Vixen (The Dangerous Fiction #1)

Prologue

I should’ve known something was wrong the second my phone buzzed with Sage’s name.

Sunday afternoon. Snow slashing sideways in violent sheets, rattling the windows of my mother’s house in Peabody like it wanted in.

The radio murmured from the kitchen—weather alerts, static, a man calmly describing disaster.

I was folding warm laundry on the couch, still damp from the dryer, when my screen lit up.

Sage.

My stomach tightened—thrill and dread braided together. It was always like that with her. Like waiting for lightning to strike and hoping it would hit close.

I answered.

“Guess where I am right now?”

Her voice was too bright. Too fast. Electric in that familiar, terrifying way—like she was vibrating out of her own skin.

I forced a laugh. “Mall? Getting those nails redone again?”

Silence.

Then—

a wet inhale.

Not a sniffle.

Not a sigh.

Something dragged. Something wrong.

“No,” she whispered. A soft giggle slipped out, intimate and secretive. “I’m inside his house. In Vermont.”

The room tilted.

The laundry basket slipped from my hands and hit the floor. Socks scattered across the rug like dropped bones.

“What?” My voice cracked. “Sage—he’s in Whistler. He’s out of the country.”

“I know.” Her laugh turned breathless, triumphant. “That’s why it’s perfect. Did he think I wouldn’t find out?”

My pulse roared in my ears. Ethan—steady, patient, careful. Sage—the storm who burned through lives and called it love.

“Sage,” I said slowly, carefully, like speaking to a cornered animal. “You’re broken up. For good this time.”

She snorted. Light. Dismissive. “He always says that.”

Something hissed through the phone.

At first I thought it was wind.

Then it got louder.

Relentless.

Water.

“I started in the basement,” she purred. “Every towel. Every sheet. Stuffed them into the washer sink. Turned the faucets all the way on.”

My knees buckled. I sank onto the couch, the cushions swallowing me.

“I clogged the bathroom too,” she continued, pleased. “Sink. Toilet. Everything. It’s flooding now, Beth. Ankle-deep. You should see it.”

A crash exploded through the line.

Glass.

Shattering.

My skin prickled with cold sweat.

“Sage—stop. Please—”

“Listen,” she whispered.

The roar grew louder. A monstrous, consuming sound—water devouring the house, punctuated by splashes and sharp, deliberate destruction.

“It’s soaking into his precious hardwood,” she went on. “Ruining the foundation he bragged about. Isn’t it beautiful? Like tears. For what he’s losing.”

Another crash.

Porcelain this time.

“I’m going upstairs now.”

Her voice dropped. Softened. Intimate.

My throat closed.

“What are you doing in his bedroom?”

Fabric rustled. Slow. Deliberate. Like she wanted me to hear every inch.

“I stripped naked,” she breathed. “Waxed this morning. Just for him. Smooth the way he likes. Rolled around in his bed—remember how he’d watch?” She laughed quietly. “I buried my face in his pillows. I’m soaked in his smell.”

My hand trembled so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

A violent rip tore through the line.

“I slit the mattress open,” she said happily. “With his own knife. Feathers everywhere. Like our fights. Messy. Wild.”

I pressed my palm to my mouth, bile burning my throat.

“I put on his red flannel,” she went on. “The one he rips off me. It hangs just right.” A pause. Then, delighted—“The rest of his shirts? Outside. Firepit. Lighter fluid.”

Crackling flames joined the roar of water.

“I can feel the heat on my skin, Beth.”

“Sage,” I sobbed, “this isn’t love. This is—this is sick.”

She was completely unhinged.

Unglued.

Spiraling down a path of self destruction even I never saw coming.

She laughed. High. Splintering.

“He loves my crazy,” she snapped. “He told me. No one fucks him like I do. This turns him on. The fire. The flood. It’s foreplay. It’s what we do.”

“I’m on his computer now. No password. Poor baby. I’m in everything.”

“Sage, stop. Get out. Please.”

“I KNOW HE CHEATED! EMILY! HER NAME IS EMILY!”

Her scream ripped through the line—raw, feral, shattering.

“BUT HE’LL REALIZE NO ONE WILL EVER MATCH ME!”

Something dinged in my kitchen—the oven timer—and I flinched like it was a bomb.

“He’ll thank me for this,” she whispered suddenly, eerily calm. “He’ll come home and fuck me on the ruins.”

A frantic rustling.

“WHERE IS IT? I KNOW IT’S HERE!”

“What—?”

“His other guitar. The back up,” she snarled. “I’m going to smash it.”

“SAGE—NO—”

The line went dead.

I sat there long after, the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing.

Water roaring.

Fire crackling.

Her voice—convinced this destruction was devotion.

She wasn’t just destroying his house.

She was performing.

And deep in my gut, terror bloomed—black and absolute.

If she believed this would win him back…

What would she do when it didn’t?

The house felt wrong after the call ended.

Too quiet. Too still. Like it was holding its breath.

I sat frozen on the couch, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at the snow whipping sideways beyond the windows.

My heart was still racing, thudding so hard it made my ribs ache.

Every sound felt amplified—the tick of the wall clock, the hum of the heater, the distant groan of wind forcing itself down the chimney.

“Beth?”

Mom’s voice drifted in from the kitchen. Careful. Concerned.

I didn’t answer.

Footsteps approached. Then she was there, standing in the doorway, dish towel in her hands. She took one look at my face and went still.

“Oh God,” she said softly. “What happened?”

I tried to speak. Nothing came out.

My mouth opened again. Closed. My throat burned like I’d swallowed glass.

Mom crossed the room in three strides and sat beside me, her hand warm and solid on my knee. “Honey. You’re shaking.”

I looked down then—really looked—and realized she was right. My hands were trembling violently, like I’d been dropped into ice water.

“It was Sage,” I whispered.

Mom’s jaw tightened. She’d never liked Sage. Never trusted the way she swept into my life and rearranged it like furniture.

“What did she do?” she asked quietly.

I swallowed. “She’s… she’s in Ethan’s house.”

Her hand stilled.

“In his house,” I repeated, voice cracking. “In Vermont. He’s out of the country. She broke in.”

Mom’s brows knit together. “Beth—”

“She’s flooding it,” I rushed on, words tumbling out now that they’d started. “Basement, bathroom—everything. She smashed glass. Slashed his mattress. She’s burning his clothes. She said—” My voice broke. “She said it was foreplay. That he loves her crazy.”

Mom stared at me, color draining from her face.

“Oh my God.”

“She’s completely detached from reality,” I said, tears spilling freely now. “She thinks he’ll come home and thank her. That he’ll fuck her on the ruins.”

Mom stood abruptly. “We’re calling the police.”

“No!” I shot to my feet, panic flaring white-hot. “No, Mom, please—”

“Beth, this is a crime,” she said firmly. “Multiple crimes.”

“She’s my best friend,” I sobbed. “I can’t do that to her. I can’t be the reason she goes to jail.”

Mom grabbed my shoulders gently but firmly, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Listen to me. She is endangering herself and others. If you do nothing and someone gets hurt—”

“I know,” I cried. “I know. But if I call the police, I’ll destroy her. She already thinks everyone betrays her.”

“And what if she burns the house down?” Mom shot back. “What if someone else gets hurt? What if you get hurt?”

That landed.

A sick, hollow feeling opened in my chest.

“I can’t just stand here,” I whispered. “I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.”

Mom exhaled slowly, reining herself in. “Then call him,” she said. “The homeowner. Give him a chance to handle it.”

I nodded, hands slick with sweat. My phone felt impossibly heavy as I picked it up.

“What if he hates me?” I asked quietly. “What if she finds out it was me?”

Mom softened, brushing my hair back like she used to when I was little. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said. “Sometimes that’s the part that hurts the most.”

I stared at Ethan’s name on my screen.

Then I pressed call.

He answered on the third ring.

Wind howled through the line. He was laughing—actually laughing—voice bright and loose.

“Beth! What’s up? I’m on a lift right now, it’s insane out here—”

“She’s in your house.”

The laughter died instantly.

“What?”

“Sage,” I said, forcing the words out before I could stop myself. “She broke in. She’s flooding it. Burning your clothes. Slashed your mattress. She’s in your accounts. She thinks you’re addicted to her. That you love her crazy. She said this turns you on.”

There was a long, terrible silence.

Then a sound I’d never heard from him before—a broken, guttural exhale. Like something inside him had finally snapped.

“She thinks this turns me on?” he said hoarsely. “Jesus Christ. No. No, that’s—”

He was breathing hard now. I could hear it, ragged and uneven.

“That’s why I ended it,” he said quietly. “For real this time.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he said, and there was steel in his voice now. “I’m calling Seth. He’s home. He’ll handle it.”

Relief crashed over me so hard my knees nearly gave out.

“No cops?” I asked weakly.

“Not unless we have to,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. I owe you.”

“One thing,” I said quickly, fear flooding back in. “You can’t tell her it was me. She knows where I work. Where my mom lives. She’ll ruin me.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” he promised.

The call ended.

I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, pressing my forehead to my knees as my body finally gave in to the shock.

Mom knelt beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“You did what you could,” she murmured.

I shook my head, tears soaking into her sweater. “I just betrayed my best friend.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Because we both knew what I was afraid to say out loud.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

I didn’t sleep.