Page 18 of Phantom Flower

Marco:

Rei please. I’m scared.

I called him.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Rei?!” His voice was breathless. “Thank God! Are you okay? What happened? Did he hurt you? I’ve been calling nonstop—”

“I’m okay,” I said quickly, rubbing my sore throat. My voice came out rougher than usual. “Marco, breathe. I’m fine. I’m home.”

There was a long pause. I could practically hear him trying not to cry.

“What happened? Tell me the truth. Did Dimitri hurt you? Everyone’s talking about it. The video—”

“He was just messing with me,” I lied. “I’m okay. Really.”

He suffocated me with a gun until I passed out. I came untouched while choking on it. I’m definitely not okay. I belong in a mental hospital for taking pleasure in that.

“You promise? Because if he touched you, if he—”

“I promise,” I cut in gently. “I’ll see you at school, yeah? Just… don’t worry too much.”

He was quiet for a second, then whispered, “I love you, Rei. Be careful. Please.”

“Love you too. See you soon.”

I hung up and dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Dimitri Morozov had broken something open. He had shown me parts of myself I never wanted to see.

The way my body responded to his violence made me sick.

Disgusted.

And yet, even now, lying here in my own bed, my cock twitched at the memory of his voice in my ear.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, groaning. “Fuck.”

Thirty minutes later, I forced myself to get up. I was hoping for an empty kitchen so I could grab coffee and leave before anyone noticed me.

No such luck.

Kento was standing in the middle of the kitchen, leaning against the marble island.

I hadn’t seen him in three months.

He was twenty-two now, three years older than me, and he barely existed in our lives anymore.

He attended Bloodburn on the Goldcrest side—the arts campus—where he supposedly focused on whatever creative shit kept him away from the main building.

He didn’t live here.

Hadn’t since we moved from Japan. Father’s death had made it worse, but Kento had always been detached. Like family was an inconvenience he tolerated at best.

Today he was dressed in all black, hair slightly longer than I remembered, features carved from the same Kurosaki mold as mine but meaner. He looked like trouble.