Category: Fiction

So maybe I pushed too hard with the teasing. But watching her get all worked up is addictive. That flush creeping up her neck, the refusal to meet my eyes—it reminds me of how she looks when I’m making her come, when my fingers are buried inside her and she’s right on the edge. She

The one time I open the door without checking the peephole, I come face to face with the person I’m most desperate to avoid. “Oh.” My face falls. “It’s you.” The frown lines on Stefan’s forehead deepen, carving shadows into his skin. Outside, the morning sun backlights him in gold, making him look like some

The knock at my door makes me jump so hard the journal goes flying. “Shit.” I grab it and shove it under one of the throw pillows on the window seat before I remember the door is locked. “Go away, Stefan! I have nothing to say to you.” “What about Stefan’s grandmother?” Elena’s voice drifts

The house feels colder than usual. Or maybe it’s just the ice churning through my veins as I descend the stairs. Half my thoughts stay on the upper floor. Olivia is upstairs now, locked away, digesting whatever poison my mother fed her. And I’m down here, about to face the woman who helped orchestrate this

I manage to hold it together long enough to get inside and lock the door. Then the tears come. And when they come, they come in devastating waves, each one leaving me more exhausted than the last. They’re the kind of tears that start somewhere deep in your chest, building pressure until they explode outward

Olivia barely speaks as I guide her through the woods. Her hand stays limp in mine, neither pulling away nor squeezing back. The silence eats at me worse than her anger ever could. At least when she’s shouting, I know what she’s thinking. This black fucking void where her feelings should be is swallowing us

“Would you like to walk with me?” Natalia asks, standing by the window with morning light catching the silver threads in her dark hair. “There’s a trail behind the house. Nothing strenuous—I imagine you could use some fresh air after being cooped up.” I should say no. It would be much smarter to stay put

When I step into the Blue Suite, Mikayla is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing fresh clothes—a simple black sweater and jeans that make her look younger, more vulnerable than her usual head-to-toe black. The bruises on her face have darkened to purple-green, and there’s a cut on her lip I don’t remember

The cemetery sprawls before me in the pre-dawn darkness, headstones jutting from frozen earth like broken teeth. My father’s grave sits in the corner, far away from the ostentatious mausoleums of Boston’s elite. It’s a simple black granite marker with equally simple text: Matvey Safonov, 1965-2009. No “beloved husband.” No “loving father.” Just a name and

I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough that the sun sets and gloom takes over the living room. Eventually, feeling gross in ways I can’t quite explain, I go searching for the room Natalia mentioned. I find a small, nice bedroom at the end of the hall. Soft gray walls, white furniture,