Chapter 28
Agatha
“You said there’s a cemetery. We use that.”
Corwin grins like the cat who got the cream. “We’ll make it bloody for you.”
“Prop list?” Evander questions. “Tell us what to buy.”
“Black pillar candles, not the cheap scented ones. Lanterns. Two, maybe three. Oil or battery, I don’t care.
I need them to be lit but dim. A cheap fake pickaxe or something that looks close to one.
A heart, if you can find it. Fake blood is useless on fabric unless you know what you’re doing, so I need corn syrup, cocoa powder, red food coloring, and a little blue for depth. ”
Corwin whistles. “Teacher voice turned producer. Hot.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “I need an outfit too. I was going to wear a short little black dress with black lingerie underneath. Think you can get that too?” I raise my brows at them.
Garron nods, like he’s committed every word to memory. “We can get all that.”
Corwin raises his hand like he is in my classroom. “I said it earlier but I volunteer to hold the camera.”
“You’ll drop it the second you get hard.”
“That’s slander, Little Horror.”
“It’s statistical,” I smirk. “You have the self-control of a raccoon.”
Garron barks a laugh. Evander’s eyes stay on me. “What do you not want?” he asks. “Tell us the lines now.”
“I said you’re not co-starring.” I cross my arms, looking at him stubbornly.
“You can’t have a Bloody Valentine shoot without the miner. Without him, it’s just a hot gothic girl strumming her clit in a crypt….boooring,” Corwin mocks.
I sigh. “Fine. But no masks,” I tell them. “Not for me. Maybe for you, if you're behind me far enough that your faces will not show. I decide what makes the cut. I own the edit. You don't argue.”
Corwin opens his mouth. Garron snaps him a look, and the mouth shuts.
Evander’s eyes hold mine. “If we’re going to play this game,” he says softly, “then you need a word. One that ends it. One that makes us stop.”
My throat tightens. A thousand possibilities spin through me. Stop. No. Red. Simple words, easy words. But those weren’t respected before. They were laughed at. Twisted. Turned into permission.
Evander leans closer until his voice is a whisper. “Say it, Agatha. What’s your word?”
The word that comes to mind isn’t safe. It’s poison. It’s a memory. My lips tremble. “Psalm fifty-one.”
The room tilts. The bathtub flashes behind my eyes, water cold enough to burn, Michael’s hand shoving me under while Debra whispers that Psalm like it was bleach for my skin. My pulse stutters, my stomach lurches. I taste vinegar.
Corwin frowns, confused. “The fuck kind of word is that?”
Evander doesn’t blink. He just nods. “Then Psalm fifty-one it is.” His gaze flicks to his brothers. “If she says it, we stop. No arguments.”
I wait for the catch. There is none coming. “And my no is a no, even if you get excited about the shot. If I say no group scene, that’s it. If I say no to Corwin, then he sits and watches.”
“Your no is a no,” Evander agrees. “Even if I'm the one who wants more.”
Something loosens in my chest. Not trust. Not even close. “Good. Then, next piece: logistics. How far is the cemetery?”
“Half a mile through the trees,” Garron says. “There is a fence line, but it's broken in two spots. We can use the south gap.”
Evander’s voice goes warm, and it makes my stomach pull tight. “What else?”
“Sandbags for the tripod feet,” My mind is already running frames. “I want the camera low on one angle, high on another. We will shoot darkness first, the approach through to the crypt. I want to hear the crunch. Then the crypt door. Then the pickaxe. Then the heart. The blood hits last.”
Corwin is already nodding like he sees it too. “And when your viewers scream in the comments, what do we get to do then?”
“If you can keep your mouth shut for one shoot,” I hold his stare, “I will consider letting you co-star again. Not a promise, a possibility.”
He groans like I strangled him with hope. “You are going to kill me.”
“That would ruin my calendar profits.”
Garron shifts. “No headstones get harmed. No bones. No names in a frame if you can help it.”
“I'm not a ghoul,” I say. “I make a story. I don't tear one up.”
“Good,” he smiles. “Then we can do this.”
Evander moves to the kitchen counter, pulls a pencil from a drawer, and sets a notebook in front of me. Lines on the page wait. “Write it out.”
I hesitate. Then I take the pencil anyway and print “Cemetery—Midnight” at the top. My hand steadies as the list forms under it.
Lanterns. Candles. Tripod. Sandbags. Pickaxe. Heart. Blood mix. Safety shears. Alcohol wipes. Towels. Boots. Black dress and lingerie. Batteries. Cards. Duct tape. Trash bags. Water. Hand warmers. First aid kit.
Corwin leans over and points at “blood mix.” “Is this the syrup trick?”
“Yes,” I say. “It moves right. It dries wrong, but we'll not let it dry.”
“Put whiskey on the list,” he adds. “For after.”
“For during,” I correct. “If we have to have some liquid courage.”
He laughs and taps twice on the page. “I like you bossy.”
“I'm not bossy. I'm the boss.”
Evander’s mouth almost smiles.
“Phone,” I say finally. “I need it to test light. I need the camera app. I need my notes.”
Garron pulls it from his pocket and walks it over. He sets it on my knee. “Airplane mode,” he murmurs. “And you don't leave the room without one of us.”
I tap the setting and set it down again. “I want a shower. A real one.”
“We will not stop you,” he says. “Door stays open. One of us stands outside. I don't care which.”
Corwin perks. “Me.”
“No,” Garron and Evander say together.
I roll my eyes and stand. The three of them stay where they are, which is somehow worse than being grabbed. I walk to the bathroom. The water hits hot and loud, steam curling into the hall. When I come back out in a towel, they look up like I just walked into church.
Someone laid out clothes on the couch. A soft black T-shirt that looks like it will fall off one shoulder. A pair of cotton underwear with the tag on. My fingers pause over them.
“They aren’t yours,” I say.
“No,” Evander answers. “We did some shopping before we grabbed you.”
The underwear is simple. The shirt smells like cedar and detergent and a ghost of smoke. I dress with my back turned because I can and because it makes Corwin swear under his breath. When I face them again, my skin feels scraped clean, thin and too new.
I sit back on the couch and pick up the notebook. The pencil moves on its own. The shot list grows. I make little boxes next to each item and check them as I talk through the angles. They listen. They interrupt. They argue over where to stand even when I tell them they don't get to be seen.
And then I do the thing I never thought I was going to do. I plan them in.
Corwin closes his eyes like a prayer just went answered. Garron’s jaw ticks, but he nods once. Evander looks at me like a kid in a candy shop.
They split for supplies with a speed that makes me wonder how many times they have put a night together in less than a day. Garron takes the keys and a list. Corwin takes my pencil and tucks it behind his ear like he is going to pretend to be helpful. Evander stays.
“You’re not worried I’ll run,” I ask.
“I’m worried you’ll try,” he answers. “Then I’ll have to send Garron after you, and you’ll not like that lesson.”
“What happens if I pass all your tests?” I ask. “What prize do I get then?”
He studies my face as if the prize is already there. “You don't want a prize. You want a place to stand and choose.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I'm sure of you,” he says.
It should make me want to scream. It doesn’t. It makes me want to pick up the camera and see what I look like when a man says it and means it.
“Tomorrow,” I stand again because my body can't hold still now that my head has decided. “We film.”
“After you sleep,” he says.
“I’m wired.”
He nods toward the stairs. “Bed.”
My pulse jumps. “So what, I just trot upstairs like a good little captive?”
“You’ll walk,” he says, calm as if he already knows the answer.
I hate that he’s right. My legs carry me up the stairs, anyway.
Each creak of the wood sounds too loud in the empty cabin.
The hallway stretches long, the same family photos I didn’t bother to look at earlier watching me pass.
The door to the bedroom waits open, the cuffs still hanging from the frame like proof.
I stop just inside, folding my arms tight. “You want me here?”
“I want you where you’ll sleep.” He shuts the door behind us.
I glance at the cuffs, expecting him to grab them, to buckle me down again. But he doesn’t. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back; slow, deliberate. His arm reaches across the space between us.
“Come here.”
“Fuck you.”
“Already did,” he says, voice steady. “Come here anyway.”
I stand frozen, the air thick with everything unsaid. Then my body betrays me again. My bare feet move, my knees hit the mattress, and I lower myself down stiff as stone. His arms wrap around my waist before I can think. Not crushing. Not choking. Just there. A weight I can’t shake.
“Hey—” My protest dies as his chest presses into my back, heat seeping into me. His breath brushes my hair.
I’m stiff at first, muscles screaming to fight. To claw. To push away. But he holds without tightening, without forcing. Just waiting. My body eases inch by inch until my head sinks into the pillow.
“You going to chain me up again?” I ask finally, my voice cutting the silence.
“Not tonight.” He rises, smooth, deliberate, like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “You won’t move.”
I bark a sharp laugh. “You’re sure of that?”
“I’m sure of you.”
“I should scream,” I whisper into the dark.
“Then scream,” he murmurs against my temple. “I’ll still hold you.”
My eyelids drag heavy, traitorous. I swore I wouldn’t sleep. I swore I'dn’t let them have this.
But the dark pulls me under, anyway.
And the last thing I know is worse than fear.
I don’t hate the way it feels.