Kai
She really thinks she can scream at a forest and I won’t hear her.
I’m less than twenty metres back, leaning against a tree with my arms crossed, hood up, breath slow and steady as I watch her stomp through the underbrush like a storm in bare feet.
The rage rolling off her practically crackles in the air.
Little sister is losing her mind.
And fuck me—she’s beautiful like this.
I bite back a laugh as she spins in a circle, chest heaving, hair wild, voice tearing through the trees:
“COME OUT, YOU FUCKING COWARD!”
Oh, sweetheart.
You have no fucking idea.
I tilt my head, watching her pace, watching her fists clench, watching every part of her burn with the heat I’ve been starving for.
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath, lips twitching. “Look at you.”
I shift my weight, pressing my shoulder into the rough bark behind me. I don’t move closer. I don’t need to. I can hear every ragged breath.
I can smell her.
Fear-sweat.
Adrenaline.
Warm skin.
Something soft beneath the anger—a scent I’d know even if I went blind.
It hits me hard enough that my pulse kicks.
“Fuck,” I breathe, low and amused. “You smell like you woke up thinking about me.”
She’s shaking, pacing, snarling at shadows.
And I’m the shadow watching her unravel.
She screams again:
“SHOW YOURSELF!”
My smile widens.
I almost do it.
Almost step out.
Almost give her exactly what she’s begging for.
But not yet.
Not when she’s this volatile and gorgeous in her fury.
She thinks she’s calling me out?
Thinks she’s in control because she’s finally angry?
No.
No, baby girl.
She’s exactly where I want her.
I drag a slow breath in through my nose, letting the forest carry every piece of her to me—the sweat on her neck, the fear still clinging to her spine, the anger bleeding through her skin.
“Little sister,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”
She steps deeper into the trees, bare feet crunching on dead leaves, shoulders squared like she’s ready to fight a ghost.
Me.
She’s fighting me.
And God—the way she does it—the way she snarls and curses and throws every seam of her sanity at the dark—My hands flex at my sides, a slow, involuntary response.
Four years inside a cell didn’t kill my control.
But her?
Like this?
Her fury slides under my skin, hot and addictive.
“Keep screaming,” I mutter. “Go on. You think it pushes me away? You think I’m scared of your little meltdown?”
She stops suddenly.
Stands still.
Chest rising and falling too fast.
Her voice drops to a knife-edged whisper: “I’d tell you everything I didn’t say four years ago.”
I inhale sharply.
Now that—that hits.
My jaw tenses.
My pulse does that slow, dark thud that only she’s ever been able to drag out of me.
Everything she didn’t say?
Oh, I know.
I know every word she choked down.
Every truth she swallowed.
Every lie she spat into the courtroom air while looking like she was breaking her own ribs to do it.
That version of her—the girl who lied to save me, then lied to bury me—she’s still in there.
I can see it now.
In every furious shake of her shoulders.
“You want to talk?” I whisper, stepping one silent foot closer—not enough for her to notice, but enough for the scent of her anger to hit me stronger. “Then come find me.”
She doesn’t hear the words.
She only feels something—some shift in the air—because she spins again, wild-eyed, searching the trees.
I feel it—the moment her instincts lock onto where I’m standing, even if her eyes don’t.
Her breath catches.
She points into the darkness.
“I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!”
A low sound slips out of me—half laugh, half something darker.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “You always did.”
She bolts back toward the house, still shaking, still furious, still muttering curses under her breath like they’re prayers.
And I stand there, watching her go.
Watching her storm away barefoot through cold grass, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair a tangled halo of rage.
When she disappears into the yard, into the glow of that too-perfect house with the man who doesn’t deserve her name in his mouth—I exhale slowly.
Controlled.
Calm.
Focused.
“She’s awake,” I say to myself. My smile sharpens. “And she’s mine again.”
She storms back toward the house, shoulders tight, fists clenched, breath still shaking like she’s trying to exhale me out of her bloodstream.
Good.
She won’t.
She never has.
I stay in the trees a little longer, watching her pace across the lawn like she’s ready to tear the world apart with her bare hands. Her hair is wild, her cheeks flushed, her hoodie slipping down one arm like she just fought the woods themselves.
She looks wrecked.
Not weak.
Wrecked.
By me.
And fuck if that doesn’t hit somewhere low and dangerous.
I run my thumb across my lower lip, the ghost of a grin tugging there.
“You’re furious,” I mutter. “Good girl.”
She disappears into the house, slamming the sliding door hard enough it echoes.
Even from here, I can feel the heat of her.
Her anger hangs in the air like smoke—sharp, intoxicating, addictive.
That scream she tore through the trees?
The one that cracked something open under my ribs?
I’m still hearing it.
Come out, you fucking coward.
Jesus Christ.
That one almost had me stepping out of the shadows right there.
Hands in my pockets.
Smile on my mouth.
Ready to see if she’d throw a punch or fall apart in my arms.
Probably both.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not for me.
Not yet.
I shift my weight, tucking one hand into my pocket, the other brushing along the bark of the tree beside me. The rough texture grounds me, stops me from going after her too soon, too fast.
You can’t rush hunger like this.
You let it simmer.
You let it grow teeth.
You let it ache until the person on the other end feels it too.
And she does.
Every step she took into these woods was pulled by me.
Every curse she screamed was aimed at me.
Every breath she lost was because of me.
She thinks that’s anger?
That’s a call.
A fucking invitation.
She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
Wind shifts—subtle, soft—and her scent trails back through the branches.
Warm skin.
Adrenaline.
Salt from tears and sweat.
And underneath it…
The scent she used to leave on my shirts.
My jaw flexes.
“Christ, Scarlett. You smell like you want a fight.” Then quieter—“Or something worse.”
The forest listens like it’s afraid to move.
Four years in a cage made me patient but not soft and whatever leash I’ve been pulling on?
It’s fraying.
She’s spiralling.
Shaking.
Burning like gasoline.
And she thinks she’s angry now?
Just fucking wait.
I step out of the tree-line finally, slow and silent, muscles relaxed, breath steady. My boots crush a few dead leaves beneath me, breaking the last thread of stillness around us.
I look back at the house.
Warm lights glowing through glass.
A perfect little life wrapped in security codes and curated safety.
And inside—Scarlett pacing like she’s trying to climb out of her own skin.
Noah will wake up soon.
He’ll see her shaken.
He’ll ask questions she’ll lie through.
And she will lie because she doesn’t want him to know.
Not about me.
Not about the letters.
Not about the ghost she felt beside her bed.
Not about the way she ran into the woods looking for a man she claims she hates.
She won’t tell him.
But she’ll tell me.
One way or another.
I slip back into the deeper shadows, hands in my pockets, heart slow and steady like a predator that’s already chosen its next step.
“Rage looks good on you, little sister,” I murmur, voice dark, amused. The wind swallows my words. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
I turn away from the house.
Not retreating.
Repositioning.
Planning.
Every step is easy.
Every breath is clear.
Because for the first time in years, everything feels exactly where it should be.
She’s awake.
She’s angry.
And she’s looking for me.
Perfect.
This is where the fun starts.
I don’t go far.
The world thinks predators roam.
They don’t.
Predators nest.
And my nest is close.
A sliver of woodland separates her perfect life from the place I’ve carved into the earth like a wound. A rundown maintenance building from the old estate—long abandoned, forgotten, swallowed by ivy and rot.
Everyone thinks it’s condemned.
No one thinks to step inside.
I push the warped door open with my shoulder, the hinges groaning like they’re warning anyone with sense to turn back.
Good thing I don’t have any left.
The place smells like damp wood, old earth, and something sharper—metal, ink, a familiar scent I’ve dragged through hell and back.
I flick on the lantern.
The soft gold glow spills into the only room that matters.
My shrine.
My obsession.
My goddamn sanctuary.
Scarlett stares back at me from every wall.
Polaroids I took when she wasn’t looking.
Screenshots from videos she didn’t know I saved.
Newspaper clippings from the trial.
Her school photo.
Her graduation picture.
A candid shot of her laughing—head thrown back, eyes bright.
A darker one—her crying outside a courtroom door.
And the newest ones: taken through the glass of her kitchen window, her silhouette pressed against the marble like she was trying not to fall apart.
I breath out slowly. “Hey, baby.”
I lock the door behind me.
The air changes the second I step inside—thicker, charged, electric in a way that makes my pulse climb.
I move to the main wall—the one directly across from the doorway—the one with the biggest picture at the centre.
Scarlett, age nineteen.
Standing in the sunlight.
Innocent in a way she never really was.
Her eyes on camera.
On me.
Always on me.
I lift my hand and trace the glass.
“You should’ve heard yourself tonight,” I murmur, lips curling. “Screaming for me like you wanted a fucking war.”
The picture doesn’t answer.
It doesn’t need to.
“I knew you still had that fire in you,” I say, stepping closer, lowering my voice like I’m whispering against her neck instead of a photograph. “All that shaking, all that rage… you’ve got no idea what that does to me.”
Her eyes in the picture are soft, trusting.
Wrong.
“Not scared anymore, huh?” I laugh under my breath. “Good. I don’t want fear. I want you awake.”
I move to the small table beneath the shrine—a narrow wooden bench covered in objects she never knew I kept:
Her old hair tie.
A necklace she lost at the lake.
The letter she threw in the bin before I dug it out.
A button off her cardigan from the night of the trial.
A cracked phone case she left behind years ago.
I pick up the hair tie, rolling it between my fingers.
“Do you know how many nights I held this?” My voice dips, almost a growl. “You don’t. Because you weren’t there. You were busy pretending I didn’t exist.”
I lift it to my face and inhale—not because it still smells like her, but because I remember when it did.
Memory is a powerful fucking drug.
It hits me hard enough that I brace a hand on the table, head bowing for a second.
“Little sister,” I breathe, letting the heat coil low in my gut, “you’ve got no idea how close I came to stepping out tonight.”
I turn back to the shrine, eyes dragged to the newest image—the one I took just hours ago.
Her on the lawn.
Bare feet.
Hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
Face blotched from tears.
Eyes blazing.
Beautiful.
Broken.
Alive.
“You were looking for me,” I murmur. “Don’t even pretend you weren’t.”
I drag my thumb along the edge of the picture.
Slow.
Possessive.
“You want to know what watching you lose it does to me?” I smirk. “You want the truth?”
I lean in, lips inches from her photo, voice dropping into something dark and honest: “It wrecks me. It fucking wrecks me.”
My pulse hammers.
Heat flares through my body—raw, impatient, possessive—but I don’t name it. I don’t need to.
“And you’re not done,” I whisper. “I know you. You’re going to keep unraveling. Keep trembling. Keep pretending you don’t want me tearing through that perfect little life.”
I lift the photo off the wall and rest it against my chest for a second, letting the paper bend with my breath.
“You came outside alone.” I grin. “You screamed for me. You begged for me to step out.”
I return the photo to its place.
My voice softens.
Dangerously.
“I will.”
I back up, hands sliding into the pockets of my jacket, head tilted as I admire the chaos I’ve built in her name.
“But not until you can’t decide if you want to run or fall at my fucking feet.”
I flick off the lantern.
Darkness swallows the shrine, but I don’t need the light.
I know every inch of her face by heart.
“Sleep tight, little sister,” I whisper, heading for the door. “You won’t dream your way out of me again.”