Which part of his response should a rational person be surprised and disturbed by? That he was wanting to kill someone, or that he was willing to kill someonefor me? Because I’m definitely nowhere near as disturbed as I should be that he wanted to do the latter.
He grabs me before I can react, tipping the world upside down. “Whoa, what are you—put me down right now, Kohen Osman,” Isnarl, beating his back as he balances me on his shoulder.
Of course, he doesn’t put me down. Instead, he tucks the crutches beneath his arm, raises his hand higher up my legs so they sit on the sensitive skin of my thighs, a couple inches beneath the part of me he got overly familiar with yesterday.
The touch of his hands makes my body start priming itself, producing slick as if we’re going to have a rerun of yesterday. And there’s absolutely zero way that’s going to happen. My poor nipples still haven’t recovered. I even considered not wearing a bra today to let them breathe.
“You’re acting like a caveman!” He needs some serious lessons in social skills if he thinks it’s okay to grab a woman’s crutches and then throw her over his shoulder. “You’re not even going to say anything?” I screech, attempting to kick my legs out, but his burly arms hold me down easily. When I tug on his hair, I swear he shivers.
The lunatic responds by shifting his hands higher to slip a finger beneath my panties. I have to bite my tongue to keep from making a noise. Seriously? I thought I was raw and recovering. Now, I feel ready to take another pounding? Jesus Christ. If I keep this up, I’m going to add nymphomaniac to my file myself.
“Where are you taking me?” If I wasn’t worried about being caught out here, I'd scream the question.
Nothing.
Silence.
I hit the back of his head.Asshole.
After several minutes of walking, I get bored of attacking the plane of muscles of his back, and I most definitely stop yanking on his short hair because it only encourages those teasing fingers to move.
I have enough control over my mental faculties right now toknow not to succumb to him a second time around. In a month’s time we’ll have finals, then graduation, and I’ll never see him again. He’ll go off to do whatever rich nepo babies do after sucking at school, and I’ll end up in a ditch somewhere after wandering aimlessly for miles.
Survival isn’t an instinct I hold. Living isn’t a thing I understand how to do. I don’t go through the motions or learn as I go. Life goes on, and I stay exactly the same.
There was a time when I tried so hard to be better, to be the person my grandfather would want, and to be the type of daughter who would bring her mother home. I wanted to be good so badly that I became bad. I didn’t forgive, and I didn’t forget. I didn’t get over it either.
I’m tired of it. So fucking tired.
Life hasn’t gotten more accessible; I’ve just stopped pretending I give a damn that it’s killing me.
Even if I wanted to get out of this shithole in one piece, what would I do? Hell, how long would I even last? Whatever, I’ll figure it out.
I’ll be here, and Kohen will be over there. I’d rather not keep seeing what I’m missing out on because I’ll be hooked and on a mission to find the same feeling in random men.
“Put me down, Kohen,” I say, losing the energy for any of this. Anger is exhausting.
“Wait.” The word comes out gruff as he shoulders open the door into the English and Language Wing using a key fob. Where do I get myself one of those? “Be quiet.”
I roll my eyes. “Or what?”
He slips two fingers into me, causing me to get a full-body spasm. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop my cry from echoing downthe empty corridors. There’s no point reaching around to slap his hand away as he effectively turns me to putty by curling his fingers and hitting the spot that makes me claw at his neck until I draw blood.
I gasp for breath when he pulls his thick fingers out abruptly, opening the door to one of the classrooms. He navigates between the groups of tables, then lowers me onto one of the desks, and I clamber to stand.
“Stay,” he orders. “I’ll be back.”
“I’m not a dog,” I snap.
“You’re wearing a collar.”
I whip my hand up to my throat, feeling the black ribbon I took from the home economics room. “It’s called fashion. I don’t expect you to underst— Wait. Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I call out to his retreating form.
He ignores me and keeps walking toward the door with my crutches tucked beneath his arm. I slide off the table to follow him out the door, but my attempts last a single step.
Oh, you little…
“Get your ass back here!” I yell, leaning against the desk to take pressure off my foot.
