Before I can process the sheer, stunning audacity of that statement, before I can even begin to formulate the stream of vitriol I want to unleash on him, he turns, walks to the door, and opens it.
He steps out, and before I can follow, he slams it shut. I hear the deadbolt slide into place with a sickening thud.
I’m locked in.
For hours, I pace the room—it looks like his bedroom, sparsely furnished but clean—without a phone, without any contact with the outside world.
The more minutes that tick by, the hotter my anger burns. What is his endgame? I knew he didn’t want me at the party, but kidnapping? It’s psychotic. The party should be starting now.
My friends must be panicking. They’re probably looking for me, calling my phone, which is uselessly sitting in this madman’s car. He has stolen my Christmas. The one good Christmas I was trying to build for myself. The bastard.
Finally, hours after it should have begun, the lock scrapes again. The door swings open, and Raiden is standing there.
We stare at each other in the heavy silence. He looks even worse than before, if that’s possible.
My voice, when I finally find it, is trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re going to let me go now. You’re going to give me my phone. And then you’re going to pray I don’t call the police. Is that clear?” I try to sound strong, but the words wobble. “I already told the professor you helped. You got what you wanted. You can stop this charade now.” The last part comes out laced with all the bitterness and betrayal I feel.
Something inside him snaps. The deadness in his eyes ignites into a full-blown inferno. He stalks into the room, hissing through his teeth. “I don’t give a single flying fuck about the professor, or the police, or any of it. Understand?” He gets right in my face, his sheer size and fury overwhelming. “And you are not going to the party, because there is no more party.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s canceled,” he spits.
The world tilts. I can’t breathe. “You… canceled my party?”
A sound that is half scream, half sob of pure frustration tears from my throat, and I lunge for him. I grab the collar of hishoodie, yanking him down to my level. “You ruined everything! I was looking forward to this evening so much!”
“Iruined everything, yes,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He doesn’t fight me. He just lets me hold him, his eyes boring into mine.
“You planned all this. The fire. The sabotage. All of it.”
“No,” he says. “I planned to get you out of there before the party started. That’s all.”
“Why should I believe you?” I cry.
“Don’t believe me, Artie.” His voice drops, softens almost imperceptibly. “You’re free to leave. The door is open. I won’t stop you.”
“Even if you held me back, I would still get out,” I lie, because the fight is draining out of me, leaving a hollow, aching void.
I’m breathing heavily, my knuckles white where I’m still gripping his hoodie. Everything is ruined. My one chance at a happy Christmas is gone. And I’m still standing here, clinging to the man who orchestrated the destruction, and all I can feel is the magnetic, devastating pull of him.
My anger, my grief, my impossible feelings for him, it all swirls into one unbearable vortex of emotion.
I kiss him.
I pull away immediately, horrified at myself, but his mouth finds mine again, insistent, consuming. His hands are on me, sliding under my jacket, mapping my body with a frantic energy. He lifts me effortlessly, my back hitting the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist by pure instinct.
“Stop me,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice broken. “Tell me you don’t want this. You know you can leave. Tell me right now, Artie. Or I won’t be able to hold back anymore.”
I look into his wrecked, impressive face.
“Then don’t hold back,” I swallow, the words a nervous, thrilling surrender. “I can’t say I don’t want you, because it’s not true.”
That’s all he needs. He carries me the few steps to the bed and throws me down onto the soft mattress.
He’s on me in an instant, a frenzy of hands and mouths. He rips my jacket off, my jumper, my t-shirt, his lips following the path of bared skin. He kisses my throat, my collarbone, the frantic pulse at my wrist.
“Spend Christmas with me instead,” he whispers against my skin, and the words, despite everything, make my heart ache with a hope.
