After a prolonged conversation with himself, Dexter slides into the driver’s seat of his car. He remains quiet for the next ten miles, only speaking when obtaining my approval on a roadside motel. This is a first. Usually, he tells me what we are doing, and I follow along. He’s never sought my permission before.

He pulls to the very end of a dusty parking lot before his eyes drift to me. “Can you pass me my wallet from the glove box?”

Nodding, I throw down the leather-stitched compartment with care. My heart leaps into my chest when a news article is the first thing my eyes land on. It is a clip out of a recent tour Nick did with his band. He is smiling at the camera and has his guitar slung over one shoulder and a strawberry blonde draped under the other. He looks happy. I’m glad. One miserable soul is always better than two.

I push aside the article to find Dexter’s wallet underneath, shut the glove box, then hand it to him. Dexter eyes me curiously for several minutes. His stare is so prolonged, I run my finger across my lips, worried I have a vomit stain there.

After a grumble too quiet for me to hear, Dexter exits the car, secures a cash only room, then gestures for me to join him under the weather-damaged patio. With every step I take, worry leaks from him like the air from a stabbed tire. I hate this, the way he is looking at me. It is one of the reasons I’ve never. . . coerced with a man before. My daddy said they’d look at me differently. He was right. Dexter is already giving me weird vibes, and all we did was sleep in the same bed.

My pace slows. Is that what popping a cherry means? If so, mine was popped years ago. I slept in Nick’s bed once. He was passed out from the excessive amount of alcohol he drank and fully clothed, but he did kiss me the next morning. It wasn’t as passionate as Dexter’s kiss/bite, but it was still a kiss nonetheless.

I guess it is kind of different? Dexter and I didn’t have any clothes on. My sleepover with Nick was also missing the weird buzzing sensation Dexter’s attention gives me. Nick makes my heart flutter, but Dexter still has it scaling that surging upshot I mentioned earlier. The dip hasn’t arrived yet.

I hope it never comes.

This is bad for me to admit, but I like the power Dexter’s attention awards me. He looks at me like I could have stabbed Joseph in the eye with my fork, and he wouldn’t have gotten mad.

Nick would have been mad. He would have been very, very mad. I only gave his fiancée a special medication to deliver his son early, and he was ropeable. Imagine if I had done one of the many other things the voices told me to do?

Nodding in agreement, I enter the door Dexter is holding up for me. Further deliberation will have to wait. It is a little after 2 AM, and I am beyond exhausted.

“Shower first,” Dexter demands, stopping my beeline to the only bed in the room.

I shadow him into the bathroom. This one is more adequately outfitted than the one at his cabin. There is a large freestanding shower at our right and a triangular spa bath in the opposite corner. It’s a funky orange color, but still a cool accessory to have access to. I haven’t had a bath in years, not since I discovered not all birds can swim. My mom said it was a science experiment, but my father was still angry. At times, I swear he loved his birds more than us.

“It’s too late for a bath now. You can have one tomorrow before we leave,” Dexter murmurs, noticing my appreciative gawp.

He removes his cap, places it on the cracked sink, then spins around to face me. My heart rate skyrockets when I notice splatters of blood on his face. A normal person may mistake the vibrant streaks of red as lipstick or paint. Alas, I am anything but normal. I know the color so well, it is embedded in my retinas.

I dart across the bathroom, my panic roaring with every step I take. A guttural moan rolls up my chest when I reach Dexter, my way of asking what happened.

He removes my hands from his face, his expression half-peeved, half-thankful. He doesn’t like me fussing over him, but he prefers it over my silence.

“It isn’t my blood,” he assures me, his tone gruff. His eyes drop to my massively dilated ones. “Even though I doubt you’ll care who it belongs to, I won’t share.”

Pretending he hasn’t spotted the stream of questions pumping from my eyes, he heads for the shower to turn on the faucet. Once he is happy the water is at a nice temperature, he pivots to face me. Although his composure is a little askew, my hands still move to the hem of my shirt. I don’t need to hear his demands to know of their arrival. I can see them in his eyes, read them from his mind.

Dexter watches me undress with the same set of eagle eyes he had when he entered the bathroom yesterday afternoon. But instead of taking in only the private regions of my body, he devours every inch of me. His hungry eyes skim over my breasts that are aching with need before weaving down my stomach like a snake making its way through a desert, then they stop for a long, voracious glare at the bare mound between my legs.

When his eyes return to my face, I take a step back. His look is hungry, but this time, I’m not stupidly confusing it with a hunger for food. He is famished. Thirsty. Overwhelming every sense I own.

“Put them in the trash. I have a new ones for you in the car,” Dexter commands when I start to place my folded clothes onto the lowered toilet lid.

It seems like a waste, but I do as I’m told. My father taught me obedience and what occurs when I don’t follow the rules.

“Do you not want your razor. . .?”

Dexter’s words trap in his throat when I twist my wrist to hold out my hand palm side up. The smile he releases when he spots the silver instrument nestled in my palm sends goosebumps scuttling across my skin.

He returns his eyes to my face. There is something in them I haven’t seen before. Is it pride?

“Did you want to use that on Joseph tonight, Megan?”

I nearly lie, until he cuts off the shake of my head with a stern warning. “If you lie to me, I’ll cut out the little freckle on your thigh and send it to Lee’s family as a parting gift.”

Trusting his threat, my shake switches to a nod. I’m not stupid. He was being honest.

Dexter steps closer to me, crowding me with his impressive frame. “What did you want to do to him?”

I flick open the switch then slice an X pattern in the air half an inch from Dexter’s neck. My movements are so rushed, cool air rustles between us. I’m fully anticipating for Dexter to check if I’ve maimed him, so you can imagine my surprise when he doesn’t. He merely sucks in a prolonged breath through his flaring nostrils before dropping his eyes to the bald spot between my legs.

“You are like me, aren’t you, Megan.” Although he appears to be asking a question, his tone doesn’t allude to that. It was a confirmation.

When his eyes slowly stray back to mine, demanding a reply, I can neither agree with or deny his statement. His hand is gripping my locks too firmly for me to do anything but glance up at him. The threat of tearing my hair from my scalp isn’t the sole cause of my silence, though. It is the confusion bombarding me.

His hold should be frightening, but for some reason, it isn’t. It increases my pulse, which surges in an area stripped as bare as my heart right now. I love Nick—I gave him my heart for eternity—but as I stare into Dexter’s fiery eyes, I can’t recall if Nick’s eyes are darker than Dexter’s or paler. Does he have more lashes or less? Are his eyes even blue? I only saw his photo mere minutes ago, but I truly can’t remember what he looks like.

My response shouldn’t be shocking. A ravenous wolf has me in his sights, and the only thought I can muster is, “Yes, please.”

I am the sanest I’ve ever been.

“Don’t tempt me.” Dexter’s warning is more a growl than an actual threat. “You couldn’t be so lucky to have someone like me pop your cherry, but every women must drudge through the minor leagues before stepping up to the big hitters. It is a rite of passage.”

His grip on my hair doesn’t stop my eyes rolling skywards. His reply should have me immediately shutting down our conversation. I should demand he release me this instant from his barbaric grip. Or better yet, use the razor to force his relinquishment. But with my veins free of mind-numbing medication, the thoughts streaming through my head don’t belong to a rational woman. I don’t want to dodge Dexter’s attention. I’m encouraging it.

When I return my eyes to Dexter, my determination obvious, his lips curl into a heart-fluttering smirk. “But you’re not like normal women, are you, Megan?”

The agitation that generally arrives with his questions is nipped in the bud when he quickly adds on, “You’re special. Unique. Completely fucking fucked up.”

A thrill jolts down my spine when he yanks my head back. He drags his nose down my neck, sucking in my scent with a long, undignified whiff. Goosebumps follow the trek his tongue makes when it travels the same path, just in the opposite direction. It glides along the throb in my throat, only stopping when he reaches the base of my ear.

“As sweet as heaven but as sour as Satan,” he growls into my ear. “Tell me to stop before I drag you to the depths of hell alongside me.”

I shake my head, deepening his breaths.

Conscious of what is about to transpire, his bite doesn’t hold half the sting it did yesterday. His teeth sinking into my earlobe spikes my heart rate and causes the slippery situation between my legs to become more apparent.

I grow wetter when he growls at the taste of my blood on his tongue. “I can make your cunt bleed just as readily. Do you want that, Megan?”

My mind scrambles for a reply when he seeks a response in a nonverbal way. If I went off my first thought, I’d scream yes. But with my mind as knotted as my lower stomach, I settle on a halfhearted shake. I don’t want you to hurt me.

“Oh, trust me, it’s going to hurt. Whether me or a man with half a cock, you’re going to bleed.”

I don’t understand the origin of his slurred words. He drank more glasses of the fruity drink Joseph topped off all evening than me, but his eyes aren’t carrying the same drunken edge my father’s always did.

“But I can show you how you can achieve pleasure from pain. Would you prefer that?”

I nod without thinking, the promise in his eyes deserving a decisive response.

My scalp stops screaming in pain when Dexter releases it from his grip to shove me backward. I land on the wall with a thud, the pain barely noticeable since my focus is locked on Dexter’s looming frame. The veins weaving through his thick biceps pulsate as his glassy eyes scan my body. His watchful glance sends a fiery sensation shooting through me. This one is welcomed, minus the truckload of confusion it generally arrives with.

Only now am I realizing why I had an instant connection with him. We are one and the same, two misunderstood people shrouded by darkness. He doesn’t care about the immorality in my eyes because he has no intention of dousing it. He wants to nurture it, to see it reach its full fruition. The thought is both terrifying and exciting. I was told for years to ignore the voices in my head. I won’t have to do that with Dexter. I can explore why it feels good to stand a little jagged and separate from the crowd. I’m not different. I am unique. Those are two entirely different things.

“When was the last time you were medicated, Megan?” Dexter raises his eyes to mine before counting down. He starts at mere minutes before extending to hours, then days.

“Three days?” he confirms when I nod.

I nod again.

His lips twist as he contemplates. I don’t know what he is pondering, but he reaches his deliberation quickly. It isn’t just the fire in his eyes bringing me to this conclusion; it is the growth between his legs that even a sturdy pair of jeans can’t hide.

“Fifteen is old enough to bleed.” My pupils widen to saucers when he adds on, “I’m not going to cut you today. We’ll work up to that. But I will lick your greedy pussy. Tease your clit. Maybe bite it a little. Then once you shatter like glass, I’ll teach you how to please me.”

I shudder at the thought. It isn’t a scared tremor. The confidence in his tone assures me this is going to be a lot of fun.

“Then you’ll stroke me with your hand, your mouth, and your pussy.” He tugs my hands away from my erratically panting chest to expose my breasts to his hungry gaze. “I might even fuck these.”

My nipples stiffen into hardened buds.

“Then, once you’ve mastered my lessons, you can test them out on Nick, be one of the many hoes he fucks while on tour. Is that what you want, Megan? Do you want me to show you how to please him?”

Just the mention of Nick’s name has my feet scampering backward. Not because I’m filled with remorse at how horny Dexter’s words make me feel but because of the hate in Dexter’s eyes. He isn’t looking at me with love and admiration. He’s glaring at me like he despises me. Like he wants to use and abuse me like every other man in my life. I thought he was above the manipulation and underhanded tactics men like my father used.

Clearly, I was wrong.

“Ugh!” I grunt when the back of Dexter’s hand grazes my erect nipple. He chews on his lower lip, loving how it buds even more firmly under his touch but blinded to my growing anger.

I slap his hand another two times before ducking low and skirting past him. It is virtually impossible with how imposing his body is, but I manage it—barely!

My feet nearly slip out from underneath me when I enter the slimy shower stall at the speed of a rocket. With a grunt, I close the soap scum-covered door before raising my eyes to Dexter. He is watching me as fervently as he was earlier, except this time, his eyes aren’t blazing with lust. He’s fuming mad.

He’s not the only one. My fists are balled so firmly, the razor in my hand sends droplets of blood dripping down my palm. The ghastly scent is even more rampant because of the steamy conditions, but it has nothing on the undisclosed scent lingering in the air. If I weren’t stuck in mind-debilitating confusion, I would say it was angry lust, but since I can’t contend with more confusion, I’ll say it’s unexplainable.

Dexter steps closer to me, his strides as wobbly as the sneer on his face. “He told the world you were scum, yet you still want to be with him?”

I shake my head, but even with him staring straight at me, he doesn’t see my reply. He’s too deep into his psychosis to see or hear anything.

The harsh lines between his brows deepen when I adjust my grip on the razor so it sits between us. He smiles as if amused by my attempts to protect myself. He shouldn’t be so quick to judge. If I didn’t know how to defend myself, Bryce’s death would be the only one on my scoreboard.

“You wanted to play, Cleo, so let’s play.”

I don’t know who Cleo is, but I don’t have time to ask questions. Dexter is storming for me. His eyes are as dark as death, his lips hard and straight. When he throws open the shower door, I slice my blade through the air twice. The first sliver of the blade misses its target—intentionally. The second hits exactly where I intend. The thin trail of red from Dexter’s ear to his Adam’s apple is barely a scratch, but more than adequate as a warning. If you come any closer, I’ll slice you ear to ear.

My plans go to shit when Dexter knocks the razor from my hand before his other hand shoots up to my throat. He pins me to the slimy tiles, his hold so firm, my feet dangle midair. His disgust at my attempt to maim him floods his face as he glares into my bulging eyes.

As my body panics over the lack of oxygen in my veins, I dig my nails into his hand. I was so surprised by his attack, my lungs didn’t have a chance to increase their stock load. I’m on the verge of collapse within seconds, my throat burning as fiercely as my eyes are teeming with moisture.

When my nails pierce the skin on Dexter’s hand, he draws me forward before slamming me back. My brain rattles in my skull from the brutal impact, and my vision blurs. The coppery taste in my mouth is vastly different than the fruity scent in the air. It is an odd balance of sweet and sour.

As the first signs of a migraine creep up on me, I lessen the severity of my thrusts. I’m too tired to fight. Perhaps this is for the best? I’ve wanted to die a very long time. Dexter can finally grant my wish.

The groove between Dexter’s brows fades when I stop thrashing against him. It smooths even more when I drop my hands to my side, giving up without so much as a single tear.

I’m done fighting. Kill me. Please, I silently request, staring down at him. It may be the most humane thing anyone has ever done for me.

Dexter’s nostrils flare, seemingly annoyed that I’m accepting my fate. He wants me to fight. He wants me to maim.

He shouldn’t be shocked by my cowardly ways. I’ve done nothing but disappoint my entire life.

“Fuck!” he roars when my pulse fades under his fingertips. His word is delivered so violently, it colors my face with the hue his grip stole. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

After a final squeeze of my throat, announcing he isn’t happy about his decision, he releases me from his grip. My backside hits the floor with a thump. My mind is so shut down, it doesn’t register the pain. My body starts to revive my lungs without waiting for permission from my head. It wants to live so it can discover why it thrums every time Dexter is in its presence. Even while being hurt by him, it bloomed under his touch.

The hair slumped in front of my face clears away when Dexter crouches down in front of me. He tucks it behind my ear before raising my eyes to his via my chin. His pupils have returned to their normal size, his psychosis over as quickly as it arrived.

The water pelting out of the shower head runs down his arm and puddles at my jaw when he takes his time assessing the throb in my neck. Confident my neck isn’t going to miraculously snap in half of its own accord, he brings his lips within an inch of my ear.

“If you ever do that again, I’m going to squeeze the life out of you, bring you back, then do it again. And again. And again.” His voice grows angrier with every word he utters. “Do you understand me?”

He seems off, as if he is more annoyed I gave up my fight than that I rejected him.

My assumptions are proven accurate when he snarls, “You don’t live in hell for years to give up the instant you escape. You fight. You maim. You kill if you must. But you never give up. Gods were born to fight, Megan. Cowards weaken.”

When I sheepishly nod, somewhat agreeing with him, he stands to his feet. His clothes are drenched, showcasing his impressive frame in eye-catching detail. Even with our encounter dominated by violence, it doesn’t alter the facts. He is a beautifully tormented man. The overhead lighting glistens in his diamond-shaped eyes, and the scruff on his jaw enhances the sharp lines framing his face. Even his hair is more alluring from being misted by the shower water.

He stands over me in all of his six-foot-plus glory for the next several minutes, seemingly conflicted. I can understand his struggle. He was on the verge of killing me, and all I am doing is staring up at him in admiration.

I think my daddy was right. There is something terribly wrong with me.

Dexter’s deliberation doesn’t reach the conclusion I am hoping for when he orders, “Shower then straight to bed. Sleep naked. I want nothing between us when I get back.”

When my eyes rocket to his, curious as to where he is going, he says, “I’ve got a virgin to fuck out of my system before I claim her in a way she’s never been claimed!”