The Switch

Chapter 9

Greyson

Rain has always been a bad omen to me.

Especially now as it beats down overhead, sharp and relentless as I tear down the slick road. I grit my teeth, my headlights barely piercing through the downpour as the world around me blurs into a dark, rain-soaked smear.

The cold cuts deep, but I don't feel it. I'm numb, adrenaline the only thing firing through my veins.

When I finally pull into the driveway of the lake house, the place looks quiet, shrouded in shadows and half-hidden by the heavy sheets of rain.

It's quiet.

Too quiet, and a hollow, unsettling silence hangs over the property.

I hit the kill switch and swing off my bike, the rain clinging to me as I make my way up to the house. I pass their cars— Lincoln's porsche is parked at an odd angle, Abel's Audi crooked beside it, and the lights on Ithan's BMW still faintly glowing in the rain.

My pulse is pounding, a heavy beat against my throat as I reach the door, only to find it slightly ajar.

I push it open with my fingers, peering into the dark. The dim light coming from somewhere further in the house barely reaches into the shadows, but I catch sight of Abel first— slumped on the floor in front of the couch, head hanging between his shoulders, fingers digging into his skull as if he's trying to keep it from splitting apart.

"What the fuck's going on?" My voice cuts through the silence, looking for any visual signs of alarm.

Abel lifts his head to meet my gaze, and his eyes empty, colorless. The hazel looks black, and his pupils are blown.

With a deep exhale, he brings his cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag before tipping his chin towards the shadows, where the only glow is the sickly yellow spilling from the kitchen.

A drawer slams in the distance, and the sound of someone tearing through cabinets echoes through the darkened house.

I move past Abel, each step coiling my nerves tighter as I step into the doorway of the kitchen. It's Ithan, his back to me, arms buried in a drawer he's just torn open, shoulders rigid, breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.

"As fun as the guessing game is," I mutter, causing his jaw to tense in response. "I'd like to know what the hell's going on."

That's all it takes. Ithan's always had a short fuse, so I'm not surprised when he slams the drawer shut and whirls around, eating up the distance between us with a few steps. I barely have time to react before he's in my face, eyes dark with something sinister. "Where the fuck have you been?" It's not a question, it's an accusation, sharp and biting, every syllable loaded with anger.

I stare back, jaw clenching. "Out. Handling my shit," I grind out, feeling my own anger flare, matching the venom in his eyes. He doesn't believe me— I can tell in the way his eyes search my face, looking for cracks.

He won't find any.

But, if he gets any closer, he might smell his sister's pussy on my lips.

"What shit?" He sneers, stepping closer until there's barely any air between us. "Saving mommy from daddy?" His face twists in a dark smile. "Or saving yourself?"

Something snaps. The anger surges, too sharp, too quick, and before I even realize it, my fist connects with his jaw, sending him stumbling back a step. Pain ricochets up my arm, but I welcome it, the rawness of it. "Watch your fucking mouth." I seethe.

Ithan straightens, fingertips brushing his jaw as his tongue sweeps over the blood trickling from his lip. He stares at me with a glint that's more animal than human, and his tongue flicks over the blood again, savoring it, like he's feeding on the taste of violence.