Chapter Two
Two
Margot
Five Years Ago
Sheryl will be so proud. It’s the thought of being able to triumphantly tell my therapist that I didn’t just step outside my comfort zone, I cannonballed, that has me walking through the halls of the Abattoir instead of bolting into the night.
Well, that and the fact that I am incapable of saying no when someone needs help. But there’s only so much I can work on at one time, which is how I ended up here: corralled into acting in a haunted house despite the fact that I hate being perceived.
“So, you’ve been here before, right?” Zombie Goldilocks asks over her shoulder as I follow her through dim corridor after dim corridor.
Her name is Bee; she’s the Abattoir’s set designer.
Usually, she wouldn’t be in costume, but tonight is dire circumstances.
It’s Halloween, and a respiratory flu has swept through the team, which means I’m not the only person stepping outside of their comfort zone.
Friends and family have been called for an assist, and team members who usually stay behind the scenes are being thrust into the spotlight.
“A time or two,” I hedge.
Five times, actually. But admitting that might get my picture on the bulletin board in the break room with a Potential stalker?
note beneath it. There’s no casual way to explain that embracing fear is a balm to my nervous system after years of fighting my own instincts.
Better to seem like a reasonably invested patron.
She nods, eyes on the hall ahead. “Good. And Alyssa walked you through the scene?”
Alyssa, one of the codirectors, was matter-of-fact as she explained the scene, guiding me from taped X to taped X, showing me where the light would come from, where the big, bad undead wolf would be entering, and how to slip through the hidden doors in the walls to move from one portion of the room to the next.
When she was explaining, the concept seemed much less intimidating than it does now.
Less sexual too.
I forgot how low-cut the Little Red Riding Hood dress I’m wearing is. Also didn’t think about how I’d have a dagger strapped to my thigh via what can only be described as a utilitarian garter—equal parts provocative and practical.
“She did. Now I just need not to mess it up.” My mouth feels as dry as my setting-powder-caked face. While I don’t have zombie makeup on, I do have several silicone scratches on my left cheek, placed to mimic a swipe from a claw.
Yes, she walked me through how I’ll be running from the big, bad undead wolf and once he catches me, seducing him, and then plunging a silver knife through his heart.
Beneath layer upon layer of foundation, my skin heats.
Bee waves away my concern. “Deep breaths and try to have fun. Don’t worry, Caine will take care of you. If you freeze or miss a beat, he’ll play it off.”
Telling me not to worry is like telling me not to breathe, except I’m better at controlling my lungs than my mind.
I don’t trust anyone to take care of me, let alone my employer’s brother, Caine, who I’ve never even met.
I’m only here because Shane sent a voice note asking me to reschedule his dinner plans for tonight so he could help.
When I messaged back to confirm I’d rescheduled, he asked if I was free and willing to work at the haunt.
From there everything happened fast. Another text from Shane telling me where to go and what to wear, a hurried walk-through of the scene with Alyssa, and then costuming.
Screams echo, and a chainsaw revs outside the haunt, where people wait in line, but my heart is louder, pounding in my ears.
All too soon, we reach a cramped cubby off one of the main rooms. A man waits inside, his broad shoulders making the space look even smaller.
I stumble the tiniest bit. He’s wearing a long, black hooded robe, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing tattooed forearms as he adjusts something inside a wolf skull mask.
Bathed in faint red light, a focused scowl on his face, he looks more devil than man.
Mask or no mask, I have complete confidence that he can be terrifying.
“Little Red on deck,” Bee says in a singsong voice. “Margot, meet Caine. Caine, meet Margot. May you be very scary together.”
Caine looks up. Tousled dark hair falls roguishly across his forehead, teeth flashing in the dim light as he smiles.
As if this whole experience won’t be challenging enough, I’m also going to be trying not to humiliate myself in front of the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, who is also my employer’s brother.
Lovely.
I wave. Instant regret. If awkwardness were a power source, this wave could fuel the state.
Regardless, I do my best to smile back. I can barely make eye contact with him.
Between his attractiveness and my anxiety over the fact that I am about to be perceived, I’m one shallow breath from passing out.
Once he puts the mask on, I’ll be okay.
That will make it better.
Bee gives my arm an encouraging squeeze and then she’s off.
No. Come back. Take me with you. Please don’t leave me with the pretty man.
My telepathic pleas go unanswered. She disappears around the corner in a swish of light blue fabric.
Shit.
Caine crooks a finger, beckoning me into the cubby. I enter like I’m walking to my execution, not a man who—damnit—smells as good as he looks. The scent of amber, spiced rum, and aged leather makes me want to lean in and breathe deep.
Unaware that I’m fighting the urge to inhale him, Caine asks, “Bee get you sorted?”
Act cool.
Easy-breezy, no big deal.
“Yes, she’s great. She said when I panic and freeze, you’ll cover for me.” I mean it to sound like a joke. It doesn’t.
“Absolutely.” His voice is pure confidence. “But you aren’t going to panic.”
Irritation blossoms. “You can’t know that.”
I regret my prickliness immediately. Arguing with a sexy stranger is not my finest moment, but it is tragically on-brand.
“Yes, I do know.” Caine studies me. “Outside of haunting season I’m a tattoo artist. Have to be able to read people, to make sure they have a good experience, you know?”
I nod, determined not to let the moody me I am under pressure say anything else rude.
“I can always tell who’s scared but will be fine, who’s scared but trying to hide it, so I need to keep a close eye on them, and who’s completely relaxed. All that.”
“I don’t seem scared right now?” The possibility that I’m acting more composed than I feel sparks hope.
“Oh no.” He moves closer so I can hear him as the music swells. “You’re fucking terrified.”
Before I can respond, he adds, “But that won’t stop you, will it?” His deep brown eyes hold mine. They aren’t unkind, but there’s a clear challenge in them. For the first time since I’ve seen him, I don’t immediately break eye contact. I hold his gaze out of spite.
Rattlesnakes, pulpits, and bloodstained grout fill my head. So does Nicholas’s voice, arrogant and foreboding: Go on, try to leave. See how far you get.
The past puts the present into perspective. While the platitude What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger has always irritated me with its dismissive, toxic positivity, there is grim comfort in the fact that this current unpleasant situation isn’t even in the same universe as past awful situations.
New life motto: At least it isn’t Nicholas.
“No, it’s not going to stop me,” I finally answer Caine, tightening my grip on the front of my dress and pulling it higher. I will also not be stopped by tripping.
“Atta girl.” His wink should be off-putting. Charming men give me hives. Somehow it’s a tiny bit endearing when he does it.
Don’t get carried away.
That’s the nerves talking.
A tiny light on the wall above us turns yellow; it’s almost time for us to go on. My heart pounds.
Caine grins. “Game time. Get out there and give me hell, killer.” He moves to put on the wolf skull mask.
Interest flutters in my stomach. I want to blame the way the five-o’clock shadow accentuates his jawline or how his big hands cradle the mask, but I don’t think that’s it.
Oh, shit.
Do I?
Caine’s put the mask on, and pulled up the hood on the cloak. Tilting toward me, the skull’s muzzle dips in a chilling nod. I stare into the deep, pitch-black void of the eye sockets. Goose bumps spring to life on my arms.
Am I?
Inhuman, sharp teeth—all the better to eat me with—reflect the faint light.
There’s no sign of man, only a monster that could have crawled straight up from hell.
Heat races through me, arousal so sudden and strong it steals my breath.
Fear is an accelerant, urging the flames bigger, hotter, better.
This isn’t a fight-or-flight response; it’s a fight-or-fuck response.
Oh nonononononono.
I gasp, the sound so squeaky Caine jerks his mask back up. Worry clouds his face. I’m blushing, the warm tingle crawling across my chest, creeping up my throat. I think I may also be about to hyperventilate. The world goes spotty.
I can picture my obituary. She died doing what she did best: stressing out and being a horny little freak.
“Hey.” Caine’s challenging tone from earlier is replaced by the slow drizzle of honey into tea, the presence alone promising to soothe. “Deep breaths. Everyone’s nervous their first time, but you can do this.”
Since I can’t say, Is everyone else also inexplicably aroused by the mask and their own fear? I do as he says.
“Breathe with me, right now.” It’s the kindest command I’ve ever heard.
“Inhale.” I do, holding it until he says, “Exhale,” a few seconds later.
“Again,” he says, and I do, and then one more time.
It’s helping, and I will do breathing exercises all night before admitting I squeaked because my own horniness horrified me.
“Thanks,” I murmur. Shaking my head, I give him an uncomfortable smile, feeling even worse for being snippy with him earlier.
“No worries, I had to breathe anyway.” He grins back, a dimple appearing for a microsecond.
My laugh is breathless.