Don’t Let Him In

Prologue

The bruising beneath my ribs flares, but it pales against the weight in my chest as I drop to my knees, the evening sun fading away.

My face tightens where the tears have stiffened in the cold, a faint sting spreading across my cheeks.

I swallow the knot in my throat and steady myself, forcing the anger down as I turn back to the work in front of me.

The metallic scent thickens in the air, drifting through damp leaves and rough bark. Soil seeps through my denim as I press my palm into the coarse, matted fur.

Still warm.

My other hand brushes the familiar boulder at my side, the worn wooden handle waiting where I left it. Closing my fingers around it, I draw the blade through the deer’s belly in one clean, practiced motion. Blood wells over my hand, heat settling into my knuckles.

For a moment, I don’t move.

I just watch, chewing down on my lip until it splits with a familiar burn, reopening an old wound.

Then lean forward for a closer look, my sides aching in protest, my brows pinching.

The memory of earlier humiliation resurfaces.

I force it back, my gaze fixing on the thick, wet gash I’ve carved, the blood trailing along the edge and slipping over my wrist as I angle the blade.

I press the knife back into the carcass and twist with unnecessary force. It quiets the noise battering my head—the thin, crimson stream fracturing as it branches into smaller veins that spread and weave together, quickly soaking through my sleeve.

My grip tightens, slick against the handle until my knuckles whiten, a restless coil cinching low in my gut.

I hardly notice when the shape beneath my hands begins to shift, subtle at first, something wrong in the way the carcass softens around the blade.

My vision burns at the edges. I blink hard but it doesn’t clear, my head tilting until—

I see it.

Those green, familiar eyes locking into mine. Sharp and accusatory. Venomous in a way that grates against the raw parts of me I try to keep hidden, my pulse thudding against my skull.

Heat surges through my body. The blade digs deeper without meaning to.

Kevin sneers back at me, his friends fanning out at his sides, their crooked smiles stretching wider, eyes flickering with sinister intent.

A jab to my ribs. A kick to my shins.

My arm jerks before I can think, the blade slamming down harder than intended. The flesh shudders under the force, more warmth spilling over my hands as I bear down without realizing.

I don’t stop. I can’t.

Not until the blade catches deep enough to jar me, snapping me out of it. The image drops away just as abruptly, leaving nothing but the deer in my hands, the torn seam gaping as blood slicks across my fingers. The stench assaults my senses. Sharp and metallic.

A vein near my eye ticks as I wipe my bloodied hand against a dry patch of grass, chest constricting.

I’d been spat on, ridiculed, and I still held myself down for her. For Stacy. The one good thing left in this rotten town. She tried to pass me a note earlier. I tore it from her hand and swallowed it before they could see, barely tasting the paper as it dissolved against my tongue.

But I feel it now.

Twisting, writhing low in my stomach, rising hot and bitter in my throat until I double over, retching into the same patch of grass I’d smeared blood into.

When the wave of nausea passes, I wipe my mouth against my shoulder, dragging air back into my lungs as the wind stirs through the trees above me.

I linger there a moment longer, avoiding the inevitable before I reluctantly push myself upright, shoving the image out of reach as I finish bleeding out the deer and dressing it.

Unease settles in as I haul everything into the back of the truck, then whirl around and wrench the driver’s door open.

It rattles and pinges before swinging wide.

I rush inside, my fingers numb from working for so long in the cold.

Each time I fumble with my father’s keys, the dread climbs higher, the back of my neck prickling. I lost track of time. Again.

A few minutes later, I near my destination, spotting the faint glow through the frosted window behind the house, flickering from my father’s usual evening program.

I wince as I pull closer, gravel crunching louder than usual beneath the tires, my eyes darting between the road ahead and the wash of light through the window. I cut the engine just as the light snuffs out completely, leaving me in the dark.

I’m late.

Bitterness floods my mouth as I sit in silence, the scent of meat and chilling air pressing unbearably all around me. After a moment, I accept it. There would be no shower tonight. No dinner. No bed.

I climb out of the truck and drag the deer toward the shed, already knowing how the night will end.

By the time I’m finished, it hangs at the far end of the shed. I brace a hand against the table and pull in a slow breath.

Something shifts behind me.

I whip around, my gaze snapping to the entrance, eyes narrowing as I try to find the source of the disturbance. Then I spot her.

My nerves loosen, shoulders easing at the sight of Stacy teetering in the doorway, the faded pink of her sweater catching against the dark shed, her slender figure half-hidden in shadow, so I don’t notice she’s crying until her voice breaks when she speaks.

“M-Manson?”

My stomach drops, chest clenching. “Stacy? What’s wrong?”

She steps deeper inside, moonlight grazing the curve of her cheek, tears cascading down, shoulders hunched inside the oversized sweater. I go still, my pulse stuttering, vision skewing.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, throat tightening as I close the distance and pull her into me. She collapses against my chest, her cry breaking loose, tears soaking into my shirt, her fist twisting into the fabric hard enough to pull a grunt from me, my brow pulling tight.

She jerks back out of my arms, putting a sliver of space between us before lifting her head, her ponytail swaying behind her as she bats away the last of the moisture clinging to her lashes.

“I’m sorry—” Her voice is small, breathless. “I didn’t bring anything today. I had the bread packed and ready, I just—”

“Hey,” I murmur, softer now, my hand cradling her face as my thumb brushes over the beauty mark at the edge of her chin.

“This is all my fault,” she says. “They hurt you because of me.”

I dip my head, catching her eyes and holding them there. “Don’t blame yourself. None of that was your fault.”

Her body trembles, arms folding around herself as she shakes her head, her voice failing her.

The corners of my lips lift despite the tightness in my chest. “Besides, I’m strong enough to take it. The bruises don’t even hurt anymore.”

Her teeth scrape her lip, her gaze drifting back to mine, where I offer a gentler smile. Her breath hitches, color rising in her cheeks before her eyes gloss again. “I wanted to tell you this sooner, but…Manson…”

I move toward her, but she steps back, recoiling as though an invisible band has gone taut between us. She avoids my eyes, a pulse jumping in her throat.

“I can’t keep coming here anymore,” she says.

Silence falls between us. My chest jolts. “Stacy, please…”

This time, she doesn’t retreat when I close the distance again, catching her wrist, my heartbeat clamoring in my ears at the thought of her leaving. I can’t let her. I won’t.

She winces, a sharp gasp escaping from her, and I drop her hand instantly, thrown off balance as realization crashes into me. Deep splotches of purple and green peek through her sweater, and she quickly tugs on the fabric, but it’s too late.

My stomach flips.

I’ve seen those marks before.

Swallowing hard, I force the words out. “Lift your sleeve.”

Her eyes flare, her head shaking as color creeps into her cheeks, pinking them while tears spill down her face. “It was just this once.”

My lungs compress, jaw stiffening.

Kevin.

“I thought that stopped. That you left.”

“I can’t leave him.” Her voice is so small it nearly buckles my knees, but I stay planted, my gaze fixed on her.

I wait for her to explain. She doesn’t.

Gritting my teeth, I ask, “So that’s it then? You’re choosing him.”

Still no answer. Unable to speak, her chin dips to her chest, breath hitching as a strangled cry slips free. It lands heavy in my gut.

I shouldn’t beg her. Not after she’s already made a choice.

But I can’t watch her come apart like this.

I step in, reaching for her again, an arm sliding around her waist as I pull her into me. She gasps, trying to pull away, but I don’t let her this time. My hands come up to cradle her face as I press my forehead to hers. “Break it off with him.”

Another tear slips free from her, warm against my chilled knuckles.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, her entire body trembling against mine. When she speaks, it’s so low that I almost miss it. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re—”

The rest of my words die in my throat. Something tight expands in my chest, wrapping itself around my heart and climbing higher, pinching the air from my lungs. I try to push through it, to get the words out, but they won’t come.

She’s pregnant.

“He doesn’t know,” she whispers. “But Manson…it’s his.”

My jaw hardens, even as my grip stays careful, measured. I nod once, slowly, watching her as she searches my face for something—anything.

Her hands fidget between us as she tugs her sleeves back down, her lips pressed tightly together to quiet the stuttering sobs.

A strong gust sweeps across the shed, catching her ponytail and sending it whipping behind her. She folds into me, cold despite the heat still tinging her cheeks.

“You don’t have to go back,” I tell her, the words scraping raw at my throat as the plan forms, piece by piece. “We can leave. Just you and me. Leave this whole town behind.”

She sniffles, shrinking in on herself, eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment, wringing out what’s left of the tears.

I lean in and press a soft kiss to her lips, tasting the salt, the sting sharp where they brush the cut on mine.

She pulls back, blinking up at me, doubt flickering across her face. “How?”

“Do you trust me?” I ask, my hand sliding along her jaw, thumb brushing her chin. “I’ll figure it all out. You don’t have to worry anymore. I won’t let anyone touch you again.”

She nods, slow and uncertain, but it’s enough.

Relief spreads through me as my hand finds hers, our fingers lacing together.

They’re cold. Unsteady. Something at the edge of the shed catches my eye.

An old wool blanket, half-fallen off a corroded rake in the corner.

I cross the space, tug it free, and shake it loose before draping it over her shoulders, pulling it close around her.

She barely reacts, just leans into it, into me.

The wind pushes past the open doorframe, blowing into a rusted shovel and knocking it against the wall, a loose hook tapping faintly nearby. I look past her, out into the dark. The choice solidifies. I don’t even hesitate as I tighten my hand over hers and lead us out into the night.