Aoife
The halls of Blackstone feel colder than usual. The sky outside is gray, echoing the way my lip still throbs. I woke up before the sun and couldn’t go back to sleep. My dreams burned with fire, his hands, his voice, then darkened with my family’s warnings. My head is having a war of its own, lust and loyalty.
I dress slowly, hiding the worst of my face. Concealer blurs the purple along my jaw. Gloss dulls the split in my lip. My eye looks worse than yesterday, even the heavy makeup can’t hide it.
I walk into the classroom which is empty. Taking the seat I always do in the third row from the front, window side. Light streams in across the desk, and I lean into it like it might burn the pain out of me.
If only I was that lucky.
The chair next to me scraps the floor, turning, and Rosa’s there, already sitting in the chair next to mine. She’s wearing the uniform we all have to wear, her long red hair in a braid over her shoulder.
She studies me, then nods at my face. “What happened?”
I lie without thinking. “Walked into a door.”
Her eyes narrow. “How many times?” she asks, her tone dry.
I don’t answer.
She leans in, voice soft, low, dangerous. “I don’t know what voodoo shit you’ve done to Matteo, but you’re playing a dangerous game, Irish.”
I blink.
Her mouth curls into something that’s not quite a smile. “A game he’ll win, and you’ll burn.” Then she stands, just as the other students start to trickle in.
I don’t move.
I don’t need to turn around.
Because I feel his eyes on me.
Burning into the back of my skull like a cigarette pressed to skin.
I shiver, goosebumps racing up my arms. My breath hitches. My fingers twitch, and I think about Rosa’s words.
“A game.”
The seat beside me shifts. Conor. He’s tense, annoyed. Silent for a beat too long.
I glance sideways. “What?” I question because right now he looks like he wants to hit someone.
He doesn’t answer right away, takes a deep breath. “That bastard’s starting again.” I don’t have to ask who. We both know.
I watch him watching Matteo and his brothers. Conor’s jaw tightens, his hands ball into fists under the desk.
“What’s his fucking problem?” he mutters.
A soft chuckle rises behind us. Matteo.
“Fuck off,” he says lazily, voice like smoke and violence.
Conor stands, shoving his chair back. “You need to look the other way before I make you.”
That gets Marco and Milo laughing, leaning in with wicked smiles like this is their pre-breakfast entertainment.
“Or what?” Marco grins.
“You’ll hit another woman?” Matteo quickly adds.
