Switching Graves (Ravenshurst University Duet #1)

by Jen Stevens

For the girls who would bang a serial killer because he’s “misunderstood”

“I’ll love you until the world burns,” she calls out with a sad smile. “And even then,” I reply, then watch her with tears running down my cheeks until she disappears around the corner.

“Therapy is like planting little seeds of hope inside someone’s head. They’ve still got to put in the work, watering the seeds and nurturing the soil. That’s what I want to help with. Once we do that, the flowers that bloom are beautiful.”

we were both stuck in situations that weren’t serving us, so we grabbed fate by

So, we’re not shooting magic out of wands and flying on broomsticks?” “No, that’s what the dragons are for,” I deadpan,

I prefer the solitude of the library or my own bedroom over the stimulation of being around my peers. Constantly wondering if I’m saying the right thing or acting the right way and overanalyzing people’s reactions.

“Trust me, Little Nightmare. I know more about you than anyone else on this campus.”

It’s hard to be someone you’re not, and far too easy to crumble under the weight of social anxiety.

“Believe me, Little Nightmare, if it were my tongue buried inside of you, there wouldn’t be a single thing that could distract you. God himself could appear above your head, and you’d have no idea.”

This game doesn’t include her, I’ve realized. She’s only a misplaced piece from a completely different box.

“As much as I’d love to leave every light on to witness each menial detail of the multiple orgasms you’re about to have, I have a sense that you’ll be quite loud. I don’t want anyone interrupting us because they think I’m murdering you,” he explains,

“I have this fear that once I get a taste of you, the craving will never subside. You’re an addiction I can’t seem to kick. But you’re going to make torturing you so delicious.”

I wish I could admit that I’ve experienced loss as well. That grief follows me along everywhere I go, and while most people have nothing to offer aside from pity or awkward condolences, I can understand exactly how deep those wounds can go.

I know what you’re thinking . . . “Well, Sonny, he did tell you it would only happen once, and then everything could go back to normal.” Blah, blah, blah. Too bad, I gaslit myself into believing that, after the connection we shared—and the copious amount of sex we had in one single night—he would change his mind on that. I’m aware of how naive I sound.

“It means I’m incapable of going back to the way things were before. I had a taste, and I’m addicted.”

“You’re the worst distraction I could have ever asked for, Little Nightmare. I don’t give in to my desires often, but you’re simply too good to let go.”

“You’re mine to play with,” he practically growls into my ear. “Whenever and wherever I please.”

I’m thoroughly fucked. Absolutely obliterated.

If I weren’t so hellbent on destroying her, I’d dismantle the patriarchy right alongside her.

I’m the opposite of hope. I am despair. I am misery and anguish. I’m death incarnate.

My mother would say that a dream about dark water was a bad omen. That they meant death was coming for someone you loved dearly.