Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
The fuck is wrong with this girl and her being so out there? And it’s ten times weirder considering her poor relations with the outside world.
It’s why I knew she was drunk when she sent me that DM in which she said she wanted to be chased and taken down.
A message that I’m sure was meant for Landon.
Considering her cowardly tendencies, she wouldn’t have sent that to me or him if she’d been sober.
I was plotting the raid of the Serpents' local compound with the guys when I got that DM.
At first, I threw the phone in my pocket and ignored it, like I’ve been ignoring her for the past couple of weeks.
But like all those days, I fished my phone back out and glared at it. The same way I glared at her from afar.
While I watched her.
Followed her.
Hacked into her phone and computer.
Murdered every shred of her privacy.
Read her fucking journal that’s full of psychological bullshit and Landon.
When I checked my phone again, I found out she’d followed me on Instagram, too. Probably another drunken mistake.
But maybe the DM was meant for me, after all. Not Landon. Me.
That’s all the logic my brain needed to storm out of the meeting and come here.
In the middle of the fucking night.
It’s also what made me climb her balcony, creep inside, and touch her like she was already mine, partially forgetting that my little sister was on the other side of the door.
I should probably leave before one of her gazillion friends comes to check on her, but I don’t move.
Instead, I take time to look around her room, the walls covered in manga pages like some edgy teenager. I move closer and study the names at the top of each, committing them to memory so that I can search what she likes to read.
Then I do a whole sweep of the space.
Cecily’s room is simple—despite the manga wallpaper. Her wardrobe is casual and is full of T-shirts with sarcastic quotes. She owns no dresses or skirts or anything girly.
Her makeup table barely has anything on it aside from different brands of sunscreen. And perfume. Water lilies. I can’t help spraying it into the air and inhaling it.
Smells like Cecily. But not quite. It’s missing the scent of her skin.
I put back the bottle exactly where I found it, like a perfect creep, but then I place it on its side. I don’t give a fuck if she knows I went through her things. In fact, I want her to.
Let her be on the edge as payment for all the annoyance she’s brought into my life by merely existing.
I tilt my head in her direction. “Why the fuck did you come to that initiation, Cecily?”
If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t be acting completely out of character by inserting myself into her life and learning things about her I’m not supposed to.
Once I’m done going through the small space, I sit at her desk.
Psychology, philosophy, and nonfiction books line her small library.
And mangas.
Slice of life. Shounen, and… I grab one and my brows lift.
Boys’ love.
Well, well. Would you look at that?
I slide that manga back in place and open her laptop. I already hacked it once, so I know it’s as boring and meticulous as the image she projects onto the outer world.
All filled with school projects and pictures from family holidays.
Still, I open her browser and look at her history.
Considering that seeing sex made her physically ill the other day, I doubt she watches any. Or she could be using a private browser.
I find no trace of porn. However, I land on an interesting burst of similar searches, usually conducted late at night.
The psychology of rape fantasy.
Why do many women have rape fantasies?
The sociology of judging women who seek out or enjoy sex rougher than most men.
The sociology of rewarding men and punishing women for enjoying sex.
Is there an underlying mental disorder associated with rape fantasies?
Paraphilias listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
Is primal kink a sexual deviation?
Serial killers’ kinks.
That one puts a smile on my face.
Jesus.
I can almost imagine the deer-in-the-headlights expression she had while reading all of this stuff.
My gaze slides to her sleeping form. “You need to stop forcing labels on yourself.”
I skim through the articles written by some hotshot psychologists who try not to be judgy but sometimes let their true colors show.
Cecily must’ve been in a position where she had to see her preferences through a professional lens and wondered if something was wrong with her.
She’s shackled in some way.
And something tells me it’s not only due to her rigid codes of honor, stiff personality, or altruistic little heart.
Something deeper lurks beneath the surface, and I’ll find it if it’s the last thing I do.
My plans to only watch from afar just to catch Landon through her lie are forgotten as I dig, probe, and search.