Shuffling, I kick the parcel Brody dropped. I’d forgotten about it till then. Grabbing the parcel off the floor, I stand in the light and see what it is. I have no idea what he would bring or why, but as soon as I open the paper bag, I understand his earlier comment about hiding things, and his threat of burning me. He somehow found my pet rock, and by the toxic charred fumes wafting out the bag, he set fire to it. I’m so thankful I hid my journal in the bottom of my suitcase instead of leaving it behind. If I’d left it there he would have found it, and I wouldn’t be looking at his threat, I’d be dead.
Seeing what he did to my rock clarifies how mad he is. A rock! He set fire to a rock. Strangely though, seeing Peebles scorched black, with her googly eyes now melted like a macabre scream mask, returns to me the strength he tried to take away. Wrapping her back up, I hide Peebles on a high shelf, right at the back, to collect later, and then I walk to the nearest bathroom, washing my face and hands before returning to class.
Everyone is in the attached dark room, probably watching Mr. Torres demonstrate sepia developing for the practical component of the assignment he handed out. I sit alone in the class, soaking in his lingering thunderstorm scent which is ascathartic as standing in the rain. His scent floats around me, taking with it enough of the trauma of Brody’s latest stunt, allowing me the space to compose myself.
He is the first one out of the entry labyrinth of the lab. I’m already expecting the look of interrogation in his eyes. Since the second I took a lung full of his compatible scent, I was readying myself to face him because this Alpha is as diametrically opposite to Brody as possible. One look from the substitute teacher, and I’d go to water.
I don’t miss the creasing of his eyes, as a mix of frustration and what looks like disappointment makes his emerald eyes darken when he realises he’s got a different version of me. This Simona is complacent, softly spoken, polished and primped—she is perfect in every way—and she is not his.
He blinks his immediate reaction away, and becomes Mr. Torres, taking the obvious connection we shared before with his transformation.
I want to say his response is not a rebuttal. Maybe it’s bold to assume I know him so well, but if reading more into his expression than what’s actually there helps me cope, it’s harmless. In truth, I melt even more for this stranger—because he gives me space. Space to find my equilibrium without barking demands in my face wanting to know what is going on. His trust speaks volumes about our connection—and it only grows louder the longer he holds back on the questions he clearly wants to ask.
At the same time, he comes as near to me as possible, perhaps sensing I need something from him. He sits at one of the desks and faces the students talking about what he showed them in the dark room before he outlines his expectations on the assignment before us.
He dismisses the class. The lure of dinner has some of the girls rushing away while others take their time. I gather mythings, unpacking them a few times to look busy until it is just us.
“I apologise for the interruption before,” I offer, standing up to face him. But face him is all I can do. I focus on his hands instead of his hypnotic eyes. I’m not sure I could handle any more Alpha manipulation.
He doesn’t answer straight away. Long enough for me to shuffle nervously.
“I hope one day you will trust me enough not to apologise for things that are not your fault. I also hope you will be comfortable enough to share with me the obvious burden you now carry, Simona.” He takes a deep inhale and swipes a hand down his face, muffling his voice. “And don’t read that as me being manipulative or as an attempt to draw out your secrets. It’s not that. I want you to understand me better. I need to leave now, not because I want to, but because I have to. And remember, I am not a teacher here. I am, no, we are, not looking at crossing any lines that bind a teacher from pursuing a student. On the assignment sheet are my contact details. I hope when the time is right you reach out.” He stands up but takes a step backwards, putting distance between us. “Otherwise, I will see you in class next week.”
Chapter
Seven
SIMONA
With sheer determination, I get through the next few days, my flawless and demure exterior fooling everyone. Internally, my motivation wavers between proving something to myself and knowing just how much it would infuriate Brody to see me thriving now that he’s gone.
I suspect his sudden appearances will become more frequent now that he’s slipped into the role of my brother. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s even convinced the administrators downstairs to update my emergency contact—listing him, and him alone.
That should scare me, and in a lot of ways it does. But I also think it gives me the chance to gather more proof of his nefarious intentions and his narcissistic tendencies. I’m only going to get one chance to take Brody down, I know that as well as I know my own name, so I will take my time and document everything he does—and what Unity doesn’t—to protect me.
After his first visit I dug out my Instamatic camera andfollowed the same routine I did when he attacked me back home. The photos of the latest bruises he left are stuck in my journal book now. Sadly, Omega Mother Beatrice also features since she was the one who walked him to where he attacked. The harsh truth is if she’d followed proper protocols he shouldn’t have been allowed entry.
In light of Brody finding my empty hidden hole at home, I’ve taken to being more proactive in looking after myself. I now have a physical journal book full of photos and recounts and I also have a digital copy which I upload to an iCloud account, under the same alias I use with Rye of all things. But SinDaBella has the ballsy attitude I need to adopt if I want to stop being a victim. I do. God how I do. It’s Brody’s bark that is making things hard. I’ve tried a few times to start a conversation with the girls about his abuse, but I can’t get a word out. I also can’t write a word about it. I come up a full void when it comes to telling people what he did. Until I figure out how to manipulate his bark, or to break his command on my mind, I’ll keep gathering anything I can, and I’ll focus on being me—whichever version that may be.
The freezing cold showers I’ve been taking morning and night since he pinched my skin—leaving broken capillaries beneath the surface—helps with the swelling and the pain. The violet discolouration will fade with time. But it’s the shock of his sudden appearance—and how quickly I slipped back into that old persona—that keeps echoing in my thoughts.
Sometimes, my thoughts turn much darker, especially when it comes to how I feel about myself. I know it’s part and parcel of what happened, and I try to move past it. But sometimes I fail. It’s no surprise that I hate being that Simona—weak, submissive, accepting of the way he treats me.
During the better parts of the day, I channel my hatred of that version of myself into motivation to shake off thenegativity that comes with the hand I’ve been dealt. I know others have it much worse than me, and it’s not me being a martyr. It’s about being realistic. There are bad people everywhere. I’ll find a solution, or at least a way to cope with the situation I’m in. Until then, I’ll keep shifting between versions of myself as often as I want and need to.
“You know you don’t have to do this,” Heidi murmurs, the lit joint hanging precariously from her lips. One of her eyes is squinted because the smoke keeps floating into it.
She looks weird. Or maybe it’s just that I had a very specific picture in my mind of what someone who takes drugs would look like. But Heidi is still in her business suit, her usual pearly pink lipstick perfectly intact. She walked in, dropped her briefcase in the middle of our living room, and—without hesitation—pointed at Raney, asking if she had any smoke.
Judgemental me had kind of assumed Tristan would be the one more likely to have some, given how out there she is. But Raney just winked, hobbled into her room, and returned with everything we needed. Including the maintenance key to the roof door.
Which explains how the four of us ended up sitting in a compass-like alignment, like witches about to whisper incantations in the blackest hours of Shaman. Maybe that part is coming—because I’ve never been stoned. But now it’s in front of me, and I’m feeling bold in this exact moment… why wouldn’t I?
Heidi passes the spliff my way, but Tris snatches it out of her hand. “Sim, let me help you out,” she suggests, taking a huge toke.
The tip of the joint keeps flaming brighter and brighter.
Raney’s lids are slitted, but her humour is as dry as ever. “Makes sense you smoke like that, considering your lungcapacity. I mean, you even talk in your sleep. You know that, right?”
