Page 29 of Dear Owen

He tried to push past me, to run, but I was faster. I shoved him back, pinning him against the wall. “Do you even remember her name?” I asked, my voice a low growl.

“What?” He shook his head, his confusion quickly turning to panic. “No—I mean?—”

“That’s what I thought.” My knife pressed against his throat, the edge biting into his skin just enough to draw blood. “You don’t even remember her, but you thought you could take something from her. Fromme.”

“She was already there!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “You—you tied her up! You brought us in! It wasn’t just me?—”

“And now it’s just you,” I said coldly, silencing him with a swift, calculated strike.

The rest of them knew me, too. That was the thing about being the golden boy on campus. My name carried weight, whether I wanted it to or not.

Some tried to reason with me, their voices trembling as they reminded me of our shared circles, our mutual friends.

“Come on, Sinclair,” one of them pleaded, his back pressed against the wall of a dingy frat house. “We’re on the same side here!”

Others tried to fight back, their desperation driving them to lash out. But it didn’t matter. I was stronger, faster, more driven by a purpose they couldn’t comprehend.

One by one, I hunted them down. I made them pay by taking away from them the part of them that touched her. And with each act, the weight of my guilt grew heavier, even as the fire of my obsession burned brighter.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the world outside was beginning to blur. Blood stained my clothes, my hands, my thoughts. I looked at myself in the mirror, my reflection barely recognizable.

The man staring back at me was a stranger—his eyes hollow, his face gaunt, his body trembling with the aftermath of violence.

But it wasn’t regret that I felt. It wasn’t remorse.

It was love. Twisted, broken, all-consuming love.

Kira had unraveled me, stripped me down to my rawest, most primal self. And I’d do it all over again.

I reached out, my bloody fingers brushing against the glass.

She was mine.

And no one—no one—would ever hurt her again.

Twenty-Six

The soft humof the heater filled the quiet space around me, blending with the faint rustle of leaves outside the window. Liam’s house was so still, the silence pressing in on me. It was nothing like the chaos of my dorm or the overwhelming noise of campus life. Here, there were no distractions, no excuses. Just me, and the thoughts I couldn’t outrun.

I sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at my phone. The calendar notification stared back at me, a reminder of the therapy session I’d been avoiding. After my first appointment, the therapist had suggested scheduling a month’s worth of sessions. At the time, I’d nodded along, too exhausted to argue. But now, as I stared at the screen, the idea of unpacking everything again made my stomach churn.

The iPod on the nightstand caught my eye, its sleek surface glinting faintly in the dim light. Memories of last night clawed at me—the wayMinehad wrapped around me like a dark, intimate secret. It had opened something I wasn’t ready to face.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. There wasn’t time for that now. Therapy came first.

By the time I stepped into the waiting room, my pulse was a steady drumbeat in my ears. I sank into the chair by the window, clutching my phone like a lifeline until the door opened, and Dr. Rose greeted me with a warm, patient smile.

Once inside her office, I settled into the familiar couch, my legs curling under me like a shield. Dr. Rose sat across from me, her hands loosely clasped in her lap, waiting.

“So, Kira,” she began after a beat, her voice calm and grounding. “How have you been since our last session?”

I hesitated, staring at the carpeted floor as if it might offer answers. “I’ve been... okay. I mean, not great, obviously. But not terrible either.”

She nodded, her gaze steady but gentle. “Okay is a start. What’s been on your mind?”

I bit my lip, fingers picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I listened to something,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper. “A playlist someone made for me.”

“Someone?” she prompted softly, though her tone suggested she already knew who I meant.

---