Kill Switch (Devil's Night, #3)

by Penelope Douglas

“He has a tattoo?” Isabella asked me. “I didn’t know that. It’s under his arm. Can’t make it out, though.”

He never cared about me all those years ago.

“What happened that day?” he asked. When I lost my sight? “I fell,” I replied. “From a tree house. I hit my head twice on the way down. Optic nerve damage. Irreparable.”

“I miss seeing things. Movies and the sea.” I paused before continuing. “Your face.”

“I scared you.” “Not an emotion I’m used to being on the receiving end of,” he mused.

“I won’t let you go ag—” He stopped and evened out his voice. “I won’t let you go,” he said. “Hold on.”

I wanted to go all night now, because for the first time in forever, I was seeing things again. And just because I’d lost my sight didn’t mean that I needed to fear getting lost.

They all avoided me. Even though two of my friends went to prison with me, I was the only real criminal here. I was the rapist. The sexual deviant. The sick one. Lock up your daughters, wives, sisters, and moms. Hell, lock up Grandma, too.

“I can fuck my beautiful fiancée anytime I want,” he went on, “and she looks really amazing dressed only in that quarter-of-a-million-dollar necklace around her neck right now. A necklace I bought without asking my daddy for the money.”

I took another drink, kind of wanting to kill myself for a second, too. The shit that came out of my mouth. All for Winter’s sake, because she was my sole motivation in everything I did, and I was kind of fucking ashamed she had that power.

and for a moment, I was reminded of our times together back in the day. When I whispered to hide my voice, but she was mine and I was hers, and she was in my lap, driving my car. Did she ever think about that?

wasn’t taking responsibility for everything. She liked it. “I think I love you,” I said, repeating her words to me all those years ago. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I want you to be my first. It’s okay. Touch me.” I stepped up to her, invading her space and throwing all of her shame back at her. “You’ll be the first to kiss me here.” I flicked her ear. “And here.” I touched her neck. “And here.” I brushed her nipple with my thumb. “I want to feel your body on mine. Am I okay? Am I doing it right? It feels good. Don’t stop. Oh, God. Oh, God. Don’t walk away. Please, I want this. You don’t have to protect me. You want it, too. I’m okay. I want it. I want to feel you so bad.”

“And in your bed tonight, when it’s late and dark, and the rest of the house is quiet, except for my wife’s moans down the hall, and you’re pissed and angry because you think you hate me, but you slip a hand under the covers anyway, because no one will be the wiser if you indulge yourself in the memory of me, I just want you to also know”—I lowered my voice to a whisper—“that’s what red feels like. Anger

and fury and heat and need so strong you’re a fucking animal, Winter. It’s primal.”

“I’ll fuck her and make you come, too.”

wanted him to come back. I wanted him to hurt me. Just as long as he came back.

“Will Grayson is dancing,” Rika answered, sounding like she was embarrassed for him. “Oh, my God, he’s on a table.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll hurt you?” he asked, his tone threatening again. I replied calmly. “No.” “Why?” “Because black.”

“Black?” he pressed. I inched in, getting in his face. “Because I’m in the black right now, and here . . . I think I enjoy myself,” I said, remembering last night and the freedom of risking and fighting and meeting your match. I wanted that life. “The only part of me anyone can ever hurt is my heart, and there’s no one on the planet my heart is more out of reach of than you,” I growled.

“Would you have forgiven me . . .” he asked, “if I’d gone over the side of the tree house with you that day?”

but don’t change the little girl who loves it ‘in the black,’ because I like you there, too. And I will be back for what’s mine when you’re old enough for bigger things.”

“And be good,” he told me. “If I hear anyone touched you, I will crack his fucking skull.”

And I hated that I’d missed him. I hated that so fucking much.

How I still felt the parts about him I loved when I didn’t know it was him I was with. How his arms around me still felt protective and how his whispers reminded me of when I loved the feel of them all over my neck.

The love was what felt good. Unfortunately, it had been one-sided in my experience. I could be tempted to take Will up on his offer to let off some steam, but it wouldn’t be more than that. I wanted him as a friend. The real question was, was he on Damon’s side or mine?

She gave me Winter. Now she was trying to take her away.

“Winter . . .” he groaned, pulling back. “I don’t want to . . .” I picked up pace, and he grabbed my ass, helping me move. “Don’t want to what?” I gasped out. “Make you dirty.”

It had been hard to stay away, but I knew I had to. The closer we got, the sooner I’d hurt her or she’d find out, and then it would be over.

And all I knew in that moment was that I would fight for nothing more than to keep her like this. Innocent and happy and pure.

But then, tightening her hold, she slowly brought herself in and hugged me. My chest swelled, aching like shit, and everything washed over me at once. Her smell, her warmth, her hair and body . . . My lungs caved, and I didn’t know why, but it felt so fucking good. I wrapped my arms around her like a steel band, almost feeling relief at holding something—or someone—for the first time in forever.

Yes, I wanted to see her again. She was mine. In our secluded, secret little world, she was mine. I wanted to watch her dance, and I wanted to steal her away a thousand more times to feel her excitement and fear and live through how vulnerable and sweet she was, but . . . I wanted to keep her happy, pure, and innocent, too. I didn’t want to ruin her. The more time we spent together, and the older she got, the more this would turn into something else. We’d eventually fuck, and she’d make demands I couldn’t fulfill. When she found out who I was, she’d run.

Her face cracked as she smoothed her skirt over her thighs, and she folded her lips between her teeth to keep from crying, but the tears spilled anyway. I told you I was going to hurt you someday.

I hauled her up, wrapped her legs around me, and ate up her full lips, dragging out the bottom one between my teeth and tasting the tears still on her cheeks. “What are you doing?” she asked, probably worried I’d be caught. But I just shook my head, keeping my voice low in case her parents were still awake. “I don’t know, baby,” I told her. “Just don’t let me go, okay?”

“I want it to be you,” she continued, “even if you’re going to disappear on me again, I want it to be you.”

I wanted her first time.

“You. I want you.” She peppered my neck with kisses. “I love how the world looks when I’m with you. I want it to be you.”

I didn’t want her first time. I wanted every time. But I didn’t want to love her, either. I didn’t want it to feel like this. It couldn’t feel like this. When she found out I lied, she’d hate me. This had no future. It was just sex.

I couldn’t do this. She deserved better. Even if it was just this one time, I could do it right. It could mean more. Just with her. “Can you be gentle?” she asked, tears in her throat. I shook my head, still not looking at her. “I don’t do gentle,” I said. “But God, baby, you are tearing me apart right now.”

“So was that red?” she asked, changing the subject. Red? Oh, right. The night of the motorcycle ride. She wanted to know what red felt like. I scoffed. “Maybe like orange.” “Orange?” She looked appalled. “Can it at least be purple?” I laughed under my breath, walking over to her and taking the washcloth off of her. “Purple, then.” I helped her to her feet so we could get her clean, and she found her way under the water, wetting her hair.

“When can I see red?” she asked.

I planted my hand on the wall, holding her face with the other one, as I stared down at her and saw all the shit that was going to eventually hit the fucking fan. When you find out who ju...

Winter’s age wasn’t the problem to me. I didn’t even see it. The crime was I couldn’t tell her who I was. And the crime was she didn’t love me back. Her heart was so shallow, she couldn’t understand and know that I was real. Every moment with her, I was real. I would’ve been faithful, and I would’ve died protecting her. As soon as she knew, though, she cut me out. It was over. That quickly, she hated me, her fickle heart abandoning me and completely forgetting it all.

“You’re mine,” I said, kissing her mouth once as I humped her. “Mine.” I kissed her again. “Mine in that fountain. Mine in the locker room and in the janitor’s closet. Mine in the dean’s office.” I took her jaw in my hand. “You’ll have my kids and be my woman and fuck me, because that’s what I want.”

“I told her that I wanted you,” I went on. “That you loved me, because there was no faking what happened in that fucking video, and I told her that I loved you, too, and I was sorry for stealing you the way I did, but it was the only way I could get close to you.”

this bitch sent me to jail with no hesitation and no regret. We weren’t in love.

She grew quiet, dropping her head a little and pleading, “Don’t let me go.” I closed my eyes for a moment, my insides knotting so tightly. I didn’t want to let her go.

She fought. Like many of us should have learned how to do so much sooner.

She scaled her fingers up my arms, whispering, “What’s wrong?” I closed my eyes, having no idea where to start. “I fucked up,” I whispered back. She rubbed my back and I soaked in her heat, the rain hiding us from the world, still wondering how she got inside me—inside my head and my . . . “Need to hide for a while?” she asked, a lilt of comfort in her voice. And I nodded. “Yeah.” For as long as I could.

I knew without a doubt that this was who I would’ve been if I hadn’t become me. If I hadn’t learned to cope with pain in all the worst ways growing up in that house and denied taking any responsibility for the man I became.

“The scars on your body . . .” she said quietly. “Your scalp, under your arm, your groin. Places people don’t see.” I stroked her arm with my thumb as I held her, already knowing where she was going with it. I stopped cutting when I was fifteen. The night my mother left.