Page 28 of Where the Dark Things Bloom

I curled behind the doorframe, peering outside, as quietly as I could. Checking. Is he still here? Was Troy waiting to jump out again? Or had he left after forcing what he wanted, again?

No one was there. Not even wind.

I crept out, step by step, moving down the staircase like a ghost afraid of waking the dead. And halfway down, I caught it—movement by the front door. A shadow passing.

The doorbell rang, and just as I blinked, the shadow disappeared.

I held my breath, unsure whose it even was anymore, and inched forward. When I reached the door, I froze. My wholebody was stiff. I told myself to stop, but my hand moved on its own. It wrapped around the knob. Turned it.

The door opened.

A cardboard box sat on the doorstep, light brown, soaked red at the bottom.Is this a joke?

I knelt. Lifted the lid.

And then everything in me revolted. My heart thrashed against my ribs. Cold sweat trickled down my temples.

Blood. So much of it.

Inside, two blue eyes stared back at me. I knew them. Iknewthose eyes. Troy’s. Placed in his own severed hands, staring up at me. And beside them, a note:

“He can’t touch you or look at you the wrong way ever again, little stepsister.”

I gasped. My heartbeat thundered, legs gave out. I hit the floor hard and scrambled back, palms slipping on the wood, lungs begging for air. My vision narrowed, blurring at the edges. Then—darkness.

I was passing out.

SEVEN

DORIAN

Foraverylongtime, I was losing myself in the wrong direction. And for even longer, I was trying to find my way back to her. Look at her now—once my favorite person, now just my favorite stranger.

For two years, I waited. Not just for her—but for the moment I could make her feel what it’s like to be left behind with nothing but your demons. For two years, she was the first thing on my mind when I woke up and the last thing I saw when I closed my eyes. She was my poison, and I was drinking her in every second, letting her rot me from the inside.

They say if you love someone, you should let them go. But those people have never loved like this. Not the kind that claws into your chest and refuses to leave. Not the kind that, when you try to let it go, cuts through you like glass—leaving you bleeding and broken, your mind reduced to fragments of her.

I was tired. Exhausted.

Because fuck, I still wanted her. But more than that I wanted her to feel every single thing I felt since the day she walked into my life.

I want her to know what it’s like to be untouchable—craving lips you can’t taste, hands you can’t hold, eyes so blue and perfect they burn into your memory.

I want her to know what it’s like to taste someone for the first time… and never stop craving them.

I want her to feel the pain I felt when she left. To know what it’s like to be haunted by memories—by us.

There have always been two kinds of love. The first is soft—the kind that fills your heart, and wipes your mind clean. The kind that makes you want sweet kisses and shared mornings, a world built together. But then there’s the other kind—my kind. The one where she consumes you. She becomes your food, your air, your wound. She’s the only thing you want. The only thing you crave. And nothing else can satisfy the thirst she leaves behind. No one else can replace her. No one.

Many tried. They wanted to fix me, to shape me, to build a life on a version of me that no longer existed. But none of them wereher.

She was the one. The one who broke me. The one who made me question if I was ever enough. She was beautiful—God, she was everything. My person. My dream. But she was also my beautiful monster. The one I knew would be my end.

And even knowing that—I was ready. I would’ve gone to hell and back for her. She was my beginning, my end, and my always. My ever and forever.

And now... look at her.

Lying there. So innocent. So scared.

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