Page 39 of The Carnage We Keep

I stare into my tea.

Well…shit.

I swear, she fucking Jedi mind-tricked me.

Dr. Fallon, that is.

Two nights after I leave her apartment—with another gift bag of Cheetos—I find myself standing by the cliffs in the same bend in the path where I tussled with Damiano when he was trying to toss Beckford’s head into the ocean.

This time, things are a little different.

For starters, I’m wearing a dress. It’s not that I don’t typically wear dresses: I have a ton of them that I wear all the time. But tonight’s dress, even though it’s my usual black with a gothy edge, is quite elegant, not super goth, and comes past my knees. It’s nice.

Which is good, considering I’m the one who dictated tonight's dress code.

I take a somewhat giddy breath and check the time.

He should be here soon.

I’ve decided to take Dr. Fallon’s advice to heart vis-à-vis Damiano. To that end, I’m starting over.

Earlier today, I got Galina to sneak into the men’s changing room in Montclair Gymnasium and slip a small gift into his locker, though I didn’t tell her it was his.

Inside the first box was a note telling him to meet me here tonight, to “dress nice,” and—crucially—not to open the smaller box tucked inside until he arrived.

That second box holds my peace offering: the heavy, elegant signet ring I stole off his finger the first night we crossed paths, right after I stuck him with his own tranquilizer dart.

Look: he might be a control freak and a dick at times. But who says we can’t start over, bury the hatchet, and be friends?

I feel a pulse tug at my core as my face tingles.

Who says we can’t be more than friends?

I mean, he is hot. Ridiculously so. And tall, and built, and looks like he could toss me around or throw me down and pin me in place, which, not gonna lie, is a major turn-on.

But also, the fact that we seem to have a similar sort of darkness inside us isn’t just a nice cherry on top to him being hot.

It’s…more of draw than I care to admit.

Because even if what I’m looking for with him is just a physical release, knowing that he’s as fucked in the head as I am—well, close to it—kinda suggests that in this case, the casual fun won’t be a disappointment.

In other words, I get the impression that Damiano, stick up his butt or not, might be capable of giving me exactly the kind of release I crave. Which is why I put on not only a cute dress, but also a pair of sexy, black, lace underwear, plus I shaved my legs, did my hair, and made sure my makeup was on fucking point.

God, do I sound horny and desperate.

Before I can psychoanalyze myself any further or lose my cool and bolt before he even arrives, I hear footsteps crunching on the gravel path.

Damiano rounds the bend and stops about ten feet away. I smile awkwardly at him, then my brows knit as I take in his black jeans and black t-shirt.

I mean, I did say to dress up.

The more pressing question, though, is why he’s glaring at me like he wants to shove me over the cliff.

“Uh…hi,” I say, feeling more awkward by the second as he keeps glaring at me. I swallow and force a bright smile. “So, I guess this means you got my present⁠—”

“Oh, this?” he snaps coldly, lifting the box containing his ring. “You’re asking if I got this?”

Confusion knits my brow. “Ummmm, yes?”