*ELLA*
My hands were bricks of ice. Even the gloves had frozen stiff.
I scanned the empty street. No sign of my father's car. Typical.
A tall figure detached itself from the shadows near the bus stop. He didn't rush; he moved with the slow, predatory confidence of someone who owned the sidewalk. He sat beside me, the wood of the bench creaking under his weight.
I didn't need to look to know who it was. I just groaned.
"Why are you out so late?" Davis Malcherson asked. His breath hitched, heavy and rhythmic.
I stared straight ahead. Silence is usually my best weapon.
Suddenly, his hand was on my jaw, forcing my head around. His grip was firm, bordering on painful.
"I don't ask questions twice," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous pitch. "But since it's you... Princess, I'll make an exception. Talk."
I didn't flinch. I didn't blush. I just looked at his hand like it was a piece of trash I needed to dispose of.
"Leave me the fuck alone, Davis," I said. I yanked my face back.
He smirked. In one motion, he surged forward, trapping me against the back of the bench. Our faces were inches apart. He smelled like expensive cologne and bad intentions.
"Not possible," he whispered. His fingers trailed from my shoulder to my waist, digging into my hip. "I've known you too long. I want you. There's no escape."
"I've heard a lot about you, too," I countered.
"Really? What has my Princess heard?"
"That you're a mother-fucking asswipe."
His eyes darkened. "Call me that again and bear the consequences."
I felt that familiar, hollow daring rise up in my chest. Most people call it a death wish. I just call it Tuesday.
"Asswipe," I repeated.
He didn't hesitate. His lips crashed against mine—hard, demanding, and entirely uninvited.
I shoved him back and stood up, wiping my mouth with the back of my frozen glove. "What the hell is wrong with you? I didn't give you permission."
"I could do a lot more without your permission," he taunted, adjusting his collar.
"Fuck you."
"Do you even know who I am?"
"The son of a mafia boss. Everyone knows. I just don't want your fan club coming for my head because you can't keep your hands to yourself."
"Aren't you scared I'll just kill you myself?"
I looked him dead in the eye. "I'm not. Dying sounds like a vacation from this conversation."
He leaned back, intrigued. "You're lying."
"I don't lie. It's too much effort."
"Let me tell you a secret, Princess," he said, his voice dropping. "I've been stalking you."
I blinked. "What?"
"I know everything. How you fidget when you're bored. How your eyes turn cold when you're angry. All of it."
"Since when?"
"The first day you stepped into that school. Three years ago. You were fifteen,Now you're eighteen"
A headlights cut through the darkness. My father's car.
"Ella!" my dad called out, pulling to the curb. He hopped out, looking between us. "Who is this?"
"I'm Davis, her senior," the monster lied smoothly.
"It's past midnight, son. What are you doing out?"
"I noticed you hadn't picked her up," Davis said, his voice dripping with fake concern. "It was unusual. I wanted to make sure she was okay."
My dad actually smiled. "Are you guys good friends?"
"Yes," Davis said, casting a side-glance at me. "We get along perfectly."
"Dad, let's go," I snapped.
"Good night, son," my dad said.
Son? Give me a break.
As I walked past Davis to the car, his hand brushed my waist again—a lingering, possessive touch.
Once we were moving, my dad glanced at me. "He seems nice."
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Does he have a girlfriend? He seems to really like you."
"Dad! This wouldn't have happened if you'd shown up on time."
"I'm sorry. I slept off."
"Slept off? Where was Mom?"
"She thinks you're grown up enough to get home yourself."
"I am grown up. I don't need you picking me up anymore."
"Shut the fuck up and stop shouting at your father" he snapped, his temper finally fraying.
"Father? Is that what you call yourself?"
He sighed, his anger turning into that pathetic sadness I hated. He reached over to touch my shoulder. "Ella, I love you. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Stop lying. You've only cared about me since your 'real' daughter died. You're just waiting to sell me off to the highest bidder for Mom's 'business' debts anyway."
He looked like I'd slapped him. "That's your mother's idea, not mine."
"Whatever. Just marry me off. It'll be a relief to get away from both of you."
I didn't wait for him to park. I got out and walked into the house. My stepmom was on the couch, shoving strawberry cake into her mouth.
"Where's your father?" she asked without looking up.
"Don't know. Don't care."
"We need to talk."
"About selling me to a stranger? Don't bother. I'm in. Just tell me when to pack."
I went upstairs and locked my door. I sat on the bed—the bed that used to belong to a dead girl. They used to dress me in her clothes, trying to resurrect a ghost. They failed. They didn't get a daughter; they got a psychopath.
Therapists always tell my parents I'm "incapable of empathy." I prefer to think I'm just efficient. I'm like the kid in The Little Stranger—quiet, but violent. I'm not crazy for others; I'm just crazy for myself.
I reached into my coat pocket and felt something. A folded piece of paper.
Call me, Princess. Followed by a phone number.
He must have slipped it in when he touched my waist.
"Dickhead," I muttered.
I tossed the note into the trash, stripped, and stepped into the shower. I let the water run ice cold, matching the temperature of my blood.