Chapter 20
TOM
I’m perched on the edge of the guest bed like it’s about to eject me, trying very hard to look like someone who stays in strange houses all the time and is totally fine with it.
Spoiler: I am not fine with it.
This is not the cosy, romantic sleepover I’d half-fantasised about on the drive over here. This is me in a house that feels like a country club that accidentally gained sentience and a personality disorder, wearing borrowed pyjamas and pretending I’m not internally screaming.
Pete is so annoyingly calm. He’s humming to himself as he plugs in his phone and lays his Apple Watch on its charging dock, like we’re in some indie rom-com montage, not trapped in a gothic thriller.
“Why is your face all scrunchy?” he says, grinning as he tosses his jumper over a chair.
“It’s not!” I lie, spectacularly. “This is just my face.”
He sits beside me on the bed, takes my hand. The contact is grounding, annoying in the way only Pete can manage — like he’s casually diffusing a bomb.
“I had a chat with James,” I say.
“And how did that go?” he asks, cautiously.
“Well, he didn’t kill me, so I’m taking that as a win.”
“Oh, that well?”
“Yes, that well. He was intimidating to say the least.”
“James can be a bit…” he searches for the word, “intense. But he’s just feeling you out.”
“Feeling me out? Like a job interview?”
“Exactly. He’ll relax once he sees you’re serious about this. You just have to keep being you.”
I snort. “Well, I’m exceptionally good at being me.”
“Perfect,” Pete smiles.
“Where being me means making bad jokes when I’m nervous and accidentally trauma-dumping over dinner. Then replaying alternate versions of conversations in my head for the next 10-15 years.”
Pete laughs, squeezes my hand, and the tension in my chest loosens just enough for me to exhale.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe James is just being protective.
I overthink things — I know this, Craig tells me that all the time.
But still, the conversation plays on loop in my head, James’ voice smooth and deliberate:
You’d be wise to think about whether you’re prepared for that.
Not exactly the bedtime story you want before staying over.
Pete moves to grab his T-shirt, and that’s when I see it — a faint ring of blue and purple around his wrist, like a shadow that doesn’t belong.
“Pete,” I say quietly, catching his arm before I can stop myself. “What’s this?”
He glances down like he’s just remembered it’s there. “Nothing. Banged it on a door.”
“It doesn’t look like a door bang.”
“Because you’re a door bang expert?” he teases, but his voice is a little too light.
“Pete.”
He hesitates, then shrugs, the grin slipping a little. “James and I… had a disagreement earlier. It got a bit heated. He grabbed my wrist, that’s all.”
My stomach twists. “That’s all?”
“Tom.” Pete’s voice is soft now, and he takes my hand this time. “It’s fine. It was just a row. Forget it.”
Forget it? How am I supposed to forget it when the image is burned into my brain?
“And does he do that often?”
“Do what?”
“Grab you? Hurt you?”
Pete shakes his hands in the air, pulling away from me. “No, I mean, not really, no.”
His answer offers me no level of comfort.
“He can just be a bit passionate about things sometimes.”
“I’m not sure, if leaving bruises on your wrists can be classed as passion.”
“Look, it’s nothing; forget it,” he says, trying to close this down.
But I’m not ready to end this conversation yet, so I take another approach.
“I used to say the same about my ex, Daniel, after an argument. ‘It’s fine, forget it.’ But it wasn’t fine.”
Pete’s expression shifts — sad, then sympathetic. “I’m not Daniel.”
“I know. You’re not Daniel at all.”
“Then trust me. Tonight is about you and me. We don’t have to make this heavier than it already is.”
I nod, but inside, my head is loud.
Because it is heavy.
I like Pete. No, I more than like him — he’s the first person I’ve let myself want in years. But every new thing I learn about this house, this life, feels like a step into deeper water.
And I can’t tell if Pete is pulling me closer to shore or further out to sea.
We climb into bed and for a moment, things are simple again. He pulls me against him, kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I let myself melt into him, because it feels good to be wanted. To be chosen.
But in the dark, my eyes stay open.
I can still feel the ghost of James’ stare.
I can still see the bruise on Pete’s wrist.
And I can’t shake the thought that I might already be in too deep — but I want to go deeper anyway.
Because if I don’t find out what’s really happening here, it’ll eat me alive.
Pete’s already yawning by the time we crawl into bed, like a cat who’s had a particularly full day of being adorable. He rolls towards me, arm draped over my waist, and there’s that flicker in his eyes – the unspoken so… are we going to…?
I kiss him softly but pull back, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with lust.
“I don’t think I can, not here. Not with…” I gesture vaguely, as if James is lurking behind the wardrobe. “I just… can’t relax knowing he’s a few doors down. Can I get used to sleeping over for a bit first?”
Pete doesn’t push. He just nods, squeezes my hand and says, “That’s okay. I get it.” He really does. I press my face into his shoulder, grateful for that understanding, and before long, his breathing evens out into soft, steady sleep.
Me? My brain has other plans.
It spins.
About James, about Sam, about that conversation earlier where James basically auditioned to play the villain in my personal horror film.
And Chris. The ex. Who didn’t get on with James. Who disappeared so suddenly.
Why does this leave such a bitter taste in my mouth?
Then Daniel pops into my mind too. Still hovering around. Ever after all the years, still in my life.
And then Evelyn. Another name I want to remove from my life but know I never can.
I lie in bed thinking about how the knife sliced through him.
How many messages like that can I take.
So many names buzzing around my brain. Sleep is not my friend this evening.
The wine doesn’t help – I feel like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. My head is starting to bang like the hangover is checking in early. Dehydration beckons and eventually, thirst wins over paranoia. I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Pete, and pad barefoot into the hallway.
The house feels different at night – quieter, like it’s holding its breath. The lights are dim, shadows stretching everywhere.
I find the kitchen, gulp a glass of water straight from the tap like a teenager avoiding parental judgment, and start back up the stairs and down the hall.
That’s when I see it.
Halfway along the corridor, a door is ajar. Just a sliver of light spills into the hallway.
I hear noises.
There are noises—low, guttural.
Not just sex sounds.
Something rougher.
I should mind my own business. I should absolutely mind my own business. But I’m me, so I don’t.
I peer in.
And I wish I hadn’t.
James has Sam pinned against the wall, face pressed hard into the paintwork.
This isn’t regular, romantic sex.
This is aggressive, relentless.
James’s arm snakes up around Sam’s throat, forcing his head back in a chokehold. Sam’s face is flushed, straining, his gasps rasping through the air. James doesn’t loosen his grip. His thrusts are sharp, punishing, each one punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin.
Then, James breaks away from the wall, and tosses Sam onto his back on the bed, like he’s a ragdoll, and continues deep and hard inside him.
James’s hand wraps tight around Sam’s throat, the other pinning him down by the chest. Sam claws at James’s wrist, but James is stronger, his hips driving harder, faster.
As James’s aggressive thrusts continue, he removes his hand from Sam’s chest and slaps him hard across his face.
The sound is vicious, enough to make my stomach lurch.
Another slap, like a whip has cracked.
Then another.
James removes his hand from around Sam’s throat, as the room fills with Sam’s gasps desperately. But before he can catch his breath, James grabs a pillow, pressing it down over Sam’s face as he thrusts, the sound of his breathing turning ragged, animalistic, almost a roar as he nears his climax.
I can’t move. I just… watch.
James presses the pillow over Sam’s face, while looking up to the ceiling, his moans sounding more like battle cries as he finishes with a ferocious, final thrust.
When he’s done, he pulls the pillow away. Sam gasps desperately, sucking in air like he’s been underwater.
But before he can catch his breath, in one last vicious act, James grabs him by his waist and physically shoves him off the bed entirely. Sam hits the floor with a grunt, a heap of limbs and sweat.
“Sleep somewhere else,” James says, wiping sweat from his brow.
Sam doesn’t move, just lies there, chest heaving, as James walks into the ensuite, door swinging shut behind him.
I stumble back from the doorway, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s in my throat.
Back in Pete’s room, I slide under the duvet as quietly as I can, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, pulse still racing.
James isn’t just brooding.
Or complicated.
He’s dangerous.