Chapter 4
Brendon
When I step onto campus the next morning, I’ve already decided that yesterday did not happen.
I tell myself that over and over as I cross the parking lot with my bag over my shoulder and my coffee cooling in my hand. The sky is that washed-out gray that makes everything feel flat—students are moving around me in clumps laughing, talking, and complaining about exams.
I slide into the flow of bodies, and pull on my normal face the way I shrug on a jacket. I know the routine. Smile at people from class. Nod at the girl from my study group. Say “good morning” to Professor Hargrove when I pass by his office.
Walk, talk, breathe, pretend.
Yesterday didn’t happen.
I didn’t knock on a half-open door and walk into a cottage that smelled like copper.
I didn’t see Lakehaven’s golden boy kneeling over a man with his hands around his throat.
I didn’t hear that wet, choked sound as the fight left a stranger’s body.
I didn’t sit at a dining room table while listening to Dominic Volkov make a call about disposal in the same tone other people use to order pizza.
I definitely didn’t stay.
I hold onto that lie with white-knuckled stubbornness because the truth is too big.
I push it down and tell myself a different story.
I’m a TA with a full schedule. I have back-to-back lectures today, office hours, and a stack of undergrad essays to grade.
I have Dominic’s assignments in my bag, printed and highlighted because I stayed up half the night rereading them, trying to figure out where to start when I go back to his place tomorrow night.
My stomach flips when I think about that part, so I shut it down too. No. I’m not thinking about going back. I’m not thinking about walking into that house again. I’m not thinking about how calmly he looked at me and threatened my little sister’s life.
I’m definitely not thinking about the way his voice lowered when he said, “Good boys don’t make me wait.” I’m not thinking about how close he stood. How his eyes watched my mouth. How my heart stuttered even while I hated him. That wasn’t attraction; that was shock. Nerves. A fluke.
My first class starts at nine. I sit in the back row, open my laptop, and take notes while the professor talks about statutory interpretation.
On the surface, everything is normal. I ask one question. I answer another. The professor smiles at me. People glance my way like they always do when they need to know if they missed something important.
Inside, I’m screaming.
You’re in class.
You’re safe.
You’re fine.
No one here knows what you saw. No one here knows what you didn’t do. No one here knows that you just sat there and watched, then explained judicial review to a killer. You are just Brendon Lane: a good student, a good TA, a good Christian boy. Nothing is wrong.
I’m not complicit. I didn’t help. I just sat there and did nothing. That’s not the same as agreeing. Not saying no isn’t the same as saying yes.
If I repeat that enough, maybe my heartbeat will stop trying to punch its way out of my chest.
When my classes are over for the day, I stop by the library before my TA schedule officially starts and grab one of the corner tables, spreading out Dominic’s assignments in front of me. The pages are covered with my notes from last night: red pen underlines, arrows, and comments in the margins.
He’s smart. I hate that realization. I can see the sharp edges of his mind in his work buried under lazy bullshit. His arguments are aggressive and clear; he just doesn’t bother to flesh them out.
He writes the way he plays football: straight for the throat, leaving faculty to deal with the mess. It would be impressive if it didn’t make my job harder.
It’s almost four when I finally pack everything up and decide I need air.
I step out of the library and onto the quad, blinking at the daylight.
The grass is dotted with people lying on blankets, talking, scrolling on their phones.
A group of guys tosses a football around near a statue. It’s all so normal that it feels fake.
I start across the quad, eyes on the path, mind already jumping ahead to my afternoon office hours.
I have twenty minutes before students start showing up with questions.
Twenty minutes to reset my expression into Brendon Lane, TA.
Twenty minutes where I can pretend I’m not counting down the hours until I have to drive back to that cottage.
I hear someone call his name across the quad, and my head snaps up on reflex.
Dominic is standing near one of the picnic tables with a couple of his teammates, a Lakehaven zipped hoodie hanging open over a black T-shirt and black jeans. His hair is down today, black strands falling around his face in loose waves that brush his shoulders. Blue eyes so light they look silver.
He looks the same as he does on posters and social media. Easy grin. Relaxed posture. Golden boy with the big hands. Campus god with the best arm. The kind of guy people stop and stare at without realizing they’re staring.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up, and yesterday slams back into me with brutal force.
Those same hands on a throat. Those same eyes looking up at me over a dying man. That same mouth saying “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face” in a quiet, certain tone.
I feel myself shrinking on the inside. I should look away and keep moving. He’s just a student. Another assignment. He’s just a normal guy.
He’s a monster.
I see the moment he spots me. His eyes slide away from his teammate mid-conversation, landing on me with unnerving precision.
His smile changes, turning from crowd-pleasing charm to predatory.
It’s subtle enough that anyone else wouldn’t notice, but I do.
I feel it like a hand closing around the back of my neck.
I drag my eyes away and keep walking, every step measured, my face smoothing back into that polite blankness I wear for professors, my father, and God.
Shame curls low in my gut because another part of me—the part I keep locked down so deep I pretend it doesn’t exist—reacts to him in a way that feels wrong.
Whatever is inside me answers him, and it’s the same darkness I’ve spent my entire life praying away.
I quicken my pace, almost jogging by the time I reach the steps of the administration building. I take them two at a time, push through the doors, and move through the cool, quiet air until I reach the narrow hallway that leads to the TA offices.
Mine is at the end. It’s small and neat—a space no one cares about unless they need help with an assignment.
I unlock the door and step inside, shutting it behind me. The moment the latch clicks, the control I’ve been holding onto all morning slips. I drop my bag on the chair and start pacing. I drag in a breath that doesn’t feel deep enough, and then another and another while my mind spirals.
You need to report him.
You need to run.
You need to quit.
You can’t quit.
You’re complicit.
The word makes my chest tighten.
Complicit.
“It’s fine,” I tell myself under my breath, voice low so it doesn’t echo too loudly in the cramped space. “You’re fine. He saw you, that’s all. He’s not going to do anything in the middle of the quad. You’re overreacting.”
He saw you. Why wouldn’t he? You sat in his dining room while there was a body in the next room.
You’re going back to his house tomorrow night.
You’re going to sit across from him again and pretend you didn’t see what you saw.
You’re going to help him pass. You’re going to be complicit. You already are.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, willing the panic down. I can’t fall apart here. Students are going to show up, and professors walk past this door. If anyone sees me losing it, they’ll ask why. I can’t answer that.
I’m mid-turn, about to pace back toward the window again, when the doorknob rattles. I freeze when the door swings open before I can say anything.
Didn’t I lock the door?
Dominic fills the doorway, making the room feel instantly smaller.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him.
I hear the click of the lock engage, and my lungs stutter.
“This is a student space,” I say, because that’s safe. “You’re not supposed to lock it.”
He shrugs, leaning back against the door; casual as anything.
“I’m your student,” he says. His tone is light, almost amused. “And I don’t want anyone walking in while we talk. That’s rude, isn’t it?”
“Rude,” I repeat, because my brain is stuck on the word. “Right.”
He pushes off the door and steps further into the office, letting his gaze sweep over the cramped space. His presence changes the air, making it dense. He makes everything feel smaller just by being in it.
“This is cozy,” he says, looking around. “But I expected something bigger for the golden boy of the law department.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “I’m not the golden boy here.”
His smile doesn’t drop, but it grows cold. “There’s the brat I thought I saw last night.”
Heat floods my face. “I’m not—”
“The part of you that doesn’t talk like a brochure,” he says, stepping closer to the desk. “The one who called me lazy yesterday and stayed.”
“I stayed because you told me you’d kill me if I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “I said you’d regret breaking our little promise. Don’t put words in my mouth, Little Sin.”
The nickname lands like a hot and unwanted touch again. My fingers curl around the edge of the desk. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’m going to keep calling you that,” he says easily, moving around the side of the desk until he’s standing too close, the smell of his cologne wraps around me. “And you’ll get used to it, because it makes your cock twitch.”
I push down the shame and lift my chin to glare at him. “You can’t come in here and act like yesterday was normal.”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want in here,” he says. “It’s just you and me. Isn’t that what you wanted?”