My Dreadful Darling (Hollow Graves Duet #1)

Prologue

REVERIE

Freshman Year

There are a lot of ways my mother could’ve tried to kill me, but I’ve always been grateful she chose a method that left me with only internal scars. That was the first kindness she offered me in life.

The last was hanging herself seven months ago.

I sit on the edge of the massive indoor pool at the campus sports center, cool water reaching halfway up my calves, but it might as well be the death grip of the Grim Reaper preparing to drag me to hell.

My heart pounds against my rib cage, desperate to evacuate from this stupid body, and I grip the cement edge until my knuckles bleach white.

No matter how hard I work to still the tremors in my stiff muscles, they rebel against my desperate command.

Just stay calm, Rev.

Stay calm.

You’re safe, you’re still breathing, you’re barely even wet.

This is why I’m here—this is why I do this to myself. I don’t want to live in fear for the rest of my life, breaking out into a cold sweat every time I step into a shower or hyperventilating when I walk near a pool.

I’ve had enough of living in fear.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, though the oxygen sputters into my lungs like an engine out of gas. Sweat dots my hairline and coats my nape and back. A slight breeze would feel like heaven right now, though heaven is the one place I’m trying my best to avoid.

I think I’m failing.

It feels like I’m drowning again, and the heavy weight of a hand on the back of my head grows until I’m convinced someone is physically pushing me down toward the water.

It wouldn’t surprise me if it were my mother’s ghost returning from hell to finish what she started fourteen years ago.

Regina D’Amour is fucking persistent, and I’d be deluding myself if I reasoned away all the times I caught her staring at me, as if she wished my father never walked in on us and stopped her.

After all, she wouldn’t have slipped and fell while pregnant if not for me.

She wouldn’t have given birth to a stillborn baby boy later that night.

She wouldn’t have lost herself to grief and postpartum psychosis.

And ultimately, she wouldn’t have tried to drown me for killing her son.

However, my brother isn’t the only death I’m responsible for, and my mother isn’t the first to want me dead.

I jump when I hear the door behind me swing open. It’s nearly closing time. I’ve been here for an hour, but I only just talked myself into dipping my legs in the pool five minutes ago.

I promised myself when I arrived at Hollow Canyon University, I would do everything in my power to overcome my fear.

It’s only the second day since classes started, and already, I’m about to make myself look like a freak.

I came here because I knew I’d be alone, and I could comfortably have a panic attack in peace.

I guess I didn’t think of staff coming in to kick me out.

“I’m leaving,” I croak, wincing when the words sound like they went through a cheese grater.

“No need, darling. I quite like you where you are.”

My spine snaps straight as shock rips through me, followed by denial. Maybe a little grief, too.

Every single atom in my body comes to a screeching halt.

If my body housed Earth itself, it would be spiraling into absolute chaos.

Cells crashing into one another like cars before bursting into flames.

My blood freezing into solid ice and trapping cells within its glaciers.

My organs powering down and falling from the sky like airplanes.

Carnage, death, and destruction wreaking havoc on me in a matter of seconds.

All from hearing a voice both familiar and new.

I’ve heard it on TV many times, typically from interviews on ESPN or other sport channels.

The last time I heard it in person, though, it sounded nothing like it does now.

We were both nine years old, standing outside a courthouse, dozens of reporters and photographers with flashing cameras, all tripping over themselves to get close to us.

His pale, icy blue eyes glowered at me from beneath thick brows, his murderous thoughts as apparent as his hatred for me.

My mom stood beside me, clutching my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. She was crying and hurling insults at him for what he did to our family—for successfully convincing the jury to find my father guilty, subsequently ripping our family apart, leaving her without a husband and me without a dad.

And that little boy stood alone, without a single ounce of guilt.

He had already lost his own father years prior, but now, he was without his mom, too. She lay six feet under, next to her husband.

And it was my father who put her there.

But successfully putting his mother’s killer behind bars was hardly a victory when nearly the entire world thought he lied to do it. After all, it was his testimony that ultimately convinced the jury—and his testimony alone. No one else believed my dad was guilty of murdering Katherine Sharpe.

Except me.

But I never got to tell him that. As my mom dragged me away from him, three words were only seconds away from spilling from my tongue—I believe you.

He spoke before I could, though, effectively silencing me.

“One day, I will make you suffer. I will make you wish you were dead.”

Back then, he sounded like a boy. Now, he sounds like a man.

My heart pounds, and I'm almost convinced my nightmares have begun to manifest. I must be hallucinating them now.

Because there's no fucking way he's here.

Slowly, I crane my head over my shoulder to meet those blue eyes, stands of obsidian hair teasing his long eyelashes.

My racing heart shrivels the moment our stares collide.

Kellan Sharpe.

Right before me, in the fucking flesh.

The smart thing to do would be to run, but I'm paralyzed. So instead, I only gawk at him with rounded eyes and a slack jaw.

When he’s a few feet away, he crouches behind me, his elbows casually resting on his spread knees, that same burning hatred radiating from his every pore. It creates a smog so dense, it clogs my throat until I’m practically choking on it.

My mouth dries, and for several moments, I’m at a loss for words. Actions. Feelings. All I can do is gape at him, my shock quickly transitioning into fear.

Unimpressed, he raises his right brow, a thin white scar slashing through the arch. I always wondered how he got it, but I never had a chance to ask before he decided he hated me.

To this day, I don’t blame him.

I clear my throat before squeaking out, “Kellan.”

God, he already looked cold, but the second his name falls from my lips, his stare becomes frigid enough to burn.

“Don’t call me that,” he clips. “My name is Dread.”

I knew that, but only from the news. He’s a prodigal swimmer who broke several records and holds the most Olympic gold medals for his age.

The public considers Kellan a legend—a walking, talking fish out of water.

After breaking his first record at fifteen, he told an interviewer how he got the nickname.

Apparently, his coach gifted it to him when he was ten, claiming it’s the feeling he instills in his competitors when he steps onto the diving block.

The name stuck, and the world quickly learned he only answers to Dreadful Sharpe.

At eighteen years old, he’s practically a celebrity.

Which is why I can’t figure out why the fuck he’s here, at my college, several states away from where we grew up.

“What… what are you doing here?”

He grins, and the sight makes it hard to swallow. There’s a hint of amusement embedded in the curl of his mouth, but it falls into the shadows of something sinister. Evil. He doesn’t smile to portray his happiness, but his darkness.

“I attend school here,” he answers simply.

I blink and shake my head in both surprise and confusion.

“W-why?” I whisper.

He cocks his head, his gaze almost inquisitive as it traces my form. I’m wearing a loose T-shirt with black leggings rolled up to my knees, yet beneath his stare, I feel naked. I suppress a shiver as he meets my eyes again.

“I promised you I was going to make you suffer, Reverie. I promised to make you wish you were dead.”

Oh, no.

His lips curl wider this time, and frost corrodes my bones and settles deep in my stomach, creating a pit filled with a distinct feeling. It isn’t until he speaks that I’m able to put a name to it.

“I’ve come here to keep my promise.”

Dread.

That’s the feeling currently making a home inside my body.

It’s dread.