Chapter 29
Dean
My boots crunch on gravel as I storm down Dad's driveway, hands shaking so hard I nearly drop the pack of cigarettes I fish from my jacket. The lighter slips in my blood-slicked grip twice before I manage to spark a flame. That first drag does nothing to calm my raging temper.
"Fuck!" The curse tears from my throat, echoing through the pristine hedges that line this fancy neighborhood. Dad's self-righteous lecture chases me down the winding street, each word a fresh knife between my ribs. Structure. Boundaries. Selfish exploitation. Like he has any right to judge after what he did.
Rhea's pale face flashes through my mind—that moment of pure terror when she realized the truth was coming out. The way she backed away from me like there was nothing left to salvage. The memory makes me want to put my other fist through another wall.
I flex my damaged hand, dried blood cracking across my knuckles. The sting barely registers through the thundering in my skull. All I can see imprinted on the inside of my eyelids is her running from me. From us . From everything we built together.
The cigarette burns down too quickly. I light another before the first is fully crushed beneath my heel, needing something to do with my hands. Something besides imagining them wrapped around my stepdad's throat. Or worse, remembering how they felt tangled in Rhea's hair the first time she knelt for me. While she submitted so perfectly. Before everything got fucked up.
My feet carry me forward while my mind spirals backward, replaying every moment I should have kept her for myself. Every time I beat back that possessive voice screaming mine, mine, mine . It’s the voice that's screaming even louder now that I know someone else touched her.
Not someone. My own fucking dad.
I spit on the sidewalk and take another deep drag, wondering if I should seek out something stronger to pull me into oblivion.
The familiar shapes of Greek Row's houses materialize through my haze of smoke and fury. I freeze at the bottom of the frat house steps, suddenly feeling like an imposter in a place that used to be home. When was the last time I even thought about coming here? About anything besides Rhea?
The cigarette burns my fingers, forgotten as I stare up at the house that represents everything I used to be. Everything I thought I wanted before Rhea changed me into someone I barely recognize. Someone who actually gives a fuck about more than just getting off and getting out.
I haven't set foot in there since she first walked into the club. Haven't wanted to. I haven't needed to, when every spare moment was spent learning new ways to make her moan, new ways to push her limits, and new ways to earn that look of absolute devotion in her eyes.
That look I'll probably never see again.
Voices drift down from the porch—my brothers killing time after classes, living the simple life I left behind without even meaning to. They sound like strangers now. Or maybe I'm the stranger, standing here with bloody knuckles and a broken heart I never thought I'd have to worry about.
One more step and I'll be back in that world. Back where things made sense, where feelings didn't matter, where girls were just conquests to brag about over beer pong. Back before Rhea Foster ruined me for anyone else.
Taking that step feels like the only choice I have right now.
Brett sprawls across the front steps like he owns them, red cup dangling from his fingers. His eyes widen as I approach, a grin spreading across his face that makes my teeth grind.
"Well, well! Look who finally remembered where we live!" He raises his cup in mock salute. "The prodigal son returns!"
A chorus of half-hearted greetings echoes from the other guys scattered across the porch. I force my lips into what might pass for a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. Their easy laughter grates against my raw nerves like sandpaper.
"Where you been hiding, man?" Brett shifts over, clearly expecting me to join their little afternoon drinking session. "Haven't seen you at a party in forever."
"Been busy." The words scrape out of my throat. Another cigarette appears in my hand without me even having to send the command from my spinning brain. "You know how it goes."
"Busy?" Brett's eyebrows shoot up as he exchanges knowing looks with the others. That smirk I used to wear myself like a badge of honor spreads across his face. "Would this busy have anything to do with a certain hot little redhead you took such a liking to?"
My fingers tighten around the lighter. "Drop it, Brett."
"Come on, share with the class!" Brett leans forward, alcohol loosening his tongue. "That lush little body must be keeping you pretty occupied. Bet she's a wildcat in the sack, all that pent-up good-girl energy?—”
The crack of his back hitting the wall drowns out whatever crude shit he planned to say next. My forearm presses against his throat, fresh blood from my split knuckles smearing across his white polo shirt.
"Don't. Ever. Talk about her like that again."
Brett's eyes bulge almost comically as he holds up his hands in surrender. The cup he was holding lies forgotten at our feet, beer soaking into the wooden boards. "Jeez, bro! It was just a joke. Since when do you care this much about some random hookup?"
His genuine shock hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. Since when do I care? Since Rhea walked into this house and turned everything upside down. Since obsessing over her made me blind to any other girl. Not blind, just completely uninterested. Like I’ll never get another boner as long as she’s ignoring my calls.
I release Brett with a frustrated sigh, watching him stumble to regain his balance. Only then do I notice the awkward silence that’s gripped everyone else on the porch like an ice-age. They're looking at me like they don't recognize me. Like I'm some stranger wearing their brother's face.
I guess I am.
"Dean..." Brett rubs his throat, confusion replacing his usual smug expression. "What's going on with you? I've never seen you like this."
But I can't form words to explain what's happening to me. I can't tell them how completely Rhea has dismantled everything I thought I knew about myself. I can’t admit how desperately I want her back, even though I know I don't deserve her. It kills me that my own stepfather, my brother even, got to touch what should have been mine all along.
The friends I used to share every conquest with stare at me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
“Forget about it.”
Without another word, I turn and walk away from the life I used to know. Their whispers follow me down the steps, but I don't look back. There's nothing left for me here anyway.
The sun bleeds into the horizon as I pace these familiar streets. Every step takes me nowhere and everywhere, each drag of smoke failing to fill this void that's cracking open inside my chest. My phone buzzes again, Ethan's name lighting up the screen for the tenth time. Or hundredth. I've lost count.
I let it ring.
The neon sign of Deviant catches my eye some time later, that bloody glow that first drew Rhea in like a moth to flame. I remember how she trembled that night, caught between fear and desperate curiosity. I should have kept her to myself. I should have recognized what I had the moment she first let me blindfold her. I should have told Ethan to back the fuck off after his little game of mistaken identity.
And now she's gone.
My tired feet carry me past the club entrance, past all the places I used to feel at home before she made everywhere else feel empty. I can't go back to my apartment. I can't face Ethan and his quiet judgment, his endless patience, and his fucking understanding.
He's probably still at Dad's house, plotting ways to ‘ fix ’ this mess. As if anything could fix the image of Rhea's horrified face when she realized I now know the secret that had been eating her alive. As if anything could erase the knowledge that my own stepdad touched her. Tasted her. Made her beg.
The city lights blur together as night creeps in, each street corner holding another ghost of her smile. Her laugh. A car horn blares as I step off a curb without looking, the driver's curse fading into the symphony of city noise. I barely notice. All I can hear is her voice in my head, all those sweet surrenders turned to barbed wire against the inside of my skull.
This must be what it feels like to lose your fucking mind.
When my phone buzzes again inside my pocket, I pull it out and finally swipe to answer. I don’t even check the caller ID. Whether it’s Ethan or it’s Dad, it doesn’t matter. My response would be the same.
“I hate you right now. But I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t get her back.”