He takes my hand, and I allow it. I want to see what he’s going to do, what he wants. I’m not surprised to find out that he already knows who I am. We weren’t the only ones who came here tonight looking for someone.

“You’re as enchanting as I thought you’d be, Bernadette,” the guy says, releasing my hand. The bones suspended from the ceiling spin slightly in the breeze from the janky ass air conditioning unit. It’s as hot as the surface of the fucking sun in here, but I feel instantly cold as I stare back at James Barrasso, the heir to the Grand Murder Party and its strange connections to the Charter Crew, to Ophelia, to Neil. “Tell your husband that I said hi.”

He turns and disappears easily into the crowd as I turn and find Victor standing beside me. His entire body is taut, like a bowstring.

“What the fuck was that about?” I ask, because the way Vic’s staring at me is terrifying in its own right, like he might lose me before he’s ever really had me.

And I don’t like that. Not one motherfucking bit.

“I just wanted to see how bold he was,” Victor tells me, reaching up to push a particularly low-hanging bone away from his face. He’s goddamn terrifying, the way he looks after James. I think again about his hands around Logan’s throat; I wonder what the boys did to Kyler. He will not be attending school at Prescott High next Monday. That much I do know.

“And?” I ask, panting, sweating. For some reason, I’m so nervous all of a sudden that my stomach hurts. The reason Victor looks the way he does, the reason Aaron’s face is so dark and drawn, is because there are only two outcomes to this game: either we win, or we die.

That’s it.

Victor looks down at me with his endless black eyes, and I swear to god, the crowd makes a bubble around him. It’s as if they can sense the way he’s staring at me, like he’s going to consume me.

“Would you dance with my girl in front of me?” he asks, and I shiver.

No.

No, I most definitely would not.

Any break from the nightmare that is Prescott High is a good break, even one that has me resting on the couch more often than not. I’m so fucking sore from dancing at the club that I fall asleep on it as soon as we get home.

When I wake up, Oscar is sitting on the opposite sofa and staring at me.

He’s shirtless and beautiful, his body dipped in ink by the hands of some dark, unforgiving goddess. He’s a wet dream on the outside, a nightmare on the in. The way he’s sitting with his back ramrod straight, the HAVOC tattoo on his knuckles stretched and straining with tension, I can tell he’s about to drop a serious bomb on my ass.

What that bomb is, exactly, I have no idea.

“We need to talk,” he says as I groan, sitting up and rubbing at the side of my head with the heel of my hand. What was in those shots?! I wonder, because I swear to you, I haven’t had a hangover since I was like, thirteen and got so drunk on a bottle of Everclear that Penelope had to sit up with me all night to make sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit.

I didn’t get drunk again after that, not until after she died.

“No shit,” I murmur, slumping into the cushions and then wincing as the edge of my phone digs into my ass. With a curse, I dig it out and check the time. It’s barely seven-thirty in the morning. No wonder I feel like such crap; I’m probably still drunk. “What do you want?”

I don’t mean to snap at him like that, but how can I be vulnerable with him? How can I show him a softer part of me, the way I do Victor or Aaron? Because every time that I do, he lashes back at me like I’ve wounded him. That sort of behavior starts to hurt after a while.

He just stares at me in that way of his, slate-gray eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Whatever it is that he wants to say, he’s having to rip it from the very depths of his soul. Whatever it is, it’s been stitched into his spirit for so long that it’s become a part of his identity. Based on the tension in his shoulders and the frantic flutter of his pulse, I can only assume that this is about something I’ve done to him. Twisted him in some way. Broken him.

“The night we fucked, I was a virgin,” he tells me, and then he sips his coffee, holding it in two inked hands. There is an upside down cross on his stomach. He’s telling me he was a virgin.

My brain isn’t making the connection.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, because I know it for sure now. I’m still drunk.

Oscar stares back at me, his glasses sliding low on his nose as he holds his mug to his lips and blows on it, steam fluttering around in the gray early morning light.

“You heard me,” he says, and I did, but … I really am not getting it. I saw him put a gun to a pedophile’s head and pull the trigger as easily as some people might crush a spider. It’s death, sure, but it means nothing. “I wanted you to understand why I left.” He sips the coffee again, but he doesn’t stop staring at me.

“You’re a virgin?” I ask, but only my mouth is really asking the question. My head is still catching up to the idea. Oscar pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth.

“Was,” he corrects, and then the mug finishes its journey. The shape of that mouth … the sharpness of that face … I wish I were the mug in that moment. He licks his upper lip, and I close my eyes. “Was a virgin.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, keeping my eyes closed. There’s a small sound, like clinking china, and when I open them again, Oscar is right there in my face. His hands are on either side of me, long, tatted fingers curled around the back of the couch.

“Yes, you do. You were my first fuck, Bernadette. You and that bloody pussy of yours.”

“Please stop,” I say, but my eyes are on his mouth for whatever reason.

“I’ve decided that I’m sick and tired of warning you. You asked for me. You may very well regret having me.”

My hands come up to touch Oscar’s chest, and he lets me. He lets me drag my fingers down his body the way I wanted to do the other day when he wouldn’t let me. He most definitely has a problem with touch. My skin prickles, and a nervous energy takes over me. I know all about people who are afraid of touch. They’re afraid of it because someone else wielded it against them.

“I can’t believe you were a virgin,” I say with a little laugh, but the sound is strangled. It’s not, like, some sweet thing on Oscar Montauk. It’s terrifying. Because I’m not stupid, it just has to be. He’s a very dangerous man, and I get the sense that he’d be willing to do things the others wouldn’t to ensure my safety—even if that meant hurting me in order to achieve that end.

“See, the thing is,” Oscar starts, putting a knee between my thighs. My dress is so short that the movement of me spreading my legs causes it to ride up, revealing my panties. “I have so many awful urges that I was afraid I’d hurt somebody if I fucked them.”

I lift my eyes from Oscar’s mouth to his slate-colored eyes.

“But me?” I ask, because it really does need to be said. If he doesn’t say it, then what can I do with him?

“You,” Oscar starts, drawing his fingers down my arm. They continue their journey until he’s brushing them against the wet front of my panties. “Are very different. You I knew I wouldn’t kill. So I fucked you. Right here on this couch.”

“Oscar, goddamn it,” I groan, but he’s stroking me in just such a way that I feel paralyzed. “What are you trying to say?”

He laughs at me then, but I’m already too far-gone to care. I’m just drunk enough that my inhibitions are down yet I’m still fully aware of what’s going on.

“Do you know why I have so much ink?” he asks, putting his mouth against my ear. My entire body shudders. “Or why my cock is pierced?”

“I won’t know, unless you tell me,” I breathe back, shifting again and groaning as he pushes my panties aside and starts to stroke the slick wetness between my thighs.

Oscar pauses then and draws back abruptly. He’s frowning down at me as I struggle to pull in a full breath, sweaty and wanting on the couch.

“I will. But not today. You’re distracting, Bernadette. You’re going to get us all killed. I hope you understand that I still think that, that you’re a liability.” I kick at him, but he’s already moving back around the coffee table and picking up his mug. “Did you see us the other night? Five demons fucking you so furiously. But how long can demons share without eating one another?”

I sit up and shove my dress down my thighs, clenching my teeth as I grind out a reply.

“That’s up to the demons, isn’t it? That isn’t up to me.” I watch him as he turns around, carefully licking the two fingers that are slick with my juices. He cleans them with his tongue while we stare at each other.

“This,” Oscar says, swirling his finger in the air for a moment. “Is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Just be aware.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. “I have to go, but you’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? You’re not going anywhere, are you Bernadette? No matter how poorly we treat you.”

“Keep on going, Oscar, and see how pissed off you can make me before I retaliate,” I snap, feeling some of that old fire flare inside of me. I did choke the guy after all. Maybe he really was being nice, but maybe not. I don’t want to find out.

“Do you want to know what I’m doing today?” he continues, as if there isn’t tension between us so thick you could cut it and watch it bleed. “I’m meeting with several informants. Likely, one of them works for the GMP. I just have to decide if it’s worth killing them all to make sure I get the right one.”

I have no idea what the hell to say to that, so I say nothing.

“Some queen you are,” Kali snorts, but I ignore her. At least the guys know I’m hallucinating now. That should go over well.

“What’s your point?” I ask, wondering if he expects some sort of reaction out of me.