Page 217 of Broken by my Bully

When I look over at him, he cocks his chin to the side. “Round the back.”

I follow him when he turns, and we haul the box around the side of the country club. The estate is larger than the campus grounds, mostly to accommodate the golf course enclosed within. Nestled near the base of one of Agony Hollow’s hills, there’s a few acres of thin woodland before the incline.

Lights twinkle far in the distance between those trees, only visible when the steadily cooling air whips through the forest like it’s trying to stir up a frenzy.

The threat of rain hangs heavy in air laced with hints of tin and pine needles and freshly turned soil.

But there’s no guarantee the heavens will open tonight.

I overheard a student the other day claiming that the afterparty was an actual Native American rain dance, meant to summon the seasonal downpour we get every year just before Halloween.

Such a ridiculous notion.

Yet so whimsically inventive, I almost wish it were true.

We set the box down with a thump near a closed door I assume is a staff entrance. “Someone’s supposed to come and collect them,” Kai says, waving at the bin as he starts back for the entrance.

I dust off my hands as I follow. “Didn’t you guys learn your lesson last time?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

Kai frowns at me over his shoulder, and then gives me a wide-eyed look. Those same green eyes flicker toward the woods before he can catch himself and stare at me.

“What’s that?”

I laugh. “Mr. Jordan, your little afterparty in the woods is the worst-kept secret in Agony Hollow.”

He walks past me, head bowed. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Relax. If we had wanted it stopped, we would have.”

Kai frowns at me over his shoulder, giving me a quick scan like he doesn’t like the fact that I’m walking behind him. “Still don’t know what?—“

“Christ, fine,” I snap. “Just make sure no one ODs this time.”

I overtake him, snatching up my jacket and slipping it on. He watches, and then grabs the second box of donations, his muscled arms straining but seeming to handle the weight just fine.

Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be in my twenties again. My eyes shift to the marks on his arms before I can force myself to look away.

He takes two steps and then sets the donations down. Looks over his shoulder. “You wanna come?”

My eyes flick to his. The longer I stare, the more agitated he gets, eyes darting everywhere.

“Are you being a sycophant, or do you really want me there?”

There’s a touch of bemusement on his mouth when he looks at me again. “I think you’d like it.” He shrugs, points to the ceiling. “But we won’t be playing Chopin or any of that bullshit tonight.”

I cock my eyebrow at him. “Oh no? What about Tchaikovsky?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. The shit you’re going to hear will change your fucking brain chemistry.”

As he turns away to pick up the donation box, I step forward and snatch his wrist. There’s a moment where he resists, where we’re in a stalemate as he refuses to let me pull on him, where I refuse to let go.

And then he looks at me, and his muscles relax.

I twist his arm, turning it to the light, studying the marks embedded so deep in his skin. He starts when I raise my other hand, but doesn’t stop me running my thumb over the bite marks.

“Who did this?”

They’re fresh. Deep. Passionate.