Chapter 38 #2
I dive back into the folder and click on another image.
Relief floods through me when my theory is confirmed.
This shot is of me sitting in the grass on the quad, reading my e-reader tablet…
the blush on my face suggesting that I’m probably reading something Galina recommended…
but in this photo, the hand not holding the camera or phone taking the actual picture is extended into the frame, palm up, making it look like a tiny me is sitting in the hand's open palm.
A smile creeps over my face.
I know that hand, intimately.
These were taken by Achilles.
I shake my head, rolling my eyes as I think back to what Kirill said about this thumb drive being better than a bullet. I mean, give me a fucking break. Are some of these photos Achilles took of me crossing a little into “creep-shot” territory? Maybe. But do I care?
Nope.
I snicker to myself. “Nice try, Kirill,” I mutter quietly.
Then I scroll to the next photo, and my smile falters a little.
Holy…what?
It’s me, fully asleep, snuggled in bed.
Okay, this one gives me pause. But, I mean, I’m fully on board with the man going down on me while I’m asleep, so should I be bothered by him taking fully clothed, covered photos of me sleeping? Maybe not.
I keep scrolling, and I smile slightly when shot after shot of me, fast asleep, flickers across my screen. Okay, maybe it’s a touch creepy, but it’s so on-brand for him that it’s actually kind of sweet.
In the next shot, his hand is visible again, glowing slightly in the light of the e-reader that I fell asleep with.
The shot after that is zoomed in on my bookshelf screen, and I blush fiercely at the spicy titles that BookTok and MaskTok recommended I try.
My blush only grows fiercer when the next photo shows a zoomed-in shot of the cover of Lethal Games, this insanely hot BookTok title Galina turned me on to, which involves a masked stalker with a knife who chases the heroine through various scenarios in her life—her job, her sister’s house, a cocktail party she sneaks into to spy on her cheating coworker—and then fucks her brutally, usually with the knife against her throat.
I groan in embarrassment. It’s not like Achilles doesn’t know I’m into those things. But to think he’s seen precisely what spicy smut I consume…a little mortifying.
Just before I swipe to the next creepy-cute photo of me sleeping, I hesitate. My brow furrows as I look back to the front cover of Lethal Games, which shows as 72% finished.
That’s not right.
I turn and reach into my backpack, pulling out my e-reader and clicking onto my bookshelf. Sure enough, Lethal Games is sitting there, showing as 100% completed.
A chill teases across my nape.
I finished that book over the summer.
My pulse kicks up as I go back to the photos of me sleeping. This time, when I peer closer I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as I jerk away from the laptop.
What the FUCK.
That’s not Morvaine Manor.
…It’s the bed I sleep in at home.
That chill teasing over my nape drips like ice water down my back.
These photos of me sleeping were taken before the semester started.
Before that Para Bellum party.
Before Achilles thought I was…well, whoever he thought he was meeting that night…which is a subject we’ve fastidiously avoided.
So… What the fuck am I looking at?
My pulse starts to beat faster, my veins twitching as I scroll further down the huge folder and open a PDF at random.
It’s a charge history of one of the meal cards students on campus use to pay for their food at the dining hall.
Not just any card’s charge history.
Mine.
From last year.
And it’s highlighted.
Streak after streak of yellow lines through “breakfast orders”.
…Every single one “western omelet, side of salsa, side of guacamole.”
A low whine starts up in the base of my skull.
The next PDF is computer-generated pie chart showing all the breakfasts I ate in the dining hall my freshman year at school. The biggest wedge, colored yellow, shows that I clearly have a go-to favorite.
Western omelets, with guacamole and salsa.
No.
Dread begins to settle into my skin as I scroll through the rest of the files.
My grades from last year. Professors’ notes on me, which nobody should have.
A spreadsheet with all my clothing sizes, including shoes and bras.
My online shopping wish lists.
A photocopy of my passport.
My—Jesus Christ—my fucking medical records.
The color drains from my face as I scroll through more candid-no-let's-call-them-creepy photos of me. On campus. In class. Walking through Central Park with my mom after a 10k we ran together…this past summer.
When I get to the shots of my laptop's desktop, my hand flies to my mouth.
They show my Spotify yearly Wrapped, showing my most listened to albums, tracks, and artists.
…Like Free Fallin’, by Tom Petty.
A blade twists and slices in my stomach as I stare in horror at the screen.
A broken cry rips from my throat when I see screenshots of my porn search history, laying bare all my sick, twisted, fucked-up fantasies involving masks, knives, chasing, and the lack of consent.
I get to the receipts showing Achilles' online purchases of hidden cameras and microphones, and I start to shake.
When I get to the ones proving he used Bitcoin to buy illegal tracking and hacking software on the dark web, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
It. Just. Keeps. Going.
My entire life, on one fucking thumb drive.
What I eat. What I listen to. The places I visit. The movies I watch. My favorite author. My favorite painting by my favorite painter.
Nymphéas, by Monet.
Dental records. Results from my last fucking checkup at my OBGYN. Travel history. Online shopping history. The logins for all my socials.
Text messages.
Private notes.
Photos.
Moments.
Memories.
It’s all. Fucking. Here.
Suddenly, I want to tear off my own skin. I want to scream, to throw up, to die and be reborn without this crawling sensation creeping all over me.
“It’s long past four-oh-one.”
This time, I do scream…at least, try to…as I whirl and almost fall out of my chair. But it gets caught in the choking sensation in my throat, sticking there and strangling me as my eyes land on Achilles.
He grins at me.
“I believe we had plans involving your pussy and my face—”
“Who the fuck are you.”
His smile drops. His brow furrows as he peers at me. “Yelena….”
He starts to move toward me, and I flinch, jolting back until I almost fall over the table behind me.
“Stay where you are!” I blurt.
Achilles' frown deepens. “Baby, what—”
“Don’t call me that!” I choke.
His jaw tightens. “Yelena, what—”
Suddenly, it all goes utterly silent as his gaze slips past me to my laptop screen.
His eyes immediately darken, and a shadow ripples over his face.
“Yelena—”
“Don’t,” I choke. I whirl, my gaze darting between him and my stuff as I shove everything into my bag and throw it over my shoulder. “Just…don’t.”
I start to walk out of the library. He follows.
“Yelena, stop,” he hisses behind me as we step out in the late afternoon chill.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I blurt, whirling to stare at him with fear in my eyes. “Stay away!”
“Where did you—”
“WHO CARES?!?” I scream in his face. I swallow heavily, shaking as I start to back away from him.
“Yelena—”
“Did you stalk me?!”
His jaw sets, his dark eyes turning inky.
“DID YOU FUCKING—”
“Yes!” he snarls. “Yes, I fucking stalked you.”
Without thinking, I turn, and I start to run.
I run like the devil himself is chasing me, and I don’t stop until I’m tearing up the wooded path toward Morvaine.
“Fucking STOP!”
I scream when he finally catches up to me, grabs my arm from behind, yanks me to a skidding stop, and whips me around to face him.
“Stay the fuck away from me!!” I scream.
“Yelena!” he roars. “You have to listen—”
“I don’t have to do a fucking thing!!” I shriek, jamming a finger at him. “Leave me the fuck alone! Stay away!! I can’t have you near me—”
“I’m not fucking going anywh—”
“Yes, you are.”
I jolt, whipping my head around to see Damiano standing at the top of the front steps, a dark wooden baseball bat slung over his shoulder. His eyes flick to me before he drags his gaze back to Achilles.
“You,” he growls. He starts to walk down the steps toward us, swinging the bat off his shoulder and pointing it at Achilles.
“Turn around. Start walking. Don’t stop until you get to Kingsward, three feet past the edge of a cliff, or the middle of fast-moving traffic.
I don’t care which, but you’ve got five seconds to get away from her. ”
Achilles ignores him completely.
“Yelena,” he growls, his eyes still locked on me. “There’s an explanation for all of that, I promise you. But I need to show you—”
“You’re not going to show her fuck-all, Golden Boy,” Damiano growls, his voice icy. “You’re not going to look at her, or talk to her, or—”
“This doesn’t concern you, Barone,” Achilles says through clenched teeth.
Damiano chuckles darkly. “The fuck it doesn’t. This is my club’s house. More importantly, that’s my fucking cousin you’re terrifying right now.”
Achilles’ jaw ticks. “She’s not your cousin—”
“Close e-fucking-nough,” Damiano spits, stepping between Achilles and me. “I can promise you, if you take one more step toward her, I’m going to paint the front steps of this house with the contents of your skull.”
“He won’t be the only one, motherfucker.”
I glance behind me and see my cousin Theo walking down the steps with Vincenzo and Jude—Theo with a golf club in his hands, Cenzo slipping on brass knuckles, and Jude smiling in maniacal excitement as he twirls a fucking chef’s knife.
Achilles still isn’t looking anywhere but straight at me.
“We need to talk,” he growls. “Alone—”
“Just try it, Golden Boy,” Vincenzo snarls, flexing his fist with the brass knuckles.
“Look at me, little prey,” Achilles murmurs, tugging my attention back to him. “You know there’s more to what you just saw than how it looks on the surface. Let's talk, and I'll show you what I—”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
The words taste like poison as they drop from my mouth. I feel numb. Cold. Empty. Broken.
I stare at him with unblinking eyes.
“I don’t want you to explain, or show me. Not right now.”
Our eyes lock, the rippling black fire in his gaze sending a shiver down my spine.
“I…I need some time,” I say hoarsely.
Achilles’ jaw clenches. “This isn’t over, baby.”
“You call her that one more fucking time, asshole,” Theo growls, pushing past me and brandishing the golf club, “and I’ll spill your fucking blood—”
“Theo.”
I can’t do this right now. Not the posse protecting me. Not the showdown. None of it.
I need to be alone with my thoughts, so I can decide if I’m insane or not.
Because right now, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to hate the man standing in front of me?
I can’t.
Not even a little.
And that terrifies me.
I turn and shake my head at Theo, Jude, Vincenzo and Damiano.
“Can we have a minute alone?” I say softly. "Please?"
Damiano glances at Achilles, then me.
“We’ll be on the porch. That's as alone as you get to be with him right now.”
I watch the three of them walk up the stairs, still glaring death at Achilles, then I turn back to him.
His dark eyes search mine. “I need you to know—”
“All I know,” I choke, my voice hoarse and my eyes blurring with tears, “is that I can’t be around you right now. I’m not myself around—”
“You are exactly yourself around me,” he snarls.
“Maybe that’s what scares me the most,” I choke out. I shake my head as I look at him pleadingly. “Please,” I whisper. “Just go. I… I want you to go.”
His eyes narrow. “There’s only one word that would—”
“Please don’t make me say it,” I sob, heavy tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.
“I can show you everything,” he murmurs. “Whenever you're ready.”
I nod, feeling my heart wrench as I suck back the tears.
“Will you please, just go?”
“For now, little prey,” he says. “For now.”
Lucia comes rushing down the stairs to catch me as I collapse, watching him walk away.
Feeling my heart crack in two.