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PROLOGUE
Jutes - Pretty When You Cry
I remember the first time I made her cry.
We were kids, Tatum no more than twelve and me around fourteen. We were messing around in the backyard of the house our parents shared. Tatum was all wide-eyed innocence back then, with her soft laughter and the stupid little flowers she insisted on picking for her mom.
The perfect daughter. The good one. The pure one.
I was the opposite. Everyone knew it. Our parents didn’t even try to hide it anymore—the way they looked at me and spoke about her. Tatum was the light in their eyes, and I was the shadow that lingered behind her.
That day, she’d been sitting under the old oak tree, humming to herself as she braided golden dandelions into a crown. She didn’t even see me coming. I grabbed the pathetic crown from her hands and tore it apart, scattering the flowers across the lawn.
“Caius, stop!” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.
But I didn’t stop. I wanted to see her break. I wanted to see the light in her eyes dim just a little.
I shoved her hard, and she fell back into the dirt, her stupid dress getting all messed up. She looked up at me, tears spilling over her cheeks, and I felt this strange satisfaction, this twisted thrill, watching her crumble.
“What’s the matter, princess?” I sneered, though inside, something twisted in my gut. “You’re not so perfect now, are you?”
She didn’t answer, just kept crying, her small hands trying to push me away. And that’s when it hit me—how fragile she was, how easily she broke. But instead of feeling sorry or stopping, I felt something else. Something darker. I wanted more. I wanted to see just how far I could push her before she shattered completely.
And that’s when I realized—I didn’t just want to make her cry. I wanted to ruin her.
Our parents always told me she was so much better than me, purer, kinder. They said I was the broken one, the messed-up one. The one who couldn’t do anything fucking right. But I knew better. I always knew that underneath all that sweetness, all that innocence, she was just as messed up as I was. She just didn’t know it yet.
But I could show her. I could drag her down to my level, strip away all that light, and make her see the darkness that lived inside her, too.
Even back then, I wanted her. She was mine, even if she didn’t know it. I wanted to mark her, claim her, and make sure no one else ever touched her. I didn’t care that she was younger than me. That we were siblings by marriage or that people thought she was too fucking good for me.
None of that mattered. I knew a day would come when I would make her mine regardless of what everyone else thought they knew. I knew I’d fucking ruin her, and in the end, she’d love me for it.
She’d have no choice.
I remember walking away that day, leaving her in the dirt on the lawn, her tears soaking into the earth. I didn’t look back, but I could hear her crying, soft and broken, like music in my ears.
I thought about the sobs she made when I fucked myself. Reliving the sounds in my head like a silent, private serenade. Just for me, and I’ve never come harder than I did that night.
After, I told myself I didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, but deep down, I knew the truth. I cared more than I wanted to admit. I cared too much. And that’s what scared me the most.
Even back then, I knew—she was going to be my undoing.
But I didn’t care. I was going to ruin her, one way or another.
1
Bernth, Ivory Black - Waterworks
The soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound in the quiet living room, the blades spinning lazily overhead, doing little to chase away the oppressive heat that lingers in the air. My dark hair spills over my shoulders like ink as I sit cross-legged on the grey plush carpet of our family living room surrounded by textbooks. The wooden coffee table next to me is littered with highlighters, sticky notes, and empty cups of coffee, a testament to the long hours I’ve spent today cramming for my upcoming exam. Minus the lamp casting a warm glow over the room, the house is dark. Empty and silent.
Unlike my mind.
My mind is a blur of formulas and definitions, my eyes heavy with exhaustion, but still, I force myself to keep going. Just a little longer, I tell myself, rubbing my tired eyes. You’d think it would be easy to focus in a house with no distractions, but apparently not tonight. Something just feels off. Maybe it’s because having the place to myself is rare. Or maybe it’s because no matter how alone I am, I still feel like someone's eyes are on me—always watching.
Leaning my back against the floral-patterned couch where we’d spent countless movie nights, the framed photos on the walls capture memories of my childhood. Mine and Caius’s. They look like happy times. To outside eyes at least, but behind the scenes, each one of them has a horror story. A bad moment forever engraved into my memory, impossible to forget.
Tonight, the house feels different. There’s a strange stillness, an eerie quiet that makes me uneasy. I’ve been trying to shake it off, chalking it up to stress and lack of sleep; after all, I’ve been studying for hours, and my brain has to be fried from the constant barrage of information I’m forcing on myself. Maybe I just need a break, a moment to clear my head.
