“Pinkie…”
I turn my head away instantly, careful to keep my face bereft of emotion.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I told you.”
“I know you don’t, baby girl. But I just want you to be okay.”
Those words…
They tumble around in my brain and rattle my skull. Those seemingly innocent words are like the slash of a whip against my back, each consecutive hit drawing more and more blood.
“How the fuck can I be okay, Mason?” I ask, mouth twisting in a rictus sneer. “You don’t know what it’s like to be hated.” My hands tremble by my sides, and I ball them into fists to hide it. The pain is painted on my heart like a mural I can never scrub clean. It’s a tattoo, etched across the surface forever. “Everyone hates me, and not just my classmates. The entire world hates me. Everybody keeps asking me if I’m okay, but honestly? I’m a fucking mess. I was just violated, Mason. They touched me. They carved words into my skin. How the fuck am I supposed to look at myself in the mirror anymore? All I see is a trembling, broken girl who cried when she was confronted. I’m not a monster, and I don’t know how to be one. I’m weak and pathetic, and maybe I deserve what those assholes did—”
“Don’t fucking say that!” Mason cuts in, his face contorted in rage. “What those pieces of shit did to you was not your fault.” His eyes soften exponentially as he leans forward, cupping my chin with a tenderness contradicting the feral rage in his eyes. “It’s okay to cry. Hell, I would still be crying if that was me. But you don’t have to fight this battle alone anymore. There are haters in this world, sure, but there are also people who care about you immensely. People who will lay down their lives for you.” Eyes still ensnaring mine, he rests his forehead against my own. “I promise you, Violet, that I won’t let them hurt you again. I would rather stab my own eyes out than watch you go through this pain a second time.”
I sniffle, the enormity of my emotions for this man taking me by surprise. My throat closes, and I have to swallow multiple times—almost as if I’m swallowing the words that want to spring free. Instead of divulging my soul, I whisper, “When did you become so romantic?”
A wry grin curls up his lush lips. “When a beautiful vampire tripped into my life.”
Snorting, I push at his shoulder until he reluctantly parts from me. “I did not trip.”
“You were on the floor when I saw you,” he points out.
“Because Vin shoved me,” I counter.
His eyes darken momentarily. “And I still need to beat the shit out of him for that.”
“I already did. With a slimy green arm. We’re good now.”
Mason snorts and wraps his arm once more around me. “You’re such a freak, Violet. But you’re my freak. My beautiful, perfect freak.”
“We’re only freaks because society doesn’t understand normal,” I point out helpfully, pressing up onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. My smile fades, tightening into a grim line. “Mason, I’m going to take this seriously.”
“Huh?” He lifts a brow, twisting his head to stare down at me.
“The Roaring. I’m going to train, and I’m going to win. I’m not going to allow fear to dictate what I do anymore.” The strength of my resolve startles even me. I’m tired of hiding in the shadows when my body craves the light. What those monsters did to me bent me irrevocably, but I’m still standing. Maybe I no longer have as many pieces, but that doesn’t mean I’m broken. The fire lingering just beneath my surface is still raging, strengthening to become an inferno.
“I’ll help in whatever way I can,” Mason vows immediately. He doesn’t tell me it’s stupid or dangerous. He doesn’t try to placate me. He knows that this is what I need to do to overcome my trauma. I need to stare in the mirror and be proud of the monster looking back at me, not hiding away in fear. Winning the Roaring? There’s no greater accomplishment than that in the monster world.
It’s time to grow some fucking ovaries and let the world know what I’m made of.
A ping from my phone interrupts my internal monologue. Frowning, I pull out my device and stare at the blinking text message on the screen.
Dad (Dracula) (Papa Bear) (Psychotic Murderer): I have to cancel. Sorry.
“Fuck,” I curse, staring intently at the words and willing them to change. Canceling once, I understand, but canceling twice? Something doesn’t add up.
“What’s wrong?” Mason asks, instantly on alert.
“My dad.” I hold up my phone so he can read the text. “He canceled.”
“He canceled before,” Mason points out. “Why is this any different?”
“I don’t know.”
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe this is just my dad being his normal, flaky self, but I can’t ignore the sliver of unease that embeds itself in my heart.
“Let’s just go home,” I tell Mason at last, unable to tear my gaze away from the words on the screen. They rub me the wrong way, but I can’t put my finger on what it is exactly. With a sigh, I toss my phone into the backseat of the car and enter through the passenger door. I’ll call my dad tomorrow, and then the next day, and then the next day, and then the next day. I’ll call until my fingers bleed and my voice goes hoarse.
He’ll give me answers, dammit. I won’t accept anything else.
CHAPTER 22
VIOLET
I spend the next week extensively training for the Roaring. Kernels of excitement appear in my stomach, intermingled with the dread and worry already there. I can’t ignore how excited I actually am for the
