Page 45 of All the Things We Buried

“What look?”

“Like you want me to stop you.”

I laughed, but it sounded a little too hollow. “If I did, you would’ve.”

He tilted his head, watching me.

“Not everything that feels good is good for you,” he said, as his jaw flexed. Just a small movement, but I saw it. Felt it. He hated when I talked like that. Hated it more because I knew he wanted me to stop and never would. He preferred me with my mouth shut.

“You sound jealous,” I said, brushing past him.

“I’m not.”

He caught my arm again. He leaned in, voice brushing hot against my ear.

“If one of those idiots touches you tonight, I swear to God...”

I turned to face him, lips almost brushing his. “You’ll what? Drag me home like a good big brother?”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

Didn’t correct me.

“I’m not your brother,” he said.

The silence wrapped around us. His eyes dropped again, slower this time, drinking me in. Then he stepped back.

“Go,” he said, jaw tight. “Do what you want. Just don’t expect me to come save you when it all goes to hell.”

“Okay,” I said, and walked away, my pulse pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

And as I walked, I could still feel his eyes on me. Burning holes in my spine. Daring me to fall.

Daring himself to follow.

The graveyard was not far away, just ten minutes by walk, but he didn’t let me walk alone. He followed me until the entrance. Icould hear the pulsing of music. Fairy lights strung between the cracked headstones gave everything a haunted glow. I could hear them laughing, dancing. Someone passed a bottle. Someone else screamed. I barely noticed.

I was just walking, moving my hips and hoping Dorian was still watching.

I wanted him to be.

But I lost him as I moved through the crowd. Sophie spotted me and dragged me toward the center, already half-drunk. She wore a white dress that was already stained with a few drops of the drink she had drunk.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she slurred, pressing a red solo cup into my hand. “You look like you came to a fucking funeral.”

“Sophie,” I said, sipping. “I thought black was a color since it’s a graveyard.”

She laughed and spun off, some guy’s hand already on her waist. I stood there, alone for a moment, just before he found me.

“Didn’t take you long,” I murmured.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Dorian said behind me.

I turned anyway.

He looked angry. That quiet, simmering kind of anger. His hair was damp from the walk, curls pushed back, black t-shirt stretched across his chest.