There’s a strange yearning in her eyes, then she shakes her head.
A second later, the icy band comes back but I knock it away for long enough to press gentle kisses along her jawline, thrilled when her body curves into mine, seeking something I can’t give her, not yet, but maybe one day.
And if this is how it feels to fulfil Evie’s needs, then I want more of it, whether the spill of arousal accompanies it or not.
I want her to make the tiny gasp again. Better still, I want to hear her moan.
The battered boy behind me makes his own sounds as his friend helps him along the corridor but I don’t turn. I can’t tear my gaze away for a single second.
“A lineup of eager students,” Mr Acaster says, finally arriving to open the classroom door. “That’s what I like to see.”
As we file into the room, taking a double seat together in the back row, Wilder and Zane arriving late to sit across the aisle, the personImost like to see has flushed cheeks, her lips red and slightly swollen, and contentment fills me, my bruised knuckles a small price to pay.
Evie stares at me with a serious expression, a slight frown suddenly smoothing away as she smiles.
“Okay,” she says and when I’m about to ask her, ‘Okay, what?’adds, “I’ll stop working at the club.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
EVIE
After Maddox dropsme home that afternoon, I lock myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, pulling the neck of my blouse down to see the flaking line of blood drawn across my throat.
Just the sight makes my chest flood with warmth. Much as I pretend the words students mutter under their breaths as I pass by don’t hurt, they inflict damage, of course they do.
Damage that Maddox saw and immediately took retribution for. With that over-the-top reaction, I can’t imagine anyone will be in a hurry to insult me again.
My head replays the images, the moments as he hears, lunges, strikes. Then, when the boy’s behaviour didn’t change fast enough, strikes again and again and again. I touch my fingertip to the browning smear, wishing it were something more permanent to fasten the memory in my head for years to come.
I stare at the collar wrapped around my wrist, pretending to be a bracelet. The catch is fiddly to unfasten one-handed, butI get it free, unwinding the leather. I rest it against my neck, staring at my reflection, seeing the reservation in her eyes.
But it’s just a strip of leather, not a metal shackle, flaking with rust.
I take a selfie to remember the new collar Maddox gave me, then wash the dried blood away, drying my skin before stretching the leather band around my throat, fumbling with the catch.
The touch against my scar sends a shiver down my spine. The longer the material touches my neck, the worse it gets. I feel the metal shackle, hear the dull clunk of the rusty chain. Straw scratches at my skin, field mice rustle in the feed hay.
My breathing picks up speed. My pulse rate increases to match.
Cotton wool stuffs my head until thinking is an impossibility, just like it was when I had sedatives coursing through my bloodstream, making my limbs too heavy to lift.
My eyes flick open, scared to glance at my reflection in case I see the creature other people see instead of the girl. The creature that invites abuse just by existing.
I need Ant. Need the one person who always sees me for who I am. Who knew I was worth rescuing when nobody else bothered.
But he’s out and it might be hours until he’s home.
Cold water against my wrists helps some. Mumbling song lyrics under my breath helps more.
The beautiful necklace goes back around my wrist, tongue pressing against the gap in my teeth as I concentrate on getting it fastened, forcefully shoving all the other unwelcome thoughts from my head.
I think I’ve recovered, sitting on the sofa, rereading the same paragraph in my English text without absorbing a single word. Then I hear the beep as Ant punches in the door code, and flyinto his arms as he steps inside, clinging to him, arms wrapped so tightly his ribcage creaks.
“Steady on,” he says with a laugh. “We just saw each other this morning.”
“I know.” My arms won’t loosen, and he doesn’t force me to let go, lifting me so he can walk across to the sofa, collapsing onto the cushions with me still in his arms. “My head’s not right.”
He holds me and strokes my hair and makes everything better just by being the brother I adore. He doesn’t worry about asking questions, knowing if I need to talk, I’ll do it, and if I don’t, forcing the issue will just make everything worse.
