Page 37 of Malicious Intentions

Ihurry across campus, my aching body protesting every step as I hurry toward the social sciences building for my first class.

I’m still sore from my encounter in the woods on Saturday with Ghostface. Last night, I dreamed he snuck into my room and ate my pussy until I came all over his face.

I’m running late because I was so exhausted this morning that I didn’t want to get up. I was drowsy like I took those damn sleeping pills. Of course, I know I didn’t.

I try to push thoughts of him away, guilt lodging inside my chest. Even as I dodge students, my backpack filled with textbooks and my laptop, my mind keeps replaying the events in the woods, searching for clues about his identity.

I stifle a yawn as I dodge another group of students, the memory of what happened in the woods Saturday clouding my thoughts.

The man wearingthe Ghostface mask cradled me against him as he carried my sore and limp body through the foggy woods. My words were slurred from exhaustion when I said, “I live?—”

He cut me off, his mechanical-sounding voice whispering, “I know where you live.”

I don’t remember entering the apartment.

When I woke, he was carrying me into my bedroom. He sat me on my bed, removed my sneakers and clothing, and pulled the covers over me.

He didn’t even make it out the door before I fell asleep.

When I woke up a few hours later to pee, I was shocked by my appearance. There was faint bruising around my neck, scratches on my face and limbs from branches, and my nails were a mess from digging my fingers into the soil and bark.

After I showered, I covered the bruising and scratches with makeup and clothing before I set off to find Evan. He was cooking lunch in the kitchen, which shocked me.

“You can cook?”

“Looks like it.” His sarcastic tone irritated me until he turned around. He was shirtless and wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

My eyes drank him in before I looked away. He smirked at me before asking, “You hungry? I made plenty.”

I slid onto the bar stool at the island. “I’m starving.”

“I figured you were since you missed breakfast. You must’ve been exhausted.” His eyes flicked over me before he turned away.

I analyzed his words as he slid a plate of food in front of me. His face was blank, making it impossible to tell if he was the one wearing the mask.

“I haven’t slept well since my mom told me she married your dickhead father, and you became my stepbrother.”

He wiggled his brows. “Is that because you wanna fuck me?”

“Shut up, asshole.”

He smirked at me. “There are advantages to being a Whitmore.”

“I’m not a Whitmore. My last name is Morgan.”

“Not according to university records. You’re Alexis Morgan-Whitmore.”

My hands clenched into fists. “You’re fucking father is an asshole. I can’t believe he changed my name.”

“Why not?” Evan slid onto the barstool beside me. “You’re part of the family.” His voice was bitter like battery acid. Like it burned saying those words.

“Not by choice.” Grabbing my knife and fork, I cut my steak, debating if my reflexes were fast enough to stab him in the leg with the knife.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, his gaze never lifting from his plate. “I’ll have you pinned against the counter and the knife knocked from your hand before you can stab me.” His charcoal eyes locked on mine, burning with desire and promise. “Then I’ll pull your leggings down and eat your pussy until you beg me to fuck you.”

Despite the soreness between my legs, my thighs clenched together. “You’re a pig. And there’s no way in hell I’d beg you for anything.”

His lips twisted in an arrogant grin. “I recall very differently. As should you.” He lifted a bite of steak to his lips, chewing while watching me. “Stop living in denial.”

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