Page 74 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

November 11th

I had sex with Thatcher tonight. That feels so strange to write, like I’m talking about someone else’s life, someone else’s choices. But it was me in that room, me with my hands against the cold concrete wall, me making sounds I didn’t know I could make as he moved inside me.

The most fucked up part? I loved it. Every second. Even the parts that should have horrified me… being watched, being claimed, being owned… lit something inside me that I didn’t know was there.

There’s a thin line between hate and love, and tonight I think I fell right through it. I still hate him for the blackmail, for the manipulation, for dragging me into whatever the hell that organization is. But God help me, I want him again. I want to feel him inside me, want to hear those possessive words in my ear, want to surrender to something bigger than myself.

Next time (and there will be a next time, I know it as certainly as I know my own name), I want to see him in that mask again. I want to fuck the monster who stalked me at that Halloween party, the one who’s been haunting my nightmares. Maybe then I can reconcile these two versions of him in my mind—the threat and the protection, the nightmare and the salvation.

The most unbelievable part of all of this? I’m getting away with murder. Actually getting away with it. Thatcher is protecting me, shielding me from consequences that should have destroyed my life. Jack is dead, and I’m the one who killed him, but somehow I’m going to walk away from this.

I should feel guilty. I should be consumed with remorse. But all I feel is relief, and a twisted gratitude to the man who’s made himself my owner to keep me safe.

I’ve entered some alternate reality where the rules I’ve lived by my whole life no longer apply. Where killing someone doesn’t lead to punishment, but to protection. Where hate and desire are two sides of the same coin. Where surrendering control somehow makes me feel more powerful than I’ve ever been.

I don’t recognize myself anymore. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe the Rhea who went to that Halloween party was always just a shadow of who I could be, who I am now becoming.

Whatever happens next, whatever this thing with Thatcher evolves into, I’m in it now. I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back.

And the scariest part? I don’t want to go back.

I belong to him now. And I think maybe I always did, from the first moment he saw me.

I think I might be falling for the devil himself.

Chapter 16

Cassidy is being unusually quiet this morning.

The apartment is silent, too silent, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. Usually, she’d be blasting some music or talking about something, but today, she it’s just off. I think my cat can feel it too because he’s nowhere to be found, he doesn’t like this vibe.

I watch her fill her mug with coffee and take a silent sip. The air feels heavy, like something unsaid is hanging between us.

Maybe there is.

I guess because last night before I was taken. Cassidy found me bawling my eyes out before she left for the night to see the guy she’s dating.

She had tried to get me to talk, tried to get me to tell her what the hell had happened between me and Thatcher, but I couldn’t even form words. After the shitshow she witnessed firsthand in the parking lot, I didn’t know how to explain. How do you tellyour best friend that you agreed to be a psychopath’s possession to cover a murder you committed and now he’s refusing to keep your relationship with him a secret and also ordering you around like a dog? But now, I have bigger problems on my hands, don’t I? How am I supposed to tell her about last night? There’s no way that I can.

My spoon noisily clinks against my bowl of cheerios, breaking the veil of silence that hovers between us. Cassidy’s eyes flicker up, and for a brief moment, I see the hesitation in them. She isn’t going to push me. She never does. But I know she’s waiting. Waiting for me to let her in.

“I’m fine,” I say, not believing the words even as they leave my mouth.

Cassidy doesn’t respond right away, but I feel her studying me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. She doesn’t ask any questions, though. She just takes another sip of her coffee, her eyes still on me. The quiet is deafening.

She sinks down next to me with a slightly anxious look on her face.

“Okay,” she mutters. “This is killing me, and I can’t keep it to myself anymore. I know you probably don’t want to hear anything about this, but I have to tell you… Okay, maybe I shouldn’t tell you…” she rambles.

“What is it?”

She bites her lip, hesitating, and I can tell whatever she’s about to say is weighing on her. “It’s just… Thatcher,” she says finally, her voice soft, like she’s treading carefully.

“What about him?”

“He’s a part of something, Rhea. Something more than a fraternity.”

I feel a knot form in my stomach at the mention of this because I’m a part of it now apparently. But I have no clue what it is exactly. The masks, the group of men, fucking me in that weirdbasement place. My instinct is to brush it off, but the look on Cassidy’s face stops me.

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