I come in under a minute, muffling my cry against my pillow, and it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.
When the aftershocks fade, I lie there staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, shame creeping in at the edges.
Good boy.
I can claim you.
Make you mine.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes and try to remember all the reasons why that can't happen.
∞∞∞
By Monday morning, I'm a wreck. But I have classes. I'vealready missed too many.
The lecture hall feels like a furnace.
I'm in the back row, as far from everyone as I can get, notebook open, pen in hand. My professor's voice drones on about market analysis, but the words blur together into meaningless noise.
Atlas's thumb pressing past my lips. The command in his voice. Suck.
I blink hard. Focus on the PowerPoint slide.
Supply and demand curves intersect at the equilibrium point where—
A wave of heat rolls through me. I grip the edge of my desk, breathing through my nose, willing it to pass. My skin feels too tight. My head is pounding—a dull, relentless throb behind my eyes that won't let up.
—marginal utility decreases as consumption increases, leading to—
Zero's breath hot against my ear. You ruined us, Max. You ruined all of us.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The professor's voice fades to a distant hum. All I can feel is the fire under my skin, the ache in my joints, the way my thoughts keep circling back to them no matter how hard I try to focus on something—anything—else.
Bane's mouth on mine. The groan that rumbled through his chest. The way he looked at me after, like he'd done something unforgivable.
My pen slips from my fingers. I don't pick it up.
The heat passes. Barely.
I make it through the lecture by sheer force of will, then practically run to my car to sit in the parking lot with the AC blasting, forehead pressed against the steering wheel, waiting for my next class.
Another lectures. Same story. I sit in the back, keep my head down, and count the minutes until I can escape. My notes are gibberish—half-formed sentences that trail off into nothing, doodles I don't remember drawing, the same three words written over and over in the margin: stop thinking about them.
By the time my last class ends at four, I'm exhausted, strung out, and dangerously close to the edge.
My phone buzzes.
Margot:Richard's grilling tonight! The weather's perfect. Please come—we miss having you at dinner. ??
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Another night alone in my room sounds like torture. At least at dinner there will be witnesses. At least the presence of Richard and Margot will force everyone to behave.
Be there, I type back.
The drive home takes forty minutes. I spend every one of them with the AC on full blast, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, trying not to think about what I'm walking into.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is starting to dip toward the horizon. I can smell the grill before I even get out of the car—charcoal and lighter fluid drifting through the evening air.
