Chapter 1
The Devil Wears A Mask
ETHAN
Our studio apartment is a riot of colour, a cluttered mess that still feels cozy. Posters of our favourite drag queens plaster the walls, and rainbow fairy lights drape from the ceiling, a big change from the drab gray of the college dorm room we shared last year.
For tonight, we've gone full Halloween decor: plastic skeletons hanging from doorways, fake cobwebs stretched across corners, and a smoking cauldron of dry ice on our coffee table, where our themed cocktails wait.
Sylas is sprawled across my bed, his lanky frame taking up most of the space. He flips through one of my magazines, nose scrunched in disapproval, before tossing it aside.
"This is garbage," he mutters, taking a long sip from his Vampire's Kiss cocktail. The blood orange garnish leaves a red stain on his lips that perfectly complements his glamorous but frightening makeup.
"Ethan, darling," he drawls, "when will you realize that The Human Hemorrhoid is not worth your time?"
Catching my reflection next to Sylas in the mirror.
My reddish-blonde hair and pale skin against his dark brown hair and lightly tanned complexion, we've always been a study in contrasts, both twenty-one but moving through the world differently. He walks around like he’s ready to take on the world and me… not so much.
Sylas catches me watching as he sits up to apply another layer of glitter to his cheekbones. His dark brown eyes are focused with the precision of an artist. He carries himself with the confidence of someone who's lived several fabulous lifetimes.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. Just wondering how someone your height manages to take up so much space in a room."
He flicks his dark hair out of his eyes with practiced nonchalance, striking a pose. "Average height is the perfect height, darling. Tall enough to reach the top shelf, short enough to wear heels without intimidating the fragile men. It's elite height, Ethan."
The summer sun has left his skin with a light tan that makes the white of his Hedwig makeup stand out even more dramatically against his face. Meanwhile, even with all my outdoor runs, I'm still as pale as ever.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I lean against the dresser we'd found on the side of the road and painted. I reach for my own drink, a glowing green Witch's Brew that Sylas mixed up as "pre-gaming" for our Halloween party crawl tonight.
"Sylas, it's not that simple."
"What's not simple?" He raises an eyebrow. "Dumping Captain Small-Dick Energy? Because from where I'm sitting, it's the simplest decision in the world."
"Ryan and I have history—"
He snorts, tossing the makeup brush aside and fixing me with a serious look. "Babe, it is that simple. You deserve someone proud to be seen with you, not someone who treats you like a dirty little secret."
Pain flashes across my face at his words, knowing he's right but not wanting to admit it. Ryan and I have been sneaking around for over eight months now, stealing kisses in dark corners and whispering on the phone late at night. But Sylas is right; I deserve more than that.
"We have three Halloween parties to hit tonight," Sylas reminds me, pointedly swirling his drink. "I didn't spend forty minutes painting Hedwig on my face so you could mope over the Micro-peen devil when you should be showing off those legs in your sexy nurse costume."
"I think he slept with other people over the summer," I blurt out, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
Sylas raises an eyebrow, his expression softening slightly. "What makes you say that?"
A soft 'hmph' escapes as my shoulders rise and fall. "Just a feeling. We were kind of on a pause, I think. He was always so vague about what he did and who he saw. And he didn't want to talk about us at all."
"And yet here you are, still putting up with his bullshit." Sylas flops back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. "Babe, I love you, but your taste in men is fucking tragic."
"It's not that simple, Sy," I protest, grabbing my coffee mug and holding it against my chest like a shield. "You don't see how he is when we're alone. He's different, softer, you know? Like he needs me."
Sylas snorts. "He needs your mouth and your ass. Let's not confuse the two."
"Jesus, Sy!" My face burns, but I can't help laughing.
"Tell me I'm wrong." He sits up, fixing me with that look, the one that says he can see right through my bullshit.
I pick at a loose thread on my sweater. "We have history. He was there for me after that disaster with Professor Wilson's clinical rotation."
"Oh, you mean when he let you cry on his shoulder and then fucked you in his car but made you duck down when his friends walked by?" Sylas's voice drips with sarcasm.
"That's not fair. His family is super religious. They're paying for everything. If they found out—"
"Girl, please," Sylas interrupts, standing up and grabbing my shoulders. "That excuse was tired freshman year. We're halfway through college, and he still won't even like your Instagram posts."
A hiss escapes through clenched teeth. "He says social media isn't real life."
"Mmm-hmm. But Mr. Mistake Lane sure had time to post thirst traps with Brad-fucking-Thompson at Laguna Beach all July." Sylas gives me a pointed look. "Next, you'll tell me they were just 'bros being bros' with their arms around each other's waists watching the sunset."
"He said they're childhood friends," I mumble, but the excuse sounds pathetic even to my ears.
"Ethan." Sylas's voice softens as he tilts my chin up. "Last month, when we went to that party, he pretended not to know you. I saw your face. You looked like someone had ripped your heart out."
My eyes start to burn with unwelcome tears. "He texted me later that night. Said he was sorry. That it was complicated."
"And then he showed up at 2 AM for a booty call." Sylas rolls his eyes. "How convenient that his complicated feelings always seem to simplify after midnight."
"It's not always like that," I protest weakly. "Sometimes he stays over. He held me all night last week."
"And left before sunrise so nobody would see him doing the walk of shame from the 'gay guy's apartment." Sylas makes air quotes with his fingers. "Which, by the way, is not a thing. He's a fucking coward."
"Why do you let him treat you like this?" Sylas suddenly demands, his playful tone dropping altogether. "I'm not kidding, Ethan. Help me understand, because I'm losing my mind watching this."
The question hits me like a slap. My first instinct is to deflect with a joke, but something in Sylas's expression stops me.
"He's a textbook narcissist, you know that, right?" His voice is gentle but firm. "Everything has to revolve around his feelings, his timeline, his comfort level. When has he ever asked what you need?"
"You don't get it," I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended. "Before Ryan, do you know how many guys showed actual interest in me? Zero. Literally zero."
"That's not true—"
"It is true!" The words come out sharper than I meant them to. "You've always had guys lining up around the block. Even now, you've got Blake on speed dial whenever you're in the mood. I've never had that. Never."
Sylas stares at me, his expression softening slightly. "So you're settling for someone who treats you like a dirty secret because you think that's all you deserve?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He sits beside me on the bed, our shoulders touching. "Ethan, I love you, but the bar is so low it's practically in hell."
"He might be ashamed of me," I admit, the words burning my throat, "but at least he wants me. That's more than I can say for anyone else." I sigh, leaning against the counter. "What if... what if no one else ever looks at me that way?"
And there it is, the truth I've been hiding even from myself.
"Remember last year when I asked Jason Wilson from Biochem for coffee?" I say, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve.
Sylas groans. "God, how could I forget? You were a mess for weeks."
"He looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head," I continue, the memory still making my cheeks burn. "Like the concept of someone wanting to date me was completely absurd. Then he told everyone in the lab group about the 'weird gay guy' who hit on him."
"That guy was a complete asshole," Sylas says firmly.
My shoulders lift in a noncommittal shrug. "No, he was honest. Ryan was the first guy who..." my voice catches, "who ever looked at me like I was worth looking at. Who actually wanted me back."
"So you're settling for scraps because some straight douchebag bruised your ego?" Sylas delivers the brutal truth in the gentlest possible voice.
"It wasn't just him," I admit quietly. "It's been my whole life. I was always too skinny, too pale, too nerdy. Ryan might hide me, but at least he sees me."
Sylas's face softens completely. "Oh, honey." He pulls me into a tight hug. "The Cowardly Liar is not some amazing male specimen. He's a mediocre white boy with alright cheekbones and the emotional capacity of a walnut."
I snort-laugh against his shoulder, the knot in my chest loosening slightly.
"You're a catch, Ethan Barrett," Sylas continues, pulling back to look me in the eyes. "You're smart, you're kind, you can explain the difference between systolic and diastolic without sounding like a textbook, and your ass is phenomenal in those green scrub pants."
"Stop," I laugh, wiping my eyes.
"I will not. Do you know how many guys in the theatre department have asked me if you're single? Three. Three future Broadway stars want your juicy nursing student buns, hon."
"Really?" I can't help the hopeful note in my voice.
"Really." Sylas squeezes my shoulders. "And unlike Sir Ghosting McFuck-face, they'd probably text you back before the next Taylor Swift album drops."
Taking a deep breath, something shif in my chest. "You're right. I know you're right."