What the actual fudge? I must have some temporary brain damage, or at least I hope it’s temporary, because I swear to God Archie just said, in his own way, that he likes me. Archie, the human hybrid between Norse god and angel.
He looks over at me as I gape at him and lifts a finger to my lips.
“Please,” he begs, “no more questions today, all right? I swear every time you open your mouth, you take a piece of my soul with your words.”
His words are brutal, edged with pain, and I am stunned into silence. He leads me into class, appearing to not give a shit when Blythe glares at us from across the room.
14
Ian
Chase burps loudly, slamming his fist into his chest as he does it. Everett and Archie erupt in a fit of giggles. Chase gives a little bow as the girls at the table wrinkle their noses.
I haven’t talked to Harlow in four days. I was sure she’d say something—some smartass comment that my cock would take as a hand-written invitation—when I pulled the chair out from under her when she tried to sit three days prior. I thought she’d scream at me when I took her book bag this morning and promptly dumped it in the trash as Aurora watched. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t react in the slightest.
She has turned to stone, and as if she’s Medusa, and I have turned to stone right along with her. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I don’t feel. I just am. I only...exist.
I haven’t even see her smile at Archie this week, and that gives me a brief respite. If I am miserable, I at least want fucking company. On second thought, I don’t give a shit whether or not I have company, but I don’t want to have to watch Harlow give Archie any of her delectable smiles. Those are mine.
All. Fucking. Mine.
My mind carries forward like a piece of driftwood caught in the current. That kiss, her lips. Her warmth and scent of homemade apple pie. I can’t even bring myself to jack off to the memory of it. The best and worst moment of my life rolled into one, and I can’t figure it out. It’s like a fuse has shorted somewhere between my brain and my dick.
I’m a hot-blooded teenage boy. I should barely be able to keep it in my pants. But I find it hard to get remotely interested in anything besides her. Even practice has become a chore. Coach notices my attitude change—hell, the entire team does—but no one gives me shit as long as I make the right moves, call the right plays, and give them what they expect.
Archie and Everett have been talking about something, but I missed it. My gaze lifts from my untouched plate, and I find Everett staring at me. He purses his lips in a frown, his brows furrowing together until they are nearly one long, brown caterpillar. I know he knows what’s gnawing away at me from the inside like a mouse devouring a block of cheese.
This is what I get for not listening to him all those years ago. He always was the sensible one of our bunch. He knew, even as a kid, that the Rules would have adult consequences, but peer pressure is a bitch, and he got outvoted. Now, I am in purgatory, and he is my gatekeeper.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her enter the cafeteria. She looks disheveled—her white-blonde hair pulled into some bun-like thing atop her head that resembles a bird’s nest, her skirt wrinkled—but she’s still beautiful. Light spills onto her like golden water from the glass oculus overhead as though she’s an angel arriving to earth in a shower of starlight. I sit outside of the glow. How appropriate.
She is a ray of sunshine, even though she looks miserable, but my misery craves her misery like a true fucking sadist.
I want to slam her into a table, dishes and silverware clattering everywhere, and fuck her until neither of us can walk straight. Then again, we would have an audience, and I don’t want to share. She. Is. Mine.
Mine. The monster in my chest purrs in approval.
That night flashes in my mind with the ferocity of a series of bombs going off. Each explosion fractures my control, which is mostly just the internal version of duct tape and a prayer at this point.
She tasted like a cherry lollipop, saccharine sweet and syrupy.
It’s killing me.
She felt so delicate, so fragile, against me, my hips pressed against hers as I pinned her to the locker and consumed her.
It’s killing me.
Her sounds as I traced the freckles scattered across her throat, something between a purr and a moan.
It’s killing me!
She sees me and freezes. This isn’t her norm. She never comes to the cafeteria for lunch, probably attempting to avoid a repeat of the food fight I instigated to her chagrin weeks ago.
I stand, and I don’t give a fuck that they can all see, that it’s raising questions for which I have no answers—at least not acceptable ones—or that I am instigating a fucking bloodbath.
“Stormy,” I say, the word somewhere between a growl and a yell. It echoes in the cavernous banquet hall. Everyone stops talking, and they all stare. The collective room holds its breath. Even the staff just stop and stand there, frozen mid-clearing of plates.
I would give anything to be ignored at this moment, to be able to disappear into the throngs of students, but everyone is watching, their wide-eyed gazes darting back and forth between Stormy and me. They can’t wait to gossip about this later. But there’s safety in numbers, right? I can’t throttle each one of their throats. Or, if I did, at least it would take a while.
Stormy’s steps
