And now…
He wants me—hekeepswanting me.
And I’m supposed to just… accept it, as if the last four years didn’t slowly break me down and tear me apart. As if half the times we've fucked are completely normal.
He may have had a week to process his feelings, butIhaven’t, and this is way too much.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I mumble, letting my feet drop and quickly moving away.
His flicker of surprise appears as quickly as it fades, freezing beneath the cool expression that washes over his face. In an instant, it hardens into ice. I shiver, as if he, himself, is causing the temperature of the water to plummet.
He says nothing as I awkwardly stand and rush back toward the stairs, feeling his stare burning into my back.
The familiar sense of doom floods my system again as I quickly grab my clothes crumpled by the corner of the pool then and rush to the door.
It’s sad how much more comfortable I am with dread when it’s nothing more than an emotion, rather than the man himself.
CHAPTER 28
REVERIE
My heart pounds as my wet clothes drip over the thin carpet in Dread’s room. I was so intent on getting away from him, I forgot my towel and just ran out into the equipment area, quickly tugging my clothing on over my dripping wet suit.
Rogue was gone when I went out there, which means Dread must’ve sent him home when he arrived, so thank fucking God I drove us to the center in my car.
Half of me was expecting Dread to be hot on my heels, but he dragged behind. I wasn’t out of his eyesight for long as I sprinted to my car, though. When I was pulling out of my parking spot, he was getting into his car. Fifteen seconds later, I received a text from him.
The Antichrist: You better be on your way to our dorm. Don't make me come drag you back home.
It was absolutely diabolical the way my heart fluttered at the words ‘our’and ‘home.’
Now, I rush to put on clean, dry clothes. For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, my heart pounds as I dig through the laundry basket, still filled with mine and Dread's clean clothes from when I was staying here before. It became easier to just wash them all together rather than trying to keep them separate, which is a weird enough concept to send me back to therapy if I think too hard about it.
I snag a T-shirt, set it on top for easy access, then quickly strip off the wet clothes and bathing suit.
Goosebumps consume my entire body from the cooler air hitting my damp flesh. But I'm so worried about Dread walking in on me, I ignore it and rush to put the T-shirt on.
All I need is underwear and sleep shorts, but I don't even get the chance to bend over to rifle through the basket again before his door flies open, prompting us both to freeze.
Dread fills the entryway, one hand on the doorknob, and his other holding a medium-sized black bag.
I almost return my attention to the clothes, but something about the way he's staring at my shirt makes my heart drop, and my head instantly snaps down.
My. Fucking. God, do I hate my life.
I'm wearing a vintage Nirvana T-shirt. This isn't mine—it’s fucking Dread's.
Panic instantly zips through my veins, ramping up my heart rate and flipping my heart upside down. I stare down at the T-shirt with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights.
This is incredibly mortifying and will definitely go one of two ways.
Option one: he's going to think I've been wearing his clothes to bed like some creepy, lovesick weirdo.
Or option two: he's going to get incredibly turned on.
Either way, I might as well be wearing a sign around my neck begging Dread to fuck me, and I can’t exactly trust the asshole not to oblige, even if he thinks I'm a creepy, lovesick weirdo. While I can’t exactly say it would be a skin-crawling experience, I think I would rather punch myself in the face than let that man inside me again.
Liar.
