Chapter One #3
He’s unfazed, which makes sense. I was just another one-night stand blending in with all the rest.
“It has to be a good kiss, then. I’m talking against the wall, full-body contact, tongue—” Caine cuts off. Even though my heart is pounding in my ears, I can make out a man’s voice greeting him.
“Hey, Ronnie, be right there,” he answers, then lowers his voice again.
“The terms for this year’s haunting are: Should I, Caine Underwood, successfully make you, Margot Walker, tap out of an extreme horror night at the Abattoir, I will win a high-quality kiss for my efforts.
In the unlikely event that you, Margot Walker, make it through the haunt, you may tattoo on me, Caine Underwood, a mutually agreed-upon design in a mutually agreed-upon location. Deal?”
“You sound like Shane right now. If you write a contract, I will shred it.” My sigh sounds far less excited than I am. “But, deal. I’ll start thinking of tattoo ideas.”
“Don’t waste your time, gorgeous.”
My face heats, even though I know it means nothing. Flirty banter and pet names roll off his tongue the way Sorry and If you don’t mind roll off of mine.
“Oh, the weird text was supposed to have a picture with it. I’ll resend later. Have a good night.” Then he’s gone before I can respond, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only noise in the space.
“He isn’t winning,” I tell Gremlin. I have unquestionable faith in my ability to mentally talk myself through anything Caine throws at me in the haunt.
Still, for a sliver of a second, I let myself imagine kissing Caine.
It’s far too easy to picture him pressing me bodily against the wall, one hand in my hair, the other holding my wrists above my head.
The subtle hint of his cologne, the weight of him—
Good grief.
Get it together.
Sometimes I feel guilty letting him play a game he won’t win, but it’s too much fun to stop.
Besides the joy of being terrorized, it’s flattering in a way that probably doesn’t say great things about my psyche.
Year after year, Caine puts more effort toward scaring me than Nicholas devoted to our entire marriage.
That I get hot and bothered by it likely means I need to work through my overlooked-eldest-daughter issues a bit more, but I’m pretty good at ignoring that in favor of enjoying the experience.
Not to mention, I know I can get through the haunt for the same reason I love horror movies. They’re supposed to be scary. I’m supposed to feel afraid. So when they are, and I am, it’s exhilarating. All is right in the universe. It’s a high, a rush, and delicious in a way that real-life fear isn’t.
Real monsters don’t wear masks—at least the one that waits in my nightmares doesn’t. Why would he?
Nicholas’s handsome face, his mesmerizing voice, and that intangible, unnameable quality that made people want to trust him were his strongest assets, and he led with those.
Deep, deep down inside, I know in my bones that if he hadn’t gone to prison, I would have had a tragic “accident.” He would have given a touching eulogy at my funeral, then selected his next bride based on the quality of her bereavement casserole.
So bring on the zombies, chainsaw-carrying slashers, and whatever else Caine throws at me.
They have nothing on the fear I keep compartmentalized.
As I resume my skin-care routine at last, I force myself away from thoughts of Nicholas. That turns into trying not to think about kissing Caine.
I don’t think about kissing Caine while I’m scheduling social media posts for a client, or while I’m transcribing notes from a meeting at Shane’s law firm.
I don’t think about kissing Caine while I’m making dinner—charcuterie for the win—or taking Gremlin for a walk around the yard.
But when the sun has set, and I’m on the couch in my pajamas watching The Blair Witch Project for the hundredth time, my phone buzzes. The unknown number is now saved as Caine, complete with a pumpkin emoji next to the name. This time the picture comes through, a photo of a wolf skull mask.
No.
Not a wolf skull mask—the wolf skull mask.
The wolf mask that woke something inside me five years ago that I haven’t been able to put back to sleep.
Caine’s repainted it. Sitting on his desk, beneath his drawing light, the different shades of cream, gray, and beige look almost shimmery, more elegant than terrifying.
I can envision how it will look in the dark, though. The way what little light there is in the haunt will kiss the contours he’s created. How the highlights will turn into bone sharp enough to slit a throat, the lowlights becoming hollows deep enough to fall in. The lupine smile is hungry, leering.
Tempting.
Saliva pools in my mouth. Gulping a hard swallow, I tentatively text back: It looks great. A massive understatement that still feels as if I’m giving too much away.
The mask doesn’t look great. It looks sinful. Like a filthy fantasy come to life.
Like it’s going to make me question every single thing I think I know about myself.
Again.