Page 1 of Sadistic

PROLOGUE

Revna

The acceptance letter burns in my pocket like a live coal.

University of Florida Law School—the golden ticket I've worked my ass off for, the escape route I've planned since I was fifteen and learned my future had already been sold.

"You're fidgeting," Dalla observes from her bed, not looking up from her anatomy textbook.

My twin sister’s pursuing pre-med at UNF while I finish my political science degree at Jacksonville University. Different schools, same city—close enough to protect each other, far enough to be our own people.

"The Irish are in town," I say, pulling out my phone to show her Ingrid's text. "Some were spotted at the clubhouse an hour ago."

Dalla's highlighter freezes mid-stroke. "Doran?"

"Don't know. Maybe." I try to sound casual, like my heart isn't racing. Like I haven't been waiting five years for this shoe to drop. "Could be here for something else."

"Right." She abandons her studying, crossing to my bed. "Because the Irish just randomly visit. No agenda. No collecting on old promises."

We're twenty now, almost twenty-one.

Legal adults.

Old enough that Daddy can't hide behind "they're still children" anymore.

"UF Law starts in August," I remind us both. "Three years in Gainesville. They can't exactly drag me to the altar if I'm in the middle of?—"

My phone rings.

It’s Dad.

"Hey," I answer, already knowing this won't be good.

"Rev." His voice carries that weight it always had since I was a child, the one that means I need to listen to what he’s saying, without arguing. "Need you home Monday. Family meeting."

"I have classes?—"

"Monday, Revna. Both you and your sister."

The line goes dead.

My father's never been one for long conversations, especially ones where he might have to explain himself.

Dalla raises her brows at me. "Well?"

"Monday. Family meeting." I toss my phone onto the bed. "Which means?—"

"Which means they're finally collecting their end of the deal." She sinks onto my bed, face pale. "Fuck."

"We don't know that for sure."

"Don't we?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "Five years, Rev. They gave us five years of pretending this wasn't hanging over our heads."

I want to argue, but she's right.

Ever since that horrible Christmas when Mom found out, we've been living on borrowed time.

Going to college, making friends, dating—all of it feeling temporary.

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