Little Stranger (The Web of Silence Duet, #1)

by Leigh Rivers

His eyes are on the guy I’ve been talking to, and he looks mad. No. Furious.

He slams Adam’s head into the wall with enough force that I cringe at the cracking sound. Once, twice, three times, and blood splatters as Adam goes limp on the ground.

“Adam’s family did say they’d drop the charges under certain conditions.” “What conditions?”

“One condition. We promise Olivia to Adam.” Malachi’s hands fist,

I will kill anyone who touches you.

No matter what traits and descriptors say about Malachi’s diagnosis, whether he’s a psychopath or a sociopath or something else, he’s my big brother, and I will never walk away from him.

I tried to change my strawberry-scented shampoo once, and he threw my new one in the trash and filled my bathroom unit with a supply of the one he loves.

Being so turned on by this is insanity. Maybe I’m the one who needs to see a therapist?

You’re mine.

I heard you snoring. Even over Mom’s ridiculous singing.

“I do not snore.” “Yes, you do, angel,”

“It’s quite unladylik...

Fuck everyone in ...

“Why did you attack Adam in the gas station? We were just talking, and you stormed in and went crazy.”

He was trying to take what was mine.

No. You were mine when we were kids, and you’re mine now. You’ll always be mine.

“Let’s just go to sleep,”

turning off the torch so we’re bathed in darkness.

Don’t silence me like that,

Don’t ever fucking silence me, Olivia.

I can’t fucking talk to you if you can’t see me.

The second our lips touch, the world stops turning, my heart stops beating, and the thoughts telling me I’m twisted, twisted, twisted skid to a halt.

He kisses me like I’m his—like I’ve belonged to him since I was seven and he was eight.

You fuck him again, or anyone else, and I’ll kill them.

Go kiss your future husband, little sister. And when you do, you better think about me and all the ways I’ll fuck you in his blood.

Malachi Vize, innocent only for me, on his knees for his sister, looking like I own him. I do own him.

Say you love me. Say you feel the fucking same way I do about you!

“I don’t love you, Malachi. I could never love someone like you.”

Because I can’t talk? Because I can’t tell you how fucking breathtaking you are every second of every day? Because I can’t breathe without being near you? Someone like me… I’m different—I can’t be normal for you. I can’t defend you without using my fists or my bat, and I can’t touch you at the same time as telling you that you’re everything to me. I can’t whisper sweet nothings ...

Believe me or don’t, but you’re the only person in my life, and you always have been. And when you take your last breath, or I take mine, that won’t fucking change. You. Are. Mine. My goddamn property, do you understand?

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Fucking sorry. That damn word echoes in my psyche—a curse that won’t fuck off. Sorry’s just a word to try to get out of something, to dodge trouble if you’ve been caught out. Sorry’s a five-letter disgrace that shouldn’t even need to be used. It should be abolished from the fucking dictionary. Actions do speak louder than words, and if she’s as sorry as she makes out in her voicemails, then why does she sometimes look happy? Why is she going out partying with her friends? Kissing guys who—shockingly—vanish days later? Why does she dance around her apartment, singing ridiculous songs about love? Why is she living her life without me? If the bitch is sorry, then why is she only looking me up on the internet and not hunting for me? Why isn’t she looking for me?

She left me in there to rot. Well, little sister, no need to look for me anymore. I’m right here, and I intend to stick around until I’ve broken you.

You’re fucking welcome, Olivia. They weren’t enough for you. No one is except me.

He interrupted my meal—maybe now he’ll know better than to take away my food, the fucking asshole.

My girl never needs to worry about anyone hurting her, because her wonderful, ex-con, apparently psychotic brother is free and keeping her out of harm’s way.

she likes to be scared while turned on, and she’s going to be fucking terrified while I chase her down and choke the life out of her.

Babies are just reincarnations of the devil in my opinion,

I’m an asshole—why would I want another one of me?

I open her drawer and pull out her journal. Total invasion of privacy, but it allows me to see into her head without needing to split open her skull and inspect her brain with a magnifying glass.

Ridiculous—I don’t want to kill her; I want to crush her. There’s a difference.

Mmmhmm, go away, Olivia, before I crush your windpipe.

But she was flirting with me, not knowing who I am. Why does that fuck me off so badly?

I want to crack her skull open and feed her the gray matter of her brain, because what the fuck is she doing inviting a stranger out?

I don’t do relationships.

What do you do then?

I drug my sister nearly every night, cuddle her in her unconscious state, clean her apartment, and one time, I stuck my cock in her. I probably shouldn’t say that though.

She’s not smiling at herself in the mirror as she inspects her art—because that’s what Olivia Vize is, a piece of fucking art I want to own. I do own. She just doesn’t know it yet.

You see how good we are together, Olivia? We could’ve had the world, and you had to ruin it. I was going to give you everything you ever wanted. Now I need to take. I nearly have all of you. I have your mind. I have your body. I have your soul. The fear I instill in you. The pain I inflict when you defy me. You have a black heart, little sister, but I’ll own that soon too.

“Run, little stranger.”

She just let a stranger fuck her. Why does that piss me off?