I know what he’s trying to say, and I get it.
Bishop showed loyalty to Raven, same as he did us since the day he set foot on our grounds, and I’m supposed to respect him for that. For helping one of us when she needed it, for having her back when we weren’t there to do it, no questions asked, no consequence too big.
But I can’t.
To be real, I don’t hate the fucker. I can’t lie and say I didn’t think he would keep my sister-in-law safe, because I did. But it wasn’t his place, it was mine.
Maddoc was fucked-up, Cap was laid up, and all that was left was me.
And then he stepped in again, pissed me off and now I want to piss him off, and what better way to do that than play with the sister he thinks is out of reach?
No one is out of my reach.
Am I being a bitch? Don’t know or care.
Sister for a sister makes sense to me.
Maybe that’s twisted, maybe I’m twisted, but I never claimed to be the sane one, that’s Captain.
Maddoc is the angry alpha, and me, I’m the fuckin’ wild one.
The time bomb.
Unpredictable and admittedly, unhinged.
I see things a little different, through a haze of rage most of the time, and yeah, I hold a grudge like a champ.
But I’d like someone to come to me, tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to respect someone who would risk himself like that, for a girl he hardly knows, yet ditches his own fucking sister without a blink?
I know better than anyone blood doesn’t count, me and my brothers share none, but Bass loves her. That’s why he sent her away, to protect her from the big bad fucking wolves, right? From the darkness he said she’ll fall into, and claims she’s not meant for?
The punk didn’t even have the balls to tell her straight-up he made that choice. That he’s the one who felt it was better for her.
Fuck him.
He wants to step into my family, insert himself where he’s not wanted. Touché, motherfucker.
Consider me inserted.
Brielle will know me and she’ll know me fucking well.
“We’re not waiting out here all day, are we?” He smirks.
“Nah, my man.” My eyes slide to the red double doors Brielle disappeared through. “We’re not.”
Brielle
With a water bottle in hand, I follow the flow of students out into the quad, only for my feet to cement themselves moments later.
Is it possible to have a nightmare during the day... when you’re wide awake?
The view in front of me screams yes, yes, it is.
Royce stands in the center of the basketball court, passing a ball between his loosely planted feet with ease, shoulders strong, but in a careless kind of way, head tipped back and to the side the slightest bit—cocky and carefree. Assertive.
An unquestionable alpha.
I follow his line of sight to the group of five guys standing closer to the left side of the hoop, all with a different question written across their faces, and my stomach twists.
These guys, they aren’t simply school randoms. They’re the starting five on the team, and Royce must have straight-up walked into the middle of their game, claimed their ball as his own, and they’re not happy about it.
I look back to Royce.
He’s standing off against a foreign group of males, in a school he has no pull at, a school where nobody knows the repercussion that comes with simply looking at a Brayshaw wrong, let alone squaring off against one. Still, Royce shows not a hint of concern.
I slip my glasses on as the crowd shuffles me closer, whispers now floating through the manure-stenched air.
It’s a bunch of “Who is that?”, “Is he new?” and “Look at those tattoos.”
“Damn, he’s hot,” the girl at my side says, knocking an elbow into her friend. “Look at those lips.”
I know, right?
A wolf in a god’s body.
A god in his own sense.
An anomaly.
It must suck, to be that enigmatic and now that I’ve met him, spoken to him, I know the mystery isn’t only on the outside, but woven within.
He could try his hardest, and if he’s human like the rest of us, he may have a time or two, and still, he’d be incapable of getting lost in a crowd.
Like the North Star in a dark night’s sky, he burns too bright to hide.
How exhausting that must be.
I, however, can blend with the best of ‘em.
Or maybe it’s the worst of them since the beautiful, boisterous ones never could.
My eyes glide across the old blacktop as Mac appears along the other side of it, doing his best to slip into the crowd. He gives a small, almost unnoticeable tip of his chin, and while Royce makes no move to look his way, my guess is he caught it.
He tilts his head, baiting, and the guys across from him, they bite hard, finally waking up.
“Give me the ball.” This comes from Micah, a guy I’ve had in English class the last few years, who might be the only decent person in this school even if he does only speak to me when necessary in class, but I get the feeling he’s not all bad under his armor of expectation.
Micah takes slow forward steps, and his friends decide to follow.
My heart hammers in my chest as I glance toward Royce, and what I find causes it to beat even harder.
Royce shows no sign of caution or any sort of acknowledgment of a change around him, though we all stood here and witnessed Micah make the first move.
I mean, the first after Royce’s ball thievery and blatant belittlement.
He doesn’t so much as blink at their two-step advance.
No, he holds his cocky boy mode strong, completely unfazed by the mounds of muscle creeping in on him.
I cut a quick glance toward Mac, who seems to have found me in the crowd, and I pointedly look from Royce and back.
Are you going to help him, or what?
The freaking guy grins, crosses his arms and focuses on his friend who clearly has no sense of self-preservation.
Suddenly, Royce stops crossing the ball, now spinning it between his pointer fingers, his palms flattening on it seconds later, elbows out wide.
“Come and get it, pretty boy,” he antagonizes Micah. “I’ll even go easy on you.”
“Fuck you,” the guy behind Micah spits. “We’re district champs.”
“Badass,” Royce mocks, but it goes over their head.
They don’t know the Brayshaw Wolves are reigning state champs. Actually, they might, but they don’t know one is standing in front of them.
Royce’s smirk is slow, and then his upper body goes lax. He bends at the waist, folding over slightly as he sways his hands, the ball loose within them, from right to left.
The guys understand his move, getting into their stances, and Royce nods.
He flies forward, dribbling, and cutting right, only to spin left, and hop up, making the basket with ease.
He chuckles, licking his lips as he adjusts his jeans.
One of the other guys grabs the ball, looking back to Micah, who stands with fists and furrowed brows.
“Les’ go.” Royce damn near pushes his chest into his. “First to three.”
At first, it seems Micah is ready to tell him to get lost, but then he looks to his friend, who passes him the ball.
“One on one?” Micah attempts to confirm.