Try to slow my racing heart. Try to stop my hands from shaking. Try to ignore the way my body is still reacting—still hot, still wanting, still pulled toward something I can't have.
My heart is racing. My skin feels too tight, like I'm going to crawl out of it. That heat that's been building is worse now—hotter, more insistent, spreading through my body like wildfire through dry brush.
And I can still smell them.
Atlas's cedar and leather clinging to my clothes from his bed, soaked into my skin.
Zero's rain and gunpowder lingering in my lungs from standing so close to him in the hallway.
Both of them burned into my senses like a brand. Like a claiming I never asked for.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. Press hard enough that it hurts, grounding myself in physical pain because at least that's something I can control.
And I try very, very hard not to think about the way Zero looked at me.
Like he wanted to devour me.
Like he was holding himself back by a thread.
Like that thread was about to snap.
Chapter 15
The headache is still there.
Dull. Persistent. Like someone's driving a nail through my temple and leaving it there to rust.
I press my fingers against the spot and try to focus on Professor Montley's voice. She's talking about narrative structure. About tension and release. About how every scene should have stakes.
I don't care.
My entire body feels wrong. Too hot. Too tight. Like my skin doesn't fit right anymore. Like I'm wearing clothes made of sandpaper. The fabric of my t-shirt drags against my shoulders, my jeans rub against my thighs, and everything—everything—is too much.
I shift in my seat. The chair creaks. Too loud.
Someone glances at me. I stop moving.
My notebook is open in front of me. Blank. I haven't taken a single note. Haven't written down anything Professor Montley's said. The page just sits there, white and accusing.
I pull out my diary instead.
The one no one's supposed to see. My pen moves across the page before I can stop it.
I woke up in Atlas's bed.
The words stare back at me. Black ink on cream paper. Permanent.
I should cross them out. Rip out the page. Pretend it didn't happen.
I keep writing.
I don't remember how I got there. Just waking up with his scent everywhere—cedar and leather and something darker. His sheets. His pillow. His smell soaked into my skin.
I felt safe.
That's the worst part. Not that I was in his bed. Not that I collapsed and he carried me there. But that when I woke up, for just a second, I felt safe.
I hate that I felt that way.
