Chapter 24
AVA
By the time I reach the boathouse, the wind is howling so loudly it almost sounds like voices threading through the branches.
Or maybe I’m just losing it. There’s no moon, just a strip of dying sunlight barely threading between the trees, painting everything a sickly orange.
The air is thick with the promise of an impending storm, and even though I was just here a few days ago, every step makes my stomach churn harder.
The last time I walked up to this place alone, Raf strung me up like a carcass for their stupid Halloween party. Tonight feels a lot like that– cold and ominous, a cool tendril of dread slithering up my spine.
I ball my fists in my coat pockets and force myself forward, the glass doors of the boathouse looming ahead, like they’re daring me to enter.
I hesitate, glancing back over my shoulder at the path through the trees.
There’s nothing behind me but the dark and the sway of the woods, but I still feel watched.
Not by the Kings, not even by the ghosts of all the girls who probably got wrecked out here before me, but by something else.
Like I’m outside my own body, screaming at myself to turn around and run for my fucking life.
The metal handle is freezing when I grab ahold, biting into the skin of my palm. I squeeze it tight, try to steady my breath, and push the door open, bracing for whatever horror show the Kings have cooked up for tonight.
The interior is dark– way darker than it should be for this time of evening.
No music, no laughter, just the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere overhead and the faint smell of stale beer.
My eyes adjust slowly, picking out the outline of the main room.
The collapsed ping pong table, the sticky party cups abandoned in the corner, the circle of big battered leather couches arranged at the rear.
I swallow thickly.
“Hello?” I call, my voice coming out paper thin, crumpled by the acoustics of the empty space.
Nothing.
I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. The cold follows me in, settling into my hair and jacket, burrowing under my skin. It’s so silent that all I can hear is the thunder of my pulse in my ears and the slow, lazy slosh of the lake outside.
For a second, I wonder if this is a prank– if Ford texted me just to see if I’d show up and wander around like a lost dog. Maybe he’s out there right now, watching through the windows, laughing with Wes and Raf about how predictable I am.
The humiliation stings, but not as much as the fear.
I step forward, the floorboards sticky beneath my feet. I move past the DJ booth, past the beer pong table, to the back of the room where a heavy utility door stands slightly ajar.
“Ford?” I try again. “If you’re trying to scare me, then congrats, it’s working.”
Still nothing, but as I move closer to the door, I hear the low hum of voices from somewhere past it. My hands start to shake, and I flex my fingers in an effort to stop their trembling. I debate about turning back, then think better of it, pushing the door open all the way to step through.
The concrete stairs beyond are steep and narrow, barely wider than my shoes. They descend down into the black, and I have to run my hand along the wall to keep myself steady as I start descending. The surface is clammy and damp, and I almost slip on the third step, my breath catching in my throat.
There’s a strange smell down here. Rust, sweat… maybe blood, but I tell myself I’m being dramatic. I keep going, because I’m either brave or stupid. Most likely the latter.
The staircase spills out into a cramped little chamber, more of a root cellar than anything else.
The walls are gray cinderblock, sweating with condensation.
The single bulb overhead barely illuminates the center of the room, let alone the dark corners, but it’s enough to see exactly what kind of hell I just walked into.
In the middle of the room, a guy is tied to a wooden chair. His ankles and wrists are duct-taped to the legs and arms, and he’s hunched forward, his chin on his chest, a bloody, torn rag stuffed into his mouth.
I stumble backwards, nearly falling back against the stairs.
“What the fuck?” I choke.
“Hey, Ava baby.”
I startle, whipping around to find Ford standing behind me, grinning like he just ate the best meal of his life. He’s got blood on his hands, shiny and fresh, smeared on his knuckles, up his forearm… even a fleck on his chin.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My knees threaten to collapse beneath me.
Wes and Raf slide in behind him. Both are eerily calm, almost bored. Raf has a bandage wrapped around his hand, blood already soaking through, while Wes dabs at a split lip, the sleeve of his hoodie streaked red.
It takes my brain a full five seconds to put the pieces together.
The guy in the chair jerks, making a muffled noise, and I turn back to look at him. I squint, and recognition punches me in the stomach.
Travis Stoker.
I’d know the shape of his face anywhere, even under all the swelling and bruises. The last time I saw him, he was cornering me in the hallway, his hand locked around my arm so tight I thought he’d snap the bone.
He looks nothing like that now.
His eyes are swollen nearly shut, one nostril caked with dried blood, and there’s a crust of vomit at the edge of his lips. His breathing is wet and rattling, like his lungs are struggling for air.
I back away, pressing myself flat against the wall, eyes darting between the three Kings.
Ford lets the silence stretch, then jerks his thumb at the wreck in the chair. “Wanna say hi to your biggest fan?”
“Wh–” My voice breaks, so I swallow and try again. “What the hell did you do?”
Wes shrugs, like it’s not even worth the energy to explain. “He came back to campus yesterday,” he says, like I should have been keeping tabs. “Had a little too much to drink. Started talking shit.”
Raf spits on the floor, upper lip curling in a snarl. “Said you tried to get him to fuck you in the middle of the hallway between classes.”
Ford leans in close enough for me to smell the booze and sweat on his skin. “Can’t let that slide, Ava.”
I look from their faces to Travis’, then back again. “So you beat the shit out of him?”
Ford grins wider, showing all his teeth. “We’re not done yet.” He licks a stripe of blood off his knuckle, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wanna watch?”
He grabs my arm and yanks me forward, dragging me to the center of the room. My feet skid on the concrete and I stumble, nearly tripping over the leg of the chair.
Raf grabs Travis by the hair and jerks his head up. The guy’s eyes are almost completely swollen shut, but he tries to focus on me, tries to say something past the gag in his mouth. All that comes out is a strangled, wet sound. He starts to cry, the tears mixing with the blood on his face.
Ford leans down, whispering in my ear. “He won’t be touching Kings’ property ever again.”
I want to scream, but instead I just stare, my vision tunneling, the walls closing in.
Ford reaches over to pull the gag from Travis’ mouth, kicking his shin so hard I swear I hear something crack. “Don’t you have something to say to her?” he barks.
Travis cries out in pain, wild eyes darting up to mine. “Sorry!” he chokes, the sound coming out wet and garbled.
“Good boy,” Ford says, nodding in satisfaction, reaching for a hammer on the table beside the chair. The handle is sticky with blood, the head crusted with something I don’t want to identify. He twirls it in his palm, then holds it out to me. “Wanna finish him off?”
His hazel eyes glitter with excitement, and I know it’s not a joke.
I jerk my arm out of his grip, staggering backwards. “You’re fucking insane,” I breathe.
Ford laughs like it’s the best compliment he’s ever received.
Raf drops Travis’s head, letting it slump forward again. “He really should’ve known better,” he murmurs, voice cold. “Nobody touches what’s ours.”
Wes is still watching me, and there’s something almost soft in his expression, like he’s checking to see if I’m okay. But then I see the blood on his hands and any illusion of comfort shatters.
They’re monsters.
They always have been.
I turn and run, ascending the stairs as quick as my feet will carry me. I burst back into the main room of the boathouse and hightail it straight for the exit, the cold night air burning my lungs as I burst outside.
But I don’t make it far.
Wes is right at my heels, moving fast. He grabs my arm as I reach the mouth of the path back to the dorms, spinning me around to face him.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice strangely gentle. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you now.”
I shake my head, trying to wrench out of his grip, but he holds me tight.
“We had to do it,” he murmurs, expression hardening. “You know that, right?”
I blink up at him, horrified by what I see in his eyes. That he truly believes it.
“No you didn’t,” I reply shakily. “You chose to.”
His grip loosens, but only marginally. He looks over his shoulder toward the boathouse, then back at me. “It’s done now,” he says flatly. “Just let it be over.”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
He pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me, his heartbeat thundering against my cheek. For a second, I actually let him hold me. For a second, I pretend it’s safe.
But I know better.
Raf’s voice cuts through the wind, sharp as broken glass. “Take her home,” he calls, wiping his bloody knuckles off on the leg of his jeans.
Wes nods like he’s taking orders from a general, then starts leading me down the path into the woods. I keep looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Ford trailing us with the bloody hammer, but he doesn’t follow.
My legs are rubber. My whole body trembles, every nerve ending in revolt.
The walk back to Sutton Hall is a blur. Wes doesn’t let go of my arm the whole way, and I don’t have the energy to pull away. We don’t speak, but the silence says enough. My mind loops over and over on the image of Travis Stoker, beaten beyond recognition, mouth full of blood and apology.
Helpless, just like I felt when he pinned me to the wall.
The air is colder now, the sun long gone. I pull my coat tighter to my body, grasping for warmth I can’t find. When we reach the entrance to the building, Wes stops and looks down at me.
“You okay?” he asks, voice so soft I barely hear it.
I want to tell him the truth. I want to scream that I’ll never be okay, that I’m trapped in a nightmare where the only thing worse than the monsters is the part of me that still wants them to want me.
But I just nod, walk through the door, and ascend the stairs. Once we make it to the apartment, I go straight to my bedroom and shut myself inside.
I’m not sure who I’m hiding from anymore.
The Kings… or the part of me that felt a tiny sliver of satisfaction at seeing Travis in pain, knowing I’m becoming a monster, too.