Hooked: Chapter 25

There’s a single, sad cupcake in the center of my kitchen island, with gloppy white icing and sprinkles that look out of place; so colorful in a gray and empty house. It’s been three days since Jon has gone, leaving me entirely alone, and quite frankly, depressed.

I’ve always spent my time focused on family, not willing to let our brittle roots break after the death of my mother.

But now I don’t really see the point.

“Happy birthday to me.” I sigh, blowing out the flame.

Glancing at my phone, my chest pinches tight. It’s almost seven in the evening, and other than a quick birthday text from Angie, no one has called all day.

Not my father.

Not Jon.

Not James.

Although, in James’s defense, I’ve never told him when my birthday was. But he’s been MIA since Monday, when he helped me take Jon to Rockford Prep.

I took the day off from The Vanilla Bean, but now I’m regretting the decision, the hollow ring of loneliness echoing through the high ceilings and marble floors of my house.

Suddenly, my phone rings, and anticipation lights up my insides. But when I look at the ID and see it’s my dad, disappointment casts a shadow like a storm cloud.

I was wanting it to be James.

And that revelation in itself sends a shock wave through me, because somewhere along the line, in these past few weeks, my dad has slipped off his pedestal, the ache of missing him muted and dulled.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Little Shadow, Happy birthday.”

My stomach twists. “Thank you. Wish you were here to celebrate.”

“Me too.”

My stomach drops, and I feel stupid once again for hoping that maybe he was calling to say he was on his way.

“Listen,” he continues. “I’m sending out some new security for the house tomorrow.”

My nose scrunches. “What? Why?”

My father has always had security for himself, but we’ve always kept our private home private.

“I’ve had some idiots trying to blackmail me, and I need to make sure you’re safe. That the house is safe.”

I chew my lip. Blackmail? “What? No, Dad… I… I don’t need a freaking bodyguard. That’s ridiculous,” I laugh. “I’ll be fine.”

“This is not up for discussion, Wendy.” His voice is stern, and it cuts through me, making my lungs cramp in my chest. He speaks as though I’m a child, unable to care for myself. As if I’m not intelligent enough to handle the truth of whatever’s going on.

Blackmail. Give me a break.

“Dad, I’m not a kid anymore, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

He chuckles. “Wendy, you can’t help. You just need to listen and do as I say.”

Anger swims through my veins and my jaw tenses. Maybe a few weeks ago I would have just listened, but after being with James—after being treated as a woman whose voice is heard and whose opinions are valid—crawling back into the role my father expects me to play feels like steel bars clamping down on my soul.

And I won’t do it.

But fighting with my father is as good as talking in circles, so I stay silent on the line, thinking about how I can handle things once I hang up.

Maybe James can help.

“Okay, Dad. I hear you.”

“Good,” he responds. “I’ll be home in the next few weeks, and we can have dinner. A night for just the two of us, okay?”

My throat burns. “Mmhm,” I force out.

A female voice cuts through the phone. “Pete, where are you taking me tonight? I want to know if I should look fancy or if we’re ordering in.”

My lungs cramp, realizing that he isn’t working, he’s just choosing to take Tina out on my birthday instead of making sure he’s home to spend it with me. And that’s fine. It’s absolutely fine.

I hang up the phone without saying goodbye, not sure I’ll be able to stop the cutting words from flying off my tongue, and I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.

There’s a throbbing ache in the middle of my stomach, a sickly, green feeling that weighs me down and makes me want to crack.

But I don’t.

Heading up the stairs and to my room, I decide to pack a bag and leave. I have a few thousand dollars in my bank account, and while I’m sure my father won’t be happy, there’s really nothing he can do. He can’t make me stay, after all.

My bedroom is pitch black, the sun having set while I was staring at my cupcake, and I flick on the lamp by my bedside, my eyes snagging on the picture of my mother and me from when I was young.

I wonder if she’s somewhere looking down on us, feeling sad over the fact that she couldn’t stick around. Maybe if she were still here, my dad would be too.

Shaking my head, I ignore the burn radiating from the middle of my chest as I walk to my full-length mirror. My hands run over my pale green dress, smoothing out the wrinkles as I gaze into the glass.

I pick up my hairbrush from the vanity next to me and point to my reflection. “You aren’t a child, Wendy. You are a bad bitch.” Giggling at the phrase, I run the bristles over my hair, repeating the affirmation in my mind.

“I agree, you are most definitely not a child.”

My stomach jumps into my throat, hairbrush dropping to the floor as I meet an icy blue gaze in the mirror. My mouth opens on a sharp inhale, shock at seeing him in my room freezing me in place. He moves quickly, his body pushing against mine until I’m flat against the glass, a knife glinting as he presses it to my face, his gloved palm smacking over my lips and muffling my scream before it can even think of escaping.

“Now, now, Wendy, darling,” he tsks. “None of that.”

My heart slams against my chest, confusion spinning around me like a spider’s web. I’d like to think this is some big, elaborate joke, but the pressure of his hold has dread sneaking up my spine. I watch him in the mirror, strands of his dark hair falling on his forehead, his black trench coat and leather gloves making him look like the angel of death. His blade gleams in the mirror’s reflection, the metal cold as its hooked edge presses into my skin.

Hooked.

My stomach flips and twists, realizing where his nickname comes from.

His free hand wraps around my hair, wrenching my head to the side, his nose skimming along the pale expanse of my neck. “Did you know fear has a scent?”

My nostrils flare as I attempt to breathe, terror pulsing in time to the rapid pace of my heart. There’s a sting from where he pulled my roots, and I focus on the pain to ground me.

“No, I don’t suppose you would.” His mouth turns down. “It’s all to do with pheromones, really. The scent of fear triggers a reaction in the amygdala and hypothalamus. A type of warning, as it were, that humans have long since become numb to recognizing.” He leans back in, inhaling deeply, the tips of his hair tickling my skin.

I try to keep my gaze steady, my body trembling from the adrenaline that’s pumping through my veins, my mind racing as I try to think of a way out of this situation.

Is he going to kill me?

My insides pull tight, eyes burning at the realization that everything I thought I knew about him was a lie. Panic seizes my lungs, my hands shaking as they press against the mirror.

“Your fear smells sweet,” he whispers.

His palm trails down the front of my body, slipping under my dress and cupping between my legs. The fabric of his glove is rough against my sensitive skin, and horror trickles through my veins like a poison, freezing my blood and stalling my heart.

“Tell me, darling…” his voice rumbles in his chest, vibrating through my back and making my hair stand on end. “Was deceiving me always your plan?”

My stomach tenses, tears slipping down my cheeks and trailing over the back of his hand, melting into the leather before it can drip to the floor. I shake my head, my hair matting against his coat. I struggle for breath, wishing he’d release my mouth so I could ask him what the hell he’s talking about.

“I don’t think I believe you.” His palm pushes against my center, and my traitorous clit swells against him. “After all, you’ve always been such a good girl. So incredibly adept at following direction.”

He places a light kiss on my throat before resting his chin at the juncture between my neck and shoulder, smiling at our reflection. “So beautiful,” he says, sliding the flat edge of his knife across my cheek until the tip rests against the bow of my lips. It’s oddly sensual and my breath stutters as I try to maintain a facade of calm against the dichotomy of his actions and his tender touch.

Who is this man?

“Such a shame.” He sighs, dropping the knife from my face, his eyes locking on mine in the mirror. “This will only hurt for a second.”

My brows furrow, my chest seizing when I see a syringe being pulled from his pocket. My body surges into fight-or-flight mode, my heart crashing against my sternum as my hands reach up to grapple against his arms, and then…

Nothing.