You’re not as evil as people think you are
You’re not as evil as people think you are
“Ican’t believe you’re leaving me. I just got you back.” I groan, throwing myself dramatically onto Roxy’s bed like the world is ending. I pout as I watch her shove item after item into her suitcase.
She’s heading back home for a few weeks to visit my brother. I’m being dramatic, and we both know it. She finally has time off, so she should go see her boyfriend.
“You could always come with me; your parents would be ecstatic.” She pauses mid-toss, turning with a devilish glint in her eyes. “But you won’t. Oliver wouldn’t let you out of his sight that long.” I don’t even deny it. Vienna giggles from where she’s perched on the bed.
“I’m glad you finally told him.” She holds up a black lace lingerie set I really didn’t need to see.
“Yeah.” I set my phone down, my attention shifting to her completely. “Me too. It honestly feels like a weight has been lifted.”
After the night I told him everything, I woke up wrapped in his arms, as if he were anchoring me to the world. Then he made me come with his mouth, like he worshiped my taste on his tongue.
“Any more unknown messages?” Roxy asks, eyeing me.
“Nope.”
“That’s fucking weird. It just stopped after Leo’s suicide?” Her face turns murderous. “He was the fucking sickest out of them all. One more, and I’m telling Sam and your dad.”
“Roxy.” I glare.
She holds up a hand. “Don’t ‘Roxy’ me. I’m serious. I’d take them seriously. Just let your vampire babysit. It’s his favorite thing anyway. One more note, text, fucking anything. I’m back here, and we are going to the cops. Your dad, the fucking president, I don’t care.”
“I agree,” Vee adds, looking serious.
After Roxy left, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I’ve shown him my scars. Now I want to see what he’s hiding, which is how I ended up here.
The words Oliver spoke as I fell asleep run on a loop in my head.
A track that won’t turn off. I said no hidden truths, but the nagging feeling that I’m missing something weighs me down.
I pick a dead corner of the library I never use.
If Oliver comes looking, I don’t want him finding me.
I hate myself for it even as I open my laptop.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment before I type his name.
Oliver Caldwell; Wraith Wood.
The first article hits like a punch. His father’s photo, that headline: died a hero.
The write-up says he was killed defending his home in a robbery.
I hate him. I hate him for what he did to Oliver and to his mother—for every slap behind closed doors, every blow no one dared speak of.
For making Oliver grow up believing pain was normal and silence was survival.
Now I understand why he wants blood for the people who hurt me.
I would too. When someone hurts the person you love, you don’t think.
There are photos too, smiling family portraits that make my stomach churn.
Oliver looks like his mother, with the same dark-blond hair and the same charming smile.
The only thing he shares with his father is that haunting, vacant look in his eyes.
Cold. Empty.
Next are more pictures of the family, his father, and their home. God, it was big. A large brick mansion with four garages and a fence surrounding the property. It goes on to describe how the intruder hopped the gate and entered through the first-floor window.
I keep digging. The next result is Oliver’s socials, which I’ve already stalked. The third is a campus piece. My stomach drops at the photo: Oliver in a tux, hand around a redhead's waist. She’s mid-laugh, palm curled in his lapel, his charming smile aimed down at her like he might kiss her neck.
“Delta sorority president Eva Masters attends charity gala with Oliver Caldwell.”
I keep scrolling because, apparently, I enjoy hurting myself. More about the charity itself and how socialite Eva Masters and the son of the chief of police, Oliver Caldwell, seem to be getting cozy.
“What are you doing back here?”
I jump and snap the laptop shut so hard it rattles. Callan is grinning on the other side of the table. “You scared the fuck out of me.”
“Why so jumpy? Watching porn? Or reading those raunchy books you and my sister love?”
“You're hilarious; you should change your major to comedy.” Callan takes a seat across from me. “I thought you were Oliver.”
“So, you were hiding from him.” He arches a brow. One split with a fresh stitch running through it. Bruises shadow his jaw.
“What the fuck happened to your face? Did you get into a fight last night?” I know Callan fights in the underground ring. It’s secretive, dangerous, and something I hate, but who am I to tell him to stop? Still, he hasn’t looked this bad since I met him.
“Something like that. I’m good now.” He waves it off. “Back to why you were hiding.”
Change of subject. I get the hint. “Not hiding, just…yeah, hiding.”
“I’m not getting involved.” He opens his own laptop.
“I needed to get work done, and I can’t do that when I’m around him.”
“Well.”
“I don’t mean it like that.” I slide my laptop into my bag, trying to act casual while my brain runs in circles. I could drop it, but…
Fuck it.
I zip my bag and look at Callan. “Do you know an Eva Masters?”
Callan chokes like he inhaled wrong. “What?”
“A girl named Eva,” I clarify, watching him closely now. “From your last college…” I trail off because his face just changed.
“Callan.”
His gaze flicks anywhere but me. “Lyra…did Oliver tell you something?”
“No.” I drag out the word. “But I did what most girls do and finally looked him up.” I shrug. “There was a picture. Oliver and a girl. Her name was Eva.”
Callan goes still. “You didn’t…look further?”
“No.” I lean in. “That’s why I’m asking you,” I say sweetly.
His throat works. “I knew her. Yeah.”
I wait. He exhales through his nose, eyes shifting away. “Lyra, you don’t want me to be the one to tell you.”
My mouth suddenly feels like the desert; my body goes hot and cold at once. I hate how loyal he is sometimes. It’s admirable and also infuriating.
“Fine.” I stand. “I’ll go right now.” Oliver Caldwell’s secrets are over.
O:
Meet by my car—we are going to the bookstore.
Me:
On my way.
When we get to the bookstore, it’s like stepping into a home away from home. We linger near the front, chatting with Willow. I speak easily with her, drawn in by her no-nonsense charm. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Oliver’s faint smile. The dynamic between them is fascinating to watch.
Eventually, I drift to the back of the store, two romance novels tucked under my arm.
I curl up sideways in one of the chairs, and when Oliver joins me, he pulls my legs across his lap without a word.
He opens his own book, but his hand settles absently on my thigh, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns that make me shiver.
I stare blankly at the book as my mind circles back to Eva and that photo.
I’ve wanted to bring it up the entire time we've been together, but selfishly, I also want to live in the happy bubble we're in. The clawing sense of dread is hanging over me, and it starts with Eva and ends with Masters. Willow appears, reaching into her apron and holding a set of keys.
“Here you go. Found the extra set.”
I look between them. “What are those for?”
“The loft upstairs,” Willow says. “Oliver mentioned he was looking for a place. I just so happen to have one. Figured it could work for the two of you.”
The two of us? My mouth opens, but no words come. I look to Oliver for clarity, but he remains unreadable. His fingers dance over my leg before he leans forward and takes the keys.
“Lyra wasn’t aware of my plans yet,” he says calmly.
Willow only smiles brighter. “Well, go on then. Show her.” She claps her hands together, practically glowing. I, meanwhile, remain frozen.
Oliver offers a hand. “Close your mouth, Dollface. You’ll catch flies.”
I snap it shut, flushing. “Oliver, I’m not going anywhere with you until you explain what’s going on.”
He sighs. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.” In one swift motion, his arm wraps around my waist. I squeal, hands flailing.
“Okay! Okay!” I swat at his chest. “Jesus, not today. You are not fireman-carrying me up a flight of stairs.”
He sets me down, lips twitching. “Nothing is ever easy with you.”
“It would be,” I jab a finger at his chest, “if you just told me what you were doing. Communication.”
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Fine. I’ll go,” I mutter, tipping my head back to look at him. “But know I’m doing it reluctantly.”
I follow behind him as we step outside the front door of the bookstore and head along the side of the building. It’s a path I’ve never taken before. For all the time we’ve spent here, neither of us has ever veered this way.
There’s a narrow stone staircase tucked against the back wall, worn smooth by time. It winds upward toward the second floor, the one I’d always assumed was for storage, considering it had darkened windows and curtains always drawn.
Now I realize I was wrong.
I trail silently behind Oliver as he ascends. When we reach the top, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. I take a hesitant step inside, his body close behind mine. Then the lights flick on, washing the darkness away.
“What the…”
Windows line the walls, soft gauzy curtains framing each one.
The burgundy rugs and dark wooden floors make the space feel homey.
To the right, a fully renovated kitchen gleams. Under a wide window that faces the ocean, there’s a small breakfast nook.
Opposite that, a large canopy bed rests beneath a set of hanging lights, its frame black iron, the sheets soft blue.
Books are tucked into every open shelf. A few plants add green life to the corners, then something tighter coils in my chest. I notice the photographs.
Photos of me.
My family. Roxy and I on the beach.
Vee, Callan, and I sprawled out in the library, blurry from movement.
And then, us. Oliver and I. Candid ones. Some I remember him taking. Others, I never knew he took, me laughing at something, him watching me with a look so gentle, so soft. It’s the version I get to see alone.
“When did you do all of this?” My voice is filled with awe.
“The last few days,” he says. “Roxy helped with the photos, and Vienna helped with decorating. I’ve been picking things up.”
A wet laugh slips out. I cover my mouth, shaking my head. “Oliver. I…why?”
He steps closer. With slow precision, he brushes my hair behind both ears and then cups the sides of my neck, his thumbs stroking softly along the hollow of my throat. His touch is possessive and reverent.
“Because,” he murmurs, “I wanted a place that was ours. Somewhere you could breathe. Somewhere I could keep you. At least until the end of the year. Then we figure out where you want to go.”
I wipe my cheeks and let out a shaky breath. “I love it.” I smile, my voice trembling but true. I take a few steps in and hear the small snick of the door as he locks it.