Don't Trust the Perfect Man Who Brought You Home

Faye's POV

Dorian, my boyfriend of three years, was a partner at a top-tier Boston law firm. He was gentle, refined, and absolutely flawless.

A week ago, he buried his face in my neck late at night, whispering that the city was suffocating him. He wanted to take me back to his hometown to meet Octavia, the grandmother who had single-handedly raised him.

I agreed without hesitation.

But on Crane Island, every night Dorian would slip out of our bed, using Octavia's gout as an excuse.

Until that night. I crept barefoot to Octavia’s door and pressed my ear against the wood.

What I heard wasn’t a sick old woman. It was Dorian’s heavy panting, mixed with the shameless, breathy moans of a young woman...

"Hang in there, Faye. We're almost docking." Dorian’s warm hand rubbed my back, his voice thick with apology. "I'm sorry, I forgot how rough the ferry ride to Crane Island could be."

I leaned weakly against his chest, swallowing the bile rising in my throat, and managed a sweet, understanding smile.

The ferry slammed into the dock with a loud clank. The rotting wooden planks groaned beneath our feet. The gray fog hung unnaturally low, making the entire island feel like a massive iron cage.

"You look terrible. Stay right here, I’m going to grab you some water from that shack." He kissed my forehead and vanished into the fog.

The wind was biting. I pulled out my phone—zero signal—just as three deeply unsettling stares locked onto me.

Three men in grimy waterproof jackets reeking of cheap bourbon boxed me in.

"Well, well. Look at the pretty little thing the tide washed in," the leader sneered, his rough hand already reaching for my waist. "Lost, sweetheart? Want us to take you somewhere warm?"

I instinctively stepped back.

"Get your filthy hands off her."

The glacial voice sliced through the fog behind me. I spun around.

Dorian stood a few feet away, a bottle of water in his hand. His usual polished, gentlemanly demeanor was entirely gone. His eyes boiled with a terrifying, homicidal rage I hadn't seen in our three years together.

The men froze, then erupted into mocking laughter.

"Look who it is! If it ain't Dorian!" the leader taunted, slick and sneering. "Heard you made something of yourself in the city. Guess that just means playing lapdog to a rich city girl, huh?"

The muscle in Dorian’s jaw ticked violently before he swallowed his fury. When he looked at me, the mask was back—the perfectly worried, doting boyfriend.

"Ignore these trashy drunks. Let’s go."

He threw his arm around my shoulders, his grip so tight it felt like he was trying to crush my collarbone, and didn't let go until he pushed open a heavy wooden door. In the dim living room, a figure stepped forward.

"My sweet boy, you finally came home."

Octavia. Dorian’s grandmother. She wore a pilled, cheap cardigan, her face deeply lined. She looked like the absolute picture of a poor, kindly country woman.

But as she hugged me, something caught my eye.

Nestled deep in her collar was a stunning, elaborately crafted ruby necklace.

I lowered my gaze, tracing the hand she rested on Dorian’s arm. The skin was smooth, without a wrinkle. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured.

A destitute island widow who supposedly raised her grandson on scavenged seaweed?

Sirens wailed in my head.

"It’s so nice to meet you, Octavia. Dorian has told me how hard you worked for him." I pulled a velvet box from my bag. "A little something for you."

Dorian pointed to a dark corner of the room. "Faye, that’s my cousin, Juniper."

I followed his gaze. A scrawny girl, maybe ten years old, was huddled over a chipped table, violently scribbling in a sketchbook with a piece of charcoal.

"Hi Juniper, I brought you a gift too." I approached gently, holding out a ribbon-tied box.

Nothing.

"Juniper!" Dorian snapped, his voice dripping with undisguised disgust. "Faye is talking to you. Were you raised by dogs?"

The girl flinched violently, the charcoal tearing a harsh black slash across the paper.

"Now, Dorian, don't scare her," Octavia chimed in quickly, sighing as she looked at me. "Faye, the poor thing was in a shipwreck when she was little. The trauma made her mute. She doesn't have friends; drawing is all she has."

"I'm sorry, I was too abrupt," I smiled apologetically.

"You two must be exhausted. I’ll go warm up some stew." Octavia turned to the kitchen.

"I’ll chop some firewood for you, it’s too heavy," Dorian offered dutifully. He ruffled my hair before leaving. "Sit by the fire and rest. Don't worry about a thing."

The heavy door clicked shut behind them.

In the gloomy, quiet room, it was just me and the mute girl in the corner.

I didn't sit by the fire. Instead, I moved silently behind Juniper.

On the sketchbook she was pressing down so fiercely, twisted silhouettes of women were trapped behind a dense, chaotic cage of black lines.

And right now, following the frantic scratching of her charcoal...

A horrified face that looked exactly like my profile was forming on the page, being slowly suffocated by the dark web.