Chapter 3
Dominic
Brendon Lane sits across from me at the dining table, like I didn’t just finish choking the life out of a man ten feet away.
He’s got a notebook open and a pen in his hand, tapping it against the paper in little nervous beats. His voice is quiet but steady, words flat and practiced as he reads from his notes and explains a concept I already know.
He’s been talking for maybe four minutes now, trying to hold some kind of structure, pretending this is normal.
That this is just a regular tutoring session with a football player, when said football player had his hands around a man’s throat ten minutes ago.
He doesn’t even look at the wrapped-up body on the floor.
That’s interesting.
I lean back in my chair slightly, elbow resting on the arm, fingers curled loosely under my chin as I watch him with real interest this time. Not like before. Before I didn’t care.
Brendon Lane was a name on a form. He was supposed to be a TA with a soft, forgettable face and a quiet voice. One of those spineless academic types who flinch when you speak too loudly.
Now I see him. I see the way his eyes dart toward me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I see the way he clutches the pen too tightly, and the effort it takes for him not to tremble.
But more than that, I see the calm.
Most people don’t have that—they cry, beg, scream, or panic. What Brendon is exuding is restraint and straightforward control.
What are you hiding under all that good-boy Christian guilt, Brendon?
Seth’s text comes through while I’m in the kitchen after finally deciding to wash the blood from my hands. He always types the same way, clipped and bored, like he’s ordering coffee instead of showing up to drag someone out of my living room.
Unknown: ETA two minutes. Door unlocked?
I glance toward the dining table where Brendon sits with his notebook open and his spine straight, posture too good for a guy who just watched a man die on my floor.
His eyes are on the page, but he looks terrified if you know what to look for.
Terror doesn’t always come with shaking hands and tears; sometimes, it comes with control so tight it turns a person into a statue.
I type back with one hand.
Me: Back door. Come around.
I toss the phone onto the counter and rinse the towel under the tap, even though it’s pointless.
I’m in a bad mood. The guy I killed wasn’t a thrill.
He was an inconvenience, a dumbass who thought my cottage was an easy target because it’s tucked away from campus and there aren’t neighbors close enough to care about a scream.
He didn’t know he walked into the wrong place, and by the time he realized it, he was already in my grip. I should’ve enjoyed it more. I should’ve felt that old spark, that relief that used to come with it.
Instead, I felt annoyed. That’s what pisses me off most. Not the mess, the timing, or even the interruption, but the fact that I’m starting to feel nothing where I used to feel too much.
I hear the soft crunch of gravel outside, and know Seth is here, so I walk out to meet him.
He’s stripping off his black leather jacket as I walk toward him, long blond hair tied up in a bun, face calm.
Seth is tall, lean, covered in tattoos, and looks the part of the tattoo artist he portrays in public.
“You look irritated, mate,” he says with a grin, his lip piercings making the grin look more menacing than it is.
“I am,” I reply flatly. “The fucker broke in.”
Seth’s brows lift faintly. “That’s rude of him.”
“He tried the back window first. Not sure how he didn’t realize I was home, since the Charger and bike are here.” I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the dried blood beneath my nails that I haven’t had time to scrub completely out. “Stupid fucker ruined my evening.”
Seth tilts his head slightly, studying me the way he studies everything. “Unplanned kills are messy,” he says calmly. “You prefer your rituals neat.”
“I prefer control,” I correct him. “He took that from me for about ten seconds.”
His mouth curves faintly, not a smile exactly, more an acknowledgment. “And now?”
“Now he’s a problem you’re going to help me erase,” I say calmly. “How’s Savannah?”
“Unmedicated and making my life difficult, as a little sister should,” he says, pretending to look annoyed, but I can see the fondness there. It makes me think about my own sister. “Chop chop, show me your mess.”
“Fuck off,” I say as he walks past me toward the cottage without hesitation, and I open the door and let him in.
The metallic smell is still faint in the air, though I’ve done what I can.
He walks over to the body and crouches beside it, checking the seal, the edges, and the floor around the plastic covering.
“Efficient as always,” he murmurs.
“Don’t flatter me,” I say. “Just get it done.”
Seth stands and looks toward the dining room where Brendon is sitting, and his gaze lingers for half a second longer than necessary.
“Visitor?” he asks lightly.
“He’s a tutor,” I say, and I don’t bother lowering my voice because Brendon can hear whatever he wants. It won’t change a damn thing.
Seth’s brow lifts again. “You schedule your extracurriculars around academic appointments now?”
“I forgot he was coming,” I say, irritation threading through my voice.
Seth studies me with a raised eyebrow. I step closer to him and angle my body, blocking his line of sight to Brendon out of instinct. What’s mine stays mine, even if I haven’t claimed it out loud yet.
He hums as he slips his gloves on, and I give him a look that would make most people back off, but Seth just smiles.
“He’s not going to be a problem,” I say, even though he absolutely could be a problem if he stops being obedient and starts being smart.
“You sure? He looks the type to pray the police into existence.”
“He’s the type who can’t say no,” I say, and that feels true the moment it leaves my mouth. It feels like a fact. Brendon Lane is a good boy because he’s trained himself into one, and training runs deep. “He’s staying quiet.”
Seth’s eyes glint. “And if he doesn’t?”
My smile is thin. “Then he’ll be next.”
“Right then,” he nods. “Let’s get this finished.”
Within minutes, the living room looks like a living room again—minus the one stubborn stain near the baseboard that I’ll deal with later. Seth takes what he came for, moving like a shadow, and when we’re at the back door, he pauses long enough to glance toward the dining room one more time.
“He’s pretty,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You collecting strays now, mate?”
I step closer until my shoulder brushes his, a subtle warning. “He’s mine,” I say, and the words are quiet but absolute.
Seth lets out a low laugh. “You Americans get territorial so fast.”
“Fuck off,” I reply, and it almost sounds like a joke, except it isn’t.
“Careful. Curiosity makes people sloppy,” he warns.
“I’m not sloppy.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not. That’s why I’m still answering your calls.”
“Get the fuck off my property, Seth,” I retort.
He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute, gone as quickly as he arrived, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and that unsettling sense of competence he carries around.
When the door clicks shut, I go to the kitchen to wash my hands again, scrubbing until my skin feels tight.
Then, I grab a clean shirt from the hallway closet, because I’m not sitting across from Brendon Lane in blood-streaked sleeves.
I’m not giving him that image to hold onto.
I want him to be confused and doubting himself.
I want him to question whether what he saw was real, even when he knows it was.
He looks up when I enter the room, his green eyes tracking my movements carefully, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt. The terror is all but gone.
I lean against the doorway and study him openly. “You didn’t run.”
“No,” he replies.
“Why not?”
He hesitates just long enough to make it interesting. “Because running would’ve been stupid.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Smart boy.”
He swallows, but he doesn’t look away. “I don’t intend to be stupid,” he adds quietly.
I push off the doorway and walk back to the table, pulling my chair out and sitting across from him again. I rest my forearms on the wood, watching him closely. “Most people would’ve pissed themselves,” I say.
“I considered it,” he replies. “But I didn’t.”
The sarcasm catches my attention. “You’re not screaming, either,” I point out.
“There’s no one to hear me,” he says. “And I assume that would’ve annoyed you.”
A small huff of laughter escapes me. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“I’m observing,” he corrects softly.
There it is again—that subtle brat. That almost-sass that doesn’t quite cross the line but brushes close enough to feel grating.
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Neither,” he says. “I just… process things differently.”
I tilt my head, studying him. He’s pale, yeah. His hands are a little too tight around his pen. But he’s functioning. Talking. Teaching.
He flips a page in his notebook and continues explaining something about fiscal impact and long-term projections, like we’re in a damn library instead of my cottage. I already know the material, but I let him talk and watch him instead.
He’s lean and smaller than me by a lot; only five-eight or nine, maybe.
Seth was right, he is pretty. I don’t even bother pretending I don’t notice it.
Soft brown hair that falls just slightly over his forehead and green eyes that are too bright for this room.
He looks like he belongs in a church choir, not sitting across from me with blood still drying under my nails.
And he’s subtly sassing me.
It’s fucking fascinating.
God, what kind of punishment would that church family of his hand down if they knew he was alone in a house with someone like me?