Besides, they’re not the ones who have been getting my dick hard since that night a week ago.
Maybe I really am sick.
“Yo, King,” Chris whispers from my right.
I leave the guys bickering and lean closer to Chris as I button my shirt.
“I checked with my old man and that girl’s father didn’t drop the case,” he murmurs. “We should teach her a lesson this time.”
I shake my head.
“But they will…”
“We’re only under jeopardy if she remembers and she doesn’t.”
Chris taps his foot, watching his surroundings before he hisses, “If she does, we’re done for.”
“She won’t. It’s in my hands now. Drop it.”
That night when Astrid has looked at me with teary, wrenched eyes, searching for a soul I don’t have, I didn’t sleep.
And in that sleepless night, I came up with a different tactic. If the problem is her memory, then I’ll take of that instead of taking care of her.
“We should threaten to rape her,” Chris mutters. “Maybe the bitch will understand to back off this time.”
One moment, Chris is talking, the next, I’m throwing him against the lockers with my arm against his fucking throat. He wheezes, face reddening as he struggles. I tighten my arm, cutting off his air supply.
“You won’t get near her, touch her, or even fucking look at her,” I snarl against his face as his eyes bulge. “When I say to drop it, you. Fucking. Drop. It.”
Scratchy noises escape his throat and his colour turns from red to blue. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I recognise that he’s suffocating and that I’ve relayed my message and should let him go, but the unhinged part wants to see the life drain from his face drop by bloody drop.
“Let him go, Lev.” Aiden clutches my arm and it’s then I realise that a few more of the team are pulling me away from Chris.
Or trying to.
I release him and he slides to the ground, coughing and clutching his throat.
Aiden’s brows furrow as he watches me with that calculative spark.
I’m known to not get worked up on the team, so this must be putting Aiden’s mind into a loop.
“Don’t fucking show up here again unless you plan to snatch your place back,” I bark at Chris and storm out of the locker room.
I need a long drive and a smoke. Or a few.
It’d be best if I don’t go back home tonight. Jonathan's face is the last thing I need to see.
Murderous energy looms over my head like a thick fog with no way out.
In the car park, I stop when I spot a petite figure lingering near the exit, right under the bulb.
She must be waiting for Daniel.
Earbuds in, Astrid has a sketchpad in her hands with her brows drawn. There’s a slight twist to her upper lip when she’s in full concentration. It’s adorable.
Adorable.
Fuck. I don’t remember the last time I ever thought of something as adorable.
Astrid isn’t one of those girls who wear their uniform skirts as short as possible or their jackets at tight as possible. She wears her uniform with a quiet elegance that fits her petite frame and rebellious character.
Only… she hasn’t been rebellious at all.
She did return to school after I barged into her house, but since then, she’s been keeping to herself.
No more distasteful pranks. No more challenges. No more… anything.
She’s been treating me as non-existent since she returned to school. I thought I wanted her to back off and know her place, but now that I think about it, the sudden lack of her fight is part of what’s been pissing me off.
I’ve been feeding off her negative energy like a starved predator, and now that she’s sealing herself in, I’m tempted to claw inside and pluck her out.
There’s something about her that keeps pulling me in and I’m not the type to back off until I see the end of it.
Time to see how much fight the princess has left.
17
Astrid
Can you fight when the devil pulls you into the night?
* * *
Ugh. Not again.
I frown at the sketch in my hands.
Mum was a tattoo artist and did her best pieces when the customers gave her free reign. She used to say that spontaneous art is the best art. A real muse doesn’t ask for permission before striking.
Looks like my muse is a freaking idiot.
For the past week, the only face I’ve been able to sketch properly is Levi’s.
His pale, slightly droopy eyes. The straight, high nose. The sharp jawline. The slight curve in his neck with the tendons and veins rippling. I didn’t even miss the small mole on his collarbone.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
I’m about to rip it when a shadow looms over me. My head snaps up, and I remove my earbuds at the same time. Super Massive Black Hole by Muse continues thumping low as I meet a senior’s gaze.
He has messy brown hair and a buff physique, especially his shoulders and chest. His name is Jerry Huntington, if I remember correctly, and he’s part of the Rugby team.
“Yes?” I ask, unsure why he’s approaching me.
He smiles like a cartoon character. I’m sure he meant to woo me with it or something. In that case, epic fail.
“The guys and I are going out for a beer, do want to join us?” he asks in a suggestive tone.
“No, thanks.” I fling my backpack to the front and stuff my sketchpad and earbuds inside.
“Come on, babe, you’ll like it.” I catch him licking his lips from the corner of my eyes. “I promise.”
“I said no.” I try to speak as low as possible, hoping he’ll get the freaking hint and go away.
It’s not that I’m not interested in boys, but athletes never appealed to me.
Aside from my freaking muse, of course.
I close the zipper of my backpack when his hand snags around my wrist. His voice turns threatening as he speaks, “I said you’ll like it. Don’t pretend like you’re hard to get, everyone knows you’re a little slut.”
“That’s enough!” I push at him and attempt to yank my wrist. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t. If anything, his grip tightens until my wrist hurts.
I groan, my throat closing around the scream that’s bubbling to be set free. My face heats with exertion and even though I try to rein in my reaction, I can’t help the shivers of fear crowding my shoulders.
For the love of Vikings, this can’t be happening again.
One second, I’m trying to free myself from Jerry’s hold, the next, a large frame slams into Jerry’s bulk and pushes him straight to the concrete.
I stare in stunned silence as Levi smashes Jerry to the ground. Although the rugby player is bigger, Levi doesn’t show a sign of backing off.
He launches successive blows at Jerry’s face and abdomen like he’s a punching bag. It takes Jerry long seconds to gather his wits and hit back. He uses his upper bulk to push Levi into the ground and fixate him with a knee to his stomach before he punches him over and over again.
Something twists in my chest at the constant slaps of flesh against flesh.