Page 8 of Grave Intentions

The question catches me off guard. This ten-year-old girl sees too much and understands too deeply. It’s dangerous. She’s dangerous.

“Safer than caring about someone who’ll end up broken or dead.” I grab her glass, dumping the remaining water in the sink. “Stop trying to understand me, Lena. Stop trying to be my friend.”

“I won’t.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“You should be scared of me.” I turn back, towering over her small frame. “I’m not good, Lena.” I step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “There’s nothing but darkness inside me. My parents made sure of that before I even got here.”

Her small frame refuses to retreat despite my looming presence. The stubborn light in her eyes makes my jaw clench. She needs to understand—she needs to stay away.

“The things I’ve done, the things I’m capable of...” I grip the counter, knuckles white. “You think you know darkness becauseof the Wilsons? They’re nothing. I’ve seen real monsters. Been shaped by them. Become one.”

“You protect me,” she whispers.

“Because I’m possessive. Obsessive. It’s not kindness driving me—it’s something darker.” The truth spills out, raw and ugly. “When I hurt people, I enjoy it. When I take those beatings meant for you? Part of me loves the pain and craves it. That’s not normal. That’s not good.”

“But—”

“No.” I slam my hand on the counter, making her jump. “Stop trying to find light where there isn’t any. I’m telling you what I am. A creature full of violence and rage. The only difference between me and them is that I’ve chosen you as mine to protect. That doesn’t make me better. It makes me worse.”

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, but she doesn’t run. Still, she looks at me like I’m worth saving.

“You should fear me more than them,” I growl. “Because at least they’re honest about their cruelty. I hide mine behind protection. But it’s still there, Lena. Always there. Growing stronger every day.”

The innocence in her eyes cuts deeper than any of Mr. Wilson’s blows. She reaches for my hand, her small fingers barely covering my palm.

“We could help each other,” Lena says, her voice carrying that childish hope I lost years ago. “Like... like when you share cookies at lunch. The hurt gets smaller when you share it.”

My chest constricts. Such simple logic. Such dangerous thinking.

“You can’t fix me, Lena.” I pull my hand away. “I’m not some broken toy that needs putting back together. I was never whole to begin with.”

“But—” She wrings her hands, searching for words too big for her ten-year-old vocabulary. “But you’re nice to me. Even when you pretend not to be. And I could be nice back.”

The urge to touch her face, to memorize every detail of her innocent expression, surges through me. That’s exactly why I need to stay away. These possessive thoughts aren’t normal—especially not toward a child. I’m fourteen, old enough to recognize the darkness of my obsession.

“Stop.” I back away, forcing steel into my voice. “I’m not nice. I’m not your friend. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance.”

“But—”

“No.” I cut her off, hating how my harsh tone makes her flinch. “This ends now. We’re not having cookies together. We’re not sharing our pain. We’re not anything.”

Tears well in her eyes, but I force myself to turn away. Every protective instinct screams at me to stay, to comfort her. But that’s the problem. My version of protection is twisted, warped by years of abuse and neglect. She deserves better than my corrupted form of care.

I stride away. Behind me, I hear her quiet sniffle, and my fists clench. But I keep walking because the alternative—giving in to this obsessive need to possess and protect her—would destroy us both.

7

LENA

THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

Three years later…

The hallway bustles with high school drama, but I keep my head down, clutching my books. Four years with the Wilsons have taught me how to stay invisible.

“Hey, charity case!” Jessica Martin’s shrill voice cuts through the crowd. “Where’d you get those shoes? The dumpster?”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I glance down at my worn sneakers. The other girls snicker, forming a circle around me.

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