Page 92 of For Fillies and Monsters

I don’t know why or how it happened, and frankly, I don’t fucking care. I don’t know what love is, not really, but this feels intoxicating in the best way. I want this—I’m rabid with the thought of being someone’s obsession, someone’s deepest desire—the person worth dying for.Or killing for.

And McCrae—fuck him—is officially ruining the grand crescendo of my unfolding love story. I. Feel. Robbed.

Maybe I should be frightened. That’s what I imagine any sane person would feel when they find out their stalker is also the same man they’re falling in love with. And maybe at first I was, but not anymore. Because Iamfalling in love with Gus, in the only way someone as twisted and dark as I am can. I don’t feel warm and soft and comforted when I’m with him. I feel devoured and destroyed and on fire.I feel alive.

I’ve been a zombie in this life for far too long, and even if it makes me a monster, too, I will not give him up.

Especially not for a hollow threat like McCrae. Gus might not realize it, but there is nothing more that man can do to hurt him. I will make sure of it.

But as much as I’m furious with McCrae, I’m even more upset at Gus.

I’ve withdrawn from Gus, pushed him to arm’s length, forced him to face the possibility of losing me—not because I want him to let me go. But to remind him how obsessed, how desperate for me he really is. I want to feel the full force of that desire, that hunger. I want to get the darkest, most deprived version of this man I, too, am obsessed with, to prove once and for all how perfect we are for one another.

I decided weeks ago I’d make him crawl to me, make him hunt me. And now this fucker came in here and ruined everything. And the worst part?

Gus is now retreating—afraid. And that just won’t fucking do.

Rooted to my spot at the dinner table, McCrae looks back at me a final time, his face blank—not like he’s hiding his feelings, but like he has none. He’s hollow and empty, and a shiver races down my spine. McCrae is death—a reaper collecting souls.

He’s an exceptionally handsome man, in a beyond dangerous sort of way, with blonde shaggy hair turning silver at the temples, and an unkempt beard and mustache. Icy blue eyes pierce into my own, both hollow and full of torture, and I know he sees more than most. Small crescent-shaped scars glimmer over the surface of his tan neck and tattoos—faces, numbers, symbols—cover every available inch of his arms, neck, and who knows where else. He’s deadly and successfully just sunk an arrow through Gus’s aching heart—the heart I treasure above all else.

Gus follows him out, his contrasting black curls falling over his face as he slumps at the doorway. He hasn’t looked at me; he’s being too much of a coward, and I hate him for it. Not because of his shocking, yet not surprising, revelation. But because he’s acting afraid to lose. Like he’d give me up if I rejected him.

How can he give up this easily? After everything.

When I no longer can hear their footsteps, I move, not taking a second to consider my actions. I will run—make him chase me. If he wants to think I’m the scared, naïve,breakablelittle girl he’s forming in his head, I will give him that version. I silently push out of my chair and race for the back door.

Latching it behind me, I slink down the porch steps and around the house to watch the Devil himself leave my life. I swear, if he ever comes back, I’ll kill him myself. Not for what he assumes hurt me—but for hurting Gus.He sits on the seat of his bike, the engine rumbling beneath him, eyes staring atnothing—I wonder if he will cry and then shake my head. He isn’t capable of such a human act.

His bike finally turns, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. I find Gus’s dark shape leaning against the deck railing, his hands running repeatedly through his curls. He reenters the house, the screen door clanging shut, and I bolt toward the barn.

As I enter, Winston shifts, sensing my erratic mood, and eyes me suspiciously, but does not shy away. I pat his neck. “Good boy.”

“Going somewhere?” Gus’s voice, quiet and furious, fills the inky black of the barn behind me. I duck, hoping he didn’t see me. Maybe if I can hide from him, he will go somewhere else to look for me. “Little Filly, I know you’re in here.”

And just like that, my plan comes to a screaming halt, like a plane shot from the sky—spiraling and plummeting until it hits the ground, exploding into a burst of flames. I shiver, the thrill of hate and lust mixing in my veins.

Well, fuck.

He sighs, and I imagine him shaking his head, disappointment and anger painted across his painfully beautiful face.

“Listen, I’m sorry you found out like that, okay? Fuck, I… I don’t even know where to start.”

I remain crouched, Winston’s whisker-covered nose nudging the side of my face, but I ignore him, listening to Gus with bated breath.

He shifts again, the ground crunching, and then continues. “I met you the day you left Moztecha. Don’t know if you remember that day or not.”

Oh, if he only knew.

“It was your eighteenth birthday.” He sighs, and I can hear his growing discomfort—he’s a man of few words.

Which is a fact I’ve always appreciated about him.

Only now, he launches into a detailed retellingof finding me, and with each word, my skin begins to itch more. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not what I need from him right now. If he knows me as well as he says he does, he should know words mean nothing to me—no matter how pretty they are.

I continue to hide, my insecurity warring with my need to be with him. Because I do want to be with him. I want to be with him. What the fuck am I hiding from at this point?I want to be with him.Even if we explode, ending in a blaze of fire, screaming and irrevocably tortured. I, Stetson Walker, pessimistic, sassy, and stubborn to no end, want this man.

And I’m done running.

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