Chapter 2
Brendon
Igrip the steering wheel tighter than I need to as I turn onto the narrow road that leads away from campus, tires humming softly against asphalt that hasn’t been repaved in years.
They told me two days ago that I’d be assigned to tutor Dominic Volkov. I remember standing in the department office with my hands folded neatly in front of me.
Professor Hargrove explained—in that calm, reassuring voice he uses when he’s already decided something for you—that it would look good on my record. Said it was an opportunity, and the athletics department specifically requested someone reliable.
He used that word twice. Reliable. I knew what he meant—they all know what it means. It means I show up, I don’t argue, and I don’t say no.
I wanted to say no.
The word pressed up against my teeth, but I swallowed it down the way I always do.
Because I’m a good student, a good person, and I come from a good Christian family who raised me to serve, to help, to put others before myself.
Because my father would smile proudly if he knew I was tutoring the star quarterback, instead of running from it.
Because I can’t stand disappointing anyone.
It makes me sick every time I agree to something I don’t want, and how relieved they look when I nod. I’m so tired of being the dependable one. The safe one. The good boy.
Buildings disappear in my rearview mirror as I drive farther out, trees closing in on either side of the road. Dominic doesn’t live in the student apartments near downtown; he rents some private cottage off campus.
My hands flex against the wheel, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm the restless feeling crawling under my skin. I’ve been bottling things up for years—every sharp thought, every ugly impulse, and every moment I wanted to snap at someone, or slam a door, or say something cruel instead of kind.
If I don’t let it out soon, I’m going to explode.
I pull into the gravel driveway and kill the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around me. The cottage sits low and unassuming: single-story, white siding, dark roof, and a small porch with two steps leading up to the door.
There’s a black Charger parked off to the side, polished and old-school. The car suits him in a way that makes too much sense.
This is ridiculous. He’s just a student—a football player with slipping grades. He’s not some villain in a cautionary tale. Still, my stomach flips because Dominic Volkov scares the hell out of me, and I don’t fully understand why.
On paper, he’s exactly the kind of person I should admire: hardworking, disciplined, volunteers at the local children's home every second Saturday, smiles for photos, and speaks respectfully in interviews. That’s not the image of someone dangerous.
But I’ve also seen clips of him on the field. He moves with a kind of contained brutality, as if he’s holding back, even when he’s slamming into another player. Off the field, he’s polite, calm, and soft-spoken. That contrast unsettles me more than if he were openly arrogant.
When they call him the biggest ego at Lakehaven, it isn’t about his attitude. It’s about the way the entire campus bends around him.
I reach up and adjust the cross resting against my chest, the chain cool against the skin beneath my button-down.
“Get a grip. He’s just a student,” I mutter to myself, pushing the door open and stepping out onto the gravel.
The air smells clean here, shaded by the trees, and my footsteps sound too loud on the gravel as I walk up to the front door.
I notice that it’s already ajar, and there’s metal music turned up loud enough that you can’t hear it unless you’re right by the door. I hesitate, but lift my hand before I can stop it and knock softly.
“Dominic?” I call out, my voice thin in the open air. “It’s Brendon. Your TA?”
No answer.
I push the door open a little wider and step inside. The air smells faintly metallic, and the music is louder in here.
“Dominic?” I call again, louder this time.
There’s a sound coming from my left; a strained noise that doesn’t seem to belong. I take another step forward before my brain can stop me, drawn to it. I round the corner into the living room, and everything in me locks up.
Dominic Volkov has someone pinned beneath him, his knees planted on either side of a body.
His hands are locked around their throat so tightly that the muscles in his forearms stand out as he squeezes.
The person beneath him is struggling weakly, heels scraping uselessly against the floor—face beaten to a pulp and eyes wide.
There’s blood smeared across the floor, splattered on his shirt, and streaked along his arms and hands.
A small sound escapes me before I can stop it, something between a gasp and a whimper, and Dominic looks up.
His eyes meet mine, and his mouth curves into a grin that’s so predatory I’m surprised I haven’t pissed myself. He huffs out an annoyed sigh.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Alexa, stop the music,” he says, and quiet immediately falls over the cottage. Dominic looks down at the person beneath him, then back at me. “Is our session today?”
I can’t breathe properly. My brain tries to categorize what I’m seeing as a misunderstanding. A prank; some kind of twisted joke. It doesn’t work. There’s too much blood, and now that the music is off, the sound of choking is too real.
“Yes,” I manage, though it comes out barely audible.
He glances down again, gives one last, brutal squeeze, and then releases them. The body goes still, and Dominic rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders as if loosening up after a workout.
“Sit at the table,” he says calmly, gesturing to the small dining room. “I’ll be a minute.”
Every instinct in me screams to run. To turn around and bolt out the door, get in my car, and drive until this house is nothing but a memory.
But my legs don’t obey that instinct—they obey him.
I don’t even remember deciding to move, stepping carefully around the edge of the living room, avoiding the spreading dark stain on the floor as I make my way to the small dining table near the kitchen.
My pulse is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. I set my bag down on the table and lower myself into a chair, clasping my hands to stop them from shaking.
Then I hear him speaking on the phone.
“Yeah. Same process,” he says, his voice steady. “I need disposal tonight at my place.”
Disposal.
This isn’t a joke… this is real.
Footsteps approach slowly from behind me. I keep my eyes forward, because I don’t trust myself to look at him again.
A chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out and sits opposite me. I can see him without turning my head fully; his hands are still stained red, and there’s a smear of blood along his jaw. He hasn’t even bothered to clean up.
Dominic leans back in the chair slightly, studying me with those pale blue eyes that feel too clear for what I just witnessed.
“You’re early,” he says, almost approving.
I swallow. “I thought it would be respectful.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Respectful. That’s cute.”
I can feel my heart beating in my throat, but I force my expression to stay neutral. I’ve spent years mastering composure. This is just another test. Another moment where I can’t afford to react.
“You okay?” he asks, and there’s amusement in his tone. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I just saw a murder,” I say, before I can stop myself.
His smile widens slightly. “And you’re very calm for someone who just watched a murder,” he replies.
“I’m so far from calm right now,” I say, but my voice is steadier than I expect.
He huffs out a soft laugh. “No, I suppose you’re not. But you’re not screaming either.”
I can’t look away from him. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but he holds my gaze, and the silence stretches between us until it feels suffocating.
Dominic leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The blood transfers onto the wood in faint streaks.
“You gonna scream?” he asks casually. “Call the cops? Run?”
My mouth feels dry as I shake my head. “N-no.”
He tilts his head, studying me more closely. “No?”
“No,” I repeat, forcing the word out steadily. “I won’t.”
There’s a long pause where he just looks at me, like he’s trying to read beneath my skin. I don’t know what he sees. Fear, obviously, but it must be something else too, since I’m not shaking, crying, or even begging.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
The phrase makes heat flare up my throat, and he leans back again, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving a faint streak of blood near his temple. “So. Constitutional Law.”
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh.
“You want to… start?” I ask weakly. “Right now?”
He shrugs. “You’re the tutor.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the image of the man kneeling over someone on the floor with the one sitting across from me now, discussing academics. My mind feels split in half.
“You’re failing,” I say automatically, slipping into the familiar script because it’s the only thing I know how to do.
He grins. “So I’ve heard.”
“You can’t afford to fail,” I continue, my voice gaining strength as I cling to structure. “If you drop below eligibility, you’re benched. If you’re benched, your draft prospects suffer.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t care,” I reply.
The words are out before I can stop them, and his expression changes.
“That so?” he says softly.
My palms are sweating profusely, but I hold his gaze. “You don’t care about school,” I clarify, “that much is obvious. But you have to care, at least enough to pass.”
He watches me for another long moment, then chuckles under his breath again. “You’re braver than you look.”
“I’m not brave,” I say quickly.
“Then what are you, Brendon Lane?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer as I sit there, heart racing. I’m trapped, but I’m going to help him pass, because that’s what I do: I help.
Even when it terrifies me.
Even when it makes me sick.
Even when the man sitting across from me just ended someone’s life and smiled about it.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I… I’m here to help you with your coursework,” I manage, the words sounding absurd even to my own ears. “We can start with—”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Before we do that, we need to be very clear about something.”
I wipe my palms on my pants, and swallow hard as I listen to him, knowing a threat is coming.
“You’re going to keep quiet. You’re going to tutor me like you were assigned. You’re going to pretend this never happened. You didn’t hear anything. You came here, you tutored me, and you left. If anyone asks, that’s the story.”
I nod again, too fast. “Yes.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Yes, what?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “I understand.”
A slow smile curves his mouth. “Good boy. Now, if you ever forget that story, if you ever think about running your mouth to a priest or a cop, you need to remember: I know where you live, and where your parents and your little sister are located. I know your schedule. I know exactly how easy it would be to make you disappear. That’s why this is going to be easy for you.
You’ll do exactly what I tell you. You’ll help me get my grades up.
You’ll keep your mouth shut. And you’ll go home every night and pray about it if that makes you feel better. ”
My breath catches, and he smiles wider, seemingly satisfied.
“So let’s study, Brendon. And let’s keep this our little secret.”
My hands tremble as I open my notebook. I don’t look up. I don’t argue. I do what I’ve always done.
I obey.