He almost looks surprised when I stumble backward. Trembling, I swivel around so that he doesn’t see the emotions—shame, disgust, desire—going to war on my face.
There really must be something wrong with me.
Something fucked and corrupted deep in my core.
What other explanation is there for the butterflies in my stomach and the way my skin practically cries out for more of whatever … that was?
And it only gets worse, so much worse, when I feel his body against the back of mine. He bends his head until his mouth brushes my ear. At first, he doesn’t say a word. He just puffs shallow breaths into my hair as his intoxicating scent—the aroma of money and privilege—wafts over me. Then he opens his mouth, his words emerging in a low growl.
“Why am I doing this to you?” he repeats the question I’d asked when I thought I had the upper hand. “Because you’re mine, Mallory. To break. To hate. To do whatever the fuck I please to until you give me what I want.”
“And what’s that?” I whisper.
“Leave.”
9
I wake up Monday morning exhausted from the second sleepless night I’ve had in a row. The events from Friday night’s party keep playing on repeat in my mind, specifically my confrontation with Saint. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get that toxic prick out of my head. I can still feel his hand on my thigh, as if each fingertip was branded into my skin so I’d be haunted by the scars of his touch for the rest of my life. That night, I ran from him like he was a monster about to devour me, and I’m glad I did. After he declared me his to do with as he pleased, I knew I was in more danger with him than I’d anticipated. I’d fled back to the party and the safety of my friends, denying him the thrill of whatever he might have had planned for me.
In real life, that’s how it went down, but in my dreams…
In my dreams, I stayed.
In my dreams, I let his fingers continue their exploration, touching and caressing parts of my body that I’ve been determined to ignore for months. In my dreams, he’s not gentle, but I don’t care. I don’t want gentle. I want angry and brutal and rough. Saint gives me what I want, again and again and again.
My dream is so vivid, I wake up hot and sweating, on the verge of something I’ve not felt in almost a year, but I never quite manage to tip over into that mindless abyss before I’m conscious again. It freaks me out so much, I’m afraid to sleep.
Thus, my bone-deep exhaustion as I stagger into the dining hall.
As soon as I walk inside, combing my fingers through messy hair that I didn’t get the chance to braid, I’m very aware that something is wrong. People stop and stare at me as I walk by, but not in the same way as usual. They aren’t glaring this morning. They aren’t angry. They’re awed.
A few are almost reverent.
What the actual hell?
Before I reach the middle of the hall, I see Loni running straight toward me. I stop and wait for her to reach me, and when she does, her eyes are wide with disbelief.
“What the hell is going on?” I murmur, gazing around at the eyes watching me. “Why is everyone looking at me like that?”
“Dude, did you hook up with Saint Friday night?” she asks in a whisper.
“What?” I cry. “Of course not!”
I’m quick to deny it, but my stomach twists as images from my reoccurring dream assault me.
Pressing her hand to her chest, she puffs out a breath of relief. “Okay, that’s what I thought, but I had to ask.”
“Is that what everyone thinks?” I grab her arm and tug her toward an empty table, ignoring the stares we get as we pass by. “Is that why everyone’s acting so weird?”
She aims both index fingers at me as we sit down. “Bingo, beautiful.”
“Why do people think that?”
She arches her brow and looks at me like I’m stupid. “I dunno, maybe because you completely disappeared into the parking lot with him at the party?”
“People noticed that?” I feel the color drain from my face as horror seizes me.
“Fuck yeah, people noticed. Did you really think you could vanish with the god among the gods and no one would catch you?”
I drop my head into my hands and groan. “Shit, shit, shit. It wasn’t like that. Nothing happened!”
She pats my back. “Well, pretty much the whole school thinks something did happen. Look on the bright side! Everyone will probably stop treating you like shit if they think Saint’s hitting it.”
“Thanks for giving me a reason to vomit.”
She falls silent for several moments. When I glance up at her, she appears thoughtful.
“What is it?” I ask, afraid of what else she could tell me.
“Why did you go after Saint? And also, why’d you lie about it?”
Sitting up, I turn in my chair so I’m facing her fully, shame burning in my chest. “I’m sorry. I should’ve just told you what I was doing, but at the time, I wasn’t really sure what I was doing myself. I … I just needed to confront him, you know? I needed to face him on my own and ask him what his problem was.”
“And?” She tilts her head slightly, eyes burning with curiosity. “Did you get any answers.”
That I’m his to play with however he sees fit, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Not really,” I say instead. “He just decided I was an easy target, I guess, and he’s obviously still pissed about the apple.”
That piece of fruit is going to haunt me for the rest of my high school career.
Loni makes a face. “That’s such a stupid reason for going after someone. It’s not like you keyed his car.”
Nope, but now that I think about it, I should have. The outcome would have been the same. “You’re not wrong,” I finally say.
“Well, there’s at least one person who hates you more than ever.” She waves her fingers and smirks over my shoulder. I turn around to see who she’s taunting and meet eyes with the stepsister from hell. Laurel’s sitting at a table near the middle of the room surrounded by her minions, glaring at me with the purest rage I think I’ve ever seen in another person.
I turn back to Loni. “Damn, she looks capable of murder right now.”
“Well, she thinks you’re banging her one true love,” Loni quips, a grin quivering the corners of her lips. “Girl’s gotta be a little miffed.”
I can’t help but giggle, and Loni joins in.
“What’s so funny, ladies?”
Three boys approach our table. I’ve never interacted with them, but I recognize their faces from a few pep rallies and signage posted around campus. They’re each on the football team, and Loni’s expression goes dark as they near. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen her look so furious, not even with Laurel.
“Can I help you?” she demands through gritted teeth.
One of the boys—the dark-haired guy who looks like he should be on the cover of GQ instead of in a high school cafeteria—visibly flinches at her harsh greeting but doesn’t say anything. He kind of hangs back from the other two, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world at that moment.