Page 115 of Once A Villain

Our eyes lock, and for a split second, I see something flicker in his gaze. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care to find out.

The tears threaten to spill over, but I bite them back. I’m not sad—I’m fucking furious. At him, at the masked man, at my father, at the whole goddamn world.

A stupid little sniffle escapes before I can stop it.

“You’re crying,” he says, sounding almost surprised.

“No, I’m not.” I wipe at my eyes and yank my hoodie down. I step back, putting distance between us, trying to shake off the feeling of being so exposed.

Part of me wants to throw my arms around him, bury my face in his chest, and let him hold me. Another part wants to run as far away from him as I can get.

I want him to disappear, to leave me the hell alone.

I want him to fuck me, to make me forget, to make me feel something other than this stupid mess of emotions.

I want him gone.

I want him here.

I want everything and nothing all at once, and it’s tearing me apart.

I mean nothing to him. He told me I was just a hole to fuck, yet here I am, still wanting him—his touch, his attention. It makes me sick. I hate myself for it, for this weakness that crawls under my skin.

But what really burns me up is how effortlessly he twists my emotions, how he holds this power over me like it’s nothing.

I swipe at the tears threatening to spill over and grab my coffee, desperate to get away. “I need to leave at 3:30.”

“You should eat,” he calls after me.

“I’m not hungry.” I’d rather starve than spend another second in his presence.

I retreat to my room, slamming the door behind me like it could keep out the mess he’s made of my heart. My thoughts are all over the place, tangled up in him and the cold truth that I don’t matter to him.

The day drags, and I count down the minutes until I can leave for rehearsal. When it’s finally time, I grab my dance bag and head downstairs. The silence in the car is smothering, his eyes fixed on the road, mine on anything but him.

When we finally arrive, I almost throw myself out of the car, desperate for the distance. But then his voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“Rory.”

I pause, reluctantly meeting his gaze through the dark shield of his sunglasses.

“We’ll talk when I pick you up.”

I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a promise, but either way, I want no part of it. I just turn and walk away, trying to ignore the knot of dread tightening in my gut.

Dom pushes us hard, and for once, I’m grateful. The burn in my muscles is a distraction from the chaos in my head. Time slips by, and when Dom finally gives us a break before the final run-through, I rush to my dressing room, desperate to peel off my sweat-soaked clothes.

But the second I step inside, gloved hands clamp over my mouth and throat, cutting off my airflow. I struggle, clawing at the arms. The man’s grip tightens, his body pressing against mine, squeezing the life out of me. The last thing I see before everything goes black is the masked man’s reflection in the mirror, cold eyes staring back at me.

Idrop her lifeless body onto the floor, her face pale, eyes shut tight. I yank out a roll of duct tape and slice off a strip, slapping it over her mouth. With swift, practiced motions, I bind her wrists with rope, pulling them up and securing them to a beam overhead. She dangles there, a limp ragdoll, her body stretched tight.

I yank her top off, letting her tits fall free. Her toes barely skim the ground, her nipples stiffening in the cool air. I step back, taking in the sight. “Fucking beautiful,” I growl through the mask, my voice distorted and rough.

My gloved hands explore her curves, tracing the outline of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips.

I pull the knife from my belt and drag the blade along her skin. The sharp edge leaves a thin, red pressure line in its wake. I relish the shiver that ripples through her, the goosebumps spreading across her skin.

My cock throbs, straining against my pants.

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