22. Conner
CONNER
I never thought Jasmine would end up in my arms. Statistically speaking, it didn’t track.
She’s volatile. Independent. Not the kind of person who lets others carry her weight—literally or otherwise.
And yet, here she is. Pressed against my chest, eyes half-shut, body too tired to keep holding itself up.
Her breathing is uneven. She’s not fully asleep, not fully awake. A gray area. I’m familiar with those.
There’s a tremor in her fingers. Subtle, but consistent.
She’s not built for this. Or rather—she’s not conditioned for it.
Not the way Landon is. Not the way I am.
The moral boundaries are still intact for her, even if they’ve started to erode.
That makes her rare. Fragile in a way most people misunderstand.
She doesn’t enjoy the kill. She doesn’t romanticize the blood. That’s what makes her valuable.
I adjust her weight carefully, shift her onto the mattress. She doesn’t resist. Limbs loose. No defense mechanisms. That in itself is... noteworthy.
I pull the blanket over her and take a step back, watching as she curls slightly in on herself. Protective posture. Instinctual. Trauma does that—rewires the nervous system. Trains the body to expect pain in moments of stillness.
I don't touch her again. I just watch her for a few seconds longer.
In another world, she would be mine—uncomplicated, public, permanent.
There’d be no secrets. No power imbalances.
No ethical lines to toe. I would have carved Marcus open the moment he spoke Jasmine’s name, sliced him end to end for what he did to Kelly.
I still think about it. About the mess I’d make of him.
But Landon—always the moral compass in wolves’ clothing—asked me to let him handle it.
So I did. I waited. Watched. Calculated.
But in this world, I have to play the long game.
In this world, Jasmine’s a student, and I’m the professor who’s supposed to ignore the way her lips part when she’s lost in thought.
Who’s supposed to grade her essays and not think about how she moans.
I’m standing in a teenager’s bedroom—pastel sheets, chipped furniture, some ridiculous candle burning on the nightstand that smells like vanilla and sex and safety.
And the girl sleeping in that bed is failing my class. Not because she’s stupid. Because she’s been too busy surviving. Too busy navigating death threats and secret missions and the tangle of violence we’ve all dragged her into.
The optics are catastrophic, but at least her apartment building is off campus even if it just five blocks away from my fucking office. I exhale hard through my nose, rub the heel of my palm against my jaw, and walk out before I do something irreversible.
The living room is dim, washed in blue from the TV screen still playing some muted sitcom. Landon’s stretched out on the couch, boots off, a cigarette tucked between his fingers. The second he sees me, he lifts the pack and flicks it once.
“You want one?”
I hesitate. Then I nod. “Yeah. Fuck it.”
I don’t say thank you but I take the cigarette Landon offers and slide it between my lips. He holds his out, still lit, and I lean in, catching the flame with a clean inhale. Smoke fills my throat and sharply coats my lungs.
I drop down next to him on the couch without a word.
The leather groans under my weight, the silence between us thick with the kind of history no one talks about out loud.
The TV’s still playing something muted and ridiculous—blue light flickering across the room like static, like ghosts. I don’t look at it.
Landon leans his head back, cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling fan. “I guess pigs are flying.”
I drag from mine, slow and deep. “What?”
He chuckles, that lazy, low sound that always makes me want to break his nose or buy him a drink. Sometimes both. “You’re taking care of my girl.”
“You could’ve carried her if you wanted.”
“You bolted out of the car like your ass was on fire,” he mutters. “Wasn’t a damn thing I could do.”
I exhale through my nose, the smoke helping mask the heat crawling up my spine. I don’t say anything, but Landon chuckles to himself.
“You weren’t even this concerned about Kelly.”
I roll my shoulders back, the tension coiling up my arms as I flick the cigarette ash into the frog ashtray on the coffee table. Landon kicks his feet up.
“She was like a sister to you,” Landon goes on, his voice curling with humor. “But you never looked at her the way you look at Jasmine. Never chased after her when she was hurting.”
I grind my teeth, pulse thumping against the side of my neck. “I would fucking hope not, she was a sister.”
“Look, I’m just saying?—”
“Don’t, Landon.”
He flicks ash into the tray, sighs. “I’m not trying to fight. But fuck, man. The last time I saw you this invested in someone was…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.
Landon shifts beside me. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“Yeah, you did.” My voice slices through the room.
I flick my cigarette into the ashtray, sparks biting the rim, and stand up too fast. My nerves feel too close to the surface, hot and twitching. I move to the window without thinking, needing the glass, the dark, the distance from his voice and everything it drags out of me.
I plant my hands on the sill and stare out at the city—black, cold, indifferent. Lights buzz and blink like dying nerves. A thousand lives happening all at once. And here I am, still haunted by just one.
Lindsay.
I see her when I close my eyes. The mess of her honey brown hair. The scar at her collarbone. The way she laughed when she killed someone she hated. The way I loved her for it. The way she made me believe that darkness could be art if you painted it right.
She made me a monster with a scalpel and a smile.
Taught me how to gut a man with precision and sleep like a baby after.
I didn’t just follow her—I worshipped her.
I let her hollow me out, scoop the softness from my ribs until all that was left was calculation and obedience. I let her love me like a weapon.
And when I wrapped my hands around her throat, I didn’t hesitate.
I watched her eyes widen, felt the tremble in her fingers as she reached for me.
I held her down as she kicked, as her breath stuttered and stopped, and I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream. I counted the seconds it took—documented the pressure, the resistance, the sound of the final gasp that escaped her lips.
And then I ran. Not because I was afraid of what I’d done.
But because I was young, and that was the first time I’d killed someone alone.
And it felt—god help me—it felt like I’d finally earned something.
When Landon found me, I could have peeled my own skin off from the pressure, and the onset of emotions that broke me down.
Landon is right. There hasn’t been anyone since Lindsay and I don’t know what Jasmine did to catch my eye but she should rue the day she ever crossed paths with me.
“You should be more concerned about my attraction,” I say, voice low, eyes fixed on the window—but I feel the weight of his presence behind me. “To your girl.”
Landon doesn’t flinch. “You won’t hurt her.”
I cough out a bitter laugh. “You know that’s not true.”
“She’s a strong girl.”
“That’s questionable,” I snap, turning slowly, the air between us crackling.
Landon stands now, back straight, reflection sharp in the glass. “You’re not going to hurt her.”
I whirl around fully, my chest tight, my hands clenched. “How do you fucking know?” I breathe. “I loved Lindsay, Landon. I loved her, and I still killed her. What do you think is going to happen if I love Jasmine?”
His jaw flexes. His voice drops, low and lethal. “If you love her,” he growls, stepping close enough that our foreheads nearly touch, “you will watch yourself. You will walk the fucking line. Or I will put you down.”
“You’re going to put me down?” I murmur, half a challenge, half a prayer. I step closer, close enough to smell the smoke on his breath. “You really think you can kill me? I taught you how to dismember a body.”
His eyes gleam, cold and bright. “And I taught you how to throw a punch, Con.” His fists tighten. “I don’t need a weapon for what I’ll do to you if you so much as make her cry.”
We stare at each other for a beat too long. No blinking. No backing down.
The second I hear the scream, something in my chest locks up.
It’s sharp. Rattling. Too real to be from a dream, and too familiar to ignore.
I know fear when I hear it—I’ve caused enough of it.
My hands curl at my sides, and for a breath, I just stand there, frozen in the living room with the sound echoing down the hall.
Then Landon bolts. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He moves like he’s done this before—like she’s his to protect.
I follow, slower. My legs feel stiff, heavy with something I don’t want to name. Guilt, maybe. Dread. Hunger. I don’t know.
By the time I make it to her door, it’s open.
Light spills out into the hallway like a throat of gold, and there he is—Landon—already on the bed, already got her wrapped in his arms. Jasmine’s curled up in his lap like she was made to fit there.
He’s holding her like he’s the last thing keeping her from breaking apart.
She’s shaking, clutching at his shirt, tears streaking her cheeks. Her breath stutters in and out like it hurts her to keep going. I can’t look away.
Her shaky voice shoots into me like a bullet. “H-he w-won’t go away. I-I needed to get him to stop.”
Landon’s murmurs in a low, soft voice. “He stopped. I promise he stopped.”
“Y-you stopped him,” she whimpers into his chest.
“No Peach,” Landon clicks his tongue. “You stopped him. You’re so strong.”
She shakes her head no. No words. No breath. Just that slow, fractured denial, and I know exactly what I’m looking at.
This isn’t some random nightmare. This is memory wearing a mask. It’s shame soaked in sweat, clawing its way up her throat until she can’t breathe through it. I’ve lived that. I still do.
Whoever she is in that dream—whatever she did—she believes it defines her. I can see it in the tremble of her lip, the way she digs her fingers into the sheets like she’s trying to anchor herself to something that isn’t swallowing her whole. That’s not just fear. That’s self-damnation.
And fuck, I know that monster.
The one sinking its claws into her chest, pulling her down into some place darker than dreams. I know it too well. I’ve let it crawl up my spine and settle in my brain like smoke. I’ve listened to its lullabies. I’ve let it teach me how to breathe in agony and call it discipline.
But watching it unravel her —watching Jasmine twist and writhe in silence, trapped in a nightmare that clings like wet smoke—does something to me. Not pity. Not compassion.
Hunger.
Something raw curls low in my gut as I watch her.
Her chest jerks with each breath, like she’s choking on air.
Her hands clutch the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring her to this world.
The delicate muscles in her jaw twitch as she grinds her teeth, and I can see tears slipping from the corners of her eyes, catching on the pillow like glass.
She looks beautiful.
Devastated and delicate in a way no one else sees. Stripped of all that fire she wields like armor. Just her, soft and open and real.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Because I like it.
I like her like this. I like seeing her cracked down the center, emotions leaking through in flashes no one else would ever be allowed to witness. I like the sound of her breathless sobs.
Which means I am not safe.
Which means I could hurt her. Would, if I let myself.
Her eyes snap open.
Wide. Luminous. Soaked in panic and something softer, something worse— recognition. They lock on me like she expected me to be there. Like I’m part of the nightmare but she’s still reaching anyway.
Her lips part, trembling. Her fingers twitch toward me.
Just the smallest movement—barely more than a plea. An instinct. A signal for comfort.
For me.
As if I could offer it.
As if I wouldn’t break her in half just to see what she looks like ruined.
I should step forward. Should go to her, wrap my hands around her wrists, murmur something that’ll ground her in the present.
But I don’t.
Because I’m not Landon.
I’m not the one who soothes nightmares.
I’m the one who dissects them.
Who marks the blood patterns on the floor and notes the angle of the fracture, not how it feels to be the one fractured.
So I stay frozen. Hands aching from restraint. Guilt boiling in my throat. I drink her in one more second—one more too-long beat—and then I turn on my heel.
Because if I stay, I’ll want to touch her.
And if I touch her, I will hurt her.