*DAVIS*
She'd probably freak out if she knew I had cameras in her room.
Don't ask me how I did it. Just know that when I want something, I dismantle every barrier until I'm inside.
I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands hard. My skin felt too tight. Looking at her through the screen—damp from the shower, vulnerable, and completely unaware—made me want to drive back over there and claim every inch of her.
Be cool, Davis, I told myself, the words a hollow command. You'll have her soon.
I snapped the laptop shut and headed for the stairs. My father's house was a monument to ego. Why the hell did he make these stairs so long? Every step down felt like descending further into a grave I didn't dig.
"Davis, my darling," my mother's voice drifted from the sitting room as I reached the bottom floor.
I didn't look at her. I didn't stop.
I haven't spoken a word to my mother in years, unless my father has a gun—metaphorical or otherwise—to my head.
"Davis, I'm talking to you." She stepped into my path, her eyes rimmed with red. "When are you going to stop this? I said I'm sorry."
I stopped then. I let a slow, jagged smile spread across my face. I looked her dead in the eyes, letting her see the hope ignite in hers—then I simply stepped around her like she was a piece of furniture.
"Davis Malcherson!" she screamed.
I spun on my heel, the air in the room suddenly turning electric. I charged back into the sitting room, closing the distance until I was looming over her.
"Don't you dare use that name," I hissed. "You lost the right to call me that the second you became a fucking traitor. You're a bitch, not a mother."
"I said I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Sorry? For what exactly? The lies? The affairs?"
"For everything."
"Oh, right. Well, you should start by being sorry for giving birth to me. You should be apologizing to the universe for bringing me into this shithole."
"No," she gasped, reaching for my arm. I recoiled. "I'm happy you're mine. You came out of me, Davis. You are my blood."
"Tell that to my brother. You know, the one who spends every waking hour trying to put a bullet in my back?"
"He isn't trying to kill you," she pleaded. "Alfred is just... he's jealous."
"Jealous?" I barked out a laugh. "That's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."
"Enough."
The voice was like a heavy iron gate slamming shut. My father stood in the archway, flanked by Alfred. The golden son. The "perfect" brother.
I scoffed, trying to walk past them to the front door.
"You aren't going anywhere, you little mother-fucking asshole," my father warned, his hand moving toward his belt.
"Asshole?" I repeated, my voice rising with every syllable. "Asshole? Asshole!"
"Oh, Dad, just let the freak go," Alfred chimed in, leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. "He's better off alone. No one wants him here anyway."
I walked up to Alfred, towering over the short, sniveling bitch. I let my shadow swallow him whole.
"I'm tired of you using this 'perfect son' act to squeeze me out," I said, my voice low and vibrating. "Why don't you show them the real Alfred? The one who enjoys the screams? Let's see if they accept you then."
"Davis, move away from him," my father growled.
"Father, will you shut the fuck up and let me speak for once?"
The room went dead silent. I saw the terror flicker in my mother's eyes. No one told the Boss to shut up. No one.
"I'm always the villain, right? The bad one." I turned back to Alfred, pointing a finger at our mother. "Keep it that way. Because you have no idea what kind of psychopath you're actually dealing with. If I'm a monster, Alfred, blame the woman who carried me. You have no clue what's living inside her."
I didn't wait for the explosion. I walked out, the heavy front door thudding behind me.
I needed a cigarette. I lit one, the nicotine hitting my lungs like a cold blessing. The night air was sharp, but I didn't feel it. I felt her.
I needed a distraction. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of the Jones's house.
I knew it was stupid. I knew she was in bed. But my hand moved on its own, rapping against the wood of the door.
It was her father who opened it.
I forced the "gentleman" mask back into place. "Hello, sir."
He smiled, looking relieved to see a "nice boy" like me. "Oh, it's the senior from earlier. Ella's already asleep, son."
"Oh, really?" I asked, playing the part of the disappointed suitor. I already knew she was in bed; I'd seen her crawl under the covers ten minutes ago.
"Yeah. You'll see her at school tomorrow, I'm sure."
"Of course. Goodnight, sir."
He slammed the door, leaving me in the dark. I considered climbing the trellis to her window, but I forced my feet to turn back toward my own hellhole.
When I got back to my room, the door was ajar.
Alfred was sitting at my desk, my laptop open.
"Oh, you're back," he said, spinning the chair around. "I didn't know my little brother was such a pervert."
"Get out," I said. The threat wasn't a shout; it was a promise.
"What will Mom and Dad say if they find out you've been playing voyeur for three years? Stalking the same girl since she was fourteen?"
He knew. The bastard knew.
"Do I look like I give a fuck what they think?"
"Brave," he chuckled, standing up and walking toward me. "Very brave."
"Leave," I said, my hand twitching toward the knife in my pocket. "Before I throw you out that window."
He saw the look in my eyes and his smile faltered. "Goodnight, little bro."
He left, nearly taking the door off its hinges. I lunged for the laptop, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pulled up the feed.
My princess was awake.
But she wasn't just sitting up. My blood turned to ice as I watched her hand move. She held a lighter. The flame flickered, a tiny orange demon in the dark of her room.
She pressed the metal to the skin of her thigh.
"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered to the screen, my grip on the desk tightening until the wood creaked.
I'd watched her for years. I'd seen her cold, I'd seen her angry, I'd seen her bored. But I had never seen this.
I was halfway to the door, ready to sprint across the neighborhood and break down her door, when she stopped. She dropped the lighter and buried her face in her pillow.
The audio picked it up. A muffled, broken sound.
"I'm tired," she sobbed. "I'm so tired."
I slammed the laptop shut. I couldn't watch it.
The "Ice Queen" was cracking, and for the first time, I realized I wasn't the only one breaking her. Someone else was hurting my property.
I fell back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. My chest felt hollow. I wanted to be there. I wanted to hold her hands down so she couldn't hurt herself, and then I wanted to kill whoever made her feel that "tired."
"Wait for me, Princess," I whispered into the dark. "I'm coming for you."