Chapter 12
twelve
Clouds fill my skull. All brain tissue has been replaced by cotton. Even my mouth is stuffed with dirty socks. My tongue scrapes across my lips as I try to soak in any moisture to rid it of the foul taste.
Who knew an eyelid could weigh so much?
Prying one open, I have some strength left to lift the other.
And then the memories come screaming back to me.
I’ve been drugged.
Vanq fucking drugged me. Not only that. He fingered me. Forced me to beg for him. Left me in the soaking rain, humiliated and wanton. Like I asked for it. Like I was proving how desperately I wanted it.
And now, shame clings to my skin like scales.
My very naked skin.
Without realizing, I’m scratching at my arm, over and over, until the spot burns. Pale morning light fills the space as I scan my surroundings. I’m in my room, back in ONE. How the fuck did I get here? Did he cart me in like a corpse? Did no one notice?
A crisp breeze cuts through my cracked balcony door, white sheers fluttering, and I will my body to move. Each step feels like walking through molasses. But when I reach to close it, I freeze.
My laptop sits open on the other side of the mattress. The image on screen makes my hand slap over my mouth. It’s of me lying in this very bed from last night. Lying exactly as I must’ve been when he brought me here. But I’m not alone in the shot.
Behind my sleeping figure stands Vanq. Masked. Dark. Watching.
Dread rips through me when I realize it’s not a photo…
It’s a video.
I creep closer, heart hammering so loud I can barely hear the wind anymore. With a shaky finger, I press play and sit slowly, knees drawn to my chest. Blanket held up to my nose like a shield.
The screen flickers to life.
There I am, barely moving. Chest rising steadily in the dim light of my room. And there he is, stepping closer. His gloved hand moves to the edge of the bed. He crouches. Stares at me for a long moment as if he’s studying my breathing. Then…he reaches up and removes the lower half of his mask.
I don’t see his full face. Just the mouth. A hint of stubble. A jaw that could break a vow.
And then…he kisses me.
There’s no sound. No moaning. It’s almost sweet, but more like…
Reverent?
I touch my lips with my fingers, a tingle charging through them like a reverie.
It’s only a moment until he stands again, and with a sly movement, he lowers himself between my thighs.
With gloved hands, the shards of my destroyed costume are peeled away like flower petals.
His fingers tear off the last of my soaked underwear, then he spreads me open with a veneration that makes my skin crawl, but my heart beats harder in response.
Like he’s uncovering the rarest of buried treasures.
The mask lingers, staring at my pussy for so long, I wonder if that’s all he’ll do.
In the next second, he’s pressing his entire face into my core.
A spine-tingling cold rushes through me until I shiver.
Everything tenses, my knees squeezing together, but I can’t look away.
In the video, I twitch, my back bows, bare breasts jiggle.
Seeking more of his pleasure, my hips shift higher, and I grip the sheets, even while asleep.
My breath, though slow, is uneven. A tiny moan slips past my parted lips.
He’s ravenous. His head shakes back and forth, then he slips in a finger, using his tongue to lick me and flick me until my arousal coats his chin. Sopping wet sounds cling to the air as he plunges his hand inside and out. I’m wrecked, but unaware.
And then…I come.
The orgasm rips through me on-screen—visibly, unmistakably.
I arch. I whimper. My thighs convulse around the man.
And Vanq...he stays buried in me until the very last quake has passed, until my last squeaky breath shatters the room.
Then he rises. Pulls his mask back down.
And stands over me like a lord approving his peasant’s work.
Low and deep, he addresses the camera, and another shiver runs through me. “You couldn’t say no…so don’t feel guilty that your body answered yes.”
Without fanfare or smoke, he vanishes from the frame.
The video ends with a black screen that feels like it dooms my soul.
I sit there, frozen, the scream caught somewhere beneath my ribs, clawing to get out.
What the fuck.
Some recollections invade my thoughts. This seems somewhat familiar. Almost as if it had been a dream of mine from a long time ago. Hands shake as I throw off my blanket and run to the desk drawer. My diary. I need it.
Licking a finger, I flip back a few pages, skimming past confessionals, nightmares, plans for Terror Tuesday—and then I find it.
A single butterfly wing drawn in ink on the top corner of a page.
I skim the entry beneath it.
What if the only way I could enjoy sex was if I wasn’t awake for it? What if I could give myself permission to feel it without the shame—if I couldn’t fight it, couldn’t stop it, maybe I could finally let myself want it?
He read this.
And he did it.
Not to hurt me or punish me. But to give me what I asked for.
Does that make it better or worse?
Caliphylla’s sake, Olivia. It’s worse!
Right?
The notes he left after my entries. Those fantasies I spilled from somewhere buried deep. Ones of being watched. Not just seen but observed. Studied and guarded. Protected from my own restraint. A man who’d let me unravel safely, silently, under his gaze.
Did I want this? Did I leave my doors open and call him here without meaning to?
Is he even real?
Something’s tucked behind that same page—a second butterfly wing. Delicately drawn. Almost perfect. Attached to it is a slip of thick paper. I unfold it with trembling fingers while holding my breath. A poem is typewritten with a worn ink ribbon.
Beneath sacred stone and candle’s light,
A vow is whispered to bind the night.
Kneel where saints once bled and prayed
Where sins are weighed, where ghosts have stayed.
Anointed hands, a fate entwine,
Does the lamb seek, or is she assigned?
A collar of gold or shackles of bone,
Submission is a choice when the choice is your own.
Step where echoes name your sins,
Carved in walls, beneath your skin.
Truth unlocks what doubt has caged—
Are you the offering, or the blade?
At the bottom, a single line:
Let the games begin.
The air in the room shifts—heavier, tighter. Like something’s watching me read this. It’s too difficult to breathe, to swallow. My vision swims, and I blink hard to steady it.
What does this mean?
What game is he playing?
Nails dig into my forearm, rapidly scratching until red streaks are visible. I rub it away so no one will see. Wasn’t last night enough for him?
That’s when it hits me. All the images filter past my eyes like a horror movie.
Naomi.
My best friend. Her body. The altar. The word HUSH carved into her abdomen like a warning or a curse. I’m not sure which.
I saw her. Touched her.
And now... she’s gone.
But was it real? Was it just part of Terror Tuesday?
I gasp, my hand flying to my throat. What if this is his game?
Naomi said she felt as if she were being watched. Is Vanq a serial killer out to get all of us? Does he toy with girls before he slays them?
Fingers twitch as I remember what she was like. It felt real. She was cold, and her blood was sticky. Eyes open, but vacant. Like something had emptied her out and left the shell for me to find.
I shake my head hard. Maybe it was fake. Or part of an act. What if the whole thing was some sick Theta ritual meant to fuck with me? Like a final boss level for the Omega president.
But then I remember the way her body was frozen. How she didn’t rebound when I pushed her. Her normally pink lips had lost color, and her mouth—her beautiful, sarcastic mouth—was parted like she’d been silenced mid-scream.
And I realize: I don’t even know if Naomi made it home.
My breath shortens. I scan the room as if something might jump out at me. With a quick swipe at my phone screen, my heart sinks. No texts from her. No updates. Just my thoughts spinning louder than the wind outside.
What if I saw something I wasn’t supposed to?
What if I was supposed to join her?
A sharp knock startles me, and I nearly scream. My phone slips from my hand, bouncing off the bed.
“Ugh,” a voice calls from the hallway. “Can someone tell me if we’re allowed to shower again? Or are we all just being punished forever because group five lost?”
Another voice responds, muffled but bitter: “Theta must’ve taken all of them down to the dungeon. Haven’t seen them this morning. I heard the basement lights are still on at Theta Manor.”
My stomach drops.
Someone else grumbles, “They always take it too far. That’s why I fake sick every year.”
Then laughter outside, like everything’s normal.
But my blood runs cold.
Group five. Naomi’s group. The girls who came in before me. The ones who didn’t escape.
As the room tilts, the edge of the desk steadies my body. Dark, the laptop’s screen has gone to sleep. But the ghost of what I saw lingers in the air. My orgasm. His mouth. My best friend’s corpse. All those women splayed open like the earthworms we dissected in biology lab.
A shaking palm caresses my temple as my lungs attempt to breathe.
I should say something. I should tell someone.
But what could I possibly say? ‘Hey, I found my sorority sister dead, laid out like a sacrifice in Theta’s murder dungeon. And by the way, my masked stalker broke in and gave me oral while I was unconscious?’
Yeah. That’ll go over well.
At least three people are dead? Hunter. Bryce. Naomi.
Possibly several more.
And I was there for all of it. I’m the common denominator.
I can’t speak up until I know…
What if it was supposed to be me?
Silence is a true gift from the gods. Those who wield it at the right moment are like tides drawn by the moon—emboldened and sanctified. At least, that’s what the words of Caliphylla taught me.
Another, firmer knock makes me gasp. From the end of the bed, I snatch my robe and throw it on, tying it tight. When I fling open the door, Sora’s dark brown eyes narrow at me, with her black silky bob perfectly in place. The woman has never had a bad hair day.
“Olivia, um, can I come inside?” Even her pajamas look pressed after a night’s sleep.
My voice won’t work, so I step back and let her in with a nod. “W-What’s up?” The words are hoarse and hushed. I need water.
“So…I heard a rumor last night.”
“Hmm?”
Sora isn’t known for hemming around a subject. The fact that she is fills my stomach with dread.
“Well, I heard that perhaps Hunter Remington is dead…and Bryce Holloway.”
How would a normal person respond to this if they didn’t know the answer?
My body chooses laughter. Like…hysterical laughter. It’s unstoppable. Tears spill from my eyes at the absurdity of it all. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”
Sora’s brown eyes widen. “So, it was a joke, then?”
“I-I guess so.” I try to calm my breathing. To take things more seriously, but the giggle keeps bouncing around in my lungs.
“What do we say to people? No one has seen them for a few days.”
“I think they ran off together.”
One of her eyebrows quirks, and I fear I’ve gone over the edge. “Really?”
“No! Not really, Sora. As I said, Hunter and I are officially over. I broke up with him on Saturday. Maybe he left for Vegas to get drunk on Daddy’s dime. I don’t know. He’s not in my life anymore. And neither is Bryce Holloway, for that matter. Now, are you going to write that in the paper or—”
My chest squeezes at the mention of the newspaper, the Nighthawk Ledger. Naomi…
Sora nods once, then bends a little to look into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
Hurriedly, my thumb swipes at some tears that have fallen over my cheeks. “Yes, yes. Just, uh, a bit broken up. And didn’t get in until late, you know…”
“What are we doing about group five? Do you think we should bring in the university therapists to help them tomorrow? I’m sure they’ll need lots of processing. Brittany needed surgery two years ago after a night in Theta dungeon, remember? She still doesn’t talk about it.”
“I…I’ll think about it.” No, because group five isn’t coming back.
If I didn’t think it would raise even more suspicion, I’d shove Sora out of my door for some privacy. To think. Turning slowly, I crawl toward the shards of my dress, and she, for once, slips out without another word.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind Sora, I sit on the edge of my bed, surrounded by shreds of silk. The last of Naomi’s laughter echoes somewhere in the corners of my mind. Her smile. A hint of her peachy scent.
The laptop screen stays black. But I swear I feel him watching.
I rip my curtains closed and grab a belt, tightening it around my balcony doors. No more serial killer cunnilingus. No more butterflies of death.
My phone buzzes again, and I flinch, then grab it. The Cardells Control All thread lights up, and my dread delves deeper.
It’s not Naomi…
Henry
Yoooooo did omega 5 actually get locked in the dungeon overnight??
Aiden
Don’t say that in text.
Ryan
Beta’s denying it, but I heard one of their guys had to be sedated. Malik said something may be up. Could be another PR nightmare if they talk.
Henry
So? One of the Iotas puked in room three, and no one even noticed lol
Ryan
Can we not joke right now? I think at least one Omega didn’t make it back.
Aiden
We’ll handle it. We always do.
Henry
Olivia? You good? Did you make it out?
I stare at the blinking cursor for a long time. Then mute the thread and swipe it away.
Another buzz.
This one’s from Mom.
Mom
Hope your event went well, sweetheart! You always shine. Don’t forget, brunch with the chancellor’s family is this weekend. Your father expects you to wear the pink Chanel (and, yes, Alec is cute). Love you!
Then Dad, as if they’re synced.
Dad
Heard there were some “rumors” at last night’s party. You’re not involved, right? Keep your head down, my girl. Your future depends on it.
My hand shakes. I don’t know if it’s rage or grief. Maybe both.
I’m choking on silence.
That’s when the next notification comes through. No family crest. No demands. Just a name that reads like a lifeline.
Elliot
Thinking about the project. And you. Mostly the project. (But also definitely you.) Let me know if you want to meet up and pretend to be normal. I can fake it. I’ve practiced.
A smile breaks out across my lips before I can stop it.
I hate that he makes me feel like a person again.