Page 87 of Colton
A gasp escapes my lips, and I take a step back, my eyes fixed on the flower.
I pick up the rose, my fingers brushing against the velvety petals. A small note is tucked among the thorns, written in Colton’s distinctive, jagged handwriting. It reads simply,
“Mine.”
There’s no mistaking the message—Colton is here. He’s found me, and he’s not letting go. A mix of fear, anger, and something darkly exhilarating surges through me, leaving me breathless.
But then a shiver runs down my spine, and I lean against the door, clutching the rose to my chest.
I knew it!
I knew I was being followed and watched.
Dammit, Luella, always trust your instincts!
As I stand there, caught in the grips of my past, I take a minute to glance around me.
He’s not here.But he was.
I push open the door, stepping into the warmth of my apartment, the black rose clenched tightly in my hand.
Whether I like it or not, Colton Blackwood is a part of me, a ghost that I can’t outrun. And as much as it terrifies me, there’s a dark, twisted comfort in knowing that he’s out there, watching, waiting. My dark guardian angel.
Because, deep down, I know that I’m his. And he is mine. He is my ghost, my shadow, and the piece of me that keeps me tethered to something beyond freedom. A cage built of his longing and mine. And in the quiet, I realize, the darkness has never felt more like home.
Chapter 2
COLTON
The room is sterile, almost too clean, all pale walls and minimalist furniture that screams “neutral territory.” It’s the kind of place designed to soothe, to calm the chaos within you.
It’s not working for me.
How can you ever feel safe when your own brain wants to destroy you?
I’m sitting here, dressed down in a plain black T-shirt and jeans, as if trying to shed the wealth and darkness that clings to the Blackwood name like a second skin. My shoulders are stiff, my body tense, resentment and resignation battling for dominance as I face the therapist, a stranger who thinks they can unravel the twisted mess that is me.
Good fucking luck with that.
The therapist prompts me, some meaningless question about how I’m feeling today. I barely hear it. My mind drifts back to Xavier, my father. His shadow looms over me, an inescapable legacy that I’ve tried to distance myself from but can’t seem to shake. My hands clench involuntarily as I fight the battlebetween anger and the fear of becoming just like him. The monster he made me.
The monster he thought he made me, anyway.
Xavier’s last moments play out in my head like a twisted home movie. The smell of death, the feeling of finality—it should have been a relief. And it was, in a fucked-up kind of way. His death set me free, or at least, that’s what I tell myself. But there’s a darker truth beneath the surface, a guilt that twists around my gut. I’m haunted by the thought that his darkness has become my inheritance.
“I could be like him,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “But sometimes, I wonder if I’m already him. The thought won’t fucking leave me alone.”
The therapist nods, scribbling something down in a notepad. Probably some analysis of my fucked-up psyche, as if any of it could truly capture the monster inside me. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the silence, with the weight of my own thoughts. This was a mistake, coming here. Acting like I can fix what’s broken inside me.
I glance around the room again, the neutral colors and soft lighting suddenly feeling like a jail. I could never escape the power and control of the Blackwood name, never fully shed the darkness that’s been ingrained in me since birth.
“What makes you say that, Ray?” The therapist peers at me, her eyes wide as she waits for me to answer her. Her name is Dr. Evelyn Hartley, a name I committed to memory only because it was printed on the door of her pristine office. She looks at me with an expression that’s meant to convey empathy, but it only makes me feel more exposed, more vulnerable. I hate that feeling. I’ve spent my life shielding myself from anything that resembles weakness.
But I have to hide my snort at the nameRay. I could hardly give her my real name, not when I’ve travelled fucking milesaway to find someone who may not be familiar with my family’s sick legacy.
So, for now, I’m Ray. Ray’s just as fucked up as me though, the poor bastard.
“My father was a monster,” I explain, the words coming out as a low growl. “He controlled everything and everyone around him. He destroyed people, mentally and physically. I saw it all. I’m his flesh and blood, so of course I think I’ll have inherited his madness.”
