Chapter 5
SHANNEN
I straighten up slowly, letting the stretch of my spine unfurl as I glide through the room like I own it.
No matter how many bodies fill the space between us, I know exactly where Phoenix is.
I don’t have to see him. I can feel his gaze crawling over my skin.
He’s drawn to me even if he doesn’t understand why yet, and there’s something possessive in the way he watches me that makes my pulse stutter.
I let my eyes drift to him every so often, and when I do, he’s already watching. Always watching. His eyes pin me in place across the room like the arrogant, magnetic bastard he’s always been—never the first to look away. It’s suffocating in the best, most infuriating way possible.
Every step I take is intentional, calculated to drive him just a little more out of his mind with need.
Every tilt of my head, every brush of my fingers against my throat, every time I bite my lip until it’s flushed a deeper shade of red—all of it is designed to make him feel something.
I want him to think this is his game, that he’s the hunter circling his prey.
Let him believe he’s the one in control and that I’m just some pretty thing too dazzled by his perfect face to even think about telling him no, when in reality, he won’t lay a single traitorous hand on me unless I allow it.
I’m halfway through my second drink when a guy approaches.
He’s tallish, has an average build, and maybe a little softer around the edges than he used to be.
I recognize the face, vaguely. Ryan, I think it is.
He’s not unattractive but forgettable in a way that makes me think I could chew him up and spit him out without so much as smudging my lipstick.
“Hey, sorry, but… were we in a class together?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous laugh that makes me want to ruffle his blond hair and send him on his way. “I can’t recall your name, but you look familiar.”
Seems to be the fucking theme of the night.
“Annie,” I offer, flashing him a small smile. “And honestly, I blacked out most of high school. It wasn’t exactly a good time for me.”
He nods, sympathy etched in every awkward line of his face. “I get that. I got flushed down a toilet once by that dickhead Brandon Michaelson.” I burst out laughing, and it’s real—the first honest laugh of the night.
“God, he really was a walking piece of shit,” I say, shaking my head as I shove the memories back into the darkest corners of my mind where they belong.
Before Ryan can get another word out, Phoenix’s voice slices through the moment. “Can I interrupt?”
“No,” I snap, not even glancing at him, turning my back so hard it’s almost theatrical.
Phoenix might think he can just slide in and take what he wants, but he doesn’t get to have me—not my time, not my attention, not one fucking ounce of power—unless I hand it over.
“Come on, Annie. I’m done playing cat and mouse. ”
I toss Ryan an apologetic look. “Sorry, Ryan, rain check on the trauma bonding.”
The poor bastard takes one look at Phoenix behind me and goes so pale that he practically evaporates. I can’t say I blame him. Phoenix has always been the kind of guy people clear the way for, even if they don’t know why.
He steps in, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and the weight of his stare creeping up my spine. “Listen, I don’t know how well we knew each other—if at all—but I wanna change that.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in changing anything?” I say, turning to face him fully.
I can see it in his eyes. He thinks I’m just another girl desperate for his attention, someone new he can fuck and forget.
Let him believe that.
Let him chase the bait.
He grins, cocky as hell. “You think I don’t know what a woman looks like when she’s imagining all the ways I’ll make her scream?”
Damn him and my useless vagina. This motherfucker’s got me barely holding my shit together.
“I guess I could spare you twenty minutes. You’re not exactly hard to look at, but let’s be clear—no strings, no sweet talk, no pretending this is anything but what it is. You’ll get your hands on me only if I let you. And when we’re done, that’s it.”
He throws his head back and laughs, that rough, filthy sound that’s way too beautiful for someone so toxic. “Are you always this charming?”
I want to hate it. I want to hate everything about him.
“I’m not here to charm you.”
“Fine,” he says, stepping closer again and invading my space. “We’ll do this your way. ”
God, he’s such a fucking douchebag.A gorgeous, arrogant, unbearably tempting douchebag.
I’m going to have to put this whole shitshow in next year’s letter.
I write to Phoenix every Halloween. It’s unhealthy, I know, but I keep going until my hand cramps and my eyes sting, pouring out all the rage, hurt, and twisted longing I spend the other three hundred and sixty-four days pretending doesn't exist. Those words are buried deep in pages, never meant for anyone’s eyes. I haven’t even told Lianna about them.
“Do you do this often?” I ask.
“Meet beautiful women and promise to fuck them so hard they’re begging for round two before they can catch their breath?” He grins down at me like something carved straight out of hell. “Yeah, and I always deliver.”
I lift my chin, staring up at the fuckboy in front of me. “Guess we’ll see if you’re as good as you think you are.”
Asshole.
“You got a room here?” he asks, and when I nod, his hand finds the small of my back.
My skin flares beneath his palm, a wildfire of hate, want, and the phantom ache of lost love burning through my veins. It’s a sick, tangled mess that makes me want to lean into his touch and shove him away all at once, yet I let him lead me anyway because this is exactly what I came here for.
We walk in silence toward the elevator. Inside, the motor groans to life, and I swear the walls are closing in around me.
I’m not pretending this won’t tear me apart.
I know exactly what I’m about to do—crack open scars I’ve spent a decade trying to forget, wounds that never really healed because I kept picking at them every time I wrote those fucking letters. But I need this.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and I move down the hallway, letting the silence stretch between us. At my door, I turn and press my back against it, blocking his way. His gaze drops straight to my mouth, and the twist in my stomach isn’t fear—it’s power.
“I have one rule,” I say, my voice cold despite the slight tremor buried deep beneath it. “I don’t kiss.”
He closes the distance, his body crowding mine against the door until there’s nowhere left to go. His breath ghosts across my ear, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “Good. Neither do I.”
His scent blankets me, making me crave him in a way I swore to myself I never would again. It’s screwing with my head—tugging me back and forth between the girl who once loved him and the woman who wants to watch him fall to his knees.
“I have a rule of my own…”
“What is it?”
“Leave the mask on. I’m sure you’re gorgeous underneath, but there’s something about not knowing… about being with a complete stranger that drives me out of my mind.”
Perfect.
“Fine by me,” I murmur, already turning away from the heat in his gaze.
I enter the room and cross to the minibar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into crystal glasses.
When I turn back to face him, he’s already watching me.
It's the same look that used to pin me in place across crowded hallways, the one that made me feel like I was something special to him before he showed me exactly how disposable I really was.
I hand him a glass, making sure our fingers don’t brush because even that tiny touch might blow apart the fragile control I’ve built around my anger.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He lifts the glass to his lips, inhales, then sets it back down on the nearest surface. “Shoot.”
“Does it make you anxious that I know exactly who you are, while I went through all of high school completely invisible to you?”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “No, but I’m intrigued though.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a fucking mystery. You could’ve hung a sign around your neck that said, ‘Fuck me, Phoenix,’ and I would’ve walked right in, no questions.”
I take a sip of my drink, letting the burn steady my pulse. “Doesn’t seem like the smartest move.”
“I’ve made worse decisions for women far less interesting,” he says, slipping off his black leather jacket with a roll of his shoulders.
Now I can see exactly how far those tattoos go.
He’s covered in them—more ink than flesh.
But it’s the tally marks on his forearm that I can’t tear my eyes away from.
There’s no beauty in them. There’s no design. Just bold lines carved into his skin, starting at his wrist and climbing to the crook of his elbow in perfect rows.
Who the hell counts something and then brands it into their skin for life?
His other arm is more intricate. It looks like thorns winding up his bicep, but there’s more to it than that, details I can’t quite make out from here.
“Do you usually follow masked women into hotel rooms?”
“Only when I get the feeling they’re going to be fun to play with.”
I step in closer, slipping behind him as I begin to circle his body. My fingers trail lightly across the back of his shirt, and the reaction is instant. He goes rigid under my touch, and I want to believe his body remembers what his mind has chosen to forget.
“You’re wound tight. Something making you nervous?”
“Nothing makes me nervous,” he replies, but there’s a roughness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago.