My eyes widen, but I don’t tell Sylvan to stop.
Will would have killed me.
Maybe he killed Jackson, as improbable as it seems.
But then again…
My eyes find Sylvan’s once more.
Maybehedid.
“I think we have a bigger,” he inclines his head toward Will, struggling beneath his grasp, “problem. Don’t you, Neve?”
What the fuck.
“Get him out of my house.”
Sylvan smiles, a dimple flashing in his flawless, pale skin. “This isn’t a house.” He nods toward the entrance. “And you’re the one who locked us in.”
A spark of anger runs through me.“This isn’t a house,”I mock back in his slow, casual tone, but I pitch my voice higher so he sounds like a baby coming from my mouth. I do it without thinking; a type of teasing I usually only reserve for Cynthia, without as much venom. But once it’s out, and my brain catches up with what I did, I widen my eyes because now isnotthe time, and I see that even Sylvan looks caught off guard, his full lips parted, a slight smile tugging on each corner.
Will groans because Sylvan must have loosened his hold on his hair, but a heartbeat passes and the hockey freshman fixes his mistake, rendering Will mostly silent again.
“Get. Him.Out.”I speak the words with careful precision, no more mocking, my grip tightening on the knife as I gesture with it toward Sylvan.
He glances at the weapon. “Careful with that,” he says calmly. But it seems like the playfulness has left his tone.
Good. I’m done playing. Too much has happened in the last twelve hours and I don’t feel as if my brain has caught up with it all yet.
“Get him out. Now, or I’ll call the police.” I keep the knife brandished in one hand, then swoop down and grab my phone I dropped in the scuffle with Will.
Sylvan smiles at me, white teeth flashing. “You don’t want to do that.” But before I can tell him to fuck off, he lifts Will up by his hair and starts dragging him toward the door.
Towardme.
I quickly pivot out of the way, my back to the living room as Will’s eyes widen and I see blood all over his face. He says my name once, his voice hoarse, but Sylvan slaps his palm over his mouth before he can say anything else.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight as I hear the lock flip, then the door being pulled open. My hands are shaky and my throat hurts and I have a fucking knife in my hand and I’m not sure when Cynthia will be back but I don’t want her to walk into all of this and?—
I snap my head up with a gasp and see Will’s blood on the countertop. It looks as if itsprayedfrom his nose which isn’t far off.
Glancing to the door, I see it’s ajar, and I hear low murmuring and quiet whimpers. Sylvan’s voice. Will’s cries.
I take a breath and get to work cleaning up the blood: Setting down the knife, my phone, ripping off a thick cushion of paper towels so I don’t get Will’s germs on me, running them under hot water, then scrubbing the countertops that don’t get a lot of use as is because I sure as hell can’t cook and Cyn’s dad might be a chef but he didn’t pass those genes down to her.
My stomach squeezes as the bright red coats my paper towels and smears along the marble. One of my favorite things about this place was the Gothic touch, the darkness, the bookshelves that came with it, thanks to Casper. But the upgrades don’t hurt either. The marble counters, the pristine finishings. I’ll be damned if a one-night-stand ruins that for my best friend, too.
Gagging, I toss the tissue into the trash under the sink, then scrub my hands with hot water after a nervous glance to the door. It’s still slightly ajar and when soap bubbles that smell like pine are between my fingers, I think as soon as I rinse and dry my hands, I’m going to spring over there and slam the door closed, then flip the lock.
Fuck Sylvan. Fuck Will.
I need to call Nolan, listen to him yell at me about the lawyer, then call one of those, too. But just as I’ve turned the water off with my wrists and grabbed a Jack Skellington kitchen towel from the silver bar on the oven to dry my hands, the door creaks open again.
I hold my breath, the knife within reach, right by my phone.
And Sylvan walks through, ducking his head so he doesn’t hit it on the entranceway. He glances at me, the smile gone, and when he closes the door behind him, turning the lock without looking away from me, I notice a fleck of blood on his cheek. It’s small, a smear, but against his perfectly pale skin, it’s noticeable.
I slowly put the dish towel back, then turn to face him fully, standing closer to the counter opposite the sink so my knife is just rightthere.
