Paul’s gaze shoots past me before I can finish the thought, eyes rounding as concern bleeds into his expression. He takes a step back and looks down at me.
“Actually, never mind. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He practically runs away from me like I’d insulted him, that or threatened him for as quickly as he moves. It hurts that he rescinded the offer so fast, confusion strangling me as I turn around to see what Paul is running from.
Damn it.
I’m moving now, too, because the last person I want to deal with is Ezra...or Damon...I don’t know which one, to be honest. But he’s walking straight to me, and I refuse to get caught up in their bullshit again.
I make it as far as Ivy and Ava, both of them glancing up to see who I’m trying to avoid.
Thankfully, Ivy snaps into protect-the-bestie mode and blocks his path, her mouth opening to tell him off when he grabs her by the shoulders, moves her aside without hurting her, and continues walking to me.
“We need to talk.”
“Don’t you have Hillary or Kelly to talk to? I’m sure you have a lot of planning to do since you’re going to prom with them.”
I don’t mean to sound jealous, but it slipped out anyway to land at his feet like a slimy, flopping fish. His mouth curls at the corner, those amber eyes glimmering with something I can’t name.
“That’s what we need to talk about.”
Shaking my head, I cross my arms over my chest, the hope I felt earlier completely dead, brutalized and murdered by the anger that’s overtaking me now.
“No, we don’t. And what did you do to chase Paul off?”
How dare he think he has the right to step in and demand I talk to him about anything? Also, how fucking dare he somehow threaten another boy who wanted to speak to me?
No, he didn’t yell, or growl in that way he does, but he did something to chase Paul all the damn way across the lawn, running as if his life depended on it.
“You don’t own me,” I snap, not sure where the words are coming from.
And then, there it is, that growl. Not as a warning or a threat, more in frustration when he loses his patience and grabs my elbow to lead me away like Paul did earlier.
Except his touch is much firmer, more possessive, sparks erupting over my skin and shooting up my arm from where our bodies are in contact.
Ignoring the way I feel when he touches me is impossible.
My legs move independently of what my mind wants as Ezra or Damon - again, I have no clue - leads me behind a thick curtain of willow branches to a spot where nobody can see us.
It takes effort to yank my arm from his hold, but somehow I manage it. I take a step back as I spin to face him, the distance meaning nothing when he steps forward to steal it, his hands cupping my face like they always do and his head dipping down to be eye level with mine.
I should say something, but I melt the instant his mouth brushes mine. Fucking melt when his tongue slips between my lips and I’m guided to where my back is against the thick trunk of the tree. I melt when his scent wafts beneath my nose, something spicy and masculine...something dangerous.
His arm slips around my lower back when my knees become rubbery and it’s difficult to stand, his fingers clamping down on my hip when I open my mouth wider for him even though I shouldn’t.
My body freezes in place when his other hand collars my throat, not hard or choking, but the hint of a seductive threat that feels right and wrong and everything in between. My mind is short-circuiting as something else takes over.
I’m melting.
Despite how pathetic and weak it is.
Despite all the reasons for me to hate him.
Despite having no idea who’s kissing me.
He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine.
All I see is amber with green flecks.
All I know is the shapes and colors of his bruises.
All I care about is the heat radiating off his body as dappled sunlight filters between us like fireworks against his skin each time a breeze brushes the branches aside to let in more of that light.
The fingers over my throat flex just enough to remind me his hand is still there, but instead of feeling frightened, I tip my chin higher to give him better access.
I don’t know why I do it. But the reflex is there, the reaction. Like a chip in my brain that signals for me to surrender completely at that particular touch with this particular person.
“Are you mad?” he whispers.
“Yes.”
He smiles. “Don’t be.”
As if I can help it. My jealousy is pervasive, all-consuming, sharp razors slicing through my veins until all I can feel is the trickle of hot blood seeping beneath my skin.
“Why Hillary?”
That unreadable smile stretches, curiosity floating behind his eyes. “Why not?”
He cocks a brow on that question, and I want to tell him because he’s mine, but I can’t really say that, can I?
I have no right to him, no claim. Not when my future is already mapped out for me. Not when he can’t come to my house to pick me up for prom and not when I can’t date him openly.
All we have is this.
Dappled sunlight and shadowed rooms.
Secrets and more secrets all piled together.
“Fine. But why did you chase Paul off?”
Another growl erupts low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my bones and between my thighs. Except unlike the other, this one is a distinct threat, just not toward me.
“He only wants you because I said you’re off limits.”
And now I’m angry again. “That’s not fair.”
Before I can continue complaining, he runs his thumb along the line of my jaw, his hand cradling my chin gently.
His eyes stare at my mouth, so much heat behind them that the amber color becomes whiskey, liquid and thick, something sweet that will still burn your throat when you swallow it down.
“You’re off limits,” is all he says before pulling his hand free and stepping back, a chill running over my body when his heat is gone.
Our eyes lock, anger surging through me again.
“Like hell I am.”
He winks as he walks backwards to put more space between us.
When he turns to leave me standing in place, I glance down at his shoulder where his shirt is unbuttoned and has fallen open. I immediately notice something that only makes me angrier.
That wasn’t Ezra this time.
Or maybe it wasn’t Damon.
There’s no telling, and it only frustrates me more.
What I do know is that the handprint bruise isn’t there like it was on Saturday, which means the twins really are taking turns driving me crazy.
Emily
“I hate him.”
Ivy laughs. “Who? Ezra or Damon?”
“Both,” I grumble while walking through my room to grab my Converse.
In twenty minutes, Mom is taking me to get my hair, nails and makeup done for prom tonight, even though I’d rather stay home and binge television with a bucket of ice cream than go.
These dances are never fun, and I briefly wonder if I can fake being sick to get out of it.
Ava and Ivy always attempt to make me feel included, but they have dates, and I end up feeling like an awkward fifth wheel.
I know I’ll be wandering prom tonight on my own while the other kids dance and have fun.