My heart is slow to sink, but it does, weighing down my chest, sliding through the sludge of my organs, until it hits my gut—and pins me.
Oliver’s words are wrapped in a whooshed breath, “Phone booth. Now.”
I don’t get a say in the matter.
Urgent, he yanks me along with him, my steps scuttling on the rug.
Maybe calling Father is the lesser of two evils.
I can’t stay out in the open now.
Oliver realises that, too.
The phone booth offers a false sense of security, of protection, of hiding from Dray.
Oliver rips the curtain open—
And tucked in the booth is a burly boy, still high school age, but the youth in his terrified eyes yawns on.
Oliver growls at him, “Get the fuck out of here.”
He does.
No hesitation, he’s kicking from the booth and sprinting down the corridor.
I watch him go, praying he’s running to find a master, someone who will end this, help me.
But what I see is nothing short of terrifying.
Dray lets the paper fall to the floor.
Distantly, I’m aware of the receiver lifting from the phone, the numbers dialled slow, but I can only see Dray.
His steps start gradually as he turns a frowned look on me—
I don’t pay any attention to Serena’s pinched face, the blend of worry and confusion, or that Landon is holding Asta by the arm again.
Dray hooks my stare, my attention, my existence, as his pace quickens with a steady determination, until he’s outright marching for me.
The grip on my sweater loosens.
Oliver clammers to get out of the phone booth, as if now just realising that Dray is upon me.
But Oliver is too late.
I manage a stagger—
Before Dray’s hand comes striking across my face.
The sound splits the corridor.
The walls tilt as the blow knocks me sideways.
The rug rushes up at me.
An eruption of heat swells my eye and cheekbone, then I hit the ground with a grunt.
A whisper comes down the hush of the corridor, “Oh fuck.”
