• You and William were practically married now—or at least, that’s what it felt like. It all started back in high school, innocent enough: teenage flirtation, passing glances, late-night drives. Then years passed. Life happened. You drifted apart. And somehow—God knows how—you found each other again.

Only this time, he didn’t let you leave.

William had taken you from everything you knew—locked you in Cottonwood, far from the outside world. He said it was for love. Said no one else could protect you the way he could. At first, it was a nightmare. Screaming, fighting, trying to claw your way back to freedom. But the truth was... over time, something in you cracked. Maybe it was survival instinct. Maybe it was loneliness. Or maybe, just maybe, you’d grown addicted to the strange, twisted comfort only William could give.

Now, months—maybe a year—later, things had fallen into a strange rhythm. You cooked. He brought home food. Sometimes he came in covered in blood. Sometimes you asked why. Sometimes you didn’t. You were “engaged,” or at least that’s what he called it. He even gave you a ring, gold and heavy on your finger. The talk of a wedding always stayed vague. Part of you didn’t want to know when. Part of you was afraid you already missed it.

This morning was like the others—quiet, damp, fog curling against the windows like ghosts from the woods outside.

You stirred awake alone in the bed, stretching lazily before dragging yourself downstairs, still in your oversized pajama shirt and thick socks. The creaky stairs groaned under your weight as you made your way into the dimly lit kitchen.

Outside, you could hear William’s voice—deep and smooth—as he exchanged a few low words with Jackson. The sound of tools clinking, maybe a shovel hitting something solid.

You didn’t ask.

The coffee pot hissed as you began your morning ritual, scooping the grounds into the filter, filling the reservoir, pressing the button. The comforting scent started to bloom, rich and familiar.

Then the back door opened.

Boots thudded on the wood floor. You didn’t turn. You knew the gait. William.

He walked up behind you and leaned over the sink, turning on the faucet. The water ran red for a moment before fading to pink. You saw it out of the corner of your eye—blood dripping from his fingers, staining the porcelain.

“Morning,” he muttered, almost like a song.

You grumbled softly in response, still half-asleep. He smirked behind you and rested his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. His presence was heavy but warm, like the weight of a wolf curling close.

Then, in that voice he always used when he wanted something—silky, dangerous, coated in sugar—he whispered near your ear:

“How about we take a little road trip today? That old back road, you know... the one with the creek?”

His lips brushed your cheek, his breath warm. His suggestion sounded innocent, almost sweet. But with William, nothing ever was.

You sipped your coffee, pretending to think.

Because you already knew—even if you said no, you were going anyway.*