When I get out of the car and walk inside the trailer, Pike doesn’t say a word when he comes over to me. My face is stone as I stand there.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle voice.

“Hey.”

“So . . .?”

“So . . .” I begin and then tell him with a nod, “This is it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Pike places his hands hesitantly along my jaw, asking, “So we’re doing this?”

“Yes.” My voice trembles, but I muster up my strength, resisting all the emotions I feel swarming around the two of us.

“Are you scared?”

I nod my head, giving him my honest answer through my hardened façade, and he nods along with me, letting me know I’m not alone, but we both know it’s up to me to pull this off.

“Don’t be scared. Remember what we’re doing this for,” he tells me, his eyes burning with intensity. “This is for your father. This is for you and everything you were stripped of. You wanted a new life; we’re almost there, Elizabeth. Can you taste it? The fairytale?”

“Yeah,” I breathe.

“So we fight the monsters first,” he says and then softly presses his lips to mine, and when he pulls away, I slip off my coat and toss it aside before looking up at Pike, swallowing hard, telling him, “I’m ready.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m ready.”

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and I do.

I stand here and feel the warmth of Pike’s hand brush down the side of my cheek as he whispers to me, “This is for you,” before taking his comforting hand away.

My heart crashes inside my chest as I wait, and then it comes, Pike’s hard fist barreling into the side of my face and over my eye. A blast of pain singeing across my cheek and down my nose as my body collapses to the floor. Pike then grabs ahold of my wrist, moving my hand that’s covering my eye away from my face and hammers down another powerful fist across my cheek. My screams are strained as I cry them out, and Pike instantly covers my body with his, holding me in his arms and cradling my head against his chest as I cry in agony. My face is hot, tingling as I feel the immediate swelling.

Pike continues to hold me, rocking me back and forth, reminding me over and over why we are doing this, but he doesn’t need to convince me; I know why I’m doing this. As my tears dry, the pounding of an oncoming headache dulls out the piercing throbs down my face.

I don’t even need to say anything when Pike picks me up off the floor and carries me to his bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he says and then walks out of the room, only to return a few moments later with a glass of water and two Tylenol. “Here. Take these.”

Swallowing the pills, I set the glass down and lay my head back on the pillows.

“How bad does it hurt?” Pike asks.

“I have a really bad headache.”

“Your eye?”

“It all hurts, but it’s okay. I don’t want you to feel bad or apologize,” I tell him as he lies down next to me. “How does it look?” I ask.

He reaches out to touch the tender skin, and I flinch back at the pain.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s really swollen and pink right now. It’s starting to bruise. You’ll have a nasty black eye for sure by the time you wake up tomorrow.”

I nod and can’t help the evil smile that creeps along my lips and then turns into laughter. Pike hesitates before allowing his smile to appear, and when I see it, I roll onto my back as my laughter grows louder. Clutching my belly, I feel deranged, like somehow I’m on top of the world, celebrating our devilish game, and basking in the glory of my growing black eye.

The past few years have been spent bonding a marriage to look like nothing other than a happy couple who is completely devoted and in love with one another. It seemed as if getting to this point of destruction would never come, but here it is in the grasp of our fingertips. And now the emotions of stress, loneliness, doubt, and determination come to fruition as they spill out of me in this crazy display of morbid laughter.

When we start to calm down and compose ourselves, I roll over to face Pike, asking, “Am I crazy?”

“Aren’t we all a little crazy?”

Smiling, I say, “A simple no would suffice.”

“No.”

I straighten my expression, and when Pike turns his head to look at me, I remind him, “I love you.”

“I know you do.”

“No,” I say. “You’ve never wavered on me. After all these years, you’ve always been my constant, from the moment we met when I was eight years old. You’re the best brother anyone could ever have, and I really love you.”

Turning on his side, his fingers feather along my swollen cheekbone as he leans in and kisses me, running his tongue along my bottom lip. I pull him in closer, tangling my legs with his as he shifts on top of me. We begin to undress each other, and I’m ready to take what only Pike has been able to give me. Moving my naked body with his, I reach down to grab his hardened dick and then guide it inside of me. And finally, I’m able to escape from everything around me.

WAKING UP IN my bed the next morning, the side of my face throbs in heated rhythm with my heartbeat. I haven’t put ice on it to help with the swelling because I need it to look as bad as possible. I know Pike felt like shit last night after hitting me the way he did—the way he had to—but I tried assuring him that I’m okay.

As I walk across the room and into the bathroom, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Pike was right, there’s a nasty black and blue bruise around my eye and along the crest of my cheek. I reach up to touch the swollen flesh and wince. The bruise is tender and the side of my face looks horrific.

It’s perfect.

I go ahead and take a quick shower and get dressed, slipping on a pair of jeans and a long cashmere sweater, dabbing on just a light touch of powder and lipgloss. The chime of my phone comes as I expected with Declan’s text.

Miss you.

I type my response.

Miss you too.

Come to my place. I need to touch you.

My devious smile grows while I type out my next text.

I can’t. I’m not feeling well.

You okay?

Just sick.

I’ll come pick you up and bring you here.

He responds just as I predicted, so I continue to goad him to me with my replies.

Thanks, but I’m just going to stay here today.

You avoiding me?

No. I just don’t feel good.

Then let me take care of you.

As I’m typing out my next text, the phone begins ringing in my hand, displaying Declan’s name on the screen.

“Why are you calling me?” I ask when I answer.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not. I told you; I’m not feeling well.”

“So instead of lying in your bed, lie in my bed. I’m coming to pick you up. Pack a bag,” he insists in a calm tone, but I resist, telling him, “Declan, no.”

He lets go of a sigh and then questions, “What’s going on?”

I pause, and with an uneven voice, lacking confidence, I murmur, “Nothing. Just . . . just nothing.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Declan, please.”

“I’m on my way,” he snaps, hanging up before I can respond.