A Love So Dangerous

TW: murder

Chapter 1

A burst of bright red blood spurted out of the woman’s chest as the blade plunged between her breasts. Gasping, her hand clenched around the hilt of the knife. Her eyelids fluttered. She exhaled before slumping over the body of the male in front of her, already dead himself. 

“Stop!” Thea yelled, throwing her script down and raking a hand through her dark hair. She leaned closer, her voice lowering. “Please tell me it’s not as awful as I think.” 

“It’s not as awful as you think,” I whispered. 

“You’re a terrible liar, but a good friend.” Thea gave me a quick smile before standing and marching down the aisle toward her petrified first-year thespians. 

I turned to the stack of blue books in my lap and continued grading. She had her struggles, I had mine, not the least of which was being an English professor named Ophelia. I’d considered changing my name when I was seventeen, but in the end, I opted to keep it. It was the one part of my parents I wouldn’t let anyone take away from me. 

After Juliet ran away in tears, Romeo slinked off Stage Left to join his real-life lover in an animated conversation. 

Mission accomplished, Thea shouted at the techs to cut the lights and stomped up the middle of the auditorium, grabbing her bag the way. “Let’s go. I’m starving.” 

I knew better than to argue with her after a rehearsal. Gathering my belongings, I stood quickly and followed her out of the theater. 

“How’s your semester going?” she asked, pulling the scarf around her throat tighter, warding off the gusts of wind as we cut across campus. 

“Same as usual, I suppose.”

“How’s your grandmother?” 

“Same as usual, I suppose.” After adjusting the weight of the bag on my shoulder, I realized my sleeve had been pulled up. I yanked it down again, covering the rose tattoo on the inside of my wrist.

“Wow. Really putting those English degrees to work, there.” 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” It was always the same excuse, but thankfully she went with it instead of calling me out. This time of year she always cut me extra slack. 

***

Low growls greeted me the moment I walked into the little brick ranch that had been mine since I started teaching at Braeburn University. There was a light thud, followed by the clicking of nails on hardwood floors. 

Flipping on the light, I smiled at the dog, his long fur still mussed from sleeping on the couch. “Hey killer. It’s just me.” 

Burt’s tail swished back and forth as he trotted over, panting his greeting. 

“Anything exciting happen today?” I asked, shuffling through the mail.

The moment a hand-addressed letter surfaced to the top of the pile, I gasped, dropping the entire stack. Covering my mouth with both hands, I stared at the envelope as if it were a snake, ready to spring at me at any moment. 

The handwriting was the same. The address in the upper left corner was the same, courtesy of the Maryland Department of Corrections. 

I debated throwing it in the trash. I always did when his letters arrived. It had been fifteen years, but he wrote to me like clockwork. Except this was the first time the letter came to my house. If he sent it directly, that meant he knew where I was. He knew who I was. 

Immediate regret for not changing my first name engulfed me. I was so stupid. How many Ophelias could there be out there who were my age? Or maybe he remembered Nana’s maiden name after all. 

Burt scattered the pile of mail as he rooted around, sniffing the letter. Could he smell evil too? I knew I could. I knew exactly how it smelled — like leather and amber and woodsmoke, dangerous and intoxicating. 

Snatching the letter off the ground, I went and pulled the curtains shut. Alone, I curled up with it in the corner of the couch, staring at the scrawling letters. He never had nice handwriting. It was always too hurried because he was too impatient. He thought writing was a waste of time when everything could be typed these days. That didn’t stop him from writing pages upon pages, detailing things I wish he’d forget, things I wished he’d let me forget. 

I didn’t want to read it. I never wanted to read it. 

But it was my penance.

While he rotted away in prison, I punished myself by enduring these moments — reminding myself how he ended up where he was and how I ended up a timezone away, pretending I wasn’t just as guilty as him. 

He was a murderer, but so was I.

Ophelia,

I have good news. 

I’m out and I can’t wait to finally hold you. 

I’m coming for you, baby.

He’d drawn a crude rose in the lower right corner of the page. It was unlike his usual artwork, as was the nickname, but the promise was the same — a promise he made before I knew what a monster he was.

By the time I was done reading, my hands were shaking so hard I nearly ripped the letter in half. 

Caspian was out. He didn’t say when. It didn’t really matter. He said he was coming for me. 

I knew he would. 

He always kept his promises.

Chapter 2

The next morning, after confirming last night’s letter wasn’t a horrible dream, I rushed to the toilet and threw up. After cleaning myself up, I went online to see when Caspian’s parole date was. 

My stomach clenched again. He’d been breathing free air for the past three weeks and I didn’t have a clue. Just like I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do. But what could I do? I couldn’t stop him back then and I certainly couldn’t stop him now. 

Nothing could stop Caspian St. James, not even the so-called justice system. The judge gave him twenty years for the murder of two people. Ten years a piece. Less than, actually, since he was getting out five years ahead of schedule for “good” behavior. 

I should have gone to his parole hearing. Despite my many degrees in the written language, my desperate plea to keep a murderer behind bars went unheeded. They needed a human element — a face, a voice — to go with that plea. But I couldn’t. How could they expect me to be in the same room with the man who killed my mother and my sister one October night, fifteen years ago? 

Fall used to be my favorite time of year, but now it was just another reminder. The smell of bonfires, the way the flames lick the night sky, even the color of the trees — it all reminded me of them. Of him. Of everything that went wrong.

Caspian swore it was an accident. Well, at least the first part. 

He didn’t mean for my mother to die. When he shrugged off her attempt to restrain him, to keep him from taking her youngest daughter away from her, he didn’t realize she’d fall against the coffee table and split her skull open. 

Maybe she wasn’t really dead.

Maybe she could have been saved. 

I’d never know. 

In a panicked attempt to cover up what happened, he set fire to the house. Except, he didn’t realize my big sister was there too. She’d come home from college for the weekend, unannounced. Since her friends dropped her off, her car wasn’t there and neither of us knew she was in her basement bedroom. 

By the time the fire department got there, it was too late. Like my mother, there was no saving my sister. The medical examiner said she died from smoke inhalation, as if choking on toxic black smoke before the flames consumed her was a relief.

When the police found us in Virginia, I called them liars. I didn’t believe my family was dead and I didn’t believe Caspian was to blame. It wasn’t until Nana sat me down and told me what happened that I accepted the truth — the love of my life was a murderer. Too bad it was my mother and my sister who had to pay the ultimate price for that little lesson.

I was the key witness in his trial. The prosecutor told me Caspian would never hurt me again, that I was so brave telling everyone what happened. It wasn’t bravery. It was hatred. I wanted to punish Caspian for promising me the world and then leaving me alone in it.

Even after he was arrested, Caspian managed to send me red roses. It didn’t matter where I was: my best friend’s house, the hotel with Nana, the courthouse during the trial. 

The roses followed me to Chicago, to Nana’s lawyer’s office, along with the letters. Once a month, a well-dressed attorney delivered a box full of desiccated red roses and envelopes. I imagine that lovely tradition continued after I went to college and finally settled into a life of academia at Braeburn University. 

But like I said, nothing stopped Caspian St. James. Neither time, nor distance.

Thea reached across the table and squeezed my hand, bringing me back into the present. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” With a practiced ease, I forced a smile to my face so believable her actors would be envious. “I mean, I knew it was going to happen at some point.” 

“Too bad they couldn’t keep him locked up forever.” Thea let go of my hand and wrapped it around her coffee mug, taking a sip with a disappointed expression. “Even though that’s exactly what he deserves.” She may have muttered the last part, but I heard her clearly enough.

My gaze fell to my own mug, staring at the pitch-black brew. Black and bitter, the way Caspian drank his. “He said he’s coming here.” 

“Yeah, right. He has to find you first.” 

“He has my address, T.” Dragging my eyes up to hers, I bit my lip, waiting for her reaction. 

Horror overtook the planes of her face. “What are you still doing here? You need to leave. Now!” 

“And go where? If he found me here, he can find me again. Besides, he already ruined my life once. I don’t think I have the energy to start over a second time.” 

“What are you going to do when he shows up? Not if, Phe, but when. That man is obsessed with you.” 

I gave her a small shrug, at a loss for words. 

Obsessed with me. It was the understatement of a lifetime. Caspian had always been obsessed with me, just as I was with him. It’s what made our love so dangerous. It consumed us — and everyone around us.

Chapter 3

The days flew by, one agonizing minute at a time until it was all a blur. As much as I tried to put Caspian out of my mind, I couldn’t. I saw him everywhere I went. Every flash of tattoos, every whiff of leather, I was convinced it was him. But it wasn’t. Not yet.

After another grueling day lecturing English 101 to a group of freshmen who couldn’t care less, I headed toward the faculty parking lot. The only bright part of the day was that it was over. The plan was to pick up dinner, go home, and not leave my house again until Monday morning. 

My steps slowed when I spied something tucked into the door handle of my car. 

It was a rose. 

A dark, crimson rose, matching the one on my wrist. 

Snatching it off of my car, I hissed and dropped it again. A bead of blood bloomed on my palm from the thorny puncture. I smeared the droplet on my dark pants as I glanced around. Seeing no one, I climbed into my car and locked the door. 

On the drive home, I tried to come up with an alternative explanation. It was a mistake. Someone mistook my car for someone else’s. Gray sedans all looked alike. Right? Or maybe it was some marketing ploy and the flyer simply blew away before I got there. It couldn’t be him. 

Home at last, I parked the car and bolted to the front steps, jerking to an immediate halt.

There was another red rose laying on the stoop. 

With a frustrated growl, I kicked it out of my way and keyed myself into the house. 

Only silence greeted me.

“Burt?” I gripped my keys so hard the metal teeth dug into my palm, reigniting the pain from the thorn. “Come here, buddy.” 

He didn’t reply, obviously. Nor did he appear. 

A dark trail in the hallway made my heart leap to my throat. The haphazard black streaks looked like blood against the hardwood. Flipping on the light, I prepared for the worst. 

It wasn’t blood.

I exhaled, but my relief was short lived — they were rose petals.

I should have left. I should have turned around and left right at that moment. But I couldn’t leave Burt behind. 

Making my way down the hall, I stupidly followed the flowery path to my bedroom. 

The door was partially open. I gave it a quick push and jumped back, waiting to be ambushed. No one rushed out at me, so I took a tentative step forward and peered into the dark room, willing my eyes to adjust. 

The floorboard at the threshold creaked under my weight. I flinched, waiting again. I couldn’t tell which was louder, my heartbeat pounding in my ears or the sound of my own breathing, despite my effort to silence it.

“Burt?” I whispered, taking another slow step inside. 

A dark shadow moved along the far side of the room. 

I froze in place, watching, hoping it was my eyes playing tricks and nothing more. 

It didn’t move again.

I’d no more concluded it was the vent blowing my drapes around when someone grabbed me from behind. Strong arms wrapped around mine, crushing them to my sides. His breath was hot on my neck when his face dipped down, his stubble scraping against my cheek. 

“Welcome home, baby.” 

My knees buckled. He wasn’t prepared for that, so I used it to my advantage and slipped out of his arms easily. 

Scrambling to my feet, I darted toward the door. The damned rose petals made my escape difficult, sliding beneath my oxfords and preventing me from getting a solid footing. 

At the end of the hall, his fingers seized my hair, yanking me backward. I clawed at his hands in a desperate attempt to free my copper locks from his grip. He reeled me in closer, trying to wrap his free arm around me again. 

In the midst of our struggle, our limbs tangled. We landed hard on the floor, rose petals scattering every which way. The majority of his weight fell on me, smacking my face against the polished floorboards. 

The roses mocked me with their smell, velvety soft and comforting against the sharp contrast of copper. Blood. My head throbbed and my eyes were flooded with tears, but I didn’t have time to think about the pain. 

I scurried away from him, trying to gain traction. As soon as I did, I sprang to my feet again. 

The front door was right there, within reach. 

My fingers almost brushed the handle when it flew open, bits of wood from the

broken jamb flying everywhere. 

I reeled backward, away from the splinters.

I expected the police. 

I expected a neighbor. 

Hell, I even expected Thea. 

My brain, therefore, could not comprehend the massive figure in the doorway. The leather jacket, the slicked back hair. The hand that stretched toward me, a red rose tattooed across the entire backside. 

“Caspian?” Somehow I squeaked out his name, rooted in place by confusion more than fear. 

If he was in front of me, who had been chasing me?

“Come on!” Caspian shouted. He didn’t wait for me to take his hand. Instead, he seized my wrist and yanked me toward him. 

Fingers skimmed my shoulder from behind, scratching down my back, trying to find purchase. 

Caspian didn’t give him the chance. He pulled me out the door and down the front steps. Hurtling himself onto the back of a rumbling motorcycle, I was barely on the seat behind him when the bike lurched forward. 

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pressed my cheek against his smooth leather jacket and closed my eyes, trying to process what the hell just happened. 

“No!” A voice screamed above the roar of the engine. 

Glancing over my shoulder, I watched the wild-eyed man behind us. He sprinted down the middle of the street, trying in vain to keep up with the motorcycle as we moved further and further away from him. 

I didn’t recognize him, but the way he was looking at me made my skin crawl. 

“Are you ok?” Caspian asked over his shoulder. 

“Who was that?” I shouted back at him. I could hardly hear myself think between the thundering motorcycle and the rush of the wind.

“An old cell mate of mine.”

“What the fuck is going on?” 

“It’s a long story. And I’m sorry you got mixed up in it.” He reached behind him, the red-rose tattoo disappearing as he threaded his fingers through my hair. “But I told you, Babe. I’d always be there for you. No matter what. I love you too much to walk away.”

Instinctively, I leaned into his touch. As crazy as it was, after all these years, he kept his promise. Yes, he was a killer, but he was my savior too. I hated him, and yet I loved him. Still. No matter what.

It’s said the most beautiful roses grow on graves. I never knew how true that was until now.