The instructor walks up to Eric’s body and kicks him in the leg. “Wake up, asshole.”
Eric groans as consciousness returns. He squints before rolling onto his hands and knees. Once on his feet, he scans the room until he locates me. I meet his stare head-on with cool indifference.
His nostrils flare, eyes blazing with something beyond rage. He narrows his gaze until it’s little more than slits. The look promises retribution.
I break eye contact by turning my head, a clear dismissal. Of his threats. And of him.
Eric Gage can go fuck himself. I have more important things to think about.
Viridian eyes that invade my dreams and tease me relentlessly come to mind. My obsession over Delilah didn’t end the night she stabbed me. In fact, it’s only gotten worse. Professor Ames is right: emotion is a poison of the heart.
When it comes to Delilah, I’m terminal.
For the last two years, I’ve been watching over my girl. And keeping anyone else from having her. It hasn’t been easy. Sneaking away to be near her without my father’s suspicions following me is hard enough, but keeping other men from wanting her? Nearly impossible.
If Delilah thinks she’s going to have a boyfriend, much less give him her virginity, she’s got another fucking thing coming.
Her kiss is mine to taste.
Her body is mine to touch.
Her innocence is mine to own.
The instructor draws my attention by clapping sharply. “Donovan gave a textbook demonstration of MMA techniques combined with strength training. The rest of you losers should take notes.” He shifts his focus to Eric. “Gage, go and get cleaned up. You’re bleeding all over my floor.”
“Sure thing,” Eric says, spitting on the mats.
The other recruits part to let him pass. Eric strides through the group, shouldering a few of them before leaving the room. Good fucking riddance.
The instructor points to Benjamin and John Felton, heir to the finance and banking empire. The newcomer—who’s not so new anymore—takes his spot on the mats with his knees bent and arms resting lightly by his sides.
At least this time I don’t have to worry about him getting killed.
Chapter 8
DELILAH
Delilah: Can we FaceTime? The girls really want to see you since it’s been a long time (hint hint)
Ben: I’m really busy studying.
Delilah: Come on! You never visit anymore, and you hardly call. I can handle you ignoring me, but the girls don’t understand. They still need their older brother. I know I do. Gloria is nice and all, but it’s not the same
Ben: Give me a second
Isink onto my bed and stare at the cell phone with my heart thrashing in my chest. Maybe I don’t fully understand what it takes to be an honor student at South Harbor University, but Ben makes it seem like a black hole that sucks you in and kills your social life. If I have to make excuses to the girls on his behalf one more time, I think I’m going to go crazy.
Ben better call. That’s all I’m saying.
My cell phone rings, and I immediately answer, setting it on a stand. Surrounded by shelves of books in a library, my foster brother comes into view.
Same blonde hair and blue eyes, but his smile isn’t as light and carefree. There’s also a tightness around his jaw that wasn’t there before.
Along with a fist-sized bruise.
“Who’s the fucking cockwaffle that hit you?!” My voice isn’t exactly a screech, but it’s close. I take a deep breath and try to speak more calmly. “I hope you kicked his ass.”
Ben shakes his head with a small smile. “Hello to you too, Delilah. Some preppy asshole thinking we had a problem. And now we don’t. How are you?”
