“I have a proposition for you,” Dean says.
“What kind of proposition?” I reply warily.
“Meet me in the Bell Tower tonight. Nine o’clock.”
I chew the corner of my lip, considering.
The last time I was alone with Dean, things took an unexpected turn . . .
There’s been a constant throbbing curiosity in the back of my brain ever since. A strange, dissatisfied yearning, like a melody cut off mid-note.
Dean and I have unfinished business.
“Alright,” I say, at last.
“Nine o’clock,” he repeats, his low voice vibrating in my bones. “Don’t be late.”
All afternoon in class, I’m thinking about Dean and what sort of “proposition” he might offer me.
He already has all the leverage he needs to coerce me into doing what he wants.
Which can only mean . . . he’s about to ask for something more.
Dean terrifies me. I just learned that he’s a would-be murderer himself, that he tried to drown his own cousin out of jealousy over Anna and whatever other grudges he holds against Leo.
Still . . . I can’t deny that there’s something magnetic about Dean.
I never met someone so intense, so consuming. He’s like a fire running wild through dry brush, swallowing up everything in his path.
He wants what he wants, he does what he pleases. He doesn’t care if he’s liked or hated.
I have to admire that to a degree. Because I absolutely care what people think of me. I’m easily embarrassed, easily intimidated.
If Dean were to leave me alone . . . I’d still think about him all the time. The last week has shown me that. When I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep, I slip my hand beneath my covers and touch myself, trying to recall the exact texture of his rough, strong fingers against my skin. My small, soft hand is nowhere near as satisfying.
After class, I find myself showering and shaving every inch of my skin, making myself clean from top to bottom. Dean is obsessed with cleanliness. The thought of him finding me dirty or unkempt is intolerable, though the idea of him touching me again is hardly any better. I’m a bundle of raw nerves.
I put on fresh clothes: knee socks, Mary Janes, a green plaid skirt, and an oversized knitted jumper. I pile my curls up on my head, pinning them in place, or at least attempting to—little corkscrews always escape, dangling down around my face and the nape of my neck.
I look at my face in the mirror, wondering if I should put on makeup or not. Dean made me wash it off that one time, but I think he was just being an ass.
I take a liquid liner and draw a wing on either eye, tilted up at the outer edges. It makes my eyes look bigger than ever, very like a cat. I blink slowly, pleased with the effect.
Why am I dressing up for Dean?
I don’t know.
I only know that my heart is racing long before I jog across the open expanse of grass between the Undercroft and the ruined Bell Tower on the northwest corner of campus.
The Bell Tower looks as if it was hit with a lightning blast. It may well have been—the stones are charred and blackened by fire, with large gaps in the wall where the inferno raged through. Only half the roof remains in place, the other half gaping open to the stars like a missing eye. The edge of the bell peeks through, the metal tarnished from sun and rain.
No one comes in here because it’s a death trap. It looks like it might crumble at any moment.
I stole stones from this tower.
I carried them up on the wall. I stuffed them into a canvas sack and hung that sack as a counterweight. Then I looped a noose around Rocco’s wrist, kicked the pin free, and sent both stones and Rocco plunging five hundred feet down to the jagged rocks below.
So in a sense, the Bell Tower was my instrument of murder.
I don’t know if Dean is aware of that fact.
Guilt eats at me as I climb those loose and blasted steps once more.
My steps echo in the dark tower. I didn’t bring a candle, and I can barely see five feet in front of me.
I fail to notice a gap in the steps. My foot plunges through the empty hole into the blackness below. I stumble, hitting my knee on the next step above and banging my elbows for good measure.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
So much for staying clean. I try to dust off my soot-smeared knees, wiping my palms on the side of my skirt.
The wind blows through the holes in the tower, making a creepy moaning sound. I hear the echoing bounces of rubble dislodged by my feet, tumbling down the stairs behind me.
Shivering, I scale the last few steps.
Dean is waiting for me at the top of the tower. He leans up against the vast bronze bell, arms folded across his chest. The bell no longer hangs suspended with a rope dangling from its clapper. It crashed down at some point, now tilted at an angle on its side, half its mass supported by the creaking wooden floor, and half protruding over open space.
Music plays from a speaker in the corner, quiet and low. I can barely make out the lyrics, but the beat crawls under my skin like a burrowing insect.
I’ll Make You Love Me — Kat Leon
Spotify → geni.us/bully-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/bully-apple
“Why did you ask me to meet you here?” I ask Dean.
“So we can be alone,” he replies.
“Aren’t you afraid the whole place is going to collapse?”
“No,” he says.
I don’t know if that means he thinks collapse unlikely, or if he doesn’t give a damn if it all falls down on our heads.
I lick my lips nervously. Whatever part of me wanted to see Dean tonight has abandoned me entirely. Now all I’m seeing is the malevolent glint in his eye and the cruel set of his mouth. And those bone-white hands, shapely and beautiful, but capable of horrible things.
“What’s your proposition?” I ask.
Dean uncrosses his arms, taking a step toward me. The dropping of his hands is like a bird of prey unfolding its wings. It makes him infinitely more dangerous.
“It’s simple,” he says. “I want one month.”
I swallow hard.
“A month of what?”
“A month of true slavery.”
I fidget in place, the ancient wooden boards creaking under my feet.
“I’m already doing all the things you asked.”
He closes the space between us, looking down into my eyes.
“I want more.”
My heart is in my throat, like a bird in the hand, trying to escape.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper.
Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He holds it between his thumb and index finger, letting it drop and hang suspended from his hand.
A strip of leather with a single metal ring in the center.
A collar.
“I want you willing,” he says softly. “I want you obedient. And I want you completely under my control. For one month. From now until Christmas.”
“And after that?” I say.
“Then you’re free. I’ll never bother you again. And your secret is safe forever.”
I consider this carefully, the collar swinging before my eyes like a hypnotist’s watch.
I don’t take his offer lightly.
Dean’s games are not like other people’s games.
Everything he does is deadly serious.