Page 7 of Reckless Hearts

I knew the risks.

It was a little over a year ago, after that third time hanging out with Callie. We’d just had an absolute blast screaming our way through Madonna, Taylor Swift, and the Talking Heads at karaoke. I was back home, sweaty from all the dancing, hoarse, and slightly buzzed, when my phone lit up with the friend request.

That’s when the record scratched, and my heart went still when I realized that the “Callie” I’d been having such a grand time with all night wasCalliope.

As in CalliopeDrakos.

I’d even checked her profile just to be sure. But of course it was obvious in seconds, from the family pictures and the “also friends with” section where his dark, black eyes lanced right out of my phone screen and straight into my very soul.

It was a frozen moment, one that I knew even a little drunk was my fork in the road. I could ignore the friend request and let our fledgling friendship fizzle before it even got started. I could fade away and make damn sure I’d never chance crossing paths with Deimos again.

Or I could take a breath, and an even bigger leap.

Obviously, that’s what I did. I hit “accept friend request”, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Part of it was that I really liked Callie. Another part was that, as I’ve said, I’d never had an easy time making friends. And now my group of two—Eilish and Neve—could potentially expand tothreewhole friends.

But another big part of it was my obsession with riding the line between excitement and fear. My ill-advised need to tiptoe as close to the edge of the cliff as possible, feeling the tug of gravity right before it yanks you over into the abyss.

So, no. I didn’t befriend Callie or allow myself to be welcomed into her family without knowing the risk. Iknewdeep down that there was a chance I’d find myself in front of him again. Even if I played as carefully as I could.

I have a social media presence, but I don’t have any photos of myself up, nor do I use my real last name of Roy. That’s not because of Deimos, either. I’ve done that since before my brief time at Knightsblood.

Because there’swaytoo many demons in my past to make it wise for me to put pictures of myself up on the internet.

But even still. Even with no photographs, and my new friends knowing how I felt about that and honoring my request not to post any pictures with me in them, and even with using the obviously fake “Dahlia Gahlia” instead of Dahlia Roy on my profile…

There were risks. And I knew them. And I still took that step out over the edge.

And now gravity is coming for revenge, for cheating it all this time.

My pulse jangles in my ears, the color fading from my face as I lift my wide eyes to his lethal, menacing, dark orbs. I remember thinking when I first laid eyes on him that they were like a shark’s eyes—midnight black and glinting with a dangerous edge, just like the teeth that come with them.

And in this moment, just like any other time I’ve ever found myself locking eyes with this devil, it’s like I lose the ability even to move.

I’ve been a complete idiot. There’s no running from Deimos. There’s not even anyblinkingaround Deimos. Or breathing. Or remembering how to force your mouth to make words.

His lips curl up dangerously at the corners. But it’s not a smile. It’s not even one of the supremely off-putting grins I’ve seen on his face before.

It’s pure malice. Sheer anger. Utter destruction. It’s war, famine, pestilence, and death—all four horsemen of the apocalypse together, etched across his face and haunting the black shadows in his eyes.

He’s classically beautiful, too. Which I always thought was such an outrageously fucked up thing for chance to have to done to a man like him. That something so malicious and devious—someone so cold and calculating andinhumaninside—could have won the genetic lottery and have such a physically perfect exterior.

Full lips. A strong, sharp jawline, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. The shock of dark hair which only makes his pale skin look even paler, almost supernaturally so. The height, and the broad shoulders. Themuscles. The tattoos snaking up his neck and down his forearms.

The flash of completely straight white teeth, like a wolf before the pounce and the tearing of the jugular.

That’s what he is, and what he’s always been: a wolf. A beast masquerading as a human being.

“I’m going to ask thisone more time,” he rumbles quietly, his deep, rasping voice like leather and velvet, like smoke and whiskey as it teases into my ears. I choke back a gasp as his strong fingers and veined hands tighten just a little more around my throat. The overhead string lights glint in his eyes. “What thefuckare you—”

“D!!!”

The change is instantaneous.

Deimos has never once been accused of being remotely charming, smiley, or jovial. And plenty of people have been unnerved by him, if not more than a little scared.

But I know I’m one of a very select group who’ve truly seen the darkness behind the mask. I’ve looked the devil in the eye and seen the true psychotic nature he hides behind that beautiful face.

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