Shaking my head, I swallow the boulder that’s lodged itself in my throat. “Don’t make this about me, Kohen. You’ve got your own shit to sort out. Acting like I’m the only one who needs saving isn’t going to change that.” My chest aches as I try to steady my breathing. “Youand the rest of the universe might think it’s you versus Kiervan, and it is. But someone will pick you, and you’re going to ruin it because you’ve picked him.”
Silence hangs in the air between us as his chest rises and falls. Slowly,carefully, as if I might spook if he speaks too loudly, he says, “You aren’t unlovable. You’re just so desperate for it you’ve stopped understanding how to accept it.”
A staggered breath rushes out of me as I study the green rings around his eyes. Despite everything he said, I’m prepared for whatever punishment comes my way. Kohen has put himself out there for me every single day when I never asked for it. For years he’s sacrificed his sanity and dignity for me. I just hope he knows that there’s someone on this earth that sees him, and is willing to bleed for him too.
“Right back at you, Pyro.” I give him a sad smile.
We’re at a stalemate.
We’ve both still got issues, and we both still hate ourselves.
He turns to retrieve my fallen crutches for me, and there’s an almost conceited glint in his eye when he hands them back.
“Next time, Klepto, if you need to make a bomb, come to me. I’ve got the parts, and if you’re good, I’ll even let you pull the trigger. I call it a kill switch.”
Everyone hates Mondays.
Well, as I’ve gotten older, and therefore wiser, I’ve come to realize that I hate every day of the week. I don’t actually have anything personal against that particular day.
I do, however, have beef with the man standing at the classroom door. It’s like Boris brought a plague with him. My insides turn, and I’m sure my skin bubbles from his proximity. That man is the harbinger of death, I swear to God.
When he turns his beady brown eyes on me, it’s like the fiery gates have opened, and it’s time to step right up to my eternal damnation.
“Miss Whitlock, Headmaster McGill would like a word with you,” the English teacher says after speaking to the security guard for all of three seconds.
“Aword? Just one?” I slap my hand on thedesk and drag all the loose paper to my chest, dumping it into my bag. “Must be Christmas.”
Both of their eyes darken, but at least Charlie snorts beside me. “Little shit,” she snickers.
I give her a condescending smile. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Slipping my backpack through my arms, I take my time leaving. The crutches squeak as I move between the aisle, though I’m putting a little more pressure on my ankle today than yesterday. I’m pretty sure Dr. Kohen Osman is correct, and it might not be a sprain. He said he’s going tolook into it—whatever that means.
“Hurry up,” Boris grunts.
I halt and nod toward my foot. “Don’t rush me.” Then, I move slower. They go low, I go lower.
He tries rushing me along through the hallways, and it gets to the point that it takes more effort to rebel than be complacent. And I’m in the mood to preserve my energy if I have to listen to people squealing about prom tomorrow. It seems like hundreds of posters clutter the walls of the halls, advertising the event; it’s starting to hurt my eyes.
It’s hard to keep my head held high when we walk past McGill’s office and continue towards the medical wing. The physical torment of my lastsessionin that area was just bearable. But I’m not sure how I’ll cope if I’m thrown in there for another three days with zero enrichment in my enclosure.
Boris walks ahead to push open the door to Dr. Van der Merwe’s office. The air seems to chill by thirty degrees as soon as I walk in. The cold bites deep into my marrow and renders me frozen in my spot.
The door clicks shut behind me, and every instinct hardwired into my being is telling me to run. Bang on the door and break bonesif it means getting out of here. Except I can’t move a muscle. No matter how hard I try to get my body to comply, the entire world has crashed onto my shoulders, and the only option is to sink.
Cold blue eyes bore into me, the same upturned shape as my mother’s and just as empty. With a single look, he pierces the bubble of delusion I’ve lived in for the past three days. Just by existing, he’s a reminder that I’m not the type of person who’s meant to be loved.Happy.
The men in front of me don’t rise to their feet. They don’t smile. They don’t react. Only a single word comes out of my grandfather’s mouth.
“Sit.”
“I’ll stand.” I’ll do anything but get closer to him.
His salt-and-pepper hair is impeccably styled, just like his three-piece suit and the long coat hanging at the back of the leather couch. I’ve never seen him with a single strand of hair out of place. His pocket square is never crooked. The designer tie always sits precisely where it should. His Rolex is shined, never so much as a minute off. The man defines opulence as if he was born to be a magnate.
“Sit.” The single syllable rolls through his diaphragm, coming out no louder than a whisper.
The room is so silent the monster in front of me can probably hear my heartbeat. Even McGill steals a glance at Jonathan Whitlock Sr., and I swear his lips part on a silent gasp. On the other hand, Dr. Van der Merwe has his eyes firmly set on me as if he’s trying to anticipate my next move: obey or rebel?
