My voice deepens as my breathing quickens, my free hand clenching into a fist, aching to slam into the face of this snivelling coward, this boy who thought it was okay to do damage to a girl when he should have known, even without my instruction, that she’s solely mine to torment.
“Better yet, you can run and tell me, and I’ll do it for you. It would be my greatest… fucking… pleasure.”
My fingers release his shirt and I shove him forward with a savage hit from the heel of my palm. He falls to one knee, quickly scrambling to recover. With a grab for what’s left of his phone, he scurries along the hallway, seeking safety.
And like someone pressed the off-switch, everyone returns their attention to what they were doing, show over.
I crouch beside Avon, getting close enough to whisper, “Are you okay?”
She’s not.
Her shoulders shake with each heaving sob and her face is glistening wet, the sight stirring interest even as I try to help her, sweeping the fallen pages together, shuffling them to face thesame way, tapping them on the floor to get them aligned, ready for the binder.
But her hands tremble, so I perform the task for her, listening as her breathing deteriorates, growing shorter, shallower, tipping towards full-blown panic.
“Hold this,” I order her, voice as firm as I think she can handle and she obeys, gripping it against her chest like a shield as I support her elbow, guiding her upright. With a few shuffling steps, I manoeuvre her until she’s against the lockers, safe from collapse. “Do you want me to walk you to class?”
The fog lifts from her vision and she twists to the side, seeking escape.
An escape I don’t allow her. Not yet.
“No,” she whispers, then raises her chin, finding strength. “I don’t want you near me at all.”
“Wow,” I drawl. “Hurtful.” And the pity of it is, the quick rejection does sting, even as I enjoy how my tease ignites hot flames in her eyes, smouldering embers sparking into life. “I just meant to counter the bullies and gossips, but you have eyes, right?”
My thumb strokes her cheek, smearing the wetness and I’m again fascinated by her mood shifts. She is so much trouble.
“You know I’m tall, rich, and handsome. Any girl in this place would be overjoyed by my company.”
“Go find one of them to hassle then.”
An incredulous laugh sputters out of me. Where was this energy when worthless John had her on her knees, mocking? I lean closer, voice dropping while I clock how her pupils expand. “Are you really going to make me force my company on you?”
Those incredible eyes widen, and I suddenly get a glimpse into the future, into what she’ll look like when her bone structure matures, giving her large features the space they need, no longer crowded.
And that vision, her presence, stirs an old desire inside me. A talent stored in a deep basement I didn’t realise I could still access.
I’d love to draw her. Capture the future just beginning to peek around the edges. Show everyone what’s suddenly obvious to me; that when she develops into her full maturity—five years, eight years, no longer—she’s going to be raw and edgy and beautiful.
Just the thought of wrangling that past and future onto paper, of showcasing those large, saturated eyes fills me with excitement, fingers itching to hold the charcoal or pencil.
Avon jerks back and I cup her head, holding her steady so she doesn’t accidentally hurt herself against the bank of metal lockers behind her.
And that gesture of kindness is the worst mistake. Because once I touch her, I can’t resist leaning closer, watching as her tear-streaked gaze turns wary, posture freezing like prey startled into stillness by an approaching predator.
My tongue licks at the side of her mouth, teasing the taste of another tear before I’m gone, lost to mindless compulsion, pressing my lips to hers, gentle, then harder. Chest expanding with the victory as she responds, lips parting to allow my tongue to sweep inside her, exploring her mouth and claiming it, the kiss deepening until I’m devouring her, gorging myself to bursting with the energy of my exploding attraction.
Her hand curls around my neck, tentative, fingers growing bolder, reaching further, lifting to sift through my hair.
Our noses bump and my hand grips her jaw, holding her where I want her, where Ineedher to be, only relenting long enough to swipe my thumb across her cheek, to feel the gorgeous liquid texture of her spent tears.
As my lips crush against hers, my cock pulses, hardening against the incredible softness of her thigh. I feel the tension ofresistance, a push that makes it all the sweeter when she opens for me, legs parting as her weight shifts and her hand clings to my neck like she’s hanging from me, knees buckling until they’re no longer capable of supporting her weight.
I’m absorbed by desire, heightened by her responsiveness to my touch. Each part of me desperate to join in the action—then she retreats, shrinking from me, hand leaving my neck to plant its palm on my chest, pushing, trying to get away.
My hand circles her wrist as I step back, opening a space between us but not wanting to let go of these sensations, this satisfaction. Her lips are plumper, their colour richer. Her eyes glisten in the aftermath of her tears while I stare at her with awe, wondering how she pushed the button to make me feel.
But her gaze is cautious. Muddy with confusion. Swirling with reproach.
