letter.
 As I watch him disappear into the shadows, I can’t help but think of all
the times I believed his sweet words, only to be met with cold reality.
Maybe I’m the fool for falling for his act, for hoping there’s still a part of
him that loves me.
But if he thinks I’ll just roll over and let him win, he’s sorely mistaken. I
straighten my shoulders, my resolve hardening. He may have power over
my body, but my spirit is still my own.
“Chop chop, little ghost.” His voice echoes from the darkness.
The lights turn off, encasing me in pitch-blackness. Ghostly fingers
swipe at my skin, activating my fight-or-flight. I race after Xero, which
activates the illumination.
“Hey!”
Up ahead, he tilts his head but doesn’t turn to meet my gaze.
“Did you ever look into my Uncle Clive?” I ask.
“Your mother’s house guest?”
I nod. “My father’s younger brother.”
“Were you close?”
“No.” I shake my head. “He just got out of jail.”
Xero halts in his tracks, his broad shoulders stiffening with the same
level of suspicion I expressed when Mom told me Uncle Clive had been
released from prison.
Turning around, he waits for me to catch up before asking, “For what?”
“That’s the thing,” I mutter. “She won’t say, but it was bad enough to
get him attacked by a mob.”
“When was he released?” He continues walking.
I sigh. “No idea, but it has to be recent.”
“Leave it with me. What’s your father’s name?”
“Lyle. Lyle Crowley.”
“Any address?” Xero asks.
“He lives with my mom.”
He pauses again, this time to place both hands on my shoulders. The
warmth of his palms seeps through my clothes but contrasts with his cold
eyes.
“When did you last see your father, Amethyst?” he asks, his voice
deceptively light.
My brows pinch at his use of my name. “I don’t know. Why do you
ask?”
 “This is important. Did you see him when you last went to Alderney
Hill?”
“Yes, but he was at work most of the time, but he came to my room one
night and called me down for dinner,” I reply. “What’s this about?”
“Think back,” he says with more bite, his fingers tightening around my
shoulders.
I wriggle within his grip, trying to dislodge his digits, but they’re more
tenacious than the claws of a predator with freshly caught prey. When his
eyes harden and bore into mine again, my breath catches.
He looks at me like I’m the unhinged one. In a moment, I expect him to
channel Myra and ask when I last took my meds.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Tell me what you remember about your father.”
The urgency in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. “He runs an
international adoption agency.”
“Its name?”
“Happy Hearts.”
“Has anyone other than you seen him recently?”
My blood runs cold. “You think I’m hallucinating him?”
“We checked the property records for the house on Alderney Hill, as
well as all the vehicles parked there. Everything is registered to Melonie
Crowley. There’s no record of Lyle.”
My mind reels, struggling to accept his claims. I want to deny them,
push them away. Mom or Dr. Saint would have mentioned something if I
hallucinated an entire father.
“But he exists. Maybe he isn’t registered for tax purposes.”
“Or he could be like my father, who’s too deeply involved in criminal
activities to want to leave a trace.”
I swallow hard, my breath turning shallow. The backs of my eyes sting
with tears. “My memories are so jumbled, and I only recently stopped
taking my medication. Can you just… give me a minute? Please?”
He nods, and I can’t bear to see the pity shining in his eyes. Dad isn’t a
figment of my imagination. I remember seeing him while I was recovering
from the accident. He used to visit my bedside and stroke my hair.
When I had to go home after Mr. Lawson died, Mom confined me to my
room. Dad would come in sometimes while she was out with her personal
trainer, demanding to know why I would sleep with a teacher.
 Years later, he stood beside Mom when they burst into my dorm at
Alderney State University, although she did most of the talking. They drove
me straight to 13 Parisii Drive, where Dr. Saint made her first house call.
But why would Xero lie about something I could disprove with a few
searches?
“Xero…” I swallow hard. “I don’t know what’s even real anymore.”
He pulls me into a hug, but the warmth of his body offers little comfort
in the cold suspicion that my delusions might go deeper than the occasional
sighting of Mr. Lawson, Sparrow and Wilder, whom I don’t even remember
from my past.
“Don’t fret, little ghost. We’ll find out the truth tonight.”

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-FOUR

AMETHYST
Xero takes me down a narrow passageway, its walls made of femur
bones and dotted with the occasional human skull. Any other time, I’d be
freaked out at the sight of so much death, but I’m now anxious as hell about
my state of mind.
How the hell could I have hallucinated an entire father? Looking back,
it was always Mom who conducted meetings with the school, and it was
Mom who drove me to college. Dad’s involvement in my life has always
been distant because he’s always been busy with work.
Right?
Xero’s gaze burns the side of my face. “What are you thinking, little
ghost?”
I lick my dry lips. “If my father didn’t exist, then what about the photo
album and his younger brother, my Uncle Clive?”
He sighs. “I’m not saying he’s a figment of your imagination. He could
be a ghost from the past.”
“Like Mr. Lawson?”
He nods, his face tightening.
The implication of his words hits like a punch to the gut. Tears sting my
eyes, and I gulp. “Don’t you think I’d know if my own father was dead?”
When his brows lift, I can tell exactly what he’s thinking. “It’s not the
same with you. Your execution was scheduled. It was in the news. And
someone showed me a video of it happening. By the way, you never
explained how you’re still alive.”
“My brother,” he says.
 “What about him?”
“He was in Alderney State at the same time, under the name John Doe.”
“But wasn’t he…” I circle my finger at my temple.
“Do you remember the subway rapist who was all over the news a few
years ago?”
I shudder. “People kept filming his attacks instead of stopping him.”
“There was so much outrage about him in the press that the public
wouldn’t have accepted a verdict of insanity. It was an election year, and the
governor wanted to appear as if he was doing his job.”
“So he got life imprisonment?” I whisper.
He nods. “The day before my execution, I arranged for four men to
focus their attacks on his face. The next day, I started a mini riot, where I
got punched in the eye⁠—”
“So he could take your place on the electric chair?” I ask.
“Clever little ghost,” he replies with a smirk.
I stare at his profile, my breath quickening. “Wasn’t that risky? What if
something went wrong?”
“There were enough of my people stationed in the prison to intervene,”
he says. “My entire organization is invested in taking down my father and
his operations.”
Heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, making me stiffen. “Who’s
there?”
“One of my people. This part of the catacombs is completely secure,”
Xero says, but pulls me into his side.
A tall man emerges from around the corner, dressed in a black hoodie
and matching jeans. He looks to be in his late twenties with olive skin, deep
mahogany hair, and classically handsome bone structure.
“There you are,” the stranger says, his gaze drifting to mine. “And
you’ve brought a guest.”
Xero’s grip around my shoulders doesn’t loosen. “Speak of the devil.
This is Jynxson, who masterminded my prison break.”
He gives me a wink and a jaunty salute. “Nice to finally meet you in the
flesh, Amethyst.”
My jaw tightens at the innuendo in his words and the way he smirks at
Xero. I can already tell Jynxson is trying to make some kind of point. A
muscle in Xero’s jaw flexes, and he steps forward, leaving me standing
behind him, but he doesn’t openly react to Jynxson’s attempt to flirt.
 “You’re supposed to be tailing the recruiter,” Xero growls.
Jynxson waves him away. “He still hasn’t left that house. I’m beginning
to think that’s his home.”
“Then why are you here?”
He reaches into his pocket and extracts his phone. “The studio released
this.”
Xero stares at the screen for several seconds before turning to glance at
me with a concerned frown.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Did you know the woman who runs the unofficial fan club?”
“That copycat, Lizzie Bath? Not really. Why?”
When the two men exchange glances, I rush to their side and stare into
the screen, immediately recognizing the banner. “This is the website that
sold a day’s access to your execution video for ninety-nine dollars.”
I continue down the home page to the latest updates and find a picture
of Lizzie Bath, her cheeks covered with mascara tears.
“What’s she doing there?” I ask, my stomach churning.
Jynxson slips the phone into his pocket. “It’s pretty gruesome.”
“I can handle it,” I say, trying not to let my voice tremble.
Xero wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Voices carry down here.
We’ll go somewhere quieter.”
My heart thuds so intensely that its vibrations make my skin throb. Xero
continues through the catacombs with Jynxson on my other side, our
footsteps echoing across the walls of bones.
It’s funny how my mind works. The sight of all those disassembled
skeletons in the slideshows Kayla made for the club made me shudder, but
I’m surrounded by thousands of piled-up bones, and all I can think of is
Lizzie’s fate. If she’s on that website, then she either participated in violent
porn or worse.
“What happened to her?” I whisper.
“Is it okay to talk about it?” Jynxson asks Xero.
“Tell her.”
He blows out a breath. “I don’t know if you’ve seen one of their videos,
but it’s a whole production. They have a prologue with context about the
victims before the main event. It was her entire social media profile, with
videos she made about the execution and the one she shot at the funeral.”
“So, she’s dead?” I ask.
 “Looks like it,” Jynxson replies with a grimace.
“How?”
“Electric chair.”
“When did that happen?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his dark hair and grimaces. “Any time from
forty-eight hours ago. You should see the set. It reminds me so much of the
penitentiary.”
One of the rapists in the crawlspace said they’d come to my house to
stage my execution. My knees buckle, but Xero’s strong arm around my
shoulder keeps me standing.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Do you think they took her when they couldn’t find me?” I whisper.
“It’s possible,” Xero replies. He turns to Jynxson. “Any activity in the
studio last night?”
“The twins say there was none.”
We continue to a large room with arched ceilings that stretch at least
twelve feet high. Cylindrical lights hang from metal rods, illuminating
concrete walls and floors. My gaze drops to a thick mat the size of my
green room.
“What’s this place?” I ask.
“You’re going to study how those men took Lizzie and work out a way
to escape them,” Xero says.
My heart flips, only to land in my plummeting stomach. “Now?”
He nods. “Now.”
I glance from Xero to Jynxson to the phone he extracts from his pocket.
“Do you still think they want me?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “But
you said you’d protect me from the studio.”
“Five of the men they sent after you have failed to return. They won’t
take that lightly. And everyone living here in the catacombs learns self-
defense.”
“But I don’t live here.”
The moment I say those words, I cringe. Xero was there when Mom not
only screamed about auctioning the house, but implied she had been
waiting for the day she could finally cut me loose. In forty-eight hours, I’ll
live nowhere.
“Are you sure about that, little ghost?”
 My insides twist into painful knots. I’m all alone. Myra is too freaked
out by the date rape and murder-suicide to deal with my troubles. Dad may
or may not exist. And Relaney is probably still behind bars for running a
cannabis farm. My only ally in the world is my stalker and his band of
assassins, who are only keeping me alive so he can get his revenge.
This is too painful, too bleak, too real. My fingers twitch toward the
overnight bag. I need a few pills to soften the edges. What am I saying? It’s
the same medication that blurred my judgment, leading me to get social-
media famous enough to attract the attention of snuff movie makers.
Slamming a lid on my self-pity, I curl my hands into fists and meet
Xero’s stern gaze.
“You’re right,” I say, mustering every ounce of bravado. “Show me
what I need to see.”
Jynxson saves us from watching the prologue. The video starts with
shots of an apartment building’s exterior before switching to footage from
the men’s body cameras as they move through the hallways.
One of them knocks on a door, holding a parcel, while the other stands
out of sight.
“Joanna Mazek?” the one at the door asks.
“Who is it?” replies a familiar voice.
“XCS with a package for you that needs signing,” he says.
“Hold on a second.”
The video cuts to the door, which swings open to reveal a middle-aged
woman with bleached blonde hair, over-plucked brows, and dark circles
beneath her eyes. It takes a moment for me to recognize this is Lizzie Bath
without all the makeup.
Her gaze drops to the parcel for a millisecond before she’s shoved
backward with a hand clamped over her mouth. After that, it’s a crazy
montage of close-ups, long shots, and mid-shots of her struggling against
her attacker. It looks like his partner took the time to set up a tripod.
Throughout this, Xero’s gaze burns holes into the side of my face. He’s
studying my reaction, seeing if I’ll break. If Lizzie died because of me, I
can’t shy away from watching. Someone has to witness what she suffered. I
keep my features in a tight mask, not wanting to show any weakness.
Lizzie’s apartment is a studio barely larger than my kitchen, with white
appliances that have yellowed over time. After gagging and restraining her,
the men throw her bound body on a threadbare sofa before rifling through
her closets.
“Are they robbing her, too?” I ask.
“You don’t know?” Xero asks.
I tear my gaze off the footage. “Know what?”
“They need the outfit and wigs she wears on camera to perform.
Otherwise, she’s just an ordinary woman who means nothing to the
viewers.”
“He’s right,” Jynxson mutters. “Xero’s execution video had the shortest
prologue because he’d already gone viral.”
In other words, they broke into Lizzie Bath’s apartment because she’s
attached to Xero’s popularity. More specifically, they went after her because
they couldn’t find me.
I sway on my feet, my chest squeezing so tightly that my lungs reduce
to a quarter of their capacity. Shallow breaths whistle in and out of my
nostrils, barely providing enough oxygen to stay upright.
Shit.
What if I jinxed Lizzie with all my resentment?
Xero’s lips graze my ears. “Focus on the restraints. What are they
using?”
“Are those zip ties?” I rasp.
“Good girl. What else?”
“They stuffed a rag into her mouth and taped it shut.”
He nods. “Anything else?”
“Scarves,” I say through clenched teeth. “They’re grabbing everything
they can to tie her up.”
“Why do you think that is?” Jynxson asks.
I glance over at Xero’s friend. “To make the video more creative?”
He makes a see-saw motion with his hand. “They don’t want to travel
with obvious restraints in case they get stopped. The less incriminating
evidence they carry, the better.”
The screen goes black, then the next scene is Lizzie fully dressed and
made up, being shoved against a mugshot board. Men dressed as officers
poke her with their batons, forcing her to face the camera and strip.
Nausea clogs my throat. All my intentions to witness Lizzie’s ordeal
waver, and I find myself whispering, “Do I have to watch this part?”
“I can increase the speed,” Jynxson says.
 “You need to understand the threat,” Xero growls. “You can’t hide away
from what’s out there or assume they’ll be satisfied with Lizzie Bath. This
could be you, and you need to be prepared.”
I want to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, and escape the
guards’ laughter and the sounds of her whimpering. But Xero is right. Even
if it’s for my peace of mind, I still need to know how to fight, and more
importantly, escape bindings.
Tears sting my eyes, and I swallow over and over, trying to force them
back. “Alright,” I rasp. “I won’t miss a single scene.”

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-FIVE

XERO
I sit beside Amethyst on an exercise mat, studying her reaction to Lizzie
Bath’s video. There’s a strip search where she’s degraded by officers and
assaulted with batons, followed by a ‘night in jail’ where the officers take
turns with her while she’s cuffed to an iron cot.
Amethyst’s breath shallows and her skin glistens with sweat. My chest
tightens. I hate for anyone other than me to make her so distressed, but this
is the only way for her to grasp the gravity of the threat. I can protect her as
long as she’s compliant, but nothing is foolproof.
The only way I can be sure Amethyst survives long enough for me to
take out her enemies is if she’s equipped with the basics of combat and
escape. Her posture shrinks, and her face leaches to the shade of her
peroxide-blonde curls. I’ve never seen her look so ghostlike.
Back on screen, the older woman passes out, and the actors slap her
awake. By the time they shave her head, both Amethyst and Lizzie’s faces
are blank. Afterward, they chain her to a shower room, where she’s
surrounded by a quartet of male prisoners for a final gang rape before the
grand finale.
“No more,” Amethyst whispers. “I’ve got the message.”
“Which is?” I ask, as a naked man in an executioner’s hood sits Lizzie
on an electric chair, where he shoves a metal probe into her vagina and
attaches crocodile clips to each nipple. After securing her body with
electrodes, he thrusts his cock in Lizzie’s mouth.
“I need to take this training seriously. Stop fighting you. Stop
complaining. Stop getting in your way.”
 “And?”
She takes her eyes off the screen. “What more do you want from me?”
“No plotting your escape.”
Her jaw clicks shut, confirming my suspicions that she was planning on
leaving. Without another word, she turns to the screen where Lizzie sits
under a metal cap with cum oozing from between her lips. Behind her, the
executioner pulls down a lever that sends a deadly current into her
twitching form.
My jaw clenches, and my veins surge with hot fury. This is what they
would have done to my Amethyst. Defiled her in multiple different ways
before executing her for fun and profit.
We’ve killed pornographers before, but never encountered anything so
well-organized. The last den we took out was a three-man operation run
from a rented apartment, where they converted each room into studios.
Amateurs compared to X-Cite Media.
The scene is so similar to John’s execution that it’s obvious they have an
insider in the prison to help with authenticity. I turn to Jynxson. “We need
to have a word with Officer McMurphy.”
“You think she’s working with them?”
“She shot the footage for my supposed execution. She could also have
helped them with the set design.”
Jynxson raises a shoulder. “Want me to pick her up?”
“Hold her in a cell. Don’t let her know it’s you.”
He nods.
A blond actor in a white coat announces Lizzie’s time of death, then
she’s unstrapped from the chair. In the next scene, four men wearing lab
coats stand around her corpse in a mortuary.
“Turn it off,” I mutter.
Amethyst squeezes her eyes shut and clutches her temples. “I don’t
want to end up like Lizzie Bath.”
“You won’t.” I place a hand on her shoulder.
“You’ll teach me to fight, right?”
I nod. “Of course.”
She swallows. “What if they send four men after me again? Or six?”
“That’s why we’ll alternate between combat and teaching you to break
through restraints.”
“Good.” She nods. “Thank you.”
 Some of the tightness in my chest loosens, knowing she’s finally going
to cooperate with the training. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Would
you like to meet my sister?”
Minutes later, Camila arrives dressed in her standard uniform of black
combat pants and an oversized hoodie. Her raven hair is tied back into a
tight bun, which matches her expression.
“You dipped out of your welcome home party,” she says, her voice
sharp with accusation.
“I had to know if he visited the grave.”
Her gaze softens. “That bastard is too slick to show his face.”
“Amethyst, this is Camila, my youngest sister.”
Amethyst’s gaze darts from me to Camila, her brow furrowing enough
to make me smirk. My sister and I share so few similarities that it’s
impossible to tell we’re related.
She’s five-two, olive-skinned, with eyes so dark that they appear black,
while my height and coloring are the opposite. Our connection is only
obvious when we’re both standing beside Isabel, who is the perfect mix of
our two extremes.
“Nice to meet you.” Camila holds out a hand. “I’m a fan of your work.”
Amethyst blinks at her, startled, before reaching out to shake. “Thank
you. I think?”
“Your social media campaigns helped create the chaos we needed to
push forward Xero’s execution,” Camila says.
When Amethyst dips her head, I pull her into my side. She cried the
morning she discovered my execution date had been brought forward,
blaming herself for stirring up trouble.
She did me a favor. I didn’t just get myself arrested to gain access to
John. Any one of my assassins, including myself, could have snuck into the
prison and shanked that psychopathic bastard. We needed to lure out Father.
I shove aside that thought, refusing to believe the old bastard is dead.
“Jynxson and I will both capture Camila. Watch all the different things she
does to escape us.”
Amethyst gives me a sharp nod and stands back. Camila springs into
action, kicking Jynxson in the shin before sprinting for the doorway.
Jynxson gives chase, catching her in seconds. He grabs her bun, but she
turns into his grip and delivers a punch to his balls.
“Watch how she moves.”
 I rush forward to intercept Camila and grab her around the arms. She
drops low, sweeps her leg beneath mine, and sends me sprawling onto the
cold cement.
As she straightens, Jynxson grabs her from behind in a chokehold.
Camila twists low and positions her body behind his, sending them both
tumbling to the floor.
Amethyst steps forward, her eyes bright with admiration. Rising off the
floor, I suppress a surge of jealousy that she’s inspired by someone who
isn’t me.
“Can I try?” she asks.
“Think you can handle me?” Jynxson struts toward her with a grin I
want to smack off his face, but Camila gets to him first with an elbow in the
ribs.
“Asshole,” my sister mutters.
Jynxson sweeps her into a hug and kisses her on the lips. I hold back my
usual snarl, not wanting to let him rile me up with PDA. He already knows
I’ll cut off his balls with a rusty knife if he breaks Camila’s heart.
“Run through the first move in slow motion for Amethyst to follow,” I
say.
Jynxson makes a show of rubbing the spot where Camila’s elbow made
contact. This is his attempt at flirting, considering I’ve seen him take a
bullet without flinching.
My sister rolls her eyes at him and steps back. This time, they go
through the motions once at an excruciating pace for Amethyst to observe
and then a second time for us to follow along.
This is first-year academy material. At least for the likes of Camila, who
spent the first thirteen years of her life living under the loving care of a
mother, even if it was within a household of snakes. Jynxson and I learned
these moves at the age of ten.
Amethyst rushes off, mirroring Camila’s attempt to escape. I catch up
with her in a few steps, grabbing a handful of her hair. She turns back into
me, her tiny fist flying toward my crotch, but I grab her wrist.
“Nice try, little ghost.”
“You’re supposed to let me punch you in the nuts,” she snaps.
“And you were supposed to take me by surprise.”
Her left arm swings up, aiming for my throat. I twist to the side,
narrowly avoiding the strike to my windpipe.
 “What was that?” I ask. “Muscle memory?”
“I learned that from Camila.” She spins out of my hold and jogs back to
my sister.
Camila didn’t demonstrate any such move, but I’m not about to stall her
progress by pointing out what might be a fluke. For the rest of the morning,
we practice the routines over and over until I’m satisfied that Amethyst can
execute them without fail.
Next, Jynxson and I attack my sister simultaneously. We run through
three different scenarios with Camila before letting Amethyst take her turn.
Even though she’s nervous, Amethyst picks up the moves too quickly
for a beginner. With each sequence, her strikes become more confident, and
her timing more precise. More importantly, she always maintains a forty-
five-degree angle to us, minimizing her blind spots and keeping us both in
her line of sight.
“You’re a natural,” Camila says.
She’s wrong. No one learns this level of situational awareness without
prior training.
I grab for Amethyst while Jynxson tries to snatch her from behind. She
kicks my shin and swings her leg backward to attack Jynxson’s kneecap.
While I’m bent over, she punches my temple and knocks me aside. In
moments, she turns to face us, ready for our next attack.
“Good job,” I say.
Amethyst’s face is covered in a sheen of sweat, and her cheeks are
flushed with exertion. My praise rolls off her back with no traces of
triumph. Watching what happened to Lizzie Bath has sharpened her resolve
better than any of my verbal warnings.
“What happens if they send more than two men?” she asks.
I cup her cheek. “Then you do your best to stay conscious and make
sure the restraints aren’t too tight. You’ll have another chance to escape
when they’re transporting you to the second location.”
“Okay,” she says, her lips tightening.
“Remember, this is just a precaution. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts. The air between us thickens
with unspoken tension. In her gaze, I detect a flicker of hope, fear, and
something else I can't quite place.
The silence stretches, heavy with the moment. Then, with a breath
through parted lips, she gives me a shaky nod.
 My heart softens. I glance away first, wondering when she crawled
under my skin.
“Take a break,” I say, my words gruff. “We’ll continue after brunch.
After dark, we’ll drive up to Alderney Hill and deal with your mother.”
Her eyes harden at the reminder, but I’m not sure which has her more
rattled: Her mother auctioning off her home or the fact her father might not
exist.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-SIX

AMETHYST
His words and the intensity of his gaze play on a loop in my mind. That
moment with Xero was a glimpse of the version of him I’d always wanted.
Part of me wants to believe he’ll always be there for me, while another
part remembers how he wants me destroyed.
Watching Xero banter with his peers was strange. Watching him eat an
entire meal was even stranger. There’s a part of me that will always believe
he’s a legend or some otherworldly creature, because my first experience of
him was through letters and then the phone.
Even when I first saw him in person, it was as a Grim Reaper-type
specter. My mind is still catching up with the fact that he’s alive—a flesh-
and-blood man with friends, family, and food needs.
My chest tightens as I struggle to make sense of my feelings. There’s
hope, undeniable and foolish, battling with the fear that he’s playing with
my heart. And underneath it all, a longing I can’t quite shake.
I want to trust him, to believe he’ll protect me, but doubt gnaws at my
resolve. If he’s lying, if this is all just another game, I don’t know if I’ll
survive.
After eating, Jynxson and Camila left to complete a mission, while Xero
returned me to the training room via a different route through the
catacombs. On the way, he picked up a bunch of supplies, including
handcuffs, ropes, and zip ties.
We’re walking through a hallway composed mostly of skulls. In
between the spaces are femurs and other arm and leg-related bones, but
they’re not bound by mortar or cement. When I ask Xero, he explains
they’re arranged in an interlocking structure which mineralized over the
centuries.
“Am I ever going to get a tour?” I ask, my voice echoing across the
walls.
“Once we’ve dealt with the immediate danger,” he replies with a smirk.
All the warmth leaves my body at the reminder of Lizzie Bath’s fate.
I’ve never seen anything so dehumanizing or inhumane, and the thought of
being taken and abused so brutally scares me more than getting the electric
chair.
When the training began, I forced myself to compartmentalize the video
and focused on defending myself from potential attackers. Now I’m
struggling not to suffocate under a creeping sense of dread.
“You’re going to kill them, right?”
He gazes down at me through those cold, pale eyes. “Slowly.”
“You won’t stop until they’re all dead.”
“I won’t.”
I exhale a long breath. “Good.”
He nods.
“What?” I ask.
“Most civilians would urge me to capture them and call the authorities,”
he says.
“Justice only exists for the powerful and rich,” I reply. “The police in
Beaumont City don’t give a shit about anything except themselves. X-Cite
media should have been reported the moment its website went live.
Someone should be able to trace them through the payment processor, but
they’re still out there, murdering people for entertainment. They need to
die.”
He pulls me into his side. “Yes, my vengeful little ghost.”
“When are you going to stop calling me that?” I mutter.
“The day you finally tether your soul to mine.”
My feet make an abrupt stop. “You still want to get married?”
His eyes narrow. “And you don’t?”
I glance down at my shoes, my insides twisting into knots. How do I
explain to Xero that I don’t want to be tied to anyone when there’s a chance
I’ll be abandoned to the wolves? I only agreed to get married because it was
the request of a man about to die.
“Shouldn’t we deal with the immediate danger?” I mumble.
 He laughs, the sound resounding through the hallway of skulls. Shivers
skitter down my spine and settle into my bones, making me wonder if I’m
swapping one form of peril for another. At times like this, it’s easy to
remember Xero has probably killed more people than everyone in X-Cite
Media put together, not to mention him having torn out a woman’s still-
beating heart.
“You forget that I am the immediate threat. I’m the phantom who sneaks
into rooms at night and punishes the unworthy. I’m the killer in the dark.”
“So, I should marry you or die?”
His fingers slide around my throat, and he eases me against the wall.
Dozens of forgotten human remains push into my back, making my heart
pound so hard that its vibrations reach his fingers. Xero glares down at me
through incandescent eyes, his angular features exaggerated in the dim
light.
“The sooner you realize you belong to me, the sooner you’ll stop
fighting your fate.”
“Which is?”
“You and me, together for eternity.” He leans so close I can smell my
spearmint toothpaste on his breath.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my jaw clenching. “But I barely even know
you.”
“You already have my heart,” he snarls, his lips grazing my ear. “You
came to me as a little damsel, begging to be saved. You bared your pretty
soul and gave me a taste of your paradise. You don’t get to take that away.”
“This is insane,” I whisper. “You can’t expect me to commit after you
terrorized me for weeks.”
“Is that right?” He releases my neck and pulls back.
My eyes snap open. Xero is already six feet away and striding down the
corridor.
“Xero?”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance from side to side, wondering if I should follow this maniac or
find my way back to Parisii Drive. Then I remember I’m soon to be
homeless. Not to mention there’s a snuff movie company after my blood.
What the hell am I doing? Xero is my only chance of getting out of this
alive… Although I’m not sure what horrors he has in store for me
afterward.
 “Xero?” I jog after him. “Wait.”
He breaks into a run and disappears around a bend, making my heart
plummet to the uneven ground. If I think too closely about what’s beneath
my feet, I won’t stop screaming for a month, but the people who built the
catacombs had to have a place to store the body’s smaller bones.
I pick up my pace and give chase through the hallways, all the while
trying not to think of skeletons. Phalanges, ribs, pelvises, spines, vertebrae,
clavicles, coccyxes, teeth. Why do I only see skulls?
Xero runs up ahead, his large body a beacon of darkness in an already
creepy corridor.
“What are you doing?” I yell, my voice carrying to goodness knows
where. “Stop.”
He darts left, and I pump my arms and legs, trying to keep up with the
insane maniac. If this is his indirect way of telling me I need him to stay
alive, he’s made his point. Xero is the devil I know, and I should stick with
him until he’s vanquished the worst of my enemies.
My steps slow toward a gap in the wall that leads to a narrow, unlit
hallway. This is where Xero disappeared, but it’s so dark here that I can
only see the first few feet of its interior. The walls here are made of much
smaller bones. I barely passed biology, but even I can tell that they’re
humerus, radius, and ulnar bones with ghostly fingers filling in the gaps.
“Xero?” I whisper.
“In here, little ghost,” he says from within the dark.
“Come out.”
He doesn’t answer.
“This isn’t funny,” I snap, but he remains silent because he’s trying to
prove a point.
I wrap my arms around my middle, wondering what the fuck I ever did
to end up trying to coax a serial killer out from the depths of a catacomb? If
someone hadn’t posted that video of me and sent the link to Mom, then I
would be safe in my own home.
If Xero hadn’t chased me through a cemetery and fucked me over a
grave, then there would be no video. If those men hadn’t stormed my house,
then Xero would have continued tormenting me from the crawlspace. If I
hadn’t gone viral on social media, then I wouldn’t have attracted X-Cite
Media. If I hadn’t posted about Xero in the first place, then I never would
have gone viral.
 Woulda, shoulda, coulda.
It’s me.
It’s all my fault.
No one put the pen in my hand and forced me to write to a man on
Death Row. That was all my doing. I felt dead after getting ghosted by
every agent who received my query letter and Rapunzelita manuscript.
Getting acknowledged by Xero made me feel alive. Now I’m using him
for protection. Even I can tell I’m being a mercenary bitch. My heart sinks.
Am I going to spend the rest of my life relying on others? It’s no wonder
Mom got tired of dealing with my BS.
“Xero, I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to dismiss your question,” I say.
Silence.
“But I don’t know if I want to get married to anyone.”
More silence.
A cold breeze blows through the deserted hallway, making me shiver. I
hug myself tighter and take a step into the narrow space.
“What do we know about each other, really?” I ask into the void.
“Marriage is such a huge commitment, especially since neither of us is
under a death sentence.”
Except me. X-Cite Media wanted it to be me in that snuff movie, getting
assaulted, abused, and executed. I only escaped their clutches because of
Xero. And now I’ve made him run away.
Shit.
How on earth do you tell a man you don’t know him well enough for a
lifelong commitment, yet still want him to risk his life to save yours?
Putting it like that, I sound extremely entitled.
I take one step into the dark, followed by another and another, until I’m
surrounded by the absence of light. Even the atmosphere changes from dry
to moist, making me wonder if I’m inhaling the water clinging to the bones.
Every inch of my skin prickles into goosebumps, and every hair on my
body stands on end. I have never, ever purposely stepped into the unknown,
yet I could be following Xero into the pathway to hell.
Raising my palms a foot in front of my face, I continue through the
dark. When my fingers reach another wall of bones, I grope around to find a
bend.
“This isn’t funny,” I mutter into the abyss.
 My voice no longer echoes because the walls are getting thinner. After
rounding a sharp corner, I look over my shoulder. Part of me expects to
crumble into salt or vanish in a puff of smoke, but all I see is more
darkness.
Needle-thin spikes of terror prick my skin, making my insides thrum.
What if this is the mouth of a labyrinth? What if the monster waiting within
these walls of bone is someone other than Xero?
“Where are you?” I scream.
The tunnels absorb the sound. I imagine them also stealing my breath
because it’s turning shallow. Until this moment, I hadn’t considered I might
be claustrophobic. Maybe it’s just a fear of mazes or a fear of being buried
alive, but if Xero doesn’t come out in the next few seconds, something
inside me will crack.
“Alright,” I say through ragged breaths. “This has gone on for long
enough. I’m turning back.”
It’s a bluff. I know it, Xero knows it, and so do all the spirits trapped in
the bones. Even my limbs know I’m bullshitting because I keep moving
forward.
What happened to Lizzie’s body after we turned off the video? Did the
actor defile her corpse? From what Jynxson said, it sounded like the video
wasn’t even finished.
I want to kill those men. Every single one of them. The bastards who
broke into her home, the monsters who raped her, the devils who arranged
the evil spectacle, and every sick fuck who paid to watch an innocent
woman’s degradation and death. They should all face a fiery fate.
But I can’t do any of that without Xero.
Hell, I can’t do anything without him.
“You win,” I say into the dark. “I’ll stop rejecting you and denying we
have a connection. Before I met you, I was just existing–hardly even living.
But you pulled me out of a stupor I’d been stuck in for years. You picked
me out of thousands of women, and I was too numb to appreciate what we
had was special, and I’m sorry.”
When Xero still doesn’t answer, I continue.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I took you for granted because I’ve
never had to work for a single thing in my life. Now, I get it. I’m lucky to
have you.”
 My chest squeezes, and my eyes sting with tears. “And you’re right. I
was ungrateful. You already do so much for me, and I haven’t given you a
word of appreciation. And I’ll understand if you want to leave me here to
fester.”
I suck in a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Xero. You’ve saved
my life more times than I can count, and I’m not just talking about the men
who want me dead. Before you, I was sleepwalking through the years and
living vicariously through a character in a manuscript.”
Still groping through the narrow hallway, I continue onward.
“And I like you a lot, but I’m not sure if it’s love or limerence. I…” I
clear my throat. “Put it this way. I don’t have the best track record with
men, but it feels different with you. Sometimes, you can love a person, but
they never really existed. They were just a figment of your imagination. I
don’t want to do that to you.”
Pinpricks of light seep through the bones, making my heart skip several
beats. I quicken my pace through the narrow hallway and turn a bend to
find the corridor opening up into a man-made tunnel, complete with
fluorescent lights.
“Xero?”
This time, I don’t expect a reply.
“Just be patient with me, okay? I need time to sift through what’s real.
Sometimes, I can’t even believe you exist.”
When I step out into the tunnel, strong arms encircle my waist from
behind, pulling me back into a hard chest. My breath hitches, and tingles
shoot down my spine.
Xero’s lips graze my ear, infusing me with a bolt of warmth. “I promise
you, I’m more real than anything you’ve ever known. Take all the time you
need, little ghost. I’ll still be here once you’ve sorted through your feelings,
but you must never leave.”
“Alright.” I melt against his larger body, my muscles liquid with relief.
“But it’s time to go,” he says.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Back to Parisii Drive. I just got a text from one of the operatives
stationed outside. Your mother has brought a removal company to empty
your house. We need to intercept them. Now.”

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-SEVEN

XERO
We arrive through the back door just as workmen carry Amethyst’s sofa
through the window. A small team is working on removing the entire door
frame, since they can’t override the security I installed.
I stride through the kitchen, cocking a shotgun with a sharp click.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The men at the door freeze. Their spokesperson, a round-faced bastard
resembling a shorn Santa Claus, raises his palms. “Calm down. We’re under
orders from the owner to change the locks and empty the house.”
“Without an eviction notice?” I ask, my lip curling with disgust.
Bald Santa studies my features. My hair is still darkened from the
temporary wax, and I’m wearing the dental prosthetics from earlier, so I’m
no longer a mirror image of my mugshot.
Amethyst pushes past me. “This is my house. I’ve lived here for six
years.”
“I don’t know about that,” he mutters.
“Call my mother,” she spits.
Bald Santa sighs. “Tell you what. Me and the boys will take a break
while you sort out your differences with the owner.”
“And you’ll return the living room furniture and put back the window
pane—along with everything else you’ve taken,” I snarl.
“Sure,” he mutters. “Whatever.”
The men pack their tools and file out via the living room and out of the
window. I clench my teeth, wondering what the hell is wrong with
Amethyst’s mother. Someone needs to inform her that twenty-four-year-old
women are free to fuck whoever they please.
Leaning into Amethyst, I murmur, “What’s the name of your
psychiatrist?”
“Why?” she asks.
“Your mother’s behavior isn’t adding up. A strict parent would have
ordered you back home, but she’s gone from overprotective to casting you
out without a cent.”
“Monica Saint. Her practice is on Main Street.”
“The one close to the Phoenix nightclub?” I ask.
She nods. “What are you going to do?”
“If I can’t question Dr. Saint personally, then we’ll download your
files.” I pull out my phone and tap out instructions to Tyler, telling him to
dredge up anything related to the Crowley family.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I glance down at her and frown. “For what?”
“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to access my records. I’ve seen
Dr. Saint since before I can remember. She knows why I lost my memory.”
A knot forms in my gut at the amount of information I’m withholding.
The letters and photos we’ve intercepted paint a picture of a child who was
institutionalized and subjected to horrific abuse, along with
electroconvulsive therapy.
I can’t share this with Amethyst until I can authenticate those pictures
with other evidence. She already has enough issues trying to sift through
reality. Adding fake images from the past, no matter how convincing, might
shatter her fragile state.
“There’s only one way to deal with your mother,” I mutter.
She whirls around, her eyes widening. “What are you talking about?”
“I just want to talk to her. Find out why she’s so determined to control
every aspect of your life or cast you out into the street.”
“Fine, but I lead.”
I grin.
“What?” she says.
“I love it when you take charge, little ghost.”
I guide her upstairs to pack her most precious items in case the removal
company returns. As much as I want to post an army of sentries around her
home, the most important thing I need to protect is Amethyst. That includes
monitoring X-Cite Media, luring out the recruiter, and digging through their
computer systems to trace who draws down all the funds.
Jynxson, Tyler, the Spring brothers, and their teams are all busy trying
to locate the power behind the snuff movies. I also have multiple people
working on getting operatives from the Moirai to defect, along with another
team following every lead they can to locate Father and his facility of child
assassins. I haven’t even considered the operatives who are bringing in
money from assassination work–our manpower is stretched thin.
We continue upstairs, where Amethyst puts together her valuables for
storage. I plan on buying the house for her when it goes up for auction, but I
don’t want her to lose anything precious. An hour later, I carry her boxes
down to the cupboard under the stairs and open the door to the space
directly beneath her living room.
“What?” she whispers, her eyes wide. “This is just like my bedroom.”
She’s exaggerating. The walls are black, as is the four-poster that
dominates the space, but that’s where the similarities end. I placed a black
leather sofa beside the bed, for relaxing during the day, and a dining table
large enough for two, where I took my meals.
“Your room is a boudoir. This is a lair.” I gesture at the skeleton in the
corner. “Look at the bones of my victims.”
She giggles. “Then what are you doing with my cushions?”
“They’re infused with your scent. I couldn’t exactly sleep in your bed
during the day,” I mutter.
She turns around, her eyes bright. “Is this where we’ll sleep until we’ve
fixed things with my mom?”
My brows rise. “I thought you found this space creepy.”
“This is a palace compared to the catacombs, and I’d sleep easier
knowing that X-Cite Media won’t reach me down here.”
Claws of guilt twang at my heartstrings. No woman of mine should ever
feel fear for anyone other than me. Those murdering bastards and their
snuff movies are distracting my little ghost.
Cupping her cheek, I gaze into her green eyes. Her pupils are so wide
that her irises are rings of emerald flames.
“I would raze the entire city to ashes if it meant keeping you safe,” I
say, meaning each fucking word. “But first, I need to gather every lowlife
who wants to do you harm.”
“You’ll let me watch them burn,” she says, her voice breathy.
 “I would hand you the canister of gasoline and let you cleanse their sins
in an almighty blaze. And I’ll sacrifice those motherfuckers as an offering
to my dark queen.”
Her eyes widen. “Me?”
“Are there any other goddesses in the room?”
She backs toward the bed, her chest heaving. I advance on Amethyst,
already picturing her bound and naked.
“You have two choices,” I say. “You can strip for me and kneel for me
on the bed, or I’ll slice through your clothes and throw you into position.”
“Wait. Why?” she says, her cheeks darkening.
“You’re about to learn how to break through zip ties.”
“And I need to be naked for that?”
“No. I need you to be naked so I can punish you for failure.”
She shivers, her fingers drifting to the zip of her hoodie. “What kind of
punishment?”
“Edging.”
“Shit.”
I chuckle, already knowing how much she hates to be sexually
frustrated. “You have a countdown from five to strip. Anything left on your
body will be sliced off, and I won’t let you come. Five.”
“Wait!”
She tears off her hoodie without even pulling on its zipper. The garment
falls to the concrete floor.
“Four.”
“That’s not even fair.”
She kicks off her boots, yanks down her panties and leggings in a single
motion, and leaves them in a puddle of fabric. Her movements are frantic
and clumsy, but then everything about her is endearing.
My gaze drops to her round ass, which only shows the barest traces of
red from her spanking, and all the blood in my head rushes south.
“Three,” I mutter, my voice thickening with desire.
Her sports bra and tank top come off next, revealing her belly and perky
breasts topped with pink nipples that are already erect. Goosebumps rise as
a draft caresses her skin.
My breath hitches. My hands itch to touch her exposed flesh, but I hold
back, wanting to savor the anticipation. I never thought Amethyst would be
so eager to get naked for me. It’s like witnessing the birth of a goddess.
 “You’re such an asshole,” she says.
“Is this your way of begging me for anal?” I ask, lifting a brow. “Two.”
With a shriek, she scrambles onto the bed and positions herself on her
hands and knees. “I did it. Please don’t punish me.”
My heart pounds in anticipation, and the pulse in my groin throbs at the
sight of Amethyst waiting so impatiently. I take in the curve of her waist,
the swell of her breasts, and the flush of both sets of cheeks. She’s never
bared herself to me like this before.
“One.”
She squirms, her ass wiggling from side to side. “Xero, I did everything
you wanted!”
“You did.” I lay a hand on her bare back, my fingers skimming skin
softer than velvet. She shivers beneath my touch, sending another surge of
arousal to my cock.
“Good girl. Now, I’ll teach you to break free of zip ties.”
She squirms on the bed, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. “What if I
can’t do it?”
“We’ll start with the basics. Turn around and put your wrists together.”
As she shifts into position, I move to the bag I discarded on the foot of
the bed and pull out a bundle of zip ties. Amethyst whimpers but doesn’t
move from her spot, and I wonder if she’s thinking about Lizzie Bath.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
She swallows, her breath quickening. “Yes.”
“This will be counter-intuitive, but if there’s no hope of fighting your
way out, then the next step is to surrender on your own terms.”
“What does that even mean?” she asks, her pretty features creasing.
“Hold out your arms to your captor in the way that most benefits you.”
Nodding, she sticks them out, with the fists facing each other. “Straight
in front of me?”
“Not quite.” I turn her hands so the palms face down and attach the zip
tie around both her wrists. “This position offers you the most amount of
slack.”
I step back, letting her turn her wrists inward, releasing the tension.
She wriggles one hand out of the zip tie, followed by her fingers. “Don’t
the attackers know this, too?”
“They do, which is why you want to create as much leeway as you can.”
I push her forearms together and attach another zip tie. “This is what you
want to avoid.”
Her plump lips form a perfect O. “I’m trapped.”
My fingers slide over her breast, and I squeeze a nipple hard enough to
make her wince. Sensation rushes to my cock, leaving me lightheaded. It’s
this kind of vision that haunted my nights in prison—a bound and naked
Amethyst, eager to fulfill my desires.
“And I’m free to take whatever I want,” I say, my voice deepening.
She shivers, her lips lifting into a smile.
“This isn’t a game.” I slap her breast, making her flinch. “You’re
supposed to be trying to escape.”
“How?” she squawks.
“Grab the loose end of the zip tie with your teeth.”
“Like this?” she asks, her eyes widening.
I nod. “Position the locking mechanism between your hands and pull it
taut.”
She shifts the zip tie into place and pulls them so tight they’re digging
into her skin.
“Well done. Now, watch me.” I raise my joined forearms above my
head and bring my arms down to my stomach, yanking my elbows so far
apart that my shoulder blades touch.
Amethyst mirrors the movement without the required force and scowls.
“What am I doing wrong?”
“Try again with more speed. Remember, your life depends on this.”
Determination hardens her gaze, and she sucks in a deep breath. This
time, when she raises her arms, her expression loses all traces of
uncertainty. I step back, watching the beginnings of her transformation. She
pulls her arms down and wrenches them apart. The zip tie breaks open with
a snap.
“I did it,” she says, her eyes widening.
“That’s my girl,” I reply with a smile. “Are you ready to try again?”
We run through the exercise once more to make sure she’s perfected the
movement, then I roll her onto her front and tie her arms behind her back.
Amethyst shivers, her breath quickening.
Her excitement is fueling my own, and my body hums with desire. I
would pound into her from behind, holding her hair like reins and making
her scream my name, but we have a whole lifetime to fuck. I only have a
window of time to teach Amethyst to survive.
 “Stay in the moment, little ghost,” I say and push her wrists together.
My fingers linger on her skin for longer than necessary as I ask, “How will
you position your arms?”
She pushes them apart, laying her fists on her ass cheeks.
“That’s right.”
I tie her up and sit back, letting her release the slack and wriggle free.
Next, we run through the exercise again before I push her wrists together
and tie the restraint tight.
The sight of her naked and tied on my bed is intoxicating enough, but
watching her struggle against the restraints is like having a hungry mouth
around my cock. Her muscles flex and strain as she tries to break her bonds,
and I can almost imagine her beneath me as I fuck her into submission.
She clenches her wrists so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “This
one is more difficult,” she mutters and rolls to the side. “Can you
demonstrate?”
It takes a heartbeat to remember this is an exercise drill and not a
private showing of the most beautiful woman in the world. With a reluctant
sigh, I bend over double with my arms raised behind my back and perform
the reverse of the first movement.
“Oh.” She shifts to the edge of the bed, drops her dainty feet on the
floor, and stands.
I step back, resisting the urge to shove her on the mattress. My cock
presses painfully against my zipper, begging for release. My mind races
with images of every possible way I will claim Amethyst, but she needs a
taste of success before I add any distracting challenges.
When her eyes meet mine, they’re shining with vitality. I can’t tell
which is driving more life into her—the impending danger or this exercise
in hope. Either way, I retain my composure. She’s more alive now than
she’s ever been in the entire time we’ve been together.
Muscles tensing, she repeats the maneuver, her arms moving in a
precise arc. The zip tie opens with a satisfying snap, and she straightens.
“I did it again!”
“Good girl.” My voice comes out huskier than intended, but desire has
broken through my restraint. I unbuckle my belt and pull it out through the
hoops.
“Next time, combine everything you’ve learned. I’m going to come at
you and try to tie you up. If you can escape me, then you’ll get a reward.”
 “And if I fail?” she asks, her gaze dropping to the belt.
I flash her my widest grin. “You may not like the punishment, but I sure
as hell will.”

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-EIGHT

AMETHYST
My muscles ache from practicing all day, but for the first time since
Jake turned up at my doorstep, I feel a semblance of control.
At least I know who wants me dead and their reasons why. And I know
I’m not being haunted by a vengeful ghost. Xero’s presence is
overwhelming enough to chase away my hallucinations, even if he is
overbearing.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful. Grateful for his continued existence.
Grateful for his protection. Grateful for his presence.
Thanks to Xero, I’m no longer alone, but I’ve lost that tiny window of
agency I had over my life when we were pen pals. I’ve gone from
overmedicated to under his thumb.
I hate feeling powerless, but something has changed. Despite my loss of
control, he makes me feel alive. Xero is the spark that lights me up even in
the darkest moments. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating.
Being with him has awakened feelings I never thought existed. A
delicious thrill, a twisted sense of connection—all of it makes me feel more
awake than I can ever remember.
And here he is, working to keep me safe, no matter how much I bitch
and moan. Even when I tire of the constant push and pull, miss the quiet
certainty I had before, or long for the simplicity of our letters, he gives me
what I need to survive, to be stronger. Or maybe it’s just another way to lose
myself.
Only time will tell.
“Get on the bed and roll onto your front,” he barks.
 Remembering this is a training exercise, I rise off the bed and back
toward the door. “Don’t touch me.”
My heart pounds with exhilaration. The most important part about
escaping bindings is not letting the bastards tie me up.
Xero stands, his massive frame taking up the entire room. He’s so tall he
has to bend his neck forward to avoid hitting the ceiling, yet the awkward
angle of his head only makes him look more sinister.
Still moving backward, I glance from side to side, looking for a weapon
to keep Xero at bay. My gaze lands on a gun lying on the dresser. Xero
lurches forward to grab it, but I’m faster.
“That’s right,” I snarl. “Stay back.”
He grins. “Are you going to shoot me, little ghost?”
“If you come any closer, I’ll fill you with bullets,” I say, my voice
trembling.
He raises his palms to shoulder height, but nothing in his expression
says he’s about to surrender. When he steps forward to close the distance,
my fingers find the trigger.
“You’re supposed to stop,” I say. “I’ve got a gun.”
“Firearms are pointless if you’re not prepared to use them.” He rushes
forward, grabs my wrist, and snatches the pistol from my trembling fingers.
My stomach lurches. “Wait. How did you⁠—”
He presses the gun into my temple. “Now, you’re at my mercy. Get on
the bed and lie on your front.”
“No,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Or I’ll shoot.”
“You won’t.”
“Why not?” he asks with a sneer.
“Because no one’s going to pay ninety-nine dollars for a movie where I
die from a gunshot wound to the head.”
He chuckles. “Clever little ghost. What are you going to do now?”
I elbow him in the rib, but it only makes him grunt. When that doesn’t
work, I spin around, grab his erection through his pants, and twist.
“Fuck,” he roars.
Warm satisfaction inflates my chest. I grapple for the gun, but he holds
it out of reach. When punching him in the chest only hurts my fists, I realize
my mistake and head toward the door.
 Xero grabs a handful of my hair, but I already know this move. Turning
back toward him, I strike at his throat. It’s enough to make him stagger back
and release his grip, so I return to the door.
It’s locked.
Shit.
Strong arms grab me around the waist and lift me off my feet. Stomach
lurching, I shriek loud enough to disturb all the skeletons in the catacombs.
Clamping a hand over my mouth, he carries me back to the bed, his grip
around my body so tight that I can’t wriggle free.
My pulse quickens, and sweat breaks out across my brow. What am I
missing? We didn’t cover this in any of today’s lessons. I bite his finger, but
the pain only makes him groan with need.
Oh, shit. I forgot he’s also a masochist.
He hurls me face-first into the mattress. Before I can even process the
impact, his large hand presses down between my shoulder blades, keeping
me pinned to the soft surface.
“Xero,” I yell into the comforter. “You’re cheating.”
He spanks my ass so hard that my muscles stiffen. Then one of his
hands parts my cheeks, exposing my not-so-virginal pucker.
“I want to split you open with my cock,” he growls. “Make you
scream.”
When he spits on my anus, my pussy clenches. What the hell is
happening, and why does my body think this is exciting?
Xero told me earlier I wouldn’t like the punishment. I need to take
control of the situation and claim my reward. Twisting to the side, I try to
roll onto my back, but a heavy weight lands on my spine.
“No moving,” he growls.
“Get fucked.”
His fingers slide down to my wet pussy. “That’s the plan.”
Frustration simmers like a kettle boiling on the stove, increasing in
intensity and heat. “How am I supposed to escape when you weigh half a
ton?”
He leans so close that his hot breath warms the side of my ear. “Girls
who survive don’t complain about the unfairness of their situations. They
act.”
I try bucking him off, but I may as well be moving a mammoth. I’m
trapped beneath his impossible weight, my muscles burning with the effort.
 My jaws clench. This exercise is bullshit. He’s rigged it so there are no
openings for me to exploit. I can’t win, so I stop fighting.
Xero’s finger circles my pucker, making every nerve ending there sing.
Then another finger reaches down to stroke my swollen clit. Arousal surges
to my core, and the muscles of my pussy clench. I exhale a shuddering
breath, trying to fight back a moan.
When he pulls my wrists together, I don’t wriggle or fight back.
Anything I do will be futile, so I let him attach the zip ties.
Xero raises my hips and forces my legs apart, so my face is in the
mattress with my ass and pussy on display.
“What a pretty little cunt,” he growls, his fingers pushing my lips apart.
“Does it taste as good as it looks?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I mutter into the cushions.
“Looks like we’ll all get a taste of her before she even reaches the
studio,” he says with a dangerous amount of bite.
“Get on with it, then.” I wiggle my ass from side to side.
The spank he delivers is so sharp that pain explodes across my skin,
gathering directly to my clit. I hiss through my teeth, my eyes watering.
Shit. He didn’t even spank me this hard when I threw cereal in his face.
He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling it tight enough to sear my follicles.
“I know what you’re doing, little ghost, and it won’t work.”
“Oh?” I ask, trying to conceal the pain. “And what’s that?”
“Trying to frustrate me.” He gives my head a little shake to punctuate
his point. “You think you’re safe because I swore to protect you from those
bastards, but no one’s here to protect you from me. Now, break through
these zip ties and fight for your life.”
“Or what?” I snap. “You’ll fuck me hard and fast with your huge,
pierced cock? Oh, no.”
“Not quite,” he says in a low growl that makes every fine hair on the
back of my neck stand on end. Something cool and metallic slides up my
inner thigh, sending a shiver through my entire body.
My pussy clenches.
He’s going to fuck me with the gun.
Just like that filthy book where the villain forced her to play pussy
roulette. Just like the thirst traps where the masked man brandishes a
weapon he wants to use on the viewer as a sex toy.
 I part my thighs, my breath quickening, the muscles in my pussy
quivering at the prospect of being degraded by an insane serial killer who
broke out of Death Row.
The pulse behind my clit pounds so hard that my pussy feels like a raw
nerve. Xero doesn’t know who he’s messing with. This is so unbelievably
hot.
“Take me seriously, little ghost,” he snarls, his voice dropping even
lower.
Shivers scatter up and down my spine, settling in my quivering core. He
doesn’t realize how many times I’ve stroked myself to oblivion from this
fantasy.
When the cold metal slides on my labia, I moan.
Xero chuckles, the sound harsh. “Do you think I forgot the part of our
sex contract where you underlined gunplay? Or how you’d come extra hard
every time I mentioned pounding your perfect pussy with my pistol?”
I shake my head, but that only earns me another spank.
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarls. “Beak through these zip ties or face cruel
and unusual punishment.”
“No,” I snap. “I’m tired of these exercises. You keep switching up on
me and adding things I don’t know how to combat.”
“Explain.” He pulls away the gun.
“How can I fight when you’ve lifted me off my feet or if you’re
crushing me with your weight?”
He exhales. It’s one of those strangled sounds people make when
they’re trying to hold back a tirade. “There isn’t enough time in the world
for me to teach you every single scenario. You have to improvise.”
“Oh? And how am I going to think outside the box with only a day’s
training and against a psycho who can counter my every move?”
His hand closes in around the back of my neck, and he lifts my head off
the mattress to glare into my eyes. I’ve never seen him look so furious, not
even when he was swinging the ax on my attackers. If filthy looks could
kill, then I’d already be sashimi.
“Attitudes like that will get you captured and killed,” he says through
clenched teeth, looking so ferocious that I can barely breathe. “You have a
count of five to comply, or else. One.”
He’s bluffing.
 A man like Xero Greaves wouldn’t kill me over something so trivial,
not when he wants to keep me at his side to torment for an eternity.
If I continue holding out, I’ll frustrate him enough to run through some
more training scenarios.
“Give it your best shot,” I say with a smirk.
“Two.”
His footsteps retreat toward the door, confirming my suspicions. This is
where he grounds me or puts me in a time-out.
“Three.”
At the sound of something snapping, I raise my head. Xero bends with
his back to me, facing the skeleton.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He turns around, holding an entire leg. “Detaching this femur from the
patella. Four.”
My breath catches, and my heart slams against its cage. Terror snakes
up my spine and around my ribs, its coils squeezing my lungs.
“Why?” I rasp.
He advances on me with a grin, those cold blue eyes sparkling with
malice. My prey instincts scream at me to break free of the zip ties before
he reaches five, but morbid curiosity keeps me rooted to the mattress.
“You already know what’s going to happen,” he says as he drops the
shin and foot bones to the floor with a terrifying thud. “Five.”
Oh.
Shit.
“Xero,” I rasp. “Think about this for a minute. You’ve made your point.
I’ll be good, okay?”
“Time’s up, little ghost.” He raises the thigh bone. “When I give you an
order, you’ll remember that I carry out all my threats.”
I raise my upper body off the mattress, trying to escape, but Xero rushes
to my side and grabs my throat.
“You can take this femur like a good girl, or you can take it like a bad
one. It makes no difference to me. Either way, this bone is going deep into
your cunt.”
His words rattle through my skull, making me rethink every life choice
that got me to this moment. Bitterness coats my tongue and I swallow hard,
my sinuses filling with the coppery scent of fear.
“Xero, please.”
 Ignoring me, he walks around the bed, still clutching that infernal bone.
I shuffle to the other side, trying to get away, but he grabs my ankle and
yanks me back.
With a scream, I skid across the mattress, my nipples hardening as they
graze over the cushions he stole from my room.
“No running away now, little ghost.”
“You’re getting off on this,” I snarl. “You sick freak.”
“I don’t see you breaking out of the zip ties,” he says, his voice
thickening with lust.
Something round and smooth presses into my entrance, and my body
goes rigid. It’s cool and hard, and I can already tell it’s the bone.
My heart pounds so fast its vibrations reach my pussy, which pulses
against the foul object he’s running up and down my soaking slit. The wet
noises are so obscene that I can’t believe they’re coming from me. When
the bone grazes my clit, it feels like a lightning rod delivering volts of
ecstasy.
What the hell is wrong with my body? Doesn’t it realize Xero is using
me to desecrate a corpse?
“This is so wrong,” I say, my voice breathy. “Not even you can be this
perverted. Have some respect for the dead.”
He only laughs. “If you want me to stop, you know exactly what to do.”
“Fuck you,” I scream.
He pushes the femur into my pussy, but it’s so oddly shaped that it feels
like he’s splitting me in two. Its broad surface has no give and is wider than
even Xero’s cock.
Pain and pleasure mingle until I’m lost in a humiliating storm, my lips
parting with a guttural moan. The bone stretches my pussy beyond what’s
natural, making my muscles fight to accommodate this ghastly girth.
“Xero,” I croak.
“This is what you want,” he says through panting breaths as he pushes
the bone deeper into my pussy.
Its uneven surface drags against every pleasure center, igniting violent
shocks of pleasure. I close my eyes, my entire body falling limp at the
excruciating sensation of being filled with something so foul.
Xero Greaves is fucking me with a human bone he probably picked up
from the catacombs.
“Oh, God,” I moan.
 “God isn’t in this crawlspace with us, but I’m about to make you pray
for forgiveness.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I’m determined not to cry. I’ve never felt so
sullied, never felt so stuffed.
“You’re taking this femur so well.”
“Fuck off,” I yell.
“I was going to rub your clit to help you along,” he growls into my ear.
“But thanks to that little outburst, you’ll have to make do with the bone.”
“I hate you.”
“Say that again.” He pushes the bone deeper.
“I hate you!”
“I hate you too,” he says with so much affection that I wonder if he even
understands the word.
He pushes the bone in and out, dragging its knobbly surface back and
forth against my g-spot. Pressure builds up in my core, making me clench
my teeth.
I don’t want to climax from a stranger’s remains. That would make me a
necrophiliac. He’s the twisted pervert, not me.
“Please,” I rasp, the words coming out stuttered. “Touch me. Please.”
“What a transparent little ghost,” he says, his voice light with
amusement. “Trying to hide the reason for your orgasm. When you think
back about this moment, you’ll remember getting pleasure from this femur,
not my fingers.”
His hateful words fill my ears, making them ring with shame. The
pleasure intensifies, threatening to push me over the edge, but I refuse to
give in to something so depraved.
“You could end this at any time by breaking through the zip ties, yet you
won’t,” he says.
“I can’t.”
His hateful laugh makes me shiver. “Lie to yourself, little ghost, but you
can’t lie to me. We ran through this exercise twice.”
I want to push my elbows apart, but I’m so close to orgasming that my
body won’t cooperate. My mind is teetering on the brink of madness, fueled
by a cocktail of ecstasy, denial, and shame.
My hips move without my permission in counterpoint to the bone,
increasing the friction. Maybe I can allow myself a quiet orgasm, just so I
can get my mind straight.
 “Dirty little ghost. So eager to fuck that she’ll rut against a dry old
femur.”
Heat surges through my veins, but I ignore his taunts. I want to snap the
bone in half and stick it through his heart.
Pleasure builds and builds until it’s a roaring, raging storm in my core.
A moan tears from my throat, and my hips buck violently, chasing every
degrading sensation. An orgasm rips through me like a tsunami, tearing
apart the woman I once was and replacing her with someone I barely
recognize.
I gasp, my body convulsing with alternating waves of humiliation and
rapture so intense that they border on pain.
“Filthy little girl,” Xero says, his voice mocking. “Did the sight of all
those bones turn you on?”
I shake my head, wanting to deny his cruel accusation, but another burst
of pleasure steals my breath. My traitorous hips grind against the bone,
drawing out the last dregs of sensation until I’m a shuddering heap of
satisfaction and shame.
“How was it?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.
“Better than your puny cock,” I snap back.
He rolls me onto my side and glares down into my eyes like he’s about
to reap my soul. Light shines through his darkened hair, making him look
otherworldly.
My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of fear, confusion, and a growing
sense of shame.
“Did you think I’d allow anything in your pussy that didn’t belong to
me?” he snarls.
“What are you talking about?” I whisper, my eyes widening.
“That over there is a 3D print.” He nods toward the skeleton hanging in
the corner.
My jaw drops, a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over my senses
—relief, disgust, and a twisted sense of disappointment. “It’s plastic?”
He smirks. “Ceramic. Disappointed?”
Humiliation spreads across my cheeks, and my jaw clicks shut. I can’t
believe he tricked me into enjoying something so depraved.
“One day,” I say, my voice trembling with rage. “I’ll have you begging
for mercy, pleading for your life. Then, I’ll remind you of this moment and
kill you.”
 I shiver, even as I say these hateful words. Part of me wants to see him
humbled, yet another part of me is horrified at my own thoughts.
What the hell is Xero doing? This asshole is warping my personality
into something I don’t recognize.
He chuckles. “I’d like to see you try.”
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” I reply through clenched
teeth.
“No, but I’m dying to meet her,” he says, his lips lifting into a smirk.

OceanofPDF.com
 EIGHTY-NINE

XERO
Amethyst doesn’t elaborate on how she plans on making me beg for my
life. In her defense, it’s difficult to form words with my cock down her
throat and my leather belt around her neck, but her eyes burn with enough
murderous intent to make me spray a load over her face.
She seethes in the shower, fumes in the front seat of my car, and sulks
as we sneak around the back of her mother’s mansion in Alderney Hill. I
visited it multiple times while Amethyst hid here after the incidents with the
embalmed corpse.
According to the property records, Melonie Crowley purchased the
building fourteen years ago from a company that was owned by Enzo
Montesano. He’s the former don of New Alderney who died from an
unfortunate heart attack, leaving his most lucrative assets to his second-in-
command, Frederic Capello.
I met Enzo’s eldest son, Roman, on Death Row, where he languishes for
a crime he claims he didn’t commit. Montesano was one of the few inmates
who thanked me properly for all the benefits the fan club negotiated. His
housekeeper’s bruttiboni is insanely delicious.
The interior lights are off, which could mean anything at this time of the
night, but lamp posts illuminate the house’s garden and well-kept facade. It
doesn’t matter because we’ve looped their security feed to broadcast
footage from last night.
Amethyst breaks away from me as we approach the kitchen door and
heads toward a garden maze consisting of two-foot-tall shrubs. “Mom
always leaves a key beneath a stone, but I can’t remember where.”
 “I have one.” I unlock the door.
“What?” she hisses.
I beckon her closer. “It wasn’t difficult to make a copy after the first
time I broke in. Come on.”
With a huff, she traipses back, her features held in a tight mask. I wrap
an arm around her shoulder, lean into her ear and murmur, “Are you pissed
because you wish I’d used a bone I plucked from the catacombs? Because if
your kinks extend to osteophilia, you and I might have a problem.”
“Shut up.” She elbows me in the ribs and steps into the mud room.
It’s a small chamber between the kitchen and the outside, lined with tall
shelves for hats, coat hooks, and a bench where a gardener can take off their
boots and slide them underneath for easy storage.
Melonie Crowley might be a terrible mother, but the woman has
exquisite taste. We continue through the kitchen in the dark, through a
wood-paneled hallway, and up the stairs. Amethyst leads the way through
her home, even though I’ve committed its layout to memory.
She pauses at the top of the stairs and points a knife between my eyes.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” she hisses. “I mean it.”
“You’re the only woman I ever want to defile,” I say with my hand on
my heart. “It’s only ever been you.”
Her lips tighten, even though I meant every word. As she continues
toward her mother’s bedroom, I reach into my pocket for the duct tape. The
plan is to disable the harpy and demand answers about Amethyst’s missing
memories. I won’t dissuade her from putting 13 Parisii Drive on the market
because I want to buy it and sever any control the woman has over my little
ghost.
Amethyst opens the bedroom door and stills in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“She’s not there.”
“You’re sure?” I peer over her shoulder at an unmade bed. “Get behind
me.”
I creep inside, with my senses alert. When I place a hand on the
mattress, the sheet is cold. “Looks like she hasn’t yet come home. Does she
have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Amethyst says, sounding scandalized. “She’s married to my dad.”
I whirl around, my brow rising. “Have you remembered anything?”
She steps back and frowns. “No?”
 “You said he lives here. Show me evidence he still exists.”
She rubs the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “Last time I checked,
his clothes weren’t in the closet, but there are photo albums.”
“Where?”
She walks around the four-poster bed to a bookshelf set within an
alcove and pulls out a leather-bound tome. “This is the one,” she says, her
voice breathy with nerves. “The last time I looked, I found photos of my
dad.”
Joining her at the shelf, I take the album along with two similar-looking
items. After checking the bookshelves for hidden compartments, I ask, “Is
there anything else we need to bring back with us?”
She glances around. “My dad’s things are in the spare room.”
“Show me.”
I follow her out into the hallway to a door at the far end of the house.
Inside is a simple room with a twin-sized bed, a wooden desk, and an
armchair in the corner. She opens a wardrobe that’s empty, save for a single
outfit hung on wire hangers.
Her shoulders sag. “Oh.”
“What do you see?”
“I think this belongs to my Uncle Clive.”
“What did you see the last time?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
“A closet full of tailor-made clothes. Lots of shoes. Shirts, still in their
packaging.” Her voice catches. “Did I hallucinate them, too?”
“Come here,” I say with a sigh.
She walks toward me with her head bowed, and I pull her into a hug.
“You were under a lot of stress when you came here. I acknowledge my
part in that.”
Pulling back, she stares up at me through glistening eyes. “I still can’t
tell what’s real.”
My heart sinks at the distress she must be feeling, realizing the parent
she thought she knew was just an illusion. A loss like that must leave the
same gaping hole as a bereavement. Losing faith in her senses has to be
equally as disorientating.
“I’m real. If you see anything that doesn’t look right, point it out to me
and I’ll help you understand it.”
“Okay,” she replies with a gentle nod.
“Is there anything else you’d like to take from this house?”
 She shakes her head, loosening a tear that trickles down her cheek. I
brush it away with the pad of my thumb, my insides twisting.
Did I have to be such a heartless bastard? If I had taken just Amethyst’s
address instead of staying behind to coax that assistant into the death she
had coming, I would have arrived at Parisii Drive before the first man even
attacked.
I should have confronted Amethyst about the merchandise and the book
deal, explaining that I didn’t want her monetizing our relationship. We
could have dealt with the threat of X-Cite Media without adding extra
trauma.
My psyche is so accustomed to slow revenge that I targeted her biggest
weakness: her fragile mental state. The moment I realized she thought I was
a hallucination, I doubled down and retrieved the corpse of her attacker.
I exploited her vulnerability, wove a twisted reality to alter her
perceptions, making me no different from Father. As I gaze into her tear-
filled eyes, I’m reminded of my own struggles with a shattered mind—the
pain, bitterness, and helplessness of being deceived.
My actions have brought back her tenuous grasp on sanity, all because
of my dented ego. Is it any wonder she doesn’t fully cooperate with her
training? She’s a civilian, not a seasoned operative.
“Amethyst, I’m sorry,” I rasp, my throat raw at having to say such
hollow words. “This is my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks. “You’re protecting me.”
I’ve gaslighted her into believing I’m a hero, when she deserves so
much better.
“Come on. Let’s return to your home.”
“What are we going to do after it’s auctioned? Live in one of your other
places?”
“The safe houses, you mean?” I ask and walk her out into the hallway.
“Yeah.”
“These days, we only use them for storage and deliveries,” I mutter.
“Most of us live underground.”
“In the catacombs?”
“And basement apartments spread out across the city,” I reply with a
smile.
We continue down the stairs into her mother’s study, where we scoop up
a family photo and a pile of letters from the desk. After checking the entire
downstairs for clues about Amethyst’s past and finding nothing, we leave
the house and walk through the grounds toward the car.
I drive back to Parisii Cemetery in silence, casting Amethyst furtive
glances as she pours over the photo album. Every so often, I catch glimpses
of a happy, dark-haired couple in the photos, performing family activities
with their young daughter.
“Do you remember any of this?” I ask.
“It’s still blank,” she mutters.
At a stop light, she shows me the last picture, where Melonie Crowley
stands outside a casino with a handsome, dark-haired man. “This is the
latest photo I have of them. My dad looks exactly the same.”
“It’s at least five years old,” I reply.
“How can you tell?” Amethyst looks down and holds the page closer to
her face, as if looking for a timestamp or signs of aging she’d missed.
“The building behind them says Casino Montesano.”
“So?”
“It’s been the Capello Casino for four years.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Roman Montesano was in the cell opposite mine on Death Row. I
researched the hell out of that guy.”
“Oh.” She gulps. “Why?”
“I told him I headed an organization of my own and asked if he wanted
his casino back. Helping a man like that would have been a lucrative job.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he had it covered.”
“And did he?”
“Who knows?” I mutter. “Montesano isn’t going anywhere, and
someone else still owns his casino.”
My phone rings. I check the caller display to find Tyler on the screen.
“Report,” I say.
“The recruiter texted. He spoke to his boss about your proposal, and
they’re not recruiting new talent,” Tyler says. “Although you’re welcome to
submit videos for a revenue share arrangement.”
“Fuck,” I growl. “Any progress on accessing their systems?”
“Not really,” he mumbles. “They’re tightly sealed. More secure than the
Pentagon. We keep getting bounced back before we can even attempt a
breach. I’m working on it, but their protocols are insane.”
 I grit my teeth. “We’ll find another way. Did you at least get into his
phone?”
“Yeah. His name is Harlan Stills, and he lives inside his place of
employment. No family, no significant other, and no social life outside
working for X-Cite Media.”
“That could be his work phone,” I mutter.
“It’s personal. His superiors would be appalled he’s undermining their
security using his work phone to hook up with underage boys.”
“Good lord.”
“Don’t worry. We already have a profile chatting with him as we speak,
and let me tell you… I wasn’t impressed with the dick pics.”
“Lure him out for a meeting.”
“Working on it, boss,” Tyler says before hanging up.
Amethyst stares at the side of my face, her features tense. “Do you think
he’s recruiting children on the internet for his videos?”
“I don’t think a company as careful as X-Cite Media would use such
publicly trackable methods, but I can tell you one thing… Harlan Stills
won’t live long enough to threaten another kid’s life.”
It’s time to make a move, crack some heads, and destroy this vile
operation from within. Not just for the woman I love, but for every victim
who ever fell prey to those monsters.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY

AMETHYST
Xero is determined to keep me off-balance. One minute, he’s
overbearing and rude. The next, he’s loving.The only consistent thing about
him is that he always takes a different route home. This time, we return to
my house’s crawlspace via a marble mausoleum.
I knew they had doors, but I had no idea people could enter unless they
were depositing remains. We walk in through an arched entrance, our
footsteps echoing off the stone walls.
I avert my gaze from rows of coffins fit into openings in the walls,
trying to ignore the chill running down my spine. Cobwebs cling to every
corner, casting an ominous aura. A ghostly breeze blows through, making
me clutch at my chest.
Xero’s phone light illuminates the way, and I cling to his side with both
arms wrapped around his biceps.
“Scared, little ghost?” he asks.
I shiver. “I keep waiting for something to jump out of the shadows,
accusing me of a crime I can’t remember.”
“We’ll unlock your memories,” he murmurs.
“How?”
“I sent someone to your psychiatrist’s office to look up your records.
Once we have them, you can read up about your past.”
Relief escapes my lungs in a long breath. “You’d do that for me?”
Xero pauses at the end of the walkway, where there’s an iron staircase
leading down to goodness-knows-where. Slender beams of moonlight shine
in from the high windows, accentuating his masculine bone structure.
 “Amethyst, I would crack open a thousand heads to get a glimpse of
your past.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“You’re my sweetest obsession. From the moment I knew you existed,
I’ve been addicted. I would slaughter every man who tried to keep me from
possessing you.”
His gaze is so intense that it’s almost unbearable, yet I can’t tear my
eyes away. It’s as if his heated stare has the power to sear through my flesh
and render my bones to ash.
Shadows flicker across his chiseled features, making him seem
otherworldly—almost divine. My heart thuds, and I struggle to maintain my
composure. His presence is so overwhelming that I can’t breathe. My legs
tremble so much I can barely hold up my own weight.
When he reaches out and brushes a stray curl off my face, his touch
sends a zing of sensation that goes straight to my core. My arousal surges,
making my knees buckle. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me
into his broad chest.
“I’ve got you, little ghost,” he says, his deep voice echoing across the
mausoleum walls.
It’s too much. I’m powerless against Xero’s allure. All I want to do is
give in to his irresistible charm, even though part of me knows it would be a
mistake. How can I trust my instincts when I can’t even trust my most basic
senses?
Breaking away from him, I walk backward, down the stairs, my hands
gripping the iron banister.
“What are you even saying?” My words come out so hoarse that I
barely recognize them as my own.
“You’re mine. Mine until the end of time. Mine until the sun goes
supernova, and the moon crumbles to dust. Mine until the entire universe is
reduced to atoms. And even when there’s nothing left of existence but mere
echoes, my soul will reach out from the void to find yours.”
He descends toward me like a specter, our height difference exaggerated
by the stairs. I feel so small, so weak, so insignificant, so undeserving of
such a grandiose declaration.
“Xero, this is insane,” I say, my voice breathy.
His chest rumbles with a deep chuckle that resounds across the stone
walls. “Is it so hard to believe?”
 “No one has ever…” I reach the bottom of the stairs and lower my
lashes. “Well, you know my past.”
“Don’t let some unworthy bastard dictate your value,” he growls. “That
man was too blind to see your worth, your strength, the beauty of your
spirit.”
I bow my head, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words. “All my
life, I’ve been a burden,” I murmur. “Someone who has sleepwalked from
one messy situation to another. Life isn’t a fairy tale, and handsome princes
don’t exist. The moment I become too much trouble, you’ll leave.”
“Don’t compare me to your mother,” he growls.
My head snaps up, and I meet his eyes, which are deep pools of black
ringed with electric blue.
“That woman is superficial, brittle, weak. She’s too vain and shallow to
give you the love you deserve.”
“Maybe she’s tired of covering up my murders,” I mutter.
“Do you think I give a shit about something as trivial as a few corpses?”
he asks with a crooked smile. “Don’t forget, I spent a year cleaning up my
firm’s kills.”
I huff a laugh. “That’s true.”
“You forget that I like a woman with blood on her hands.”
Warmth fills my chest, and my heart flutters. “What if I’m a compulsive
killer?”
He presses me tighter against his chest. “If you want to kill assholes, I’ll
be there at your side with a rag in one hand to wipe down your fingerprints
and a shovel in the other to bury the carcasses.”
I chuckle. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Maybe I am, but nothing you could ever do would make me recoil.”
He cups the side of my face and brings his lips close to mine. “I’m not
afraid of your demons. I can’t wait to set them free.”
My heart pounds so hard, I swear it’s trying to break through my
ribcage and nestle into his chest. I’ve never felt so accepted or so seen.
Nothing I can ever do could drive him away, and knowing that gives me a
strange sort of security. For the first time in my entire life, I feel loved,
protected, special.
Even when I was with Mr. Lawson, a large part of me knew it was
wrong. He never took me out to eat, never introduced me to any of his
friends, or even allowed me to use his first name. The man was always so
paranoid I would slip up and reveal our secret relationship.
Xero wanted the whole world to know we were in love. He made me the
president of his official fan club, wrote about me in his responses to the
fans, and introduced me to his sister. Not to mention the great efforts he’s
making to destroy an evil organization that wants me dead.
“Is this love?” I whisper against his lips.
“Love? That’s too bland to describe what’s in my heart. You’re my
North Star, my guiding light, my entire purpose. I’m obsessed, addicted,
compelled to worship at your feet, if only to sate the hunger inside me only
you can quell.”
“Xero—”
His lips crash down on mine with a kiss that steals my breath, and his
fingers tangle into my curls, holding my head in place. He devours my
mouth, his tongue twisting around mine to explore every crevice and stoke
the flames of my arousal.
My knees buckle, and I fall against him, feeling the press of his long,
hard cock.
“See what you do to me,” he growls into the kiss. “I can’t function,
knowing you’re so close. If I had the choice, I’d be inside you every hour of
the day.”
“Do it,” I say.
He raises a brow. “Now?”
I nod.
He sweeps an arm across the stone room. “Here?”
I turn in a circle, finally taking in my surroundings. The lower level
floor of the mausoleum is more spacious than upstairs, containing two
ornate marble coffins laid side by side, with a stone seating area around the
edges.
Between them is a walkway that leads to a decorative arch. Sconces
hang on the walls, each holding unlit candles. With Xero here to protect me
from stray ghosts, I can appreciate that it’s creepy, yet romantic.
“Yes,” I say, my gaze meeting his. “Right here.”
He advances on me, his hands encircling my waist. He walks me
backward to one of the stone coffins, his eyes shining with desire.
“Is anyone buried inside there?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
 “No.”
He lifts me to the coffin’s ledge, so I’m sitting atop its marble surface.
Cold seeps through the fabric of my skirt and stockings, making me fidget.
Easing down my upper body, Xero smooths his hands up my thighs, and
pushes the fabric up around my waist.
“Open for me,” he says, that deep voice curling around my senses like
smoke.
Even though I’m wearing a fitted black leather bodice with a zip down
the front, and a matching black jacket with gloves, I still manage to shiver. I
part my thighs, my breath hitching as his warm fingers skim my panties’
lace trim.
I stare up into his darkening eyes, my heart pounding hard enough to
rattle the marble.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re laid out for me like my own little
corpse bride.” Xero reaches for the zipper and pulls, releasing my breasts.
Cool air swirls around my exposed flesh, making my nipples tighten
into hardened peaks. His gaze rakes over my body with a hunger so
palpable, I swear I feel it brush against my skin. Every inch of me shivers,
but not from the cold.
“Are you wet for me, little ghost?” he asks.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” I whisper.
With a groan, he slides my panties to the side, his long fingers exploring
my slick folds. All the while, his cruel eyes drink me in like I’m the last
drop of water in hell.
“That’s my good girl,” he rumbles, his thumb pressing against my clit.
Two of his fingers push into my entrance, stretching me open.
My pussy clamps around the thick digits, wanting more. Needing it.
“Xero,” I whisper. “Please don’t tease me like this. I need you inside
me. It hurts to be so empty.”
At my words, his pale eyes transform into twin flames, burning through
my outer layers until I feel naked.
“You want this cock?”
“Fuck, yeah,” I say with a groan.
“Tell me you want this as much as I do,” he says, his voice urgent.
“I want it.”
“Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.”
 He enters me in a hard thrust that makes me see spirits. Floating dots of
white that dance in my vision like twinkling stars. The stretch is incredible,
every inch of my core filled to the brink of ecstasy. I arch my back, my
inner walls adjusting to his girth.
Xero bends over me, his mouth clamping around my jugular. “You’re
mine,” he snarls, his teeth closing around my skin as he punctuates the
sentence with a hard thrust. “You’re all I ever think about. You’re all I ever
want. You’re in my lungs, under my skin, in all four chambers of my heart.
You’re the blood running through my fucking veins.”
He grips my hips and fucks me hard and fast, each push and pull
igniting every nerve with sparks of pleasure. I cling to his shoulders, my
nails digging into his leather coat. It’s the only thing tethering me to the
world because each thrust pushes me deeper toward a precipice.
“Oh, God,” I say, my voice choked.
“That’s right. I’m your God now, and your cunt is where I rule.” He
quickens his pace, his piercings hitting every pleasure spot inside me,
drawing out desperate moans.
It’s too much. Not enough. I don’t know if I should scream for more or
beg him to stop. My entire world concentrates into this moment, and it’s
just me and him and the fireworks detonating in my soul.
Tension builds in my core, which tightens in anticipation of a climax.
My body trembles, every nerve ending tingling with need. This orgasm is so
close that I can almost taste it in the air.
Bucking against him, I cry out, “More, Xero. Please!”
Xero’s hot breath fans against my skin as he drives into me with hard
and fast thrusts. Every slam of his hips pushes me further to the edge of a
dangerous precipice.
“Come for me, little ghost,” he growls into my ear.
My clit swells to four times its usual sensitivity. Every move he makes
only adds to the increasing pressure. It builds up inside me like a geyser
about to erupt. I breathe hard and fast, not knowing if I’ll survive this
intensity of pleasure.
Finally, an orgasm rips through my system, sending me spiraling into a
whirlpool of euphoria.
“Don’t stop.” I cling to his broad shoulders, trying to stay afloat as
waves of sensations crash into my senses. All the while, Xero pounds into
me with unrelenting force.
 Just when I think I might drown in all the pleasure, he stiffens, filling
my core with streams of warm cum. My pussy flutters around his hard cock,
savoring every drop until he collapses on top of me with a throaty groan.
In that moment, with our bodies intertwined and our hearts
synchronized into a single, frantic beat, the truth of his declarations sink
into my psyche like stones.
Xero doesn’t just complete me. He fills gaps I never knew existed. He’s
the one person in the world who accepts my weaknesses, and the only man
who’s ever shown me the inner layers of his heart.
Why do I keep resisting him? He isn’t the only killer in the mausoleum.
I know to the depths of my soul that he won’t shy from the ugliness of my
past that’s too traumatic to remember.
He exhales a long, happy sigh that warms me to the core. “I love you,
Amethyst Crowley. Every beautiful, broken piece. And I’ll never let you
go.”
My chest tightens. This is the point where I reciprocate. “Xero, I–”
He places a finger on my lips. “Don’t say the words until you mean
them with all your heart. Take your time. I’ll wait.”
Afterward, he helps me off the stone coffin, his hands steady and
supportive. We gather the bag of items we took from Mom’s house, and he
carries me back through a series of stone tunnels. The air is cool and damp,
the echo of our footsteps the only sound.
As we navigate the winding passages, I rest my head against his
shoulder, reveling in a deep sense of satisfaction and safety. The familiar
walls leading to my crawlspace come into view, and I shift in his embrace.
“I have to torture a few people,” he says as he opens the door to the
bedroom and sets me on my feet. “Can I leave you here on your own?”
I glance back toward the hallway. “Are those men still in the other
room?”
He shakes his head. “The two I left alive are being interrogated in a
chamber on the other side of the cemetery.”
My shoulders sag. “Good.”
“The bathroom door is beside the skeleton, and the kitchen is over
there.” He gestures in the direction of Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace. “And I’ve
left your phone charging on the nightstand in case you need anything.”
I rock forward on my tiptoes and give him a peck on the lips. “Go.”
 Xero smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back
as soon as I can.”
I watch him leave, admiring how he straightens to his full, majestic
height as the concrete floor slopes down to give him more head space. As
he disappears into Mrs. Baker’s territory, I walk around to explore.
The first door I open contains an office with a desk and nine monitors
mounted on a stand, broadcasting every corner of my house. In each corner
are smaller screens showing different angles of each room.
My breath catches. That’s how he made me feel I could never hide from
his ghostly presence. He installed cameras everywhere.
But that’s not even the worst of it.
One wall is filled with blown-up pictures of me, going about my day.
Some are of me in the shower, others are me outside the home. In between
them are screenshots from some of the spicy videos I shot for Xero while he
was in jail.
I gulp. He said he was obsessed with me, but this is pathological.
But there’s more.
The wall opposite that one is like a crime board, covered in a complex
web of photos, maps, and articles, all connected by thin red lines of string
that lead back to a haunting collection of enlarged polaroids my eyes refuse
to focus on.
I work toward them slowly, taking in pictures of Myra, her family, Mr.
Lawson. Jake is there, along with the four men from X-Cite Media Xero
captured. So is Lizzie Bath.
My heart pounds as I allow my gaze to settle on photos of Sparrow and
Wilder, who I thought were only figments of my imagination. According to
one picture of a younger version of me dancing between them at a party,
they’re real. I study the background, finding the banner of a college frat
house hanging on the wall.
Shit. I remember agreeing to go to that party with a classmate, who had
even let me borrow her red dress, but I have no memory of even stepping a
foot inside. My gaze returns to the photo of me sandwiched between the
men. I’m wearing that damned dress.
“How the hell did that happen?” I mutter.
Finally, I force my eyes to confront what’s in the middle, which is a
group of spine-chilling images. They’re all me. All naked. All when I was
no older than ten. In one, I’m confined in a metal bathtub filled with ice. In
another, trapped in a straitjacket. In a third, I’m sitting in a padded room,
my eyes wide with terror. There’s even one of me with my head locked in a
bizarre form of cage with metal protrusions piercing my skin.
I can’t even dismiss them as artificial intelligence because the child has
every single one of my scars. The one someone posted through my letterbox
had been disturbing enough, but there are so many here they could fill an
entire photo album's spread pages.
Where did Xero get these images, and why didn’t he tell me they even
existed?

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-ONE

XERO
Good people work for evil organizations all the time. This is the entire
reason why I want to destroy Father and the firm that forged us into
assassins. But if the recruiter was an innocent forced to work for X-Cite
Media, he wouldn’t be here tonight, marching to his death.
I stand behind a weeping willow in the garden of St. Clement’s Church,
peering out at the man approaching a small figure sitting on a bench. Harlan
Stills strides with the confidence of a predator who thinks he’s lured a
thirteen-year-old boy for a liaison.
Camila has agreed to act as the decoy. In the dark, her smaller frame
could be mistaken for a boy’s.
“Jenson?” Harlan’s soft voice carries in the wind.
Jensonsama13 is one of the thousands of social media profiles our tech
team set up precisely for this purpose. The men we hunt are cautious,
paranoid, and difficult to corner, but they all have their weaknesses. It’s just
a matter of scrolling through the most twisted paraphilias and finding which
one sticks.
It’s shocking what men will reveal to their forbidden crushes. We’ve
gathered schematics, state secrets, and all manner of schemes. All for the
price of an artificial intelligence bot capable of catering to any
Targeting Harlan was easy. Once we discovered his sickening affinity
for young boys, it was he who arranged this meetup.
“Jenson thirteen?” he asks.
Camila turns her head. “Momo,” she says, her voice trembling. “Is that
you?”
 Harlan’s username is Momotaro Blue. His profile says he’s a fourteen-
year-old boy who enjoys manga, anime, and painting his nails. We cloned
his phone when I slid my handset across the table to show him my portfolio.
Once we discovered his favorite social media platform, we sent hundreds of
profiles his way and waited for him to take the bait.
“That’s right,” Harlan says. “Turn around.”
Camila twists on the bench and shoots her tranquilizer gun into his
chest. Harlan drops his bag, which bursts open to reveal a gag, a tube of
lubricant, and a roll of duct tape. The syringe in his hand disappears under
the weight of his body, and I mutter a curse.
If he managed to inject himself with what he planned on using to
subdue the boy, then we’re screwed. Two doses of sedatives will make him
more difficult to rouse. That’s more time spent away from my sweet little
ghost.
Sure enough, it takes an hour to get Harlan into a state lucid enough for
questioning. After I dragged him to an ambulance we converted into a
mobile interrogation unit, we drove to an underground parking lot and
waited.
Harlan sits naked with a hood over his head, chained to a metal chair
bolted to the vehicle’s floor. Electrodes encircle his fingers, monitoring his
vital signs, while a pneumograph and cardio cuff detect changes in his
sweat production and blood pressure.
We’ve rigged these devices to a polygraph machine. At the first sign of
lies, it will deliver an electric current to the crocodile clips on his nipples
and the steel probe in his urethra. I would have added a metal cap, but I ran
out of time.
His breathing changes, indicating he’s feigning unconsciousness.
I turn to Camila in the ambulance’s work area. “Jenson thirteen,
override the lie detector and alert Mr. Stills.”
Camila taps a command into the laptop. Harlan jolts, his muscles
stiffening as he screams.
“Where am I?” he cries. “Who is this?”
“I’m asking the questions,” I answer. “Tell me your nationality.”
“What’s this about?” he asks.
“Jenson.”
Camila delivers another electric shock that makes Harlan thrash in his
seat. I lean against the wall, my fingers twitching toward my phone. I can’t
watch my little ghost sleep anymore. I didn’t think to install cameras in the
crawlspace because it never occurred to me that I’d have to take her into my
lair. Her mother’s eviction was a wrench in my plans even I hadn’t
foreseen.
“I’m American,” Harlan screams.
“Good boy,” I say. “We’ll get along much better if you just answer my
questions.”
“Alright. What else do you want to know?”
“Where were you born?”
“Beaumont City, New Alderney. Anything else?”
I continue asking Harlan a stream of innocuous questions until Camila
raises her thumb to tell me she’s calibrated the polygraph machine.
“What’s your occupation?” I ask.
“Content manager,” he replies.
When the machine’s reader doesn’t waver, I raise a brow. His exact job
title doesn’t matter, even though we originally thought he was a recruiter.
“And your employer?”
He hesitates. “An adult entertainment company.”
“Its name,” I snarl.
His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, making me wonder if he
thought he’d been captured by a vigilante organization formed to catch
predators.
“Would you like a reminder of what happens if you fail to answer my
questions, Mr. Stills?” I ask.
“I work for X-Cite Media.”
There are a hundred questions I could ask about the organization, but I
want to get back to my little ghost. Harlan won’t die until my operatives
have extracted every useful piece of information about the firm that makes
the snuff movies. Putting those aside, I focus on my most pressing
concerns.
“What’s the name of your boss?”
He swallows. “I only have his code name.”
“Which is?”
“Delta.”
Adrenaline surges through my veins, and my nostrils flare. “Where can
I find him?”
Harlan shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
 “Elaborate.”
“He hasn’t visited the house in over a year, and he only communicates
to me through emails.”
“Why?”
“I…” He gulps. “I think he could be overseas.”
My gaze darts to the polygraph, which shows no signs of deception. If
Father lives in another country, then that might explain why he allowed his
family to die and failed to attend the execution. It means tracking him will
become all the more difficult.
“Where does he live?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Then where does he work?” I snarl.
“I don’t know. I swear to God. Delta didn’t recruit me, it was
Nocturne.”
Camila and I exchange glances.
“And who,” I ask, “is Nocturne?”
Harlan babbles his entire life story, starting from graduating from
Alderney State University with a Masters in Cybersecurity, before being
recruited by a man named Nocturne to develop a platform to offer users
time-limited content streaming.
He talks about state-of-the-art digital rights management mechanisms,
including watermarking to trace the source of leaked content and enforce
copyright protection. Fascinating stuff, but useless.
“Jenson, please help Mr. Stills get to the point.”
“Okay!” he yells. “Nocturne started off making BDSM porn, but he ran
into cash flow problems. The market has changed. No one wants to pay to
watch dominatrixes kick men in the balls. He had loans to pay, and that’s
when he went into partnership with Delta.”
I nod. We’re getting somewhere, finally.
“They switched from female dominants to men in charge, which sold
better, but Nocturne still couldn’t cover his interest payments. Delta offered
to pay off his debts in exchange for taking ownership of X-Cite Media.”
“Nocturne is in contact with Delta?” I ask
“Yes,” he says. A second later, he screams.
I glance at Camila, who shrugs.
“Why would you lie about that?” I ask, my gaze wandering to the
polygraph screen.
 “I wasn’t—” Harlan screeches.
He’s trying to deflect attention onto Nocturne, who he doesn’t think is
in contact with Delta. But I’m intrigued.
“Why are you directing us to Nocturne?” I ask.
Harlan slumps on his seat, his narrow chest rising and falling with rapid
breaths. I give him a few seconds to recover from two consecutive electric
shocks before repeating my question.
“Nocturne wants Delta dead,” he says through panting breaths. “X-Cite
Media was his baby. He set it up to stream femdom content from his club
and then Delta corrupted his dream.”
“Nocturne doesn’t approve of the snuff movies?”
“He hates it. Snuff goes against his safe, sane, and consensual
principles. He used to run a nightclub called X-Cite. Then his patrons
abandoned him when Delta switched the BDSM content they enjoyed to
snuff. Some of them reported Nocturne to the police, thinking he was
behind the murders. He got attacked. His home burned down twice. Hell, he
even got arrested and went to jail.”
“Where can I find Nocturne?”
“He just started up a nightclub called the Ministry of Mayhem at
Melrose Manor. It’s a mansion by Simon’s Pond.”
“I want you to look at a photo and tell me if this is Delta.”
Harlan trembles. “Keep me blindfolded. I don’t want to see your face.”
I tear off the hood, finding his eyes squeezed shut. Whimpering, Harlan
leans away from me and bows his head, determined not to look me in the
eye. It’s ironic how he curls into himself and trembles like a wounded
animal, considering he got caught trying to inflict the same treatment on a
child.
“You’re thinking I might spare your life if you don’t see my face?” I
ask.
He nods. “Listen, I’ve answered all your questions. Let me go, and I
swear I’ll keep this our little secret.”
My lip curls at the pedophilic phrasing. “Jenson.”
Camila activates the electric shock, filling the vehicle with Harlan’s
screams. Grabbing his hair, I wrench him upright.
“Let’s make a deal,” I snarl. “You lead me toward your boss and then
I’ll let you go.”
He shivers and nods.
 “Now, open your eyes.”
He cracks open an eye, his face falling slack. “Xavier?” he rasps.
“Xavier Wetwang?”
I blink, surprised he recognizes me without the hair wax or facial
prosthetics, but I don’t dwell on why he’s committed my features to
memory. I shove a picture I scanned from Father’s house the day I killed
my stepmother and brothers.
“Is this Delta?” I ask.
“Yes.” He gulps, his gaze bouncing from the picture to me.
“Who else might have contact with Delta?”
“Dolly,” he says.
“Who is Dolly?”
“His wife, but I haven’t seen her in years.”
I unfold the picture and show the stepmother I murdered. “This
woman?”
He shakes his head. “Not her. Dolly is younger, with curly brown hair,
green eyes, and she’s much shorter than Delta.”
My brow furrows. Why am I not surprised Father is a bigamist?
“Second question. Whose idea was it to target Amethyst Crowley?”
“Who is that?” he asks.
“The woman who runs the official Xero fan club,” I snarl. “The woman
who was supposed to die instead of Lizzie Bath.”
Disbelief etches across his features. His eyes bulge, and his mouth
gapes like a fish struggling for air. It looks like the gears in his head are
turning to propel his brain toward the truth. With each shocked gasp, he
tries to form words but only manages a strangled moan.
“You’re…”
“What?” I snarl.
“Y-You’re that killer who went viral on social media. The one whose
execution we broadcasted.”
“And?”
“But you’re supposed to be dead.”
I turn to Camila. “Help him focus on my question.”
Harlan screams so loud my ears ring, although this time, I’m not sure
it’s all about the pain. Now that it’s clear he’s not in the clutches of law-
abiding vigilantes, I expect him to be more cooperative.
“Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. It wasn’t my idea to go after her.”
 “Then whose?” I snarl.
“Dolly’s!” he screams.
Leaning down, I glare into his hazel eyes, waiting for him to calm.
Harlan thrashes from side to side, already panicking in the throes of his
impending death. He’s probably worked out that the infamous killer, Xero
Greaves, won’t take kindly to pornographers killing or targeting the women
who campaigned for his humane treatment on Death Row.
I’m usually a patient man, but not when I’m missing out on the chance
to sleep with my little ghost.
“Focus,” I hiss and snap my fingers in front of his eyes. “Why does
Dolly want her dead?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me,” I snarl.
“They’re related. Dolly resents Amethyst enough to have her killed.”
“Why?”
“She flaunts her luxury lifestyle on social media. I mean, she raises
funds, gets lavish gifts, and earns hundreds of thousands from her millions
of followers. That’s bound to stir up some jealousy.”
I scoff. “Bullshit.”
“I don’t get to question the boss’s wife. I just manage the content.
Maybe Dolly hates the fact that there’s someone out there who looks
exactly like her, only younger, fresher, and untouched.”
“She must have hinted something.”
“Fuck!” he screams. “Dolly and Delta are money-obsessed. Maybe the
reason was financial.”
Like freeing up some real estate? Or riding the wave of an execution
they’re still debating on the news and social media? I straighten, my heart
plummeting to my stomach. We had Melonie Crowley in our grasp. She
was under our noses this entire time, yet I dismissed her as irrelevant.
Melonie Crowley, whose daughter is her spitting image, only younger
and more beautiful. The woman who treats her criminally insane daughter
like a burden she must lock away in a proverbial tower.
The woman desperate to auction off her house, leaving her only
daughter destitute.
I should have killed her when I had the chance.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-TWO

AMETHYST
I stare at the crime board, not knowing what the hell to think.
Scraps of paper hang on the wall, showcasing splintered pieces of my
past. From the missing person reports, it looks like Sparrow and Wilder
disappeared after leaving a college party with an unidentified drunk girl.
The dates line up with the weekend Mom and Dad burst into my dorm
room and whisked me straight into 13 Parisii Drive. There’s a prescription
pinned to the board for a variety of drugs with complex pharmaceutical
names. The signature at the bottom belongs to Dr. Saint.
Palpitations pound through my chest with a force that reaches my
fingertips. The question isn’t whether I killed the brothers or even why. It
was probably self-defense or righteous retaliation—same way I dispatched
Mr. Lawson. I can’t remember them because Dr. Saint plied me with
enough drugs to wipe out the memory.
My gaze wanders to the notes scrawled in writing too psychopathic to
be legible. The author of them hates me with an intensity I feel in the inner
workings of my gut. How have I never seen these?
Did Xero intercept these letters?
Did Xero write these letters?
If so, why would he arrange for the first of them to be sent before the
wedding and not after? I shake my head. He couldn’t have. The handwriting
doesn’t even match what I know of his penmanship, nor does it sound like
anything he’d ever put down on paper.
If he isn’t the acrimonious author, then why are the notes even in my
crawlspace? And those terrible pictures… I can’t bear to look at them, and
not just because they depict a child suffering the worst kind of torture. They
give me vertigo. It’s the same jumping-off-the-dive-board sensation I get
that prevents me from staring at my face in the mirror because I can’t bear
to look at the reflected monster.
My breath shallows, and I turn my back to the board. Maybe there’s a
perfectly innocent explanation. Maybe the person behind the first
threatening letter and photo sent more, and Xero’s people intercepted them
at his command.
I nod, my chest loosening.
Xero wouldn’t fuck with my mind for kicks… Would he?
But he would do it for revenge.
Xero built an entire complex of chambers and even a control room so he
could have somewhere to relax while he doled out a cocktail of torture,
gaslighting, and mental abuse. Hell, a few feet away from this space is a
secure prison where he kept a quartet of men he transformed into a human
centipede.
If Dale and his cohorts hadn’t broken into my house to spoil his fun,
then that torture room would have been occupied by me.
Realization squeezes my lungs, and I double over with my forearms
resting on my thighs. What’s the difference between being stuck here with
Xero and being in the clutches of X-Cite Media? One of them wants me
dead and defiled while the other wants to imprison and torture me for
eternity.
Shivers seize my skeleton. I want to fall to my knees, but I’m afraid I’ll
never be able to rise. Gripping the edge of Xero’s chair, I ease myself up to
standing and sit at his desk.
“What would Rapunzelita do?” I mutter.
One, she’s fictional. Two, she blacks out and wakes up to find her
problems solved. Three, it’s not even a full moon.
I glance across the surface of the empty desk, my gaze skimming the
monitors broadcasting all corners of my home. A slight figure exits number
eleven with a trash bag and disappears out of range. Judging from the black
hair and glasses frame, I imagine it’s Ezekiel. Does that mean Relaney’s
also out of jail?
My fingers drift toward a drawer, and I slide it open, finding a bottle of
chloroform and a manilla dossier. I pull it out and spread it open,
uncovering a selection of letter-sized photos. The first is of a group of boys
sitting on tiered benches. They’re all dressed in gray t-shirts, matching
shorts, and sneakers, looking to be from the ages of ten to fourteen.
Standing behind them are stern-looking men in black, who appear to be
either teachers or camp counselor. My brows crease. Is this Xero’s child
assassin facility?
The next photo is of a family whose faces I mostly recognize. The
blonde woman is Xero’s stepmother, Bianca Greaves, and the two older
boys look like younger versions of the brothers Xero murdered. So, the man
must be Xero’s father.
I compare his face to the group photo, finding him standing in the back
among the adults.
“Wow,” I whisper.
The other photos in the dossier are of the same man at social events,
shaking hands with dignitaries and posing with people I don’t recognize.
Tuning out, I shuffle through until I spot a picture of the man outside a
nightclub with someone who resembles Dad so closely that I flinch.
It’s a less beaten down version of Uncle Clive, which must have been
taken before he went to prison. Dad didn’t have that slight overbite, while
Uncle Clive’s is still visible through his scraggly beard.
But how the hell would a man like him know a monster like Xero’s
father?
“Because Mom said a vigilante mob tracked him to his new address and
set fire to his house,” I murmur to myself. “No one does that without a good
reason.”
And Mom is housing a man connected to a monster who turns little
children into killers?
Shit.
Now I regret making Xero set her free.
This place is turning me claustrophobic. I need to get the fuck out.
I leave the room, making sure to avoid looking at the crime board, and
walk to the shelf separating my crawlspace from Mrs. Baker’s. I fumble
around its panels, looking for the lever Xero pulled to activate the door, but
all I find are raised screws.
Typical.
Next, I climb the ladder leading up to the cupboard under the stairs and
push on the access hatch, but it’s jammed. Tilting my head, I search around
for a knob, a lever, a handle… Anything I can use to release the trap door,
but it remains closed.
So, I’m his prisoner.
Grinding my teeth, I descend back into the crawlspace and trudge to the
bedroom, where I left all the items I took from Mom’s house. Xero won’t
get away with keeping me here as his toy, no matter how much he claims
it’s for my protection.
First, I send a string of angry texts. When he doesn’t reply to them, I sit
on the edge of the bed and open the photo album.
What if Xero really is out to get me? I’ve read stories about antiheroes
romancing the daughters of men they want to destroy. It’s not a stretch to
think he’s employing the same tactics. Maybe Xero is trying to get to Uncle
Clive through me.
I shake my head. That doesn’t even make sense. Xero must have seen
Uncle Clive all those times he haunted me while I was hiding out at Mom’s.
He had multiple opportunities to snatch his father’s associate, but he was
too busy sucking my fingers and edging me until I passed out from
frustration.
After sending another barrage of texts, I crack open the photo album
and look through the pictures again. They’re exactly as I remember—a
timeline of Dad’s childhood, adolescence, his marriage, and my birth.
I stare at younger pictures of Mom, and it’s just like looking in the
mirror, except without the queasiness and trauma. Mom’s hair is the same
dark brown as mine would be if I hadn’t dyed one side black and bleached
the other.
She doesn’t age much over the years, but toward the end of the album,
she looks strained. The last photo is out of sequence with the others,
because she’s at least six months pregnant.
It’s taken from one of the dinner parties she loves to host. I don’t
remember any from our previous house, but the dishes in these photos look
elaborate. Mom probably made them all by herself, because she’s the kind
of control freak who won’t allow outside help. It’s no wonder she appears
so drawn.
My gaze lands on a picture of one party, where Uncle Clive sits at the
table with a stern-looking date with severe black makeup. Next to him is a
man I recognize from Xero’s photos with the same strong jawline as my
stalker but deep blue eyes.
 It’s Xero’s father.
One photo of Uncle Clive and Xero’s father might be an unfortunate
coincidence. Two is a disaster. If my murderous instincts and missing
memories are in any way related to their friendship, then Uncle Clive might
have to escape yet another house fire.
The door opens, and Xero steps in, his features softening. “I told you
not to wait up.”
I stand so abruptly that the album falls to the floor. All the conclusions I
drew from my sleuthing evaporate into the ether, replaced by the objection
to being his prisoner.
“Why have you locked me in the crawlspace of my own home?” I snap.
Xero’s eyes narrow. “Is that any way to speak to the man you love?”
I huff a laugh. “How can I fall in love with a man who locks me up in a
basement like a psychopath?”
His expression doesn’t even flicker because all I’m saying is the truth.
He wants to cage me up like a pet mouse or a bird with broken wings to use
for his sick pleasures.
Crossing the room, he picks up the fallen album. “Ungrateful little
ghosts who mouth off get punished.”
I step back, my brain catching up with the fact that I’m trapped in a
confined space with Xero Greaves. Now probably isn’t the time for
bravado, since I’m no match for a trained killer.
“At least explain why I can’t leave.”
“Because I’ve just worked out the person who wants you dead.”
My breath catches. “Is this about X-Cite Media?”
He places his hands on my shoulders and grips them tight, as though
communicating the seriousness of his words. I stiffen, my pulse ratcheting
up to eleven. What the hell can be worse than a group of snuff movie
makers?
Xero.
In a minute, he’ll grin down at me and say it was him. That he’s the one
who wants me killed, and I fell headfirst into his machinations. Now that
I’m trapped and unable to escape, he can lacerate me at his leisure.
“Who is it?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Do you remember those men I made you interrogate?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Why?”
 “One of them mentioned a man named Delta, who gave the order to
capture you for the studio.”
My chest tightens. My throat dries. My mind screams at me to run.
“Who is he?”
“My father.”
“Okay.”
His eyes widen. “You’re not surprised?”
I shake my head. “I went into your little control room, which is
extremely creepy, by the way, and found photos of him with your
stepmother.”
Most men would get defensive about their secret stalker rooms
containing pornographic pictures of their obsessions, but Xero just nods
along and encourages me to keep going. The man is shameless.
“After that, I looked at my album and there was a photo of him in my
old house.”
“Where?” he barks, making me flinch.
“Last page.”
Xero releases my shoulders and tears open the photo album. His gaze
settles on the array of dinner party pictures. A look of pure disgust contorts
his features, and he lets out a low, menacing snarl that sends shivers down
my spine.
“I hoped it wasn’t true,” he says.
“What difference does it make?” I ask. “He trains innocent children into
assassins. You murdered his family and made me the leader of your fan
club. It makes sense he wants to kill me in revenge.”
“The man I spoke to tonight says that Delta has been out of action for a
while. Instead, his wife is calling the shots.”
“Your stepmother?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “The woman he married after she died.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Who?”
Breaking eye contact, he turns his head away from me, as though
uttering this woman’s name is too heinous.
Silence stretches, and my suspicions mount. Why would a man like
Xero, who doesn’t give a shit that I found his creepy room of souvenirs,
shrink away from answering a simple question? My mind spins through
everyone I know, but I come up with nothing.
“Xero,” I say, my voice hardening. “Who is your new stepmother?”
 “A woman named Dolly, who he says…” Xero inhales a deep breath.
“He says Delta’s wife looks like you, but older.”
I laugh. Mom might be a lot of things, but married to an insane, child-
corrupting psychopath who runs a network of criminal enterprises? No.
Xero has to be joking.
When his expression doesn’t change, my smile falls. I shove him in the
chest, but it’s like trying to move a wall. “This is bullshit. Where’s your
proof?”
He reaches into his leather coat, pulls out a phone, and scrolls to the
video app. There’s a naked man attached to a lie detector, talking about
Delta’s wife, Dolly. I want to fast forward over the part where he fails to
recognize my name before realizing the man questioning him is Xero
Greaves, but I force myself to continue listening.
When I get to the part where the man says I’m related to Dolly, my
heart stutters to a painful stop.
Mom wouldn’t want me dead just because I’m younger. She just wants
me gone because I’m a burden and a drain on her finances. Every year, my
behavior gets more and more unhinged. My public, online relationship with
Xero was bad enough, but I started hinting that I’d killed another man. That,
plus the sex tape, was probably the last straw.
I grind my teeth, my nostrils flaring. It sounds so far-fetched, but what
do I really know about Mom? She’s controlling, willing to cover up
murders, would drug me indefinitely, and won’t stop threatening to send me
to an institution.
Xero places a hand on my shoulder, but I’m too far gone to take comfort
in his touch. There has to be more to Mom’s animosity than wanting to get
rid of a burden.
Every instinct in my body screams at me to go back to Mom’s house
and throttle her until she spills the truth.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-THREE

XERO
I lie in bed, spooned around Amethyst, holding her down as she thrashes
in her sleep. She might have taken the news about her mother on the
surface, but her spirit is in turmoil.
What kind of parent tries to assassinate their own child, and why? Even
Father, who is the worst kind of human scum, never tried to kill any of us
directly. He destroyed our innocence and manipulated us into becoming
killers, but he didn’t want us dead.
Amethyst throws her head back, narrowly missing my nose. I hug her
tighter and sigh. “Sorry, little ghost,” I murmur into her curls. “This
betrayal was something I couldn’t hide.”
She whimpers, her legs cycling beneath the sheets as if she’s trying to
escape her demons. I tried waking her, but she’s trapped in a nightmare.
I’ve already concealed enough from Amethyst, starting with my plans to
escape my execution. Then, when those photos and threatening letters
arrived, I put them aside, wanting to shield her from external threats. I
might have been able to hide information on Dolly, but I couldn’t allow
Amethyst to continue chasing the approval of that woman.
“Xero?” she cries.
“I’m here, little ghost.”
“Xero, wait!”
My stomach drops. Is she dreaming about the time I left her alone in the
catacombs, leaving her to navigate a narrow corridor of bones?
“I’m sorry, Amethyst,” I murmur into her hair.
 Her body falls limp for several heartbeats, releasing my arms. I roll her
onto her back and study her features. Light from my alarm clock shines on
her face, illuminating the rapid movement beneath her eyelids.
I exhale my tension in a breath of relief. She’s moved into a different
stage of sleep.
Amethyst is just like me. She reacts badly to betrayal. And like me, she
will want closure. I already have people watching her mother’s house, ready
to inform me when she returns from wherever she’s gone.
Melonie Crowley isn’t just a woman I want to eviscerate. She’s the key
to finding Father and the underground facility. Father is also the key to
taking down the group of elites who run the Moirai. With them all gone, I
and everyone associated with them will finally have our freedom.
I need to step up Amethyst’s training. Knowing that the person behind
X-Cite Media has a deep-rooted personal vendetta makes the threat against
her more immediate. She needs a crash course in advanced combat and
escape techniques.
For now, I’ll let her sleep. Tomorrow, I will show her no mercy.

Hours later, she’s lying spreadeagled on the bed with her wrists cuffed to
the headboard. I’ve used rope restraints on her ankles to keep her legs
spread, but allow her arms a fuller range of motion. I bite back a groan at
the way her breasts bounce with each movement, and the way her thrashing
gives me tantalizing peeks of her pussy.
“Explain to me again why I have to do this naked?” she ask through
clenched teeth. If glares could kill, ther malevolent green eyes would cast
an Avada Kedavra.
I smirk. “More writhing. Less complaining.”
She flashes her teeth. “One of these days, I’m going to chain you to a
bed.”
“Is that a promise, little ghost?” I ask.
“You’re such an asshole.” She punctuates the insult with a rattle of the
chains.
“Focus, Amethyst,” I say. “What did I teach you about breaking through
restraints?”
 “This isn’t the same as having both wrists cuffed together,” she shrieks.
“I can’t twist the chain and break its weakest link.”
“What are your options, then?” I ask.
She tugs at the cuffs. “I don’t know, you tell me.”
This attitude isn’t getting her anywhere. I can teach her the basics, but I
can’t predict every possible scenario. Amethyst has spent so much time
being dependent on her mother that she doesn’t know how to apply herself.
She needs to break through this helplessness to survive.
“Think,” I say with extra bite.
Her nostrils flare. “I can negotiate with my captors.”
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “With what bargaining
points, when they already have you restrained and possibly gagged?”
She jerks her head to the side. “Why do you have to be so morbid?”
I grind my teeth, my fists clenching. “Do I need to replay the death of
Lizzie Bath?”
“No,” she snarls.
“Because we can reenact all the restraints she endured, step by step, and
I can teach you how to break free from each of them.”
“Don’t you dare,” she grinds out.
“Then find a way to break out of these cuffs.” I raise a finger. “Before
you whine that I haven’t taught you this particular sequence, remember
there are infinite methods a captor can use. You already know all the basics
of escape. Now, it’s your turn to apply that knowledge.”
“Alright,” she says, her eyes squeezing shut.
Sighing, I lean against the wall. I knew from early on that Amethyst was
nothing like my peers. She’s been sheltered in a life of boarding schools,
prescription drugs, and debilitating delusions. In a way, she’s also been
coddled, which means she hasn’t had a chance to solve problems on her
own.
Before I left prison, I planned to bring her out of her cocoon with the
greatest care, but that’s impossible, knowing her life is under threat. If
Melonie Crowley doesn’t surface, then finding Father and destroying the X-
Cite Group might take weeks, if not months.
“Okay,” she says through panting breaths. “What if I broke the bed?”
“Explain,” I say.
“If it’s a prop, then it won’t be as sturdy as this.”
I nod. “Good point. Anything else?”
 “Or I could find another way to snap the chain.”
“Or?”
Amethyst writhes on the bed. “I could unlock the cuffs with a pin?”
I nod.
She glances from side to side across the mattress. “Shit. I dropped it.”
With a smile, I mount the bed and pull out one of the many pins I placed
in her hair and slide it into her hand.
“Thanks.”
I lean in to place a kiss on her soft lips, just as she draws back and
delivers a head butt. It misses my nose, instead landing on my jaw, but I
applaud her effort.
Seconds later, Amethyst unlocks the first cuff before moving on to the
second. She unties her legs, hurls a cushion at my head and rushes out of
the door. I let her enjoy her triumph for a minute before ordering her to get
dressed.
After brunch, we practice breaking through restraints together, with
Amethyst thinking ahead for a range of contingencies. She keeps a bobby
pin between her fingertips as I overpower her and arrange her limbs in the
best positions to give maximum slack.
In the afternoon, Camila joins us with a group of operatives, and we
practice hand-to-hand combat until Amethyst is exhausted. After that, I take
her to an underground parking lot, where I teach her to unlock trunks from
the inside.
I’m spiraling. Pushing her into a state of over-preparedness because
we’re operating in the dark. I was blindsided by the knowledge that
Amethyst’s mother was Father’s new wife and appalled that I’d had her in
my grasp and allowed her to escape.
Amethyst breaks out of a truck’s doors covered in sweat and doubles
over with her hands on her knees. This is the eighth vehicle she’s tried, and
she’s panting hard and fast.
My chest tightens at having to squeeze a week of lessons into a single
day. “Good job, little ghost.”
“Can I have a rest before we move on to the next exercise?” she asks,
still out of breath.
“We’ve finished for today.” I scoop her up in my arms. “Let me take
you back.”
 She rests her head on my shoulder, her body falling limp. “Thank fuck. I
was at my breaking point.”
Pressing a kiss on her damp brow, I walk toward the exit, where
Jynxson awaits with Tyler.
“Report,” I say.
“I’ve found Nocturne, or rather, his website,” Tyler says. “He runs a
private-members club with nights for BDSM and swingers. Once a month,
they hold a slightly more vanilla event for the general public and anyone
who wants to become a member.”
“How many tickets did you buy?”
“Nine so far,” he replies. “I want to stagger the purchases, so it doesn’t
look like we’re a group. I also looked into Melrose Manor, where the club
nights are held, but it’s owned by an offshore consortium.”
“I’m more interested in finding Nocturne. What do you know about
him?”
Tyler exhales a long breath. “Someone wiped a shitload of records on
him, and it looks like he doesn’t exist. He might be going by a different
name, because all I have are a few forum posts from former members,
reminiscing about his old club.”
“Do we even know if he’s connected to the Ministry of Mayhem?”
Tyler shakes his head. “There isn’t a scrap of evidence online that links
him.”
“Send Camila photos from previous club nights and see if she can get
Harlan Stills to identify him.”
“Consider it done.” Tyler darts away, leaving us with Jynxson.
“What do you want to do about McMurphy?” Jynxson asks.
I adjust Amethyst in my arms. “How long has she been imprisoned?”
“Thirty-six hours,” he replies. “I’ve left her with a week’s supply of
water.”
“Good. Any update on the studio?”
“It’s just regular porn with professional actresses. Everyone working
there gets paid in cash by a guard who lives in the downtown house with
Harlan Stills. That’s also where they edit the footage.”
Cradling Amethyst in my arms, Jynxson and I continue through the exit
and into a hallway where he calls the elevator. She’s either ignoring us or
sleeping, but she’s earned her rest. After our little spat this morning when I
reminded her of Lizzie Bath, she focused on her training like a professional.
 The elevator arrives, and we step inside, letting it transport us to a
brightly lit mechanical room filled with HVAC units, electrical panels, and
pipes running along the ceilings.
We pass through the vast space into a tunnel where an electric cart
awaits. Jynxson jumps into the driver’s seat, while I sit beside him with
Amethyst curled on my lap.
He starts the engine and drives down a dimly lit tunnel connecting the
parking lot to a network of underground passageways that span Beaumont
City. The low rumble of the motor echoes off the concrete wall as he drives
toward the Parisii neighborhood.
“How’s the training going?” he asks.
“She’s a fast learner,” I reply as she twitches in her sleep. “Strong
combat skills for a beginner, and she can break out of ropes, cuffs, duct
tape, and zip ties.”
“That’s good, right?”
I grunt.
The air grows colder as we continue through the tunnel, which narrows
the closer we get to the buildings around the cemetery.
“So, what’s the problem?” he asks.
“There’s only so much I can teach her in a controlled environment,” I
reply with a sigh.
“That’s the same with all assassins.”
“But she’s a civilian,” I mutter. “And a target.”
He blows out a breath. “Then we’ll have to put everything we have into
taking down X-Cite Media.”
Jynxson launches into a plan of attack, outlining how we can destroy the
house and out-of-town studio, but I’m listening with half an ear. He’s only
talking to fill the space, because we both know Amethyst’s problem is
bigger than just a snuff movie studio.
Any mother who wants their child dead is a monster, but one who
would engineer her daughter to be gang-raped and murdered in front of
cameras is a special kind of evil.
We could kill every bastard associated with those movies, but it
wouldn’t be enough to protect Amethyst. Not while her mother still draws
breath.
“I’ll put pressure on the Spring brothers to keep digging,” he says.
“Dolly is still out there, dishing out orders. We have her email address. It’s
only a matter of time before Tyler hacks into her account and traces her
location.”
Leaning back in the seat, I cradle Amethyst to my chest. “Time is a
luxury. If Dolly can’t get Amethyst, she’ll target a substitute, like she did
with Lizzie Bath.”
When we reach the tunnels on the edge of the cemetery, Jynxson pauses
to let me disembark, and I continue on foot through the underground
walkway that leads to 15 Parisii Drive.
Amethyst stirs, her soft curls brushing my face. “Xero,” she murmurs.
“I think I know the next target they’ll take if they can’t find me. It’s my best
friend, Myra.”

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-FOUR

AMETHYST
It took me a while to grasp the message about Mom. She made no secret
of considering me a burden, but I thought the worst she could do was send
me to an institution. That’s why it took so long to realize Myra could be a
target.
The moment I return to the crawlspace, I call my best friend, who bursts
into tears at the sound of my voice.
“Where have you been?” she asks. “I came round to the house, but it’s
empty. The old lady next door said it’s for sale.”
My jaw clenches at the reminder that Mom has already cleared out my
possessions. “I’m safe.”
“I’ve been so worried. Tell me where you are, and I’ll drive over⁠—”
“No,” I say. “It’s too dangerous.”
She falls silent for several heartbeats, filling the receiver with the sound
of her frantic breaths. “Is this connected to the Well Hung Man and Dick
Johnson?”
“Yes.” I rub the back of my neck. “No… Kind of.”
“Because the day after you came to see me at the store, that woman who
runs the Unofficial Xero fan club dredged up videos we shot from the book
fair. She also said people reported you leaving with them.”
Any other time, I would grind my teeth at the reminder of Lizzie Bath
trying to get me into trouble to gain clout. Now, my stomach lurches at the
memory of her grisly death.
“She’s disappeared,” Myra says. “Her videos are online, so she hasn’t
been banned. She just stopped posting.”
 “Are you still staying in that apartment?” I ask.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Some men broke into my house⁠—”
“Are you alright?” she shrieks.
“More or less.”
She falls silent for a beat before asking. “Did it really happen?”
“Did they really drill through my front door to take me?” I ask. “Yes,
and I haven’t hallucinated anything for several days.”
“Okay… Okay…” I can almost hear her biting down on her bottom lip.
“So, how did you…”
“How did I outrun four abductors?”
“Sorry. I had to ask.”
“Same way we escaped a pair of rapists while we were both drugged.”
“That ghost?” she whispers.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone. I think you’re in danger. Lizzie is
dead because the people who tried to abduct me took her instead.”
“No,” she says, her voice trembling.
This is the kind of disturbing news that should be delivered in person
and with Myra sitting down, but there’s no time. If Mom is behind these
attacks, then she’ll know the best way to send me a message is through my
only friend.
Myra has stuck by me, even through my worst times. I hate making her
alarmed, but she needs to understand the level of threat she’s under and the
measures we’re taking to make her safe.
“Go to Lizzie’s bio, where she’s placed an affiliate link to an
execution.”
“Hold on.” A moment later, she says, “Her bio has gone.”
“Try X-CiteMedia.com.”
She falls silent for a moment, then she gasps. “What is this?”
“You see it?” I ask.
“What? Stills of Lizzie doing violent-looking gang bangs? Is it real?”
I shudder at the reminder. “Yeah. Those people took her. I’m worried
they might take you, too.”
Myra pauses for several seconds before saying, “There’s a knock on my
door.”
I turn to Xero, who glances down at his phone and nods, confirming that
his people have arrived at her apartment. “Don’t worry,” I say to her. “It’s a
friend.”
“How do you know?” she asks, her voice rising several octaves.
“Look through the peephole. Is he six-four, dark hairs, with stormy gray
eyes and classically handsome features?”
A moment later, she whispers, “Yes.”
“And is he with a much shorter, dark-haired woman with big brown
eyes and a dimpled chin?”
“Who are they?”
“Friends of mine,” I say. “They’ll take you to a secure apartment where
you can stay until this has blown over.”
“What about my job? Cesare just gave me extra hours. I can’t let him
down.”
Xero steps forward. “Text us your bank details, and I’ll wire you twenty
grand to tide you over for the next few weeks.”
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“The ghost,” Xero says.
Myra makes a strangled noise, and I can’t blame her. This situation is a
lot for even me to swallow, and I’m in the thick of the danger.
“You can call Cesare from your safe house and tell him there’s a family
emergency,” I say. “He’ll understand if he’s a good boss.”
“Okay.”
I don’t know if Myra’s boss will give her grace or tell her to get lost.
Working at Wonderland is just a temporary gig until she gets back into
publishing, and her safety is more important than helping some guy who
demands sexual favors from employees.
About a minute later, Jynxson comes on the line to say he’s secured
Myra and is transporting her to a location across town. Xero and I sit
together in silence until his sister calls to confirm that she’s safe.

The next few days are grueling. If I’m not in some underground lair,
fighting off Xero and a bunch of other men, then I’m blindfolded, gagged,
and struggling to break out of some kind of bondage.
My muscles ache from all the effort, and I’m sure no part of my body
hasn’t been bruised. Each morning, I wake with new aches. Xero is the
worst kind of tyrant, who delights in pushing me beyond my limits. If I
don’t succeed in these abduction drills, then he edges me to insanity.
On the plus side, he’s shown me how to open every door in the
crawlspace that leads to the outside world. He was reluctant at first,
thinking I’d take the opportunity to bolt, but I’ve convinced him I’m
painfully aware of the dangers of leaving without protection.
There’s no running away from him—and not just because I’m his
captive. New photos appear almost every day, along with threatening notes.
I still don’t know if it’s because my online relationship with Xero unlocked
something in Mom that’s been bubbling beneath her cold surface.
I knew she resented me from the moment I woke up from the accident.
It was Dad who sat at my bedside with pep talks and stories, while she only
visited with trays of food. Now, I don’t even know if that was real.
When I went away to school, I would call Mom on the phone. She’d be
curt and eager to hand me over to Dad, who always had time to chat. He
listened to my problems with a sympathetic ear and bemoaned his busy
work schedule. Maybe that was my brain’s way of filling the gaps after
she’d hung up.
Mom didn’t even tell me she’d remarried. Hell, she never once
mentioned splitting up with Dad. I even remember her talking about him
traveling on business. She not only allowed me to languish in my delusions
that he still existed, she encouraged them. If she’s married to Xero’s father,
then that makes Xero my stepbrother.
At the end of the week, after a particularly punishing session of being
chased around the catacombs, Xero takes me back to the crawlspace and
tells me not to wait up.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“A former associate of my father runs a sex club. I’m going to question
him there with Jynxson and a few others.”
“And you’re leaving me behind?”
His brow furrows. “You’re not going to a sex club.”
“Neither are you.” I walk around him and block the door.
He scoffs. “This is work.”
“I’ve tolerated a lot of shit from you, but I won’t stay behind while you
go to a place filled with naked women.”
His eyes sparkle. “Jealous, little ghost?”
 “You’re mine.” I grab the front of his shirt. “That means no ogling other
people or getting turned on while I’m not around.”
He shoots me a grin that’s as dazzling as his platinum hair. “I like it
when you’re possessive.”
The heat in his gaze makes my skin tingle. I tighten my grip on his shirt
and fight the urge to lose myself in his electrifying stare.
“I’m coming with you.”
He brushes a loose curl off my forehead, his eyes softening. “The club
could be filled with naked women, but I’ll only have eyes for you.”
A flush creeps across my cheeks, and I force myself to break eye
contact. This is the Xero, who used to pour his heart into those beautiful
letters. My star-crossed lover on Death Row. I can’t let myself give into his
sweet words.
“Stop distracting me with your charm. I’m going with you.”
He studies me for several seconds, and it takes every effort not to fidget.
I don’t need to read minds to know he’s calculating if he can get away with
disabling me with his superior combat moves and locking me up in my own
crawlspace.
“Don’t even think about leaving me behind,” I say, my gaze hardening.
“I can break out of any bindings you throw at me, and I already know the
club is at Melrose Manor.”
He smirks. “Challenge accepted.”

Three hours later, after an epic struggle which I barely won, we’re pulling
up to the courtyard of a mansion set within dense woodland. Light streams
through its tall, symmetrical windows, illuminating its brick facade.
I glance at Xero, whose gaze is focused on the mansion’s entrance. His
artificially darkened hair, combined with his pale skin, makes him look like
the hero of a steamy paranormal romance. Tension tightens his jawline, and
I can’t help but wonder if he’s stressed because I’m tagging along.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He turns to me, his eyes hard. “Stay at my side at all times. Is that
understood?”
“Of course.”
 “If we get separated, look out for Camila or Jynxson.”
I nod.
“And whatever happens, don’t take off your mask.”
“I won’t.”
Xero insisted that I darken the blonde side of my hair with his tinted
wax, so it’s now all one color.
My curls are slicked back into a tight bun, and I’m wearing a hooded
black cloak. With my makeup altered to give me a ghostly pallor with
blood-red lips, I’m completely unrecognizable.
If this undercover operation wasn’t about preventing me from becoming
a victim on an illicit website, I’d think the costumes were kind of cool.
He leans across the front seat of the car and cups my cheek, his hand
warm against my skin. “Promise me you’ll stick to the plan. Don’t react to
anything you see. No heroics.”
Gulping, I give him a frantic nod.
He reaches into the glove compartment and extracts a velvet case.
Flipping it open, he reveals a silver choker and a separate ring.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Your collar.” He lifts it out and pulls apart its clasp, so it's now hinged
open. After threading the metal ring around the choker, he raises it to my
neck. “Wearing this will let everyone know you belong to me.”
My heart skips a beat. “Like a permanent collar?”
“Precisely.”
“Then where’s yours?”
He grins. “Anytime you want to collar me, say the word. I’ll gladly
kneel at your feet and worship at the altar of your cunt. But for tonight, our
roles are reversed.”
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening as he fixes the metal collar around
my neck. Each brush of his skin sends bursts of electricity down my spine
that settle between my thighs.
“You’re too bossy to get on your knees for me,” I say, my voice barely a
whisper.
“I’ve stolen for you, killed for you. I’d burn down the entire city to see
the flames reflecting in your beautiful green eyes. What makes you think I
wouldn’t prostrate before my little goddess?”
He secures the latch on my collar, pulls the ring to the front, and draws
back to admire his work. His pale eyes burn so brightly, I can barely
breathe. Emotions flicker across his handsome features, ranging from
satisfaction to desire, and I swear there’s even a touch of pride. When he
drops his gaze down to the collar, I exhale.
“Do you know how many nights I pictured you like this while I jerked
off to the scent of your letters?” he says, his fingers tracing the cool metal
against my skin.
My spine tingling, I suppress a shiver and whisper, “No.”
“Every. Single. One.”
My lips part with a gasp, even though none of this is exactly news. Xero
was also my obsession while he was on Death Row, and I know my feelings
were more than reciprocated. But hearing those words now that he’s free
gives them so much more weight.
“Stay there.”
He exits the car and walks around the front to my side, where he opens
the door and offers me his hand.
Taking it, I step out onto the pavement, my heart beating fast at the
prospect of going to a party with Xero. He looks handsome in a tuxedo,
which he wears because the Ministry of Mayhem’s dress code is horrifically
sexist.
His gaze sweeps down the corset he commissioned for me from my
Wonderland wishlist. I’m also wearing it with a pair of faux leather hold-up
stockings that blend into my platform boots.
He licks his lips, his eyes lingering on the pretty lace panties I’m
wearing instead of a skirt.
“Afraid, little ghost?” he asks, his deep voice breaking into my
thoughts.
I draw in a shaky breath. “A little, but then, I’ve never felt so alive.”
He brings my knuckles to his lips for a kiss that sends sparks of
electricity across my skin. “That’s my brave girl. After tonight, your life
will never be the same.”

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-FIVE

XERO
Melrose Manor’s entrance hall is just as grand as its exterior. A pair of
ancient pendant lights hang down from a sixteen-foot-high ceiling,
illuminating its mahogany-paneled walls. Above them are religious
tapestries that have faded over the centuries, which are at odds with the
dance music booming from the building’s interior.
Amethyst clings onto my arm, her entire body quivering with
excitement. This is her first time at an event like this, and she doesn’t know
what to expect. I hope it doesn’t disappoint. Our priority is finding
Nocturne, who’s our most promising lead in locating Father.
We advance toward a group of masked and cloaked employees at the far
end of the hall standing among the security guards. After we deposit
Amethyst’s cloak, a dark-haired man wearing black leather pants and a
collar checks our tickets’ QR codes.
“Who do I talk to about membership?” I ask him.
“It’s invite-only,” he replies, his voice gruff.
“Then who do I talk to about getting an invitation?”
“They talk to you.”
He turns his attention away from us and toward the couple on our left.
The woman is topless under her cloak. The collar around her neck is so
large that she tilts her head at an awkward angle to accommodate its height.
I’m struggling enough with having this much of my little ghost on display. I
would never allow her to be as exposed as that woman.
We arrived ninety minutes after the opening time, leaving the fifteen
other operatives the opportunity to scope out the venue. According to
Jynxson, it’s the most vanilla fetish club he’s ever visited. He’s asked
around about Nocturne, who they say keeps to a members-only area in
another part of the building.
The music grows louder as one of the employees escorts us down a long
hallway and through a set of double doors to a darkened ballroom
illuminated by red spotlights.
It’s a dance floor, broken up by multiple podiums housing BDSM
furniture and the occasional pole. Beside me, Amethyst thrums with so
much anticipation that I’m forced to crack a smile. At least one of us is
impressed.
Peeling her away from watching a naked woman in a tiny cage being
fingered by a small crowd of women and men, I head to the bar area. Six
screens broadcast a couple fucking from different angles. The woman is a
bleached blonde I recognize from the Ministry of Mayhem’s website, and
the man wears a mask.
“What are you drinking?” a bartender yells over the music.
I point at the TV. “Is that live?”
He nods. “That’s from the screen room. It’s a space covered with
cameras and monitors so you can see yourself from every angle.”
I hesitate, remembering that Nocturne was interested in branching out
into producing videos of his inner circle. “Is that included in the entrance
fee?”
“Members-only. What can I get you?”
“Two Armagnacs on the rocks.”
A man bumps into my side. I glance down, locking gazes with Tyler.
He’s shirtless, wearing a leather collar and shorts. I lean into him and
murmur, “Report.”
“I hooked up with a Domme who says she knows Nocturne. He’s
selective about who they allow into their inner circle.”
He continues to explain that they don’t invite lone men to become
members—they might upset the balance by hitting on single women.
They’re only looking for couples of either switches or a dominant-
submissive pair.
I cut the conversation short when the bartender returns with our drinks
and escort my little ghost through the crowd. We pass a woman in a rubber
catsuit flogging a sub tied to a whipping post, pole dancers performing in
PVC, and a spanking bench where a man in leather chaps paddles his naked
male companion.
Based on the intel sent from the others who scoped out this venue,
everyone on the podium is either a member performing for the crowd or a
professional. I spot my sister and Jynxson standing around a platform where
two men are spit-roasting a woman on a four-poster bed.
I turn to Amethyst, whose cheeks are flushed. “Enjoying yourself?”
She gives me an eager nod.
“Do you want to play?”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
I flick my head toward one of the few unoccupied podiums. “We need
to stand out if we want a chance to get close to Nocturne. How brave are
you feeling tonight?”
Face dropping, her gaze flickers between me and two vacant podiums.
One is another spanking bench, and the other is a throne. I keep my features
even, not wanting to pressure my little ghost, but I’ve memorized our sex
contract to the most minute detail.
Amethyst is excited by exhibitionism.
Some mornings, she would fantasize about me fucking her in the middle
of the prison’s rec room, with the inmates watching us from behind bars.
But getting off on an imaginary scenario in the comfort of her bedroom is
no comparison to performing before a live audience.
“Just us?” she asks.
“No man will touch you unless he wants to lose a hand,” I growl.
She hesitates a fraction before inhaling a deep breath, her eyes
hardening with determination. “Let’s do it.”
I run a finger down her bare arm, making her shiver. “Are you sure,
little ghost?”
She gives me an eager nod.
I grin, my arm wrapping around her waist as we weave our way through
the crowd of dancers. Most of them are facing one of the occupied podiums,
giving me time to lift Amethyst up to a platform featuring an iron throne
upholstered in leather.
After joining her on the platform, I clip a leash to her silver collar and
motion for her to kneel. She gets into position between my spread legs,
gazing up at me through her lashes.
 Amethyst breathes hard through parted lips, her pretty green eyes
dilating. Her gaze drifts outward, where some of the crowd are already
turning around to watch our scene.
“Eyes on me,” I say over the sound of the music.
Her gaze snaps back to meet mine.
“Good girl.” I pull on the leash, bringing her closer to my crotch.
Exhibitionism isn’t one of my kinks. As an assassin, being in the line of
sight can mean failure or death, so I prefer to operate from the shadows.
However, having this woman at my feet is the most potent aphrodisiac.
I could be surrounded by a thousand enemies, each with guns trained at
my head, but I would still want to fuck her until she came around my cock.
Parting my legs, I lean back on the throne, letting my erection press
against my fly. Her gaze drops down to it, and her tongue peeks out from
her lips. The sight of her looking so aroused is so tantalizing that I have to
stifle a groan.
“Show me how much you want it,” I say during a lull in the music.
She runs her hand up my thigh, making me shiver at her touch. As her
fingers slide up and down my clothed shaft, one of the club attendants
mounts the podium.
The red light bounces on his bald head and glistens on his sweat-coated
skin, reminding me of the asshole who lured Amethyst and her friend to the
hotel.
“Sir.” He smooths down his leather waistcoat. “This throne is reserved
for members only.”
I tilt my head up at him, my lips lifting in a smirk. He straightens, trying
to assert his dominance, but it’s a pathetic attempt.
He isn’t Nocturne. There’s a look in a man’s eyes when he’s been to
prison, forced to endure the lowest dregs of society. It’s a raw instinct that
never truly fades, even years after being released from captivity. The bald
man doesn’t have it. He’s never faced that primal desperation born from the
will to survive.
“Is that so?” I ask, my voice so low he has to lean forward to listen.
When I flash him a grin, he must see something in my eyes because he
lowers his gaze. It’s just as I thought. Any man who dons a costume on a
Friday night to unleash his darker desires is no threat. He’s just a lamb
dressed as a wolf.
 Amethyst presses her lips up and down my shaft, her fingers groping at
my fly. It takes every effort to keep my attention on this time-wasting idiot,
but this is part of my plan.
“My lady and I want a bottle of Armagnac,” I say.
He hesitates, his throat tensing under my gaze. “Sir, table service
isn’t⁠—”
“You interrupted my scene,” I snarl, my voice low. “Since there’s no
sign on this seat saying it’s reserved for members, I can only conclude
you’re here to serve me.”
His breath quickens. Even in this dim light and from my vantage point
on the throne, I can see his blue eyes dilate. My brow arches. Reactions like
this are a surefire sign he has submissive tendencies.
I lean back on the throne, staring so intently at the man that he’s forced
to lower his gaze. He shifts on his feet, his fingers toying at the neckline of
his leather waistcoat.
“Be a good boy and get me that drink,” I say.
He lowers his gaze and swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re there, book us some time in the screen room.”
His eyes widen at my request, and his pale cheeks turn pink. With a nod,
he scrambles off the podium. By now, a crowd has formed around our
platform, and Amethyst gazes out at them, her cheeks equally as flushed as
the club attendant’s.
“Everyone’s watching us,” she says, her eyes dancing.
My smirk grows. “Want to watch them see you come?”
“How?”
“Take out my cock,” I growl, leaning back to give her room.
Her delicate fingers fumble with my belt and zipper, and she reaches
into my fly and eases out my erection. I groan, wishing we were alone so I
could bend her over the throne and pound into her tight, wet heat until she
screams my name loud enough to pull down the ceiling.
But we're not. We’re on display, observed by dozens of eyes, if not
multiple cameras installed around the club. I want Amethyst to get off from
being watched, but without sharing any part of her with these unworthy
voyeurs.
She leans forward, running the flat of her tongue up my Jacob’s ladder.
Pleasure surges through my veins, and I can’t help but shudder.
 My fingers knot through her hair as she swirls her tongue around my
crown and laps at the patch of skin beneath my Prince Albert.
I could come just from the sight and feel of my little ghost, but tonight
is all about getting Nocturne’s attention. And pleasing Amethyst. She’s
worked so hard on developing her escape and combat skills that she
deserves a special reward.
“Show them how much you can take,” I growl.
Nodding, she swallows my shaft deeper until my crown hits the back of
her throat. Her eyes water, but they remain trained on mine.
“Good girl.”
The crowd closes in, trying to see more, but I keep my body angled to
protect her privacy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman trying to
mount the platform, but someone yanks her back into the crowd. Sending a
silent word of thanks to the operatives watching our back, my focus drifts
back to Amethyst.
I allow her to continue for a few more strokes, her head bobbing as I
clench my jaw, fighting back the urge to release. It’s not just about her
mouth—it’s her submission. Her wanton desire to take my cock in front of
all these hungry eyes.
She hums, the sound vibrating along my shaft and through my core,
taking me to a dangerous edge.
“Enough.” I grip her hair, pulling her off my cock. “Now, get on my
lap.”
Releasing me with a soft pop, she pulls back and rises. I turn her around
and slip my fingers between her thighs and into her lace panties, feeling her
wet little pussy.
“You’re soaked,” I growl, bringing my glistening fingers to her line of
sight. “Does the thought of you sucking my cock in front of the whole
nightclub get you wet?”
She turns her head toward me, breathing hard and fast through her
parted lips. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
I settle her on my lap, adjusting her position so her back is flush against
my chest, and she's facing the crowd. Angling her hips, I push her panties
aside again, and guide my cock into her entrance.
 “Show those thirsty bastards that you’re my good girl,” I growl into her
ear. “Give them a glimpse of what they can’t have.
She eases down, her tight heat contracting around my shaft. The crowd
moves closer, trying to get a better look, but I cup her pussy around the
front, my finger rubbing her clit.
The club attendant from earlier pushes his way to the front with a bottle
and two glasses on a tray. Ignoring him, I focus my attention on the little
goddess in my lap.
“Faster,” I say, and she obeys, riding my cock in time to the music.
I take her hips, moving her up and down, while keeping my features an
impenetrable mask. It’s nearly impossible to hold a poker face with the
woman I love, but my senses are on red alert. Any associate of Father has to
be dangerous, and I won’t take any chances with Nocturne or his people.
She rolls her hips, pumping and squeezing my shaft, her head moving
from side to side. My little exhibitionist gets off on having all those eyes on
her as she takes her pleasure. The crowd moves in, enraptured by her raw
passion, but I’m scanning their faces for signs of serious players.
Amethyst’s muscles tighten, indicating that she’s close. So am I, but I
don’t want to come. Not yet. Quickening my strokes around her clit, I push
her toward the edge.
“That’s my good girl,” I say. “My eager little slut.”
She moans.
“Let the club hear how prettily you come for me.”
Amethyst throws her head back and climaxes, her hips bucking, her
body trembling, her pussy spasming around my cock. She cries out, the
sound of her orgasm mingling with the music.
The crowd bursts into applause, making her muscles flutter.
My gaze drops down to the attendant, who places a piece of paper on
our tray of drinks.
She collapses backward into my chest, and I cradle her in my arms.
“Well done, little ghost,” I murmur into her ear. “It looks like your
performance might get us invited to become members of this club.”

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-SIX

AMETHYST
I collapse against Xero, my body still spasming from the aftershocks of
a powerful orgasm. Bliss courses through my veins, leaving me panting and
weak against his broad chest.
His thick cock is still buried deep within my pussy, swollen with
unreleased tension. Somehow he remained in control, while I lost myself to
pleasure.
The ringing in my ears quiets, letting me catch the tail end of the
applause. My eyes wander around the club again, meeting the gazes of the
onlookers. There have to be at least eighty sets of eyes trained on us, and
some of the male observers are touching themselves beneath their clothes.
Xero’s hand is still cradled around my pussy, his fingers tracing lazy
circles over my clit. It’s the only thing separating me from the men’s
searching gazes.
Now that the euphoria has faded, I wait for a rush of embarrassment or
regret, but my chest inflates with triumph. Triumph over the recluse who
sleepwalked away the past six years, and triumph over the part of my brain
that generated hallucinations every time I attempted intimacy with a man. I
had sex with Xero in front of an entire nightclub and my brain never once
glitched.
I squirm on his lap, painfully aware that he’s still hard. “Aren’t you
going to come?”
He nibbles on my ear, igniting sparks of pleasure across my sensitive
skin. “That depends on you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask over the sound of the music.
 “Do you want to see yourself getting fucked from every angle?”
My breath quickens at the prospect of another round of sex, and I turn to
meet his pale eyes. “How?”
“Do you remember those screens at the bar?”
“Of course. Is that where we’re going next?”
Nodding, Xero motions to the bald man from earlier to approach. By
now, the crowd has already turned around to watch the next spectacle, but a
few patrons linger to see what will happen next.
Eyes brightening, the man places his tray on the platform, then
scrambles up and falls to his knees.
My chest tightens with a pang of jealousy, even though the feeling is
ridiculous. Xero chose me out of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. He
went to extensive lengths to win my heart, yet there’s a part of me that will
always feel possessive. That doesn’t stop me from gripping his thigh to
signal that he’s off-limits.
“Would you like me to pour your Armagnac, sir?” the man asks, his
head bowed.
“What’s your name?” Xero asks.
He peers up at Xero through his lashes. “Scroggins, sir. May I have
yours?”
“You may call me Master Nero,” Xero says. “Bring the bottle to the
screen room. We’ll drink it later.”
Holding my breath, I wait for Scroggins to mutter a bunch of excuses
about why we can’t access a members-only area, but he simply bows low
before saying, “Please, come with me.”
Minutes later, we’re following Scroggins out of the crowded ballroom
and through a winding set of corridors. I cling to Xero’s arm, my heart
pounding hard enough to muffle the fading music. If this is an ambush, then
Xero’s backup is far away because we’ve left Jynxson and the others behind
on the dance floor.
Xero wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. The gesture is
reassuring, but it’s a chilling reminder that this is no ordinary club night.
Xero already explained that the man behind the Ministry of Mayhem is also
loosely connected to X-Cite Media.
My fingers drift to one of the stiletto daggers we attached to my corset. I
hope to all that’s holy I don’t have to stab my way to freedom.
 We reach a fire exit and step out into a courtyard of vehicles, and my
gaze wanders to a forty-foot-long tour bus.
“The screen room is outside?” Xero asks.
It’s an obvious question, but I know he’s communicating to whoever’s
listening on the other side of his earpiece.
“Yes, sir,” Scroggins replies, still holding the tray. “The Ministry of
Mayhem is a mobile establishment that operates out of multiple locations.
Something to consider if you’d like to apply for membership.”
I hold back a smirk. Of course, Xero would get invited to become a
member. Men don’t get more dominant than him.
Music pounds through the tour bus, which Scroggins leads us past. He
doesn’t comment on the activity inside, but I’d bet everything I own that
this is where Nocturne entertains his members.
He stops outside a dented trailer connected to a silver Land Rover. It’s a
shiny capsule on wheels with reflective surfaces that gleam under the
moonlight.
“This is the screen room.” Scroggins opens the door, revealing a small
control area with panels of switches, buttons, and monitors. My jaw drops.
It’s the kind of high-tech surveillance system I’d expect to find in a secret
military operation, not in a fetish club.
“Nice Airstream,” Xero says. “Who designed this setup?”
“Our leader, Mr. Nocturne, is an amateur filmmaker,” Scroggins replies
with a touch of pride. “The screen room uses cutting-edge surveillance
technology.”
We follow him inside the trailer, finding the rest of it empty. Every
surface, from the walls and floors to the ceiling, is covered in screens. In
between them are heavy duty plates and hooks, which I assume are there to
hold all the equipment in place. I turn in a circle, finding my movements
mirrored in real time.
“Why don’t the screens record the others?” I ask. “I thought this would
be like a hall of mirrors.”
“The members found it disorienting from all angles, so we incorporated
green screen technology to filter out the feeds from the surrounding
images.”
My skin tingles with the sensation of being watched.
“Are we being broadcasted right now?”
 “Only if you provide your written consent.” Scroggins sets down the
tray on a single table, the only piece of furniture in the room that isn’t a
control panel or a monitor.
“What happens to the footage?” Xero asks.
They have a technical discussion that includes terms like multi-camera
capture arrays, real-time video encoding, AI-driven content processing, and
dual-stream broadcasting capabilities, but I’m hypnotized by my
reflections.
I can’t even explain if it’s my newfound confidence or Xero’s presence,
but for the first time since I can remember, I’m no longer terrified of what I
see.
At the tail end of the conversation, Xero and Scroggins make
adjustments to the control panel so it doesn’t broadcast our images to the
club. He explains that the AI will select the best angles and download the
edited footage to a hard drive we’ll take home as a souvenir.
My heart pounds so hard its vibrations reach my clit. I can’t believe I’ve
gone from being horrified about being recorded, to having sex with Xero in
the graveyard, to performing on camera. Maybe the difference is consent.
Besides, even if this footage was leaked, it wouldn’t hurt so much because I
don’t plan on removing my mask.
Scroggins dips his head. “If you and your lady would like some
assistance, it would be my pleasure and honor to serve.”
I glance down to find an erection bulging through his leather pants and
wonder which of us the bald man wants to serve first.
Xero sneers. “You haven’t yet earned the privilege. When we’ve
finished in the screen room, I want to speak to Nocturne about
membership.”
“Yes, sir,” Scroggins says with a deep bow.
Xero follows him out toward the exit, where Scroggins shows him how
to pull down a panel of screens to conceal the control area. A moment later,
it flares to life, reflecting my form.
I stand in the middle of what’s now a seamless rectangular prism, my
gaze wandering around the screens. For the first time since I can remember,
I don’t find any part of my reflection jarring.
After exchanging a few hushed words with Xero, Scroggins exits. The
door clicks shut, and his footsteps retreat, leaving only the faint hum of the
technology.
 My heart thuds with anticipation of what’s to come, each beat
resounding through my ears with a dull echo. The thrill of all those cameras
watching me from every angle as Xero takes me sets off a cascade of rioting
butterflies.
They flutter in my chest, tickle the lining of my stomach, and find their
way down to my clit. I can’t help but wonder if Nocturne and his underlings
are watching us from the tour bus, debating whether we should be invited to
become members.
Xero emerges from behind the screen, looking like a completely
different man in the artificial light. His pale irises are a stark contrast to his
blackened hair and leather mask, giving him an air of extra menace.
In his hands is a length of rope coiled into loops. My senses go on red
alert that this experience will form part of my training. If I fail to put up a
decent fight, then I can kiss goodbye any further orgasms.
I step back as he prowls toward me with predatory eyes, his gaze
traveling down my form. Every prey instinct screams at me to run, but I’m
trapped. My darker instincts want to stay and see what Xero will do next.
“You know I love you, right?” he asks.
“What’s this about?” I ask back, my voice breathy with excitement.
“Answer my question,” he snarls.
“Yes.”
“And you know I swore to protect you?”
I give him a shaky nod.
“Good, because I’m going to wreck you with my cock.” His lips curl
into a wide grin that makes the rest of his features sinister, especially with
both profiles reflected on the screens.
My breath catches as he draws closer, and I clench my fists tight to both
sides. His gaze drops to my hands, and his eyes dance with a mix of malice
and mirth.
“You going to fight me, little ghost?” he taunts.
“I can’t flee, I won’t freeze, and I sure as hell won’t fawn.”
With a dark chuckle, he pulls the rope taut. “Good girl. Now, fight. If
you last sixty seconds, you get to come.”
“And if I win?” I raise my fists.
He smirks again, his eyes darkening. “You won’t.”
Xero says that with so much confidence that my spine shivers. Forcing
myself not to back down, I raise my brows and meet his heated gaze. “If I
win, then I get to lead you around the club on a leash.”
“That won’t happen.”
I make a preemptive strike to his throat. Xero catches it with an iron
grip, but I yank down my arm. As he jerks forward, I use his momentum to
drive a knee into his stomach.
“Nice move, little ghost.” He takes hold of my knee, shoves me onto my
back and pins my wrists above my head, his weight pressing me into the
warm screens. “But you’re exactly where I want you.”
Oh, shit. The first time Xero showed me this move, I was punished for
wasting too much energy trying to free my arms. We only practiced
countering this hold twice, but I’m sure I’ve grasped the basics.
Xero reaches down with his free hand and unhooks the front fastenings
of my corset. It springs open and drops to the floor, releasing the pressure
on my ribs.
“Thanks,” I say, finally able to fill my lungs.
He reaches down, his fingers closing in around a nipple, and squeezes it
so tightly that I gasp. Sensation shoots straight to my clit, and the muscles
of my pussy pulse.
“Twenty-five seconds. I can’t wait to have you crying for mercy.”
“Nice try, asshole.” Shifting my weight to my heels, I raise my hips,
knocking off his center of gravity.
He lurches head-first toward a screen and releases my wrists to avoid
face planting. Seizing the opening, I cling onto his torso and flip us both to
the side.
“Ten,” he says with a manic laugh.
I launch a fist into his gut, which earns me a satisfying grunt, so I knee
him in the balls.
Xero curls into himself and groans. “Low blow, little ghost.”
Scrambling to my feet, I pick up my corset and extract one of the stiletto
daggers. “Three...two...one. Now, you owe me an orgasm.”

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-SEVEN

AMETHYST
I don’t know if the hours of training are finally paying off or if Xero is
being easy on me for the sake of the recording. The screen room offers our
first chance to get a 360-degree view of my combat skills, allowing him to
break down my techniques.
Either way, I plan to savor my victory.
He’s on his knees now, his chest heaving as he processes the pain I’ve
inflicted on his balls. The look on his face is pure pride.
I step back, out of reach, not completely sure if this is the end of our
contest. Just in case he decides to cheat, I hide the dagger behind my back.
“Did I win?” I ask.
He springs to his feet with an agility that belies his pain and pulls me to
his chest. Then he grins down at me like a feral cat, making my heart slam
against its cage like a trapped bird.
“What did I say about underestimating your enemy?” he growls, his
thick erection pushing into my belly through his pants.
I bring the dagger to his neck and press the blade into his skin. “And
what did I say about underestimating me?”
His eyes narrow, and the corners of his lips lift into a smirk. “I’m
impressed. Now, put down the knife and get your reward.”
“How about I take what I want?” Keeping the dagger to his throat, I
add, “Strip.”
Arching a brow, he steps back, shrugs out of his jacket, and drops it on
the floor. “Fine.”
 He peels off his shirt, letting me admire the canvas of faint scars
crossing his chiseled pecs and defined abs. The screens behind him reflect a
beautifully muscled back, also lined with faint scars he must have gotten
through nearly a decade of being trained as an assassin.
Eyes never leaving mine, his hand slides down to his belt buckle. In my
periphery, multiple versions of Xero loosen their flies. Before I know it,
he’s toed off his shoes and slipped down his pants, revealing that
impossibly huge cock and all its piercings.
I can’t help but lick my lips.
“See something you like, little ghost?” he asks with a wicked grin.
My fingers tighten around the dagger, and I close the distance between
us, running the tip of its blade over his nipples, down his abs, before finally
resting at the base of his cock.
Xero hisses, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Careful with that
knife,” he says, his voice a teasing purr. “You don’t want to accidentally
nick something you might enjoy.”
“Get on your knees.”
In an instant, he’s taken the dagger out of my hands and pressed it
against my throat. Those cold blue eyes bore deeply into my soul, making
the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “You first.”
Shit.
Note to self: Fine-tune my disarming techniques.
I drop to my knees, my eyes never leaving his. “Happy now?”
“Move our clothes behind the screen so we’re not blocking any of the
cameras.”
With a huff, I gather up my corset, Xero’s shoes and socks. I reach for
the belt, but he plucks it and the rope from the pile. Heat floods my pussy at
the thought of what he’ll do to me next, and I stifle a groan.
I rise to walk to the other side of the screen room, when Xero places a
hand on my head and says, “Crawl.”
My breath quickens. “How am I going to carry the clothes when I’m on
my hands and knees?”
“Put them between your teeth.”
He takes my leather corset and his shoes from the pile and places them
on my back like I’m a little pack horse. Then he shoves my head down into
the pile of clothes and makes me pick them up between my teeth.
“Asshole,” I say through a mouthful of fabric.
 “Do I need to give you a count of ten?”
“No.” I crawl on my hands and knees, my cheeks flaming. I won Xero’s
little challenge. I survived sixty seconds and even kneed him in the balls.
How the hell is this my reward?
When I reach the screen, I place our items in a small pile and turn
around, knowing better not to walk back. My gaze drops to the images
beneath my body, and the sight of my swaying breasts makes me moan.
I glance over my shoulder to see myself from behind, noting my
reddened ass cheeks. Xero is in the background, standing like an obscene
work of art with his cock piercings glinting in the artificial light.
“See how beautiful you look on camera?” he asks, his eyes blazing
behind the mask.
My cheeks heat. With my curls pulled straight and the mask covering
the top half of my face, I could be someone else. A woman with a complete
life and a complete memory, exploring her kinks with the man she loves.
Love?
It certainly isn’t hate or even fear. I like him, and when he isn’t being a
tyrant, he’s the sweet, sensitive man who wrote me those heartfelt letters.
Xero accepts me, even with my dirty secrets and fractured past. He chases
away the delusions and drives me to be stronger, while unlocking keys to
my sexuality I thought were long lost.
I used to sit at home in a semi-stupor, wondering when my life would
begin, but being with Xero makes me realize I'm truly living. How can I not
love a man who makes me feel the intensity of every emotion?
“Come here.” His deep voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
I crawl toward him, closing the distance, and kneel at his feet.
“Turn around.”
Shuffling atop the screens, I give him my back. Xero makes me clasp
my hands at the base of my spine while he wraps the belt twice around my
biceps before securing them with a clink of the buckle. My nipples tighten
with anticipation and shivers skitter across my skin. I can’t get enough of
him when he takes charge.
He returns to my front and crouches down to eye level. “Give me your
foot.”
I bring my left foot forward, which he rests on his thigh. He ties one end
of the rope beneath my kneecap and the other around my ankle. It’s made of
silk fibers which feel luxurious against my skin, but nothing compares to
his touch. Each brush of his fingers sends tingles straight to my core.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice breathy.
“Getting you in the best position for the cameras,” he replies with a
smirk.
My pulse quickens as he pulls me to my feet, gathering the two lengths
of rope to loop them over a hook in the ceiling. I’m standing on one foot
with the other raised like a ballerina, my arms bound behind my back, and
my torso tilted to the right.
Xero takes the final length of rope, winds it around the belt and secures
it up above. Then he moves behind me, takes hold of my lead, and pulls me
into his bare chest.
“Umm… Xero?” I ask. “What about my panties?”
Cool metal grazes my skin, making me regret asking. After attaching
my lead to the ceiling, he slices through the waistband of my underwear,
letting the fabric fall loose. Cool air swirls around my pussy, making the
muscles of my core clench with need. Then Xero cuts through the other side
of my underwear and gathers it in his fist.
“I should have brought more rope,” he growls. “Because you look so
pretty tied up and spread nice and wide for me to fuck.”
“Oh, God,” I moan.
“That’s right, little ghost. And tonight, I’m going to make you cry out
for divine intervention. Now, open wide.”
He stuffs the wet panties between my lips and clamps a hand over my
mouth, muffling my protest. As I try to thrash, he turns my head toward the
screens on my left.
“See this dripping cunt? It’s mine.”
I peek through my lashes at my pussy reflected in multiple screens. It’s
never looked so swollen or wet or red. The sight of all that arousal
streaming down my inner thigh makes me groan into my makeshift gag.
He runs a thick finger over my clit, detonating every pleasure center,
before sliding that digit into my pussy.
“And this wet little hole. That’s mine, too,” he says, his hot breath
fanning the back of my neck.
I don’t know where to look, because he’s everywhere. Standing behind
me like a specter at my back, his presence filling every screen. His cock
grazes the inside of my raised thigh, the metal of his Prince Albert cooling
my skin.
My inner muscles spasm around his thick digit, needing more. My
standing leg trembles, threatening to buckle under the intensity of all this
teasing. I cry out, but the sound is muffled by the lace panties he’s stuffed in
my mouth.
“What’s that, little ghost?” he says with a smirk. “Use your words.”
I grind the fabric between my teeth. If he didn’t have his hand clamped
over my mouth, I might spit out my underwear and speak. Instead, I let out
a muffled plea and squirm within his grasp.
Pulling his finger out of my pussy, he lines up the pierced head of his
cock with my opening. His free hand traces over my breasts before pulling
my nipple taut.
“Is this what you want?”
I give him a frantic nod and groan through the gag.
“Since you’ve been such a good girl, I suppose I can give you a
reward.”
He pushes into my pussy with agonizing slowness, his piercing adding
another layer of pleasure to my over sensitized nerves. The cool metal rubs
against my flesh, making me moan into my lace gag, and my right leg
trembles with the strain.
“You like that, little ghost?” he asks, pressing deeper. “You like it when
I tie you up and take control of what’s mine?”
I can only answer with a stifled nod, my eyes watering.
His wicked laugh resounds in my ears. “I’ll take that as an enthusiastic
yes.”
Sex standing up was in our contract, as was bondage, gagging, and
reflective surfaces. Xero has fucked me in the bathroom between a pair of
mirrors, but nothing compares to being surrounded by this expanse of
screens.
It’s like being sucked into your favorite porn movie, getting fucked by
the actor and feeling the sensation of the female star.
Xero’s cock stretches me open, inch by incredible inch, the beads of his
Jacob’s Ladder hitting every pleasure spot. When he enters me to the hilt,
he pauses.
“Look at us,” he says, his deep voice curling around my senses like
smoke.
 The hand around my mouth slips down to my chin, tilting my head up to
force my gaze to the ceiling. “I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.”
I stare into my own green eyes, which have watered so badly that the
skin behind the mask glistens with tears.
“Fuck,” I say around the panties stuffed in my mouth.
As Xero draws back his hips, he pulls my head down, so I’m watching
the screen beneath our feet. The sight of his pierced cock sliding out of my
pussy sends a bolt of arousal through my core, making me topple to the
side.
“Easy now.”
His strong arm wraps around my waist, pinning me to his chest, and
when he thrusts back into me, my knee finally buckles. Xero holds me
upright as he builds up a steady rhythm, using me mercilessly as he pounds
into my pussy from behind.
My walls flutter around his thick shaft, and the ropes bite into my skin.
It takes every effort to remain upright when my body quakes with each
powerful stroke.
Emotions overwhelm my psyche in dizzying waves. Fear, excitement,
exhilaration, and shame. Everything crashes over me in a whirlpool of
insanity, pulling me deeper into the depths of depravity.
I never thought all those filthy fantasies Xero growled into the phone
would ever come to fruition. Never thought he would ever teleport out of
prison to fulfill his perverted promises. Yet, here he is, the devil at my back,
dragging my soul to hell.
Xero is relentless, and the intensity of it all makes my heart pound like
it’s trying to escape an inferno. Every nerve in my body is aflame, every
breath a struggle. The pleasure is so intense, it borders on pain.
“More,” I whimper into my gag.
His laugh is dark and low and husky, rough with unadulterated lust. He
fucks me harder, deeper, like my body is a toy built for his sole pleasure.
The piercings drag against my pleasure spots, making me jerk and
spasm in counterpoint to his thrusts. When cool metal slides over my clit,
the edges of my vision go black.
Don’t tell me he’s using the hilt of my dagger?
My gaze drops down to the screens beneath us, and I find the answer to
my question. Blunt metal, wet with my arousal, rubs back and forth over
my red and swollen clit.
 Our eyes meet in the screen, and the expression on his features is
sadistic. The rope around my leg tightens with my shocked movement, and
pressure builds up around my core. My walls clench and spasm around his
shaft, only with a sense of urgency that I’m not sure is related to the
approaching orgasm.
“Did you think I wouldn’t use every weapon at my disposal to break
you?” he growls, his voice rough.
I shake my head, loosening tears pricking my eyes under the intensity of
the moment. Molten ecstasy builds and builds until I’m teetering on the
knife-edge of a climax.
“Come for me, little ghost.”
His strokes quicken, his arm tightening around my waist. His pierced
scrotum moves in sync with his quick thrusts.
My body tenses as the pleasure radiates from my core, and my eyes roll
to the back of my head. I clench my fists as heat rushes through my core,
and the pressure reaches its peak.
“Just like that,” he rumbles.
The walls of my pussy clamp around Xero’s shaft so tightly that his
movements slow. He reaches between my parted lips and pulls out the gag.
“Scream for me.”
A guttural cry escapes my lips as every muscle in my body spasms with
the intensity of my climax. A tsunami of sensations crashes over my nerve
endings, and I’m consumed by an all-encompassing release.
“Eyes on me,” he growls.
My eyes snap open, and I lock gazes with Xero on-screen. His pupils
are so wide, I can barely see what’s left of his pale irises, and his lips curl
into the smile of a predator.
“You look so fucking beautiful, coming around my cock,” he growls
before his muscles tighten.
His features twist into a rictus of lust so terrifying that every fine hair on
my body stands on end. What’s left of my survival instincts whispers that
this is Xero’s real face, the beautiful monster bent on my degradation.
The voice gets drowned out when he comes with a guttural moan. His
shaft swells, and he fills my pussy with warm fluid. “Squeeze my cock like
a good girl. Wring out every drop.”
I’m sweating, gasping, trembling, my muscles contracting around him
as he rides out the rest of his climax with continued thrusts. He tosses the
knife aside, letting it fall onto the screens with a dull thud and places a
finger over my clit.
“Xero?” I say through panting breaths.
“Did you think we were finished?” His voice is cold, sending shivers
across my skin. “You’re going to give me one more. And after that,
another.”
My heart races as I realize what he means. “Oh, fuck.”
“That’s right, little ghost. You’re mine, and I will never let you go.”
As his words sink in, I’m overcome by a delicious sense of dread.
There’s no escaping Xero. I’m completely at the mercy of this apex
predator.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-EIGHT

XERO
Multiple orgasms were another thing Amethyst underlined in our sex
contract, and I made sure to deliver. By the time I finished with her, she was
sobbing openly for mercy and yelling something about seeing stars.
Our time was up, so I cut her down from the ceiling and helped her back
into her corset and into a spare pair of panties. After getting dressed and
disconnecting the drive containing our recordings, I carried her out of the
trailer, where Scroggins informed me that Nocturne had already left.
I have an appointment with him tomorrow evening at the Stargazer on
5th and Main to discuss membership over a cup of coffee. In case he’s
meeting several potential guests throughout the day, I’ll have people
surrounding the place when it opens.
Amethyst deserves lavish aftercare after such a heavy scene. I would
take her to a nearby hotel for a long soak, but she’s a wanted woman.
Technically, so am I. Instead, I bundle her in the car and drive her to the
stone bath at the old rectory, where we relaxed after our first time together.
Once inside, I carry her to the steaming bath and peel off her clothes.
She’s a vision, my goddess, my everything. Her body trembles under my
touch, but I can see the trust in her eyes, a trust I will never betray. I lower
her into the warm water, reveling in her sweet sigh. Sliding in behind her, I
cradle her between my legs and wrap my arms around her waist.
“You were magnificent tonight,” I murmur, my voice low and filled
with reverence.
She sighs at my words, her body molding into mine. I run my hands
over her smooth skin, rinsing away the intensity of the night. Her heartbeat
slows, syncing with mine as we exchange slow, sensual kisses.
Tonight lives up to every fantasy I had while I was on Death Row.
“You belong to me,” I whisper against her lips. “No one will ever hurt
you again. I will destroy anyone who dares to come between me and what’s
mine.”
As my hands continue their journey across her delectable little body, she
surrenders to my touch. My little ghost moans in all the right places, despite
her exhaustion.
My lips brush her ear, making her shiver. “Every moment with you is a
gift, every touch a privilege. You’re intoxicating—my perfect match.”
“Really?” She arches her back.
Her fingers dig into my thighs. I smile, knowing I’ve claimed every part
of her, body and soul. As her heartbeat steadies, we linger in the bath, lost
in our private bubble. The water cools, but the heat between us remains.
After helping her out of the bath, I carry her to the dressing room and
wrap her in a soft towel, making sure to dry her with the care and attention
she deserves.
“We’re bound,” I say, our gazes locking. “In this life and the next, you
are mine.”
Her lips curve into a smile, and for a moment, the world feels suspended
in her bliss. Amethyst is my everything, and I will guard her with my life.
Minutes pass, and the weight of my promise settles deep within my soul.
Gathering her in my arms again, I take her back to the crawlspace and
watch her sleep. I lose track of time, lost in the wonder of her presence,
until my phone buzzes, jolting me back to reality. The screen flashes with
an incoming call from Tyler.
“Report,” I whisper as I walk out into the hallway and pull the door
closed.
“After you mentioned that the screen room was outside, I arranged for a
drone to fly over Melrose Manor. Did you know their tour bus is registered
to X-Cite Media?”
My feet come to an abrupt stop. “What?”
“Yeah, but it’s fourteen years old, which coincides with the time
Nocturne sold the company to Delta and went to prison.”
I continue walking to the divider between number 15 and 13. “Any
further leads on Nocturne’s identity?”
 “The recruiter or content manager doesn’t know anything more. We’ve
tried everything, but Nocturne was careful with his paper trail.”
As I continue into Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace and through the tunnel
leading into the catacombs, Tyler updates me on the information his team
gathered from the Ministry of Mayhem. He’s already cross-referenced the
registrations of the cars parked around the tour bus, and he hacked into the
online booking service they used to collect ticket payments.
“Guess what?” He doesn’t give me a chance to speculate. “The Land
Rover attached to that trailer is registered to Melonie Crowley. It looks like
Nocturne and Delta are working together.”
My jaw clenches. “Or, Dolly is teaming up with Nocturne to take down
Delta.”
I hesitate, picturing Amethyst’s mother going against a man like Father.
Everything I’ve seen and heard from that woman indicates a highly strung
personality, not cool-headed enough to execute a drawn-out plan.
“Third option, and it’s a longshot. Harlan Stills beat the lie detector and
Nocturne is Delta.”
Tyler barks a laugh. “A stay in prison might explain why he’s been quiet
for a few years.”
“Nothing is impossible,” I mutter. “Anything else?”
Tyler updates me on the team’s progress. Jynxson will tail the Land
Rover, while the others have split up into groups to follow the tour bus and
tail members whose names are associated with New Alderney’s major crime
consortiums. One of them has to lead to Nocturne. Or Father, if they’re one
and the same.
I continue through the catacombs to a control room, where Tyler sits at
an L-shaped desk with his two assistants, Calvin and Denise, operatives we
poached from the firm’s IT department.
Its walls are stone, as are most chambers within the catacombs, except
every wall is covered with monitors displaying feeds. Each feed shows live
surveillance footage from cameras positioned all over the city, including the
tour bus and Land Rover.
Denise twirls around and flashes me a grin. “Hey, Xero. Number 13
went up for sale with the Mancini Real Estate and Auction Company. The
virtual tour is already up online, and the open house days are tomorrow and
the day after. Do you want to make a pre-auction offer?”
 I rub the back of my neck. “Let’s see if we can take out the seller before
the auction even starts. We don’t need to buy something Amethyst might
inherit in a few days.”
She snickers. “Good plan.”
Calvin holds up an envelope. “This arrived while you were at the club.”
“Another one?” I snarl.
“As usual, it’s addressed to ‘Bitch,’” he says.
I take the envelope and slip it into my pocket. There’s no point in
souring my mood tonight with a picture of a tortured and naked child.
Their phone rings. “It’s Jynxson,” says Calvin. “He just followed the
Land Rover downtown into an underground parking lot.”
I turn to the monitors. “Which one is his feed?”
“Patching him onto the big screen,” Denise says.
The largest monitor comes to life, revealing the vehicle pulling into a
dimly lit lot. Each space is numbered, indicating that we’ve followed the
driver into an apartment building.
“Put Jynxson on speaker.” I lower myself into a spare seat.
“He’s just parked at 113 Metro Tower,” Jynxson says.
“He?” I ask.
“Male and female occupants,” Jynxson answers. “Following him into
the apartment building at this time of the night is going to be tricky.
Permission to render them unconscious.”
“Granted,” I mutter.
The three of us stare into the screen, watching two shadowy figures in
the Land Rover’s front seat kissing. I hold my breath, waiting for the couple
to exit.
Seconds pass, and the couple continues their passionate embrace,
making me discount the theory that Nocturne could be Father. The man was
cold and austere. I never once saw him hug his legitimate sons, let alone his
wife, and he sure as hell didn’t demonstrate any sentimentality.
“Hold on,” Jynxson says. “I’m moving in.”
The footage jostles as he exits the car. He sneaks across the parking lot
to the vehicle and takes position with a tranq gun.
Calvin waves a hand. “Another message just came in from Alderney
Hill. There’s movement outside Melonie Crowley’s house.”
“What?” I hiss. “Put them on speaker.”
 “It’s Camila,” says a female voice. “I’m parked close to the front gates.
Their garden lights just came on. Permission to enter the premises?”
I don’t know what to fucking think. Was Amethyst’s mother at the club?
“Granted, but take backup.”
“Copy that,” Camila says.
I turn my attention back to the screen where Jynxson crouches in wait
for the couple to emerge from the Land Rover. Leaning forward in my seat,
I narrow my eyes. The vehicle’s engine goes silent and the headlights dim.
“Looks like they’re about to exit,” Jynxson murmurs into the mic.
The vehicle’s door opens. A medium-height man exits, and his stature
isn’t anywhere close to Father’s. My heart sinks. So much for my theory of
him being Nocturne.
Jynxson fires the dart into the man’s shoulder. He crumples to the
ground without a sound. The passenger side door flies open, and the woman
inside scrambles out, looking nothing like Amethyst or her mother.
She screams.
A tranquilizer dart lands in her chest before she even completes her
sentence, and she slumps on the ground beside the vehicle. Jynxson rushes
to the fallen bodies.
I rise off my seat. “Who the fuck are these people?”
“Give me a minute,” Jynxson mutters. “The male is Arthur Scroggins.”
He pauses for a beat, the way he does before making a punchline.
“Get on with it,” I snarl.
“Bald, stocky, and carrying a bottle of Armagnac?” he asks, his voice
light with amusement.
“Fuck. That club attendant?” I say through clenched teeth. “And the
woman?”
“Dr. Monica Saint.”
“That’s the psychiatrist you asked me to research,” Tyler says. I turn to
him for a progress report, and he shrugs. “I hacked into her system and
found no records of Amethyst or Melonie Crowley.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Bring them in. I want to know why
they’re using her car and how the fuck they’re connected to Delta,
Nocturne, and X-Cite Media.”
“Xero?” says Camila’s voice. “I’ve got a man in a tuxedo entering
through the back door.”
 My breath hitches. The chances of him being connected to the Ministry
of Mayhem are high. “Is he alone?”
“Yes.”
“Take him down,” I reply. “Bring him to a cell close to Tyler’s room.”
There’s a moment’s pause before she says, “Done.”
I grind my teeth. Where the fuck did Amethyst’s mother disappear to?
Amethyst’s psychiatrist is driving a car registered to her mother, and the
man who set up tomorrow’s meeting with Nocturne is involved with the
psychiatrist. Add to the mix the photo I found of Father at her parents’
dinner party and it spells one hell of a conspiracy.

OceanofPDF.com
 NINETY-NINE

XERO
My most pressing priority is the man Camila found loitering around
Mrs. Crowley’s home. I have a hunch that he could be Nocturne.
Having Nocturne might take us a step closer to Father and taking him
down. It might even shed light on the conspiracy of who wants to destroy
Amethyst.
An hour later, I step into an interrogation room, where Camila has
already set him up with a lie detector. We skip the metal sounder up the
urethra, as we haven’t caught him doing anything wrong.
He sits shirtless in tuxedo pants and a black cummerbund with
electrodes stuck to a scarred chest of prominent ribs. From the looks of him,
I’d guess he had a rough time in prison.
A blindfold covers the top half of his face, but I recognize him instantly
from Amethyst’s photo of our fathers and her Uncle Clive.
The door swings shut behind me, making him flinch.
“Who’s there?”
“I apologize for the method of our introduction, but you’re a very
difficult man to track.”
He breathes hard. “I know what this is about, and I’m innocent.”
I turn to Camila. “Have you calibrated his vitals?”
She nods. “Clive Bishop, aged forty-eight, born in Chicago, Illinois.
Convicted of conspiracy to commit murder and distribution of illegal
material. Served fourteen years and seven months in Alderney State
Penitentiary.”
So, he really is Nocturne.
 “Bishop? I thought the last name was Crowley?”
He sags in his seat. “My last name is Bishop.”
“What’s your relationship with Melonie Crowley?” I ask.
“She was married to my brother, Lyle.” He gulps. “Lyle Bishop.”
“Was?”
He coughs. “Lyle died in a car accident a month before I was arrested.
He’d changed his last name after getting into trouble with the wrong
crowd.”
My brow furrows. Amethyst and I both believed the road accident was
bullshit, but it looks like Melonie was telling at least a partial truth. “Was he
in the car alone?”
“He was with my niece,” he rasps. “She survived.”
I blow out a long breath. Amethyst hallucinated her father this entire
time? I don’t understand why her mother and psychiatrist didn’t tell her he
was no longer alive.
“Can I please know what this is about?” Nocturne asks.
“Are you the man who founded X-Cite Media?” I ask.
He clenches his teeth, his features twisting into a rictus of hatred. “I told
you I was innocent! I may have set up the infrastructure, but I didn’t fill it
with murderous filth.”
“Then who did?”
“I knew him as Dalton Greaves,” he snarls. “A business associate of my
brother’s who used me as a front to broadcast snuff. When I got reported, he
vanished, leaving me to get imprisoned.”
Nodding, I glance at the biometric readings and find that he’s being
truthful. Nocturne’s story is consistent with the recruiter’s. I’m not even
surprised at the confirmation that Father now makes snuff movies.
“Any idea where he might be now?” I ask.
His nostrils flare. “If I knew that, don’t you think I’d have gunned him
down? He cost me nearly fifteen years. Because of him, I lost everything.”
“Why would I believe you?”
“That bastard did something to my niece,” he roars.
My jaw drops, and my mind conjures up those polaroids of Amethyst I
posted on the wall. Father knew Amethyst?
“Explain,” I demand.
“Something happened when she was ten. Melonie visited me in my first
month of prison, begging for information about Dalton. She was half mad,
ranting about a car accident. Said her daughter’s safety depended on finding
him, but I couldn’t help her.”
I lean forward, my breath quickening. Father got his hands on
Amethyst?
Nocturne clenches his fists, his features twisted with pain. “Melonie
didn’t visit after that, and I didn’t hear anything about the girl until she
walked into the kitchen two weeks ago.”
I continue questioning Nocturne about the past, but his knowledge is
restricted to the limited amount of information Melonie shared during that
single visit. After his release, he became a hunted man and hid in the
Alderney Hill house after vigilantes burned down his residence. Twice. By
then, any mention of Amethyst would trigger Melonie into a rage.
“What’s your connection to Dr. Saint?” I ask.
His features relax. “Melonie recommended her services, and she’s been
helping me with my depression. It was her idea to restart my nightclub.”
I check the wall clock, hoping Jynxson has finished interrogating Dr.
Saint.
“Are you going to kill me?” Nocturne asks, his voice thick with grief.
“Not unless you’re withholding information,” I reply. “I want every
scrap of intel you have on Dalton Greaves, including what you think he
might have done to your niece.”
We continue along these lines for another hour, with Nocturne delving
deeper into his brother’s relationship with Father. Amethyst already told me
Lyle Crowley ran an international adoption agency, but hearing it again
from Nocturne puts that information into a chilling perspective.
I would bet my left nut that Father used the Happy Hearts Adoption
Agency to traffic children into his underground facility.
Nocturne breaks down in tears, and I ease off, leaving Camila to
complete the interrogation with orders to release Nocturne somewhere
within walking distance of Alderney Hill.
Exiting into the darkened hallway that connects the cells to the
catacomb’s upper levels, I grapple with the new insights into Amethyst’s
past.
Did Father throw her in that institution to manipulate her mother into a
relationship, or am I being too sympathetic to Melonie Crowley? I need to
capture that woman. She’s the key to everything.
Footsteps echo toward me, and Jynxson steps out of the shadows.
 “What did you find out?” I quicken my steps to close the distance.
He raises his shoulders. “The shrink is clean. Mostly.”
“What does that mean?”
“She doesn’t keep records on Amethyst because Mrs. Crowley wanted
no traces of her daughter’s crimes.”
“So, there was more than one.” That isn’t a question. All evidence
points toward Amethyst striking a second time at the age of eighteen.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Amethyst attacked two men in a drunken
rage. She claims not to know what happened to them, but Mrs. Crowley
demanded a stronger prescription to keep her daughter under control.”
I nod, remembering the disappearance of Sparrow and Wilder Reed.
Melonie must have brought Amethyst back for a repeat of what she did after
the music teacher. “An alternative to being institutionalized.”
“The doctor said Amethyst came to her fourteen years ago, freshly
released from an asylum. Dr. Saint couldn’t remember its name but said it
was out of state.”
“Shit. And Scroggins?”
He huffs a laugh. “Just a random hookup. What do you want me to do
about him?”
“Toss him out on the street with a warning. If he calls the police, we’ll
cut off body parts.”
“And the doctor?”
“She stays until she can remember something useful,” I snarl.
“Tomorrow, I’ll get Amethyst to write down a list of questions she’s always
wanted to ask her shrink.”
He nods. “And McMurphy?”
My steps falter. I’d almost forgotten about that guard. “Take me to her.”
Jynxson and I walk through a winding passage, our footsteps echoing
off the stone walls. Tonight has been one revelation after another. By now,
Amethyst will be awake, wondering where the hell I’ve gone.
He stops outside a door. “It’s this one.”
As I move to push it open, Jynxson grabs my arm. “Are you going to
kill her?”
“No, but I’ll make her wish I had.”
I walk in, finding her huddled in a corner, with her knees tucked to her
chest. She bends her head, obscuring her face with a curtain of dark brown
hair.
 My lip curls and my mind dredges up every minute of powerlessness
she forced me to endure. McMurphy thought she could blackmail me into
intimacy by interfering with my relationship.
She didn’t just intercept Amethyst’s letters, but skipped my morning
exercise in an attempt to coerce me into accepting her advances. When she
failed, she taunted me at my lowest, thinking she would make the last hours
of my life miserable.
If my team and I hadn’t worked so diligently to perfect my staged
execution, this worthless parasite could have jeopardized its success.
I slam the door, enjoying how it makes her flinch. She dips her neck,
her shoulders rising to her ears.
“Tell me about your relationship with X-Cite Media,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Greaves, is that you?”
“Know my voice, do you?”
“How did you…? But I saw you die.”
“Yes, and you did a great job recording it for that website. What do they
pay you for such exclusive content?”
She shakes her head. “No… That wasn’t me.”
I hiss through my teeth at the transparent lie. Closing the distance
between us, I reach down and grab a handful of her hair. “If the next thing
you say is a waste of my time, I’ll make sure you never get to spy on
another man’s private moments.”
“Xero, please,” she whispers.
Cradling the side of her face, I rub the pad of my thumb over her closed
eye.
She shivers.
“Give me something if you want to walk out of this room alive,” I
growl, pressing my thumb into her socket.
“Greaves,” she says through panting sobs. “Don’t rip out my heart. I
could have done a lot worse.”
I chuckle, the sound low and deep. “If you want to survive the night,
then you’ll tell me about X-Cite Media.”
“Okay, okay. One of the prisoners doing life for murder mentioned the
site, saying they pay for content. I uploaded the video clips and got a fixed
fee. I wasn’t hurting anyone. You were supposed to be dead.”
“Who’s your contact there?”
 “A man named Harlan,” she says. “I’ve never met him. It’s all been
online. Please. That’s all I know.”
“Anyone else?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“And if we searched through all your burner phones, what would we
find?”
She shivers. “There was one more. He never gave his name, but he was
from X-Cite Media. He’d ask about you. What you were doing. Who you
were speaking to. The names of people you were communicating with on
the outside.”
My heart pounds. Who else from that firm would be so invested in my
activities but the man whose life I tried to destroy?
“Tell me more.”
She shakes her head. “I never met him. Never knew his name. He
sounded cultured. Older. He’s the one who suggested I stop your letters. He
wanted you isolated.”
“What else?” I snarl.
She whimpers. “That’s it.”
“You’re lying,” I yell, making her flinch.
“He asked me to sabotage your conjugal visit,” she cries.
Fury heats my blood, making every fine hair bristle with rage. All those
weeks I spent punishing Amethyst for something McMurphy did under
Father’s orders. This unworthy bitch drove a wedge between me and the
other half of my soul.
“When did you last speak?”
“I called him the night of your execution. He wanted to know if I was
sure you were dead.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I watched you get beaten up, then dragged to the infirmary. I was
there for the execution and even showed him the photos.”
The pressure of my thumb on her eye intensifies until she screams.
“That’s everything,” she sobs. “I swear, I don’t know anything else.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, frustration pounding through my veins. If she
had been working with anybody else, that confession would have earned
her a painful death. But she’s just admitted to having contact with Father.
“You know what this means?” I whisper.
She shivers, her breath coming in shallow pants. “I’m going to die?”
 “That’s entirely up to you. Will you help me find him?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“Good girl.” I smile as she visibly relaxes. “But first, I need to punish
you for being a peeping Tom.”
I poke my thumb into her socket until her screams ring through my ears
with the sweet sound of retribution. The eyeball beneath my digit collapses,
leaking blood and fluid down her face.
Retracting my thumb, I wipe the liquid on my tuxedo pants and
straighten. Tonight has been jam-packed with revelations. Making a mental
note to get Jynxson to examine the phone McMurphy used to communicate
with Father, I walk to the door.
There’s so much I need to tell Amethyst.

OceanofPDF.com
 ONE HUNDRED

AMETHYST
Hours later, I wake up with Xero’s arms wrapped around my waist and
his chest flush against my back.
“When did return?” I murmur into the dark.
“Just now,” he slurs. “I have so much to tell you.”
I try twisting around in his embrace, but his arms are like an iron vise.
“Hey, Xero?”
When he answers with a snore, I wriggle in his grip. “Let go of me. I
need to go to the bathroom.”
He squeezes tighter.
“Now I know you’re awake.” I kick backward, but he doesn’t even
flinch. “Xero. This isn’t funny.”
It’s probably a test in case I get captured by a maniac who likes to hug. I
reach backward between our bodies, trying to find his balls, but he’s so
tightly spooned against my back that all I can grab is his hip.
“Just when I’m beginning to fall in love, you turn into an asshole,” I say
and elbow him in the ribs.
He doesn’t respond. This isn’t like Xero at all. He usually sleeps with
one eye open and would never ignore any talk about love. I glance around
the room, my gaze falling on the skeleton standing in the corner, and I
grimace at the reminder of getting fucked by its thigh bone.
It takes a little gentle wriggling and a lot of holding my breath, but
eventually, I slip free from Xero’s hold. After taking a quick shower in the
adjoining bathroom and getting dressed, I walk to the kitchenette and make
some toast with bread that isn’t frozen.
 Fancy.
My pussy still throbs from last night, and my throat is still a little hoarse
from those multiple orgasms. After coming inside me, Xero made me
climax over and over, even after I cried. The only reason he stopped was
because our time in the screen room was up.
By then, my vision was too clouded by tears to appreciate all the
reflections, and I was no longer interested in watching what he did with his
fingers and tongue. Now, I regret closing my eyes because that had been
really hot.
I return to the bedroom and glance around, looking for the hard drive he
extracted. When I can’t find it, I get Xero to mumble that he left it in his
study. Gulping at the reminder of the creepy crime board, I leave the
bedroom and head toward the cordoned-off section at the end of the
crawlspace.
Stepping inside, I avoid looking at the images in the center of the wall
and fix my gaze on the hard drive on his desk. Next to it is a manilla
envelope with the same psychopathic writing that I received the day of
Xero’s execution. All thoughts of watching last night’s festivities evaporate
at the prospect of unlocking another clue to my past.
With trembling fingers, I rip the envelope open and extract a letter that
simply says:
The only handsome prince you deserve.
Beneath the scrawled note is a carefully written URL. I sit at Xero’s
desk, fire up one of his laptops, and type the address into the browser. The
short link redirects to a video, and I press play.
I recognize it immediately as the same clip Mom played the day she
washed her hands of me and announced she would sell the house. I’m
running through the graveyard being chased by a dark figure.
What I don’t understand is how someone shot such clear footage
without Xero even noticing. That night, I was hallucinating all kinds of
crap, so seeing a man holding a camera or phone would have just been part
of the grand delusion. But there’s no way Xero would miss a peeping Tom
and his device.
It’s strange how I was eager to watch one video of us having sex, while
the other one makes me cringe. But that’s because the graveyard scene was
recorded by someone who knows my past and still wants me dead.
 I fast forward, not wanting to watch myself through the eyes of a
voyeur. When I reach the part where Xero presses something into my face
that makes me go limp, I pause the video and open his desk drawer,
remembering that’s where he left a bottle of chloroform.
It’s still there. I pull it out, only for another bottle to roll forward. Its
label says: SOMNOCHLORATE: HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. I crack open
its lid, sniff something sweeter than acetone, and immediately feel dizzy.
My muscles weaken, and I pull back.
Replacing the lid, I slump forward in my seat, the edges of my vision
going dark. That was… potent.
It takes several minutes of staring into the void to regain my senses and
even longer to remember why I’m sitting at Xero’s desk, staring at bottles
of chemicals.
I turn my attention back to the laptop screen, where I’m lying naked in
the dirt with Xero kneeling over me like a ghoul. This is probably where he
carries me off to the old rectory for a long soak. Since I missed that part due
to being unconscious, I let the video continue.
Drawing back, Xero pulls my legs apart and inspects my pussy. My clit
pulses, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Am I about to watch some
somnophilia? He sticks a gloved finger into me and then holds it up to the
light, only it’s too bright to be the moon.
The camera draws closer to my prone form and the lights get brighter,
and Xero rises off me and stands to the side. It’s mostly his legs that are
visible in the shot, but I see him sweep his arm as if beckoning someone to
come closer.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
A man scuttles into the shot. I’ve never seen him before, and he’s
dressed in layers of worn clothes torn in multiple places. I can barely make
out his features through his thick stubble and scraggly black hair, but when
he sticks his hand between my legs, I shoot out of my seat.
“What is this?” I cry.
He pulls out and inspects his grimy digits, which protrude from
fingerless gloves. Then he turns to the camera and grins, revealing a face
covered in dirt and a mouthful of broken teeth.
My chest constricts and my breath turns shallow. What the fuck is Xero
doing, inviting this man to touch me?
 The man pulls out a cock that looks even dirtier than his face and
strokes it to hardness. I clap a hand over my mouth and gag as he kneels
between my spread legs and drags my unconscious body closer.
Xero just stands there, looking on. I want the camera to pan up and
show his face because nothing about this situation makes sense. This can’t
be Xero. Xero who was so possessive that he murdered or maimed any man
who got too close. Xero who threatened to kill Reverend Tom just for being
friendly. Xero who fulfilled my exhibitionism fantasy while covering up my
pussy with his hand.
Xero, who now does nothing while the filthy man fucks my
unconscious body so hard that it jerks. I back toward the door, my eyes
filling with tears.
This can’t be right. It has to be a hallucination. Yes, that must be it. I
just sniffed some chemical that’s triggering a visual delusion to sabotage
my relationship. Because that’s what my mind does. Sabotage.
Every time I try to hook up with a man, Mr. Lawson pops up to freak
me out. Then I thrash and scream loud enough for the man to consider me a
lost cause.
Xero’s presence is too consuming. I would fuck him even if an army of
ghosts stood over us and yelled at me to stop, so my brain just conjured
something new to keep me single.
The black-haired man comes with a roar, and Xero grabs him by the
hood and drags him off my unmoving body. I can’t even exhale a sigh of
relief because a second man walks into the frame. His pants are already
around his ankles, and his pale legs are marred with dark streaks.
He bends between my legs, his head finally coming into the frame,
revealing hawkish features shadowed by messy brown hair. My hands rise
to cover my face. I can’t watch.
I observe the rest of the scene through my fingers, wondering if my
brain will stop malfunctioning and show what really happened that night.
Xero said he carried me out of the graveyard into a bath, but since when
was he ever completely truthful?
Xero could have warned me he planned on skipping his execution, but
he let me believe he was dead. Then he spent weeks driving me crazy by
pretending to be a ghost. He hated me because I tried to publish a book
about our relationship. For him, that was the ultimate betrayal.
 When Dale and his three friends broke into my house to carry me off
into a snuff movie, Xero only intervened because they were spoiling his
revenge. He wanted to be the only man to make my life a misery.
As the second man pounds into my body, Xero beckons a third forward.
He crawls on his hands and knees, naked from the waist down. He’s blond
with a handlebar mustache so thick it almost looks fake.
The third man turns my head to the side and slides his erection into my
mouth. As he fucks my throat, a fourth enters the frame to suck on my
nipples. Nausea clogs my guts. I double over, spilling the contents of my
stomach on the floor.
“Xero,” I croak. “Why?”
The answer is simple: Revenge.
Xero knows my weaknesses. My mental state. My sexual trauma. He
knows I was abused by an older man and created this video to inflict the
maximum amount of psychological pain.
Step one was public sex followed by an unconscious, non-consensual
gang-bang. So, last night was step two, where I had public sex in the
Ministry of Mayhem, followed by a romp in front of multiple cameras. Step
three will be to have sex with those filthy men while screaming and
conscious, then step four will be a trip to the torture table for a round of
electric shock.
Just like the child in the picture.
My gaze flicks to the crime board, where the younger version of me lies
covered in electrodes and with a pair of hands pressing probes into her
temples.
Not again.
Not ever.
I can’t allow that to happen.
The past bleeds into the present, and I see Mr. Lawson’s bony face, feel
his damp hands over my skin.
My flesh crawls with his phantom touch, and my vision blurs with red.
I move without thinking, my body on autopilot, picking up the bottles of
chloroform and somnochlorate.
Mr. Lawson’s slimy face resounds through my mind, merging with an
image of Xero. Powered by mania, I walk to the kitchen, grab the washing-
up bowl, and gather everything else that looks flammable.
Butter.
 Cooking oil.
Paper towels.
Disinfectant.
Matches.
Each item is a step deeper into the abyss. Each movement is automatic,
driven by a primal need to cleanse and destroy.
I return to the study and take another look at the movie. Only Xero’s
legs are in the frame. Judging by the yellow stream of fluid hitting my face,
it looks like he’s adding degradation to defilement. Non-consent wasn’t on
the approved list of kinks. Neither were water sports or gang rape.
My mind fills with memories of Mr. Lawson’s eyes staring up at me as
he fell. As blood spreads around his head like a halo, his face morphs back
into Xero’s.
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the images, but they only grow
stronger, overlapping with the footage on the screen.
Mr. Lawson used a drug to kill our baby.
Xero used a drug to kill my soul.
I watch the tail end of the movie, where I’m lying in the dirt, covered in
semen and soil. I’m not even nauseated anymore, just numb. Numbness
turns to detachment, and detachment to a cold, calculating rage.
The movie’s closing credits say: PRODUCED BY X-CITE MEDIA. I
should gasp, but even that part makes sense. I scroll backward, watching the
movie in reverse, proving it’s not a hallucination. My brain isn’t that adept
at illusions. Even if it could conjure up this grotesque footage, it can’t
replay the shit in reverse.
The only delusion is that I allowed myself to believe Xero Greaves is
human.
My stomach cramps, infusing my core with bolts of agony. I double
over, my gaze dropping to the floor. Warm blood trickles down my legs.
When I blink, it’s gone.
Rage and betrayal and ruin has me spiraling. I couldn’t stop this descent
into madness, even if I tried. My thoughts splinter, each one a shard of fury
and pain.
The lines between past and present blur completely. I see the young me,
screaming under the torture, and the adult me, covered in blood.
I see Xero, and I see Mr. Lawson. They merge, become one.
 The rage builds, consuming every rational thought, leaving only the fire,
the need to end it all.
It’s time to give Xero the execution he deserves.

OceanofPDF.com
 ONE HUNDRED ONE

AMETHYST
First, I walk into the crawlspace’s hallway and check my escape routes.
The hatch that leads to the cupboard under the stairs is unlocked, but Xero
has stationed people outside the house. If I run through the front door, then
one of his men will capture me and send me back.
He’ll be so incensed that his mask will drop, and he’ll switch from his
lover boy persona to the ringmaster rapist.
Instead, I reach into the shelves and pull the lever of the doorway
separating my space from Mrs. Baker’s. It springs open, revealing her
neatly organized basement filled with supplies. I cross the room, try the
other secret door to the tunnel beneath her backyard, and leave it ajar.
I might be insane, but I’m not stupid. At least not anymore. I walk back
into my space, pick up my bowl filled with fire starters, and continue to the
bedroom.
Xero sleeps on his side like a slumbering beauty, his artificially
darkened hair fanning across the pillow like a dirty halo. This color suits
him better because he no longer looks like the Angel of Death, but an
unearthly creature sent to deceive and defile.
Pulling my gaze away from the sight of my soon-to-be-dead tormentor,
I reach beneath the bed for my overnight bag and fill it with my car keys,
phone, a change of clothing, and a range of knives.
After placing the bag in Mrs. Baker’s room, I return to Xero, crack open
the somnochlorate, and drizzle a few drops on his pillow. The chemical is
so potent that I step back to avoid inhaling the fumes. A trained assassin like
Xero won’t easily succumb to sedatives, even when he’s already half
asleep.
Once his breathing deepens, I pick up a cushion and douse it with so
much chloroform that the fumes make my head spin. After putting it aside, I
place a hand on Xero’s shoulder and shake him awake.
“Xero, we need to talk.”
Smiling, he slurs, “Hmmm, little ghost?”
My lip curls. How dare this monster underestimate me. He should be on
the defensive.
“Lie on your back. I want to cuff you to the headboard.”
“You want me at your mercy?” he asks with a sleepy smirk.
“Exactly,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Revenge for making you cry last night?”
“Just roll over.”
The bastard obeys, and gazes up at me through half-lidded eyes. He’s so
confident in his machinations that he doesn’t see me as a threat. I wouldn’t
even be surprised if he was also the monster behind the letters.
Maybe Mom sent them to scare me into compliance. Xero said she
married Delta, the man behind X-Cite Media, but what if Xero is Delta
himself?
The revelation hits me like a punch to the heart, and I stagger back a
few steps.
What if Mom disapproved of my online relationship with Xero because
she was already married to him? Or something. I shake off that thought.
Maybe she just married his dad.
None of that matters. I saw what I saw, which was Xero rendering me
unconscious and orchestrating that disgusting gang-rape.
I mount the mattress and straddle his waist, only for his hands to cup my
ass.
“You were incredible last night,” he says, his eyes still closed. “I can’t
wait for us to watch the footage together.”
“I already saw it.” I grab his wrist, drag it to the headboard, and cuff
him to the iron railing.
He chuckles, the sound low and deep. “And you’re here for round two?”
“I’m going to set your world on fire. Now give me your other wrist.”
“You’re sexy when you take control,” he murmurs.
“I thought you preferred me unconscious.”
 He hums. “You’re beautiful when you’re sleeping and haunting when
you’re awake.”
I snort. “You’re the one who’s haunting me.”
“You’re wrong, little ghost. I can’t get you out of my mind.”
Nothing this man says is ever the truth. He skirts around it with
misdirection and lies of omissions. I should set him on fire and run for my
life because the man behind X-Cite Media is him. Even if he’s telling the
truth about his father, he still might be the second in command. Regardless,
there’s no doubt the woman in the graveyard was me.
When Xero is secure, I remain on top of him with the chloroform-
soaked pillow at the ready. “I saw the video.”
He groans. “Hot for me, already?”
“The one of you fucking me in the graveyard.”
His smile drops. “How did you find it?”
“From the manilla envelope you left on the desk.” When he stares up at
me and furrows his brow, I elaborate. “The note said you were the only
handsome prince I deserved.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What’s this about?”
“Did you drug me with chloroform?”
“You know I did,” he replies. He glances at the pillow, his frown
creasing.
I laugh. It’s a bitter sound that echoes through my hollow chest. “You
drugged me more than once?”
He stares up at me like I’ve gone insane. Maybe that’s what he’s always
wanted. After all, he’s the only person in existence who encouraged me not
to take my meds. Now I know why. He gets off on seeing me unstable, off-
balance, broken.
Xero Greaves is the worst kind of sadist. He combines psychological
manipulation with schadenfreude and sexual assault.
“Amethyst?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“How many times did you drug me?”
“Are you upset about the somnophilia?” He twists his arms, trying to
break out of one of his cuffs. “Because it’s one of the kinks you agreed to in
our contract⁠—”
I slam the pillow over his face, already sick of his gaslighting.
“I agreed to having sex with you while I was sleeping, and that was only
theoretical,” I scream. “How the fuck was I supposed to know you weren’t
going to die?”
Xero bucks his hips and throws me to the side, but we’ve practiced this
move so many times that my hands still cling to the pillow I’ve wrapped
around his head.
He gasps beneath me, the cushioned fabric muffling his protests. I
clamber back on top of him and dig my knee into his stomach, using every
pound of my body weight to keep him down.
I don’t let up, keeping up the pressure, even as his struggles weaken.
Freezing is a perfectly legitimate response to danger. In Xero’s case, he
could be holding his breath and biding his time until I get tired.
Some people can hold their breath for as long as a minute. I expect a
man with Xero’s training can last much longer. Counting off the seconds, I
ready myself for his surprise attack.
At about two minutes, his body jolts with enough force to launch me off
the bed. I land on the concrete floor, knocking aside the washing-up bowl
and its contents. Pain explodes across my hip, but it’s still muffled by the
numb shock of his betrayal.
At the clanking of metal from above, I glance up to see Xero ripping his
cuff from the bedpost. Alarm shoots me in the solar plexus, and I grab the
somnochlorate. I jump to my feet, just as Xero is breaking through the
second set of cuffs, and I smash the bottle over his head.
The glass shatters, releasing the sleeping agent. I hold my breath and
step backward.
Xero stares at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. That’s when I realize he
must have thought I was playing… Or not as deathly serious.
“Amethyst,” he says, his eyes glazing.
I gather up my supplies and skitter toward the door, not daring to turn
my back on Xero. It’s only when his eyes roll back into his skull and his
body falls limp that I know I’m safe.
For now.
Running will only give me a tiny head start. If I leave him alive, he’ll
recover and drag me back to face an even worse punishment. Maybe this
time, he’ll let me get fucked by a corpse.
I have to end him, now. Not after he’s abused me so badly that there’s
nothing left of my mind. Then I’ll drive to Alderney Hill and end Mom, too.
Excellent plan.
 I set down the bowl, open the disinfectant and pour it around the
bedroom door. Ideally, I would douse Xero in the flammable liquid, but I
can’t allow myself to fall unconscious from inhaling the somnochlorate.
Instead, I fling cooking oil into the room along with paper towels to
serve as kindling. Ignoring the butter, I strike a match, light the cardboard
tube, and toss it into the room.
Flames race along the paper towels and catch onto the oil-splattered
bedding. In moments, the room fills with smoke. At any moment, someone
outside could notice the fire and break in, so I don’t stay to watch Xero
burn. Cold determination and survival instincts fuel my movements as I
race into Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace and close the door.
I run through the dark tunnel like I’m being chased by hellfire, not
slowing until my nostrils fill with the unearthly scent of bones that signal
the start of the catacombs. I pause for the time it takes me to send an
anonymous text to Mrs. Baker, telling her to check her house for smoke,
and continue toward the bones.
For the first time in over a decade, I’m no longer afraid of the dead.
Ghosts could float through the walls of broken skeletons, but my steps
wouldn’t falter. They can’t hurt me. Not compared to the living.
I inhale, expecting to smell flames, but the only scents I detect are from
the skulls piled up on the wall. Hurried footsteps echo in my direction, and I
duck into a crevice barely large enough to fit me sideways. Closing my
eyes, I continue, suppressing shudders and gasps as the bones protrude into
my front and back.
By now, Xero should be a flailing pyre, if he isn’t still under the effects
of the somnochlorate. Guilt stabs at my chest the way it did when I pushed
Mr. Lawson off the edge of the roof garden, but I force myself to continue
moving. Something that could be grief tears at my heart, but I shove it
down.
The footsteps retreat, but it’s too early to feel relief. Once my mind
processes what I did to Xero, his afterimages will add to my roster of
ghosts. That’s if I survive Xero’s followers, who will no doubt want
revenge.
Less thinking, more slithering through the gaps between walls of bones.
Long-dead femurs brush against my cheek, and I swear my fingers dip
into the hollow of a skull’s eye sockets. I continue shuddering until the alley
eventually widens into a chamber.
 I pull out my phone and turn on the light to find myself inside the lower
level of a mausoleum. Dust-covered sarcophagi line one side, while the
other features a tall angel statue set within a memorial wall engraved with
names. At the far end of the room are stone steps that I hope will lead to the
surface.
“Thank fuck.”
I race toward them and charge up to the upper level, where I find more
stone coffins and, more importantly, a door.
But it’s locked.
Sending a silent word of apology to the family whose resting place I’m
disrespecting, I kick its lower panel until the wood shifts and then work
around its weak spots with one of my knives.
Finally, the panel gives way, and I break it open with my hardest kick.
Sunlight streams in through the hole, and I want to drop to my knees and
sob. Instead, I slip the knife in my pocket and crawl on my hands and knees
to freedom.
Somehow, I’ve ended up at the edge of the mausoleums, with the new
rectory about a hundred feet ahead. It’s a stone building set among a group
of weeping willows with large bay windows, pitched roofs, and a doorway
surrounded by ivy.
To my far left is the graveyard where Xero’s memorial statue looms
over the tombstones. Sunlight glints on its scythe and wings, its grandeur
making me feel like a fool.
I spent months of my life not only worshiping a killer, but leading
others to do the same. We spent thousands of dollars on an elaborate grave
for a man who desecrated it in the worst way. I must have been insane.
Movement from the rectory catches my attention. An athletic figure
exits a black car and walks through the courtyard.
“Reverend Tom?” I yell.
He turns around, his head swiveling from side to side.
“Reverend Tom!”
I race toward the priest, who greets me with a broad smile.
“Amethyst. Are you alright? I came around to check on you after your
altercation on the street, but there’s a sign outside that says your house is up
for auction. Where are you staying?”
I shake my head. “Nowhere. My mom kicked me out.”
 He frowns. “I’ve just vacated my room at Mrs. Baker’s. Maybe she can
take you in.”
My gaze darts over my shoulder into the mausoleum area, where
another man in black darts between the structures. Smoke rises in the
distance beyond the tall trees. It’s so faint that only the person who started
the fire would notice it.
Reverend Tom places a hand on my shoulder, breaking me out of my
musings. “You look shaken. Come in and tell me all about it.”
“O-Okay,” I whisper.
“Let me take your bag.” He pulls the handle from my loose fingers and
continues through the gravel courtyard.
I follow the priest through a wooden door into a white hallway of black-
and-white tiles. My nostrils twitch at a faint scent of chemicals in the air,
reminding me of bug killer.
He turns around, catching my expression, and chuckles. “The
fumigators didn’t do the best job of extracting all the odors. I think this is
one of the downsides to living in an old building.”
I offer him a weak smile, wondering if he can serve as an alibi when the
police come after me for arson.
After depositing my bag by the front door, Reverend Tom strolls down
the hallway, passing the open door of a living room filled with worn
furniture and bookshelves. Xero invades my thoughts. Did he wake up
when the flames consumed him or did the smoke kill him first?
“Amethyst?”
My mind snaps back to the present, and I meet his gray eyes. “Sorry,
what?”
We’re in a room of chromakey green walls that’s empty, save for a
quartet of cameras placed on tripods at each corner.
“You didn’t hear my confession?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“I’ve been a fan of you from the beginning.”
“Oh.” I shift on my feet.
“Although I got a bit confused when you started broadcasting about
Xero Greaves. That wasn’t your style at all.”
My brows pinch. “Reverend Tom?”
“But you made up for all that in the graveyard. That performance was
probably one of your finest. I loved watching you triumph, but you were so
beautiful in your humility. Exquisite.”
Every molecule of oxygen leaves my lungs. He saw that video, too?
Before I can even process that thought, the door behind me swings shut,
and he advances on me with a manic smile.
“I’ve always wondered what it would be like with you. If I could ever
defeat you or die at your blade like the others.”

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 ONE HUNDRED TWO

AMETHYST
My breath hitches, and my skin breaks out in a chill. Why does
Reverend Tom speak like we’re in a death match?
“What are you talking about?” I ask and back toward the door.
As he turns toward the nearest camera, I whirl around and pull down its
handle.
“It’s locked,” he says and switches on the first camera. “You didn’t
think I’d let you dismiss me so easily? It feels like I’ve known you for
years. Now, it’s your turn to reciprocate.”
This man must be having a psychotic break… Or he’s friends with Jake.
Either way, it’s time to leave. I glance from left to right, taking in my
surroundings. The room is twice the size of my little studio at home, but
with windows also painted green. This must be where he films his Christian
podcast.
He walks to the next camera, and I reach for the knife I left in my
pocket. My mind spins. I can’t make sense of what’s happening, but I
position my body in a defensive stance, ready for what the hell comes next.
“Let me out,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to take control of my
mounting panic.
Ignoring me, Reverend Tom strolls to the next camera and turns it on.
“How do you want to play this?”
“Play what?” I rasp. Blood roars through my ears, muffling his footsteps
as he activates the fourth camera. “What the hell is going on?”
He spins around, his eyes shining. “Alright then. I’ll go first,” he says,
sounding like he’s acting a part. “Welcome to the confessional, my child.
Tell me your sins and I will absolve you with blood.”
I back into the wall, my eyes widening as he unzips his fly and pulls out
his erect penis.
My heart pounds against my ribs in a panicked drum beat. The time for
questions ended when I stepped into a room and let the door swing shut.
The answer is obvious. Reverend Tom is connected to X-Cite Media and
wants to record a snuff movie with me as its victim.
I scramble for something to say to buy time and figure out a way to
escape, but all I can think of is Xero. He warned me not to associate with
the priest. Was that because they were in competition?
My gaze darts around the green walls, searching for inspiration.
Reverend Tom reaches for his crucifix and draws out a blade, making my
mind sharpen.
Raising both palms, I shake my head. “Green room backgrounds won’t
cut it. The studio wants original content, not plagiarized backdrops.”
His face falls. “St. Anne’s interior is too recognizable. I can’t use it,
even for an audition.”
My breath catches, but I keep my features even to conceal my surprise.
Betrayal rises to the surface like bile, but I force down the bitterness and
focus on my survival. If I can get him to open the door, then maybe I can
leave the rectory without shedding any of my blood.
“Do you have a prayer room or a library?” I ask.
His eyes flicker. “How about a reading room?”
“That would be perfect,” I rasp through the fear lodged in my throat.
“Let’s go.”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “Will you help me carry the cameras?”
And turn my back on a psychopath with an erection? I force a smile and
flick my head toward the furthest corner. “Sure. You fetch those two over
there. I’ll get these two.”
He stands three feet away, scrutinizing my features for a heartbeat too
long. I breathe hard, trying to stop my insides from squirming. Fighting
Reverend Tom isn’t the same as sparring with Jynxson and Xero. I felt safe
to make the first move with them because I thought they cared enough to
keep me alive.
I need this perverted priest to turn his back so I can plunge a knife into
his spine.
“Alright,” he says, his voice breathy. “I’ll get the cameras.”
 He rushes forward and backhands me across the face, filling my vision
with an explosion of stars. I stagger backward, tasting blood.
My shoulder hits the wall, but before I can recover, he wraps his fingers
around my neck and lifts me off my feet.
“Don’t play coy with me, Dolly,” he says with a manic grin.
I reach out my left hand to claw at his eyes, but he grabs my wrist and
slams me against the wall.
He leans close, his fingers tightening around my throat. “What’s your
next move? I’ve committed all of yours to memory.”
A strange calm washes over my senses, and I stare into his gray eyes.
This part-time psycho thinks he has me cornered, but I already practiced
this move with a real monster.
We’re standing too close for me to gather enough momentum to kick
him in the groin, and in a few seconds, I’ll run out of air. Head-butting him
might buy me a moment before he strikes back with renewed fury, so I need
to make the next attack count.
But I have one chance to make him drop his guard, and now isn’t the
right moment.
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” I say through clenched teeth.
He leans forward, his mouth parting. I hold my breath, my heart
thrashing in my ribs like a caged beast.
His tongue flicks out and leaves a trail of warm saliva on my cheek.
Revulsion wriggles through my gut, making me want to gag. With my free
hand, I bring up the knife and drive it into his face.
Screaming, he jerks backward, his grip loosening around my wrist and
neck, but not before I’ve drawn a deep cut across his eye.
I drop to the floor, gasping for air and blinking the spots out of my
vision.
He cups the side of his face and stumbles backward with blood seeping
between his fingers. “You bitch!”
“Let me out or I won’t miss the next eye.”
Still clutching his gushing wound, he races toward his fallen dagger. I
run to the nearest corner, grab the tripod, and swing it like a golf club.
The heavy camera attached to it catches him on the side of his face,
knocking him off balance. I swing it backward and slam it into his injured
eye, sending him stumbling to his knees.
“What the fuck are you doing to my equipment?” he roars.
 My instincts scream at me to run, but I can’t turn my back on a man
bent on making me his victim. I swing the tripod once more, hitting his
temple.
“Stop! You’re ruining my shot.”
Keeping close to the wall, I rush toward the next camera. Reverend Tom
staggers to his feet, but I’m faster. Fueled by adrenaline, I snatch up the
tripod and crash the second camera into the back of his head over and over
until he falls forward on the floor.
“Tom?” I croak.
When he doesn’t move, I creep forward, my pulse pounding hard
enough to burst a vessel. He’s probably pretending so he can lure me close
for a surprise attack, just as I did earlier when I got him to lick my face.
I crouch beside his outstretched hand and stab my dagger into his palm.
When he doesn’t flinch, I roll him onto his side and rifle through his
pockets, finding a bunch of keys.
Not wanting to waste a single moment, I scramble to my feet, clutching
the keys, and rush to the exit, praying that one of them will be my salvation.
My mind goes on autopilot as I unlock the door and sprint out of the
black-and-white-tiled hallway into the courtyard. Up ahead, beyond the
graveyard, the mausoleums and the trees surrounding the cemetery, black
smoke billows toward the sky.
Xero.
Any certainty that I’ve ended that monster is shaken by his larger-than-
life, larger-than-death image in my mind, filling me with renewed terror.
My fingers find a car key and I jog to the black sedan parked around the
back of the rectory. I throw open the driver’s side door, slide into the seat,
and pull out.
Gravel crunches beneath the wheels as I drive through the courtyard,
passing St. Anne’s Church, and exiting through its iron gates. Relief washes
through my veins like freshly sanctified holy water.
I’m free.
Driving to the highway, I take the route toward Alderney Hill, hoping to
put enough distance between me and the horrors of the morning. Wind
rushes through the gap in the window, carrying with it the scent of burning
lies.
No matter how far I go, each time I glance in the rearview mirror, I see
smoke billowing on the horizon, which is impossible. Killing Xero must
have brought back my hallucinations. But I’d rather be delusional than
defiled.
Or dead.
When the car takes me to the foot of Alderney Hill, the usual smell of
juniper trees is gone, replaced by the overwhelming stench of smoke. It’s
my brain’s way of reminding me that I set up a man to burn.
I park between the trees and complete the rest of my journey on foot. By
now, the sun dips toward the horizon, casting long shadows that stretch
across the ground like wraiths. Ignoring the ominous sight, I continue
toward Mom’s house.
A turquoise Aston Martin sits in the driveway, making my heart skip a
beat.
She’s back.
I can finally get some answers before she dies.
Trudging forward through the trees surrounding the house, I creep
toward the back door. It’s unlocked, with footprints leading across the mud
room into the kitchen. I walk around them to the counter and extract a knife
from the block.
As I round the island, my foot catches on something solid. I stumble
forward, reaching out to steady myself, but my shoes skid on something
slippery.
What the hell was that?
My gaze drops to the floor. It’s blood.
I turn around, but all I see is a leg. Whoever it belongs to is concealed
by the rest of the island.
My heart pounds as I creep forward, my throat spasming. What the hell
could have happened here?
Inching closer, I follow the leg, finding Mom lying on the floor. Blood
trickles from a neck wound and pools around her lifeless body.
It takes a moment of blinking to process what I’m seeing. This isn’t a
hallucination. Did I do this? I shake off that thought. It couldn’t have been
me. I only just got the knife. The amount of blood on the floor is too much
to be fresh.
“Mom?”
Her eyes are open, and she stares sightlessly at the beamed ceiling. Who
did this? Xero? Delta? Uncle Clive?
I drop to my knees beside her, my knife slipping to the floor.
 “Mom?” I repeat, my trembling fingers reaching for her face.
A sob catches in my throat, and I pull back my hand.
How could she be dead? I thought she was working with Xero. Or at
least married to his dad. Hadn’t she aligned herself with someone powerful
enough to protect her from being hunted?
Movement from the hallway kicks me back to alertness. I grab the
knife, scramble to my feet, and move toward the mudroom door.
My back collides with a larger body. I whirl around to face Uncle Clive.
His eyes are bloodshot, his face deathly pale.
I skitter away, my stomach lurching as I realize I’ve dropped the knife.
Has he come to finish what he started?
Uncle Clive stumbles forward, clutching a wound in his gut. Blood
seeps through his fingers, staining his white shirt and cummerbund.
He’s covered in sweat, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he
struggles to stay upright. Through clenched teeth, he grinds out, “Get out of
here, before she⁠—”
A gunshot rings through the air, and a bullet lodges in his chest.
I turn, locking gazes with a pair of green eyes identical to mine. Nausea
clogs my throat, and I back toward the door.
It’s her. The monster in the mirror, only the left side of her hair is
blonde, while mine is still darkened with the wax.
Chills run down my spine, and my palms break out in a cold sweat. I
thought she was a figment of my imagination. What the hell is she doing
outside the confines of my mind?
Her smile widens, and those hateful green eyes gleam with malice. I’m
frozen in place, still puzzling out how the hell a creature like this can exist.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says before raising her gun.

READ I WILL MEND YOU

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ALSO BY GIGI STYX

M orally B lack S eries

Taming Seraphine
Snaring Emberly
Breaking Rosalind
Stalking Ginevra

P en P al D uet
I Will Break You
I Will Mend You

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gigi lives with her husband and two cats in London. When she's not crafting twisted dark romances
with feisty heroines and the morally grey villains who love them, she’s cuddled up on the sofa with a
cup of tea and a book.
Sign up for Gigi's updates at:
www.gigistyx.com/newsletter

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