C1 Chapter 1

The storm outside was relentless, turning the night into a blackout of heavy rain and wind. Inside, the only illumination came from a few scattered candles, which threw jittery, distorted shadows against the walls. The house was settling with loud, agonizing creaks that easily drowned out the storm. Spooked by the shifting shapes in the dark, I pulled the blankets up to my chin, my eyes scanning the bedroom. Finding nothing, I pressed my back flat against the wall, determined to keep my blind spots covered.

Naturally, my brain chose this exact moment to replay every horror movie trope I’d ever seen. Just as panic started to tighten its grip, a sound cut through the thunder: the distinct, rhythmic scuff of footsteps on the hardwood downstairs.

I was supposed to be completely alone.

Terrified but unable to handle the agonizing suspense of hiding, I knew I had to check it out. I reached up to my bookshelf and grabbed the heaviest thing I could find—a thick book.

Down the hall, the footsteps sounded again. My stomach dropped. I instantly regretted not having a real weapon. Moving with agonizing care, I rolled my weight from toe to heel to silence my steps, holding my breath as I crept into the darkness. I hadn’t even thought to grab a flashlight. My phone was dead, and I cursed myself for ignoring my mother’s old-fashioned advice to keep a landline.

The living room was completely empty. I checked the front door lock three times, then a fourth, just to be sure. As the wind howled down the chimney, a absurd wave of paranoia hit me—could someone actually squeeze down that vent? I kept glancing over my shoulder, the prickly, unnerving sensation of being watched crawling across my skin. For a split second, I even wondered if the place was haunted.

I reached for the kitchen light switch, flipping it repeatedly. Nothing. The grid was entirely blown. A sudden, blinding flash of lightning cracked so close the thunder rattled my ribs, sending me jumping out of my skin.

Deciding the book was useless, I traded it for an old baseball bat from the closet. A knife crossed my mind, but swinging felt a lot more manageable than stabbing. I forced myself to check every single room, corner, and hiding spot. Nothing.

Slightly relieved but still on edge, I retreated to my bedroom. Then it hit me: while I was busy searching the rest of the house, someone easily could have slipped into my room.

I froze, keeping my distance from the bed, terrified an arm might reach out from underneath.

Then I noticed the closet. The door was shut tight. I distinctly remembered leaving it open—an old habit born from watching too many thrillers where the killer hides inside.

Gripping the bat tightly with one hand, I crept forward. My palm sweated against the wooden doorknob. I counted to three in my head, yanked the door open, and swung blindly into the dark. The aluminum bat clattered uselessly against plastic hangers and winter coats. Empty.

Another roll of thunder shook the house. I tried to slow my racing pulse, reminding myself of the ultimate horror movie rule: never turn your back to an open room.

Too late. A sudden puff of warm air hit the back of my neck.

My muscles locked instantly. Before I could even scream, a pair of large hands gripped my waist from behind. I was completely paralyzed. His lips brushed against my earlobe, his hot breath sending a shudder down my spine as he leaned into my neck. Wait. He didn't have a weapon, but I did.

Wrenching myself around, I swung the bat toward his head. He didn't even blink—he just reached out and caught the metal barrel with a single hand, stopping it dead in its tracks.

"I wouldn't do that, sweet face," a smooth, velvet voice rumbled through the dark. He leaned back in, his lips brushing my neck with a familiar, infuriating confidence.

The voice clicked instantly. The panic evaporated, replaced by pure annoyance.

"Pretty face, my ass," I muttered, letting the bat clatter to the floor. "What the hell are you doing here, Ivan?"

"Aside from giving you a heart attack?" he teased.

"You didn't scare me."

"Right. Tell that to the clothes hangers you just assaulted."

I looked him over. He was drenched, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. My hands instinctively rested against his damp leather jacket. In the weak glow of the candle, his eyes shifted to a vibrant shade of green.

"How did you even get in?" I asked.

"I needed something."

"It couldn't wait until morning?"

He didn't answer, his rough, calloused hands sliding up from my waist to the hem of my shirt. As much as I wanted to push him away, I didn't want him to let go either.

"What do you want, Ivan?"

"A date."

I stared at him. "You broke into my house in the middle of a storm just to ask me out?"

"Oh, not with you," he said, a wicked smirk pulling at his lips. "Your friend. The blonde one."

I yanked myself out of his grip, retrieving my bat and propping it against the nightstand. "Well, you're out of luck. She already asked your buddy out this morning. You were standing right there."

In a flash, Ivan was behind me again, spinning me around by the hips. "Well then, looks like I'll just have to settle for you. We're going to be spending a lot of time together this summer anyway."

"Joy," I dryly replied.

"You'll learn to love it," he joked, nodding toward the white desk in the corner. "Anyway, I brought you a housewarming gift since I missed the party. See? I’m a gentleman."

He guided me over to the desk, where a small pile of crimson fabric was resting. He picked it up, revealing a scandalously sheer lace lingerie set.

"You always did look incredible in red," he murmured near my ear.

His lips brushed the corner of my mouth, his hands giving my hips a final, lingering squeeze before he stepped back. Suddenly, the thought of him leaving made the dark room feel incredibly lonely again. I wanted him to stay—at least until the power came back. But he was already crossing to the window, sliding it open with practiced ease.

"Sweet dreams," he called out over his shoulder.

With a quick drop from the balcony, he disappeared into the pouring rain. I stood frozen in the center of the pitch-black room, completely alone, left with one burning question: How exactly did he unlock my house?

"What do you think about Charles Daniels?"

The high school hallways smelled exactly like they always did: a terrible mix of body spray and old locker rooms. The rusted blue lockers stretched down the corridor, a few still sporting dark stains from a brutal brawl Ivan had started a couple of days ago. Naturally, Ivan had won, and the school janitor had clearly given up on trying to clean it. It felt like a fitting monument to the final days of our four-year prison sentence.

We were only a few class periods away from total freedom. The hallways were a chaotic mess of seniors ignoring their schedules, signing yearbooks, and trading empty promises to stay in touch after graduation. Everyone was wearing a polite, manufactured smile.

Sabrina and I were leaning against her locker, staring down at an open yearbook. She had dumped her latest boyfriend less than a week ago, which was practically a record for her. Now, she was on the hunt for a summer distraction.

Ever since a sudden growth spurt in middle school, Sabrina couldn't stand being single—especially during the break. Every June, she picked a temporary guy to fill the three-month slot, only to drop him the second September rolled around. Boys simply couldn't keep her attention for long.

"His best friend literally just got released," I pointed out. Charles and Ivan had been joined at the hip since childhood, much like Sabrina and me. The only difference was that we didn't spend our weekends in a holding cell.

"It was just juvenile hall," Sabrina corrected, as if that made a difference. Charles had been busted for everything from petty theft to underage drinking. His massive party three months ago was still legendary; while everyone else scrambled from the flashing sirens, Ivan had casually walked out to the porch, greeted his regular arresting officer, and let himself into the back of the cruiser without handcuffs.

"Same thing," I said, rolling my eyes. "Besides, you know how things are between Ivan and me."

"You mean the massive wall of unresolved tension you two pretend isn't there? It’s suffocating," Sabrina mocked. I chose to ignore her. "Whatever, Charles is hot. I’m going for it."

Sabrina spun around and marched down the hall toward Charles, who was busy tossing old notebooks into a rusted trash can. He slammed his locker shut, turned around, and found my best friend standing right in his path.

Rejection wasn't a concept Sabrina understood. She had a flawless track record with guys. Standing near her always made me feel painfully inexperienced; while she collected exes like hobbies, I had only ever had two real boyfriends.

She worked her usual magic—twirling her hair, placing a hand on his forearm, and flashing that dazzling, perfect smile. She leaned in close, and Charles immediately melted, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and whispering something that made her pretend to blush. Nothing actually made Sabrina blush anymore.

"Staring is bad manners, you know," a voice whispered directly into my ear.

Before I could move, a heavy leather jacket brushed my shoulder. A hand pressed against the locker right next to my head, while another gripped my hip, pulling me back against a solid chest.

"So is violating personal space," I snapped, wrenching myself out of his grip to face him.

Ivan Michaels was undeniably gorgeous—and infuriatingly aware of it. His messy brown hair perfectly framed his green eyes, and he towered over me in his signature, battered leather jacket with the name Evan faded over the pocket.

"Am I crowding you?" he asked, a lazy smirk on his lips.

"If I say yes, will you back off?"

He glanced over at Charles and Sabrina for a fraction of a second before locking his eyes back onto mine. "Only if you ask nicely."

"I'm not begging you for space, Ivan."

"Oh, come on, baby. You know I love it when you beg," he purred, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Drop dead," I muttered, slamming Sabrina’s locker shut.

"Don't tease me."

This was our dynamic. A constant, exhausting game of cat and mouse that had been playing out for four straight years, set to expire in just three months. It all started at my very first high school party. First drink, first terrible shot, and my very first kiss—which, unfortunately, belonged to Ivan.

I still denied it to anyone who asked, even though half the school had witnessed it. It was a stupid game of spin the bottle that Ivan had clearly rigged. When the bottle landed on me, I walked over to his side of the circle, intending to give him a quick, harmless peck on the cheek. But the moment I leaned in, he caught my face in his hands and pulled me into a real kiss. It only lasted a few seconds, but it changed everything. He had ended it with a smug smirk just to maximize my embarrassment.

Ever since, we had been locked in an unspoken battle of sharp wits, heavy sarcasm, and occasional, blurry lines. Maybe I had learned a cynical lesson from Sabrina: I tried the whole romantic relationship thing twice. Both times, I fell hard, and they didn't. I wanted a future; they wanted a placeholder.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. There was absolutely no way I was letting there be a third time.