She Sheds Her Skin for Wicked Men

Vesper's POV

Our clan worships the Spider Goddess.

To keep this face, every girl in our bloodline must sacrifice a truly evil man every ten years.

Just two weeks before my twentieth birthday, my mom asked me again over the phone:

"Sweetie, is it really that hard to find a sufficiently bad guy in a place like Ashfield?"

Right now, I’m looking at my boyfriend, who just handcuffed me to a bed. He’s laughing, negotiating a price with a buyer, thinking I’m tonight’s merchandise.

I think to myself—

Mom, I can answer your question now. This guy’s wickedness easily rivals your husband's—my father.

It was raining cold over Ashfield the day my mother called.

"Two weeks left, Vesper," her voice slithered through the receiver like fine silk wrapping around my throat. "When you were ten, we had your father. This time, you’re on your own."

I didn't reply. Outside, the neon lights bled into the wet glass like smeared blood.

Memories of me at ten bobbed to the surface.

My father was a Harvard-educated biologist. When he married my mother, he thought he’d stumbled upon a biological miracle. He kept four women in the basement, tapping their spinal fluid, charting their death curves. He claimed he was writing a Nobel-worthy paper on "anomalous human tissue." He planned to add me and mom to his data—until Mom smelled the pentobarbital in the syringe he prepped for me.

Mom made the first move that night. The Spider Goddess took his soul, and I successfully completed my first molt.

That was the first time I realized that for our kind, survival comes with a price tag.

But for the past two years, I’ve turned Ashfield upside down. The college boys chasing me were as shallow as puddles after the rain; the worst they did was steal term papers or get girls drunk at frat parties. I went to the underground dive bars on the South Side. There were plenty of men, but they were just drunks, junkies, and cheating husbands. Their sins were too diluted to serve to the Goddess.

Corvin Ashby was a surprise.

He was the university’s youngest scholarship donor at twenty-one. His portrait hung in the arts building, radiating a sickeningly sunny smile. He started pursuing me the moment he saw me on campus. Flowers, coffee dates, "accidentally" bumping into me after class. His eyes crinkled genuinely when he smiled. I treated him as a distraction, humoring him while thinking: What kind of real sin could a golden boy like this commit?

Then came the scholarship gala.

Corvin insisted I go. That night, he brought a freshman named Amelia. Redhair, collarbones sharp as blades. He introduced her to the room as "this year’s most promising recipient," but his hand stayed clamped onto her waist, right where it shouldn't be. The girl’s eyes were unfocused; she didn't touch her drink. I excused myself to the restroom and followed her into the hall. She was stumbling. Her pupils were blown out. I didn't ask questions. I just memorized her face.

Three days later, a thread popped up on the campus forum looking for her. A week later, the university portal posted a brief update: Amelia Reed has withdrawn due to family reasons.

I dug into the list of girls Corvin had sponsored over the past three years. Twenty-one girls. Missing, dropped out, transferred, "voluntarily returned home." Not a single one was still in Ashfield.

The next day, I texted him first.

I wore a wine-red slip dress, slit up to the thigh, no bra. We met at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. As he pulled out my chair, I let my strap slip down my shoulder an inch. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"You look different tonight," he said.

"Oh?" I handed my wine glass to him, letting my fingers brush his and linger. I leaned in so he could catch my perfume. "I just wanted you to see the real me."

He smiled, his gaze already drifting downward.

I slipped off a heel, sliding my bare foot up his calf under the table. I leaned across the table to steal a bite from his plate, making sure my neckline caught his eye. "Corvin," I said softly, "how about you become my official boyfriend starting today?"

He said yes. His voice was half an octave lower than usual.

That night, I went back to his place. Afterward, he pulled me against his chest. Still catching his breath, he whispered like he was dreaming:

"Vesper, do you love me?"

I looked up, piling every ounce of tenderness I’d learned into a smile, staring right into his eyes.

"I do," I said. "I’ll love you right up until the day you die."

He laughed, thinking it was a sweet nothing.

He had no idea he was going to die very soon.