Chapter 41 Lia
LIA
The Ravenwood Inn looks exactly as I remember it from childhood—red brick facade, ivy climbing toward the third floor, brass fixtures that gleam even in the pre-dawn darkness.
The night clerk barely glances up when I request a room, sliding a key across the polished oak desk with practiced indifference.
Third floor. Far enough from the ground that Vane can't just climb through a window, though I'm under no illusions that locked doors will keep him out if he decides he's done giving me space.
I drop my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and immediately regret not packing more clothes. Everything in here is too cheerful—rose wallpaper, cream curtains, a painting of sunflowers above the bed. It feels wrong after what I witnessed tonight.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I've become: mascara smudged beneath my eyes, dirt streaked across my cheek, my hair a tangled mess from Vane's fingers and the forest floor. I strip mechanically, turning the shower as hot as it will go.
But even scalding water can't wash away the image burned into my brain.
Vane's hands, covered in another man's blood. The pliers caught the light as he reached for another finger. The smile on his face—not cruel, exactly, but satisfied. Like he was precisely where he belonged.
I scrub harder, watching russet-colored water swirl down the drain. My water. His water. That man's water.
My stomach lurches, and I barely make it to the toilet before I'm dry heaving, nothing left inside me to purge except the truth I can't escape.
I love a monster.
Worse—I've always known what he was. Some part of me recognized it that first day in AP Chemistry, when he looked at me like I was prey he intended to catch. I just chose not to see it clearly until tonight, when the fantasy collided with blood-soaked reality.
I rinse my mouth and force myself to establish some normalcy. Brush teeth. Moisturize face. Braid wet hair. Each mundane action is a small act of control in a life that's spiraled far beyond my carefully laid plans.
The bed is too soft after Vane's firm mattress. The room is too quiet without his breathing beside me. My body already misses him—the weight of his arm across my waist, the possessive way he pulls me closer even in sleep.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it's Vane, demanding I come back, invoking the contract that binds me to him for the next three hundred and thirty-nine days.
But it's Keira.
“Please tell me you're not somewhere doing something stupid,” she says without preamble.
I laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Define stupid.”
“Running. Hiding. Thinking you can escape whatever mess you've gotten yourself into.” A pause. “I'm assuming this is about Vane?”
“I saw something tonight.” My voice cracks. “Something I can't unsee.”
“Violence?”
The casual way she says it makes me sit up straighter against the headboard. “You knew? About what they do?”
“Ace and Cyrus freelance for the Blackwoods.” Keira's tone gentles. “I knew what I was signing up for. Or at least, I thought I did. Reality hits different than theory, doesn't it?”
“I threw up.” The confession slips out. “After. I couldn't stop seeing—”
“Where are you?”
“Ravenwood Inn.”
“Good. You're still in town.” Relief colors her words. “Meet me tomorrow? Coffee at Bean & Brew? Eleven?”
I glance at the digital clock: 4:47 AM. “That's in six hours.”
“Then you'd better try to sleep.” Her voice softens. “Lia? Running doesn't fix anything. Trust me on that.”
After we disconnect, I stare at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the plaster. My phone buzzes again.
This time it is Vane.
Sleep well.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. The tears I've been holding back since he caught me break free, hot and fast, down my cheeks. I press my palm against my mouth to muffle the sobs.
This is worse somehow. This restraint, this evidence that beneath the obsession and violence, Vane understands exactly what I need right now. Space. Choice. The illusion of freedom even while wearing invisible chains.
He's learning me. Adapting and becoming the man who will make me stay.
And God help me, it's working.
I type out three different responses before deleting them all. Finally, settle on something simple.
You too.
The cursor blinks at me accusingly. Too cold. Too distant. Not what either of us needs right now.
I delete it and try again.
I'm okay.
Send before I can overthink it.
His reply comes instantly, like he's been staring at his phone waiting.
I know.
I set the phone on the nightstand and pull the covers up to my chin, willing sleep to come even though my mind races.
The room's too warm despite the air conditioning unit rattling beneath the window.
I kick off the comforter, then the sheet, until I'm lying in just my tank top and underwear, staring at the shadows.
Around five-thirty, I give up entirely. Pad to the window and pull back the gauzy curtain, expecting empty streets and early morning darkness.
My breath catches.
Vane's Kawasaki sits parked directly across from the inn, gleaming green even in the dim streetlight. And there—leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest—is Vane himself. Still wearing the same dark jeans and black shirt.
Watching.
He doesn't move when I appear at the window. Doesn't wave or gesture or make any acknowledgment beyond the slight tilt of his head that tells me he's registered my presence.
My hand hovers over the curtain. With one quick pull, I could block him out and establish a boundary that says his surveillance isn't welcome.
But I don't.
Instead, I let the fabric fall back into place, leaving the window exposed. Leaving myself visible.
It's a small thing. Meaningless.
Except we both know it's not.
I return to bed and close my eyes, acutely aware of his presence three stories below. Standing guard. Giving me space while simultaneously refusing to let me go.
The contradiction should terrify me.
It doesn't.