Page 16

FIFTEEN

LUCIUS

Of all the places in the world, she chose to be here. Of all the people she could have met, she met me. And of all the moments in time, she chose now.

And of all people, I knew how she felt. How it is when the walls close in, when the only way to escape is to let yourself break. And she was breaking right in front of me. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

I could offer empty words, but they’d mean nothing. I could give her gifts, but she’d throw them away. And if I offered myself… she’d push me away.

I’ve said it before, but I can say it again: She’s under my skin. She’s become my center. And I was losing control when I needed to be hers.

Blackthorn had rules. Even if I was the one who liked to break them, I couldn’t let my choices hurt her.

She was forbidden. And I wanted her more than ever.

They say the forbidden fruit is the sweetest. She was mine.

When I found out she’d be in three of my classes, I knew they’d put her in this house. I had Cass install cameras in her dorm, and I made sure she was alone for at least one night. So I could keep an eye on her.

But now, seeing her like this… I knew she needed someone. Someone to be there for her.

I called her again. No answer. She didn’t want to talk.

Frustration coiled tight inside me. I grabbed the tablet and hurled it at the wall. It shattered against the stone with a violent crack.

“Fuck,” I snarled.

I needed to see her. I had to.

I was like an addict, craving something I couldn’t have, something I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t have her. But I needed her. Needed to see her.

So I did what I do best.

I changed my clothes. Swapped the suit for black jeans and a hoodie. Pulling the hood up, I became just another shadow slipping through the dark. Maybe I can be her shadow, hiding, protecting her from something she wasn’t even aware of.

And then I turned and walked downstairs to the office.

On the table lay a pair of black leather gloves. I picked them up, sliding them on one by one, stretching the leather tight over my fingers. Then, moving to the front of the desk, I pulled open a drawer and took a gas mask that waited inside.

For now, I had to hide my face. Until she was mine. Until she chose me over her pain.

It sounded simple. But when someone is addicted to suffering, it’s easier to scream than to heal. And even though I loved her voice when she screamed, I loved it more when she spoke to me.

I lifted the mask, staring at my reflection in the glass lenses. I hated it. Hated what I’d become. Hated knowing I’d always been this way.

With a sharp exhale, I turned away and walked to the door.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, tapping the screen to check for cameras that led from my office to her room. No one was there to see me now.

Being friends with the dean’s son gave me access to the entire system.

From my phone, I could control what was seen, when, and by whom.

Sneaking out of my office, I locked the door behind me and set off quickly. Every step toward her bedroom made my pulse race.

When I reached her door, I pulled the key from my hoodie pocket and inserted it into the lock. I went inside quietly, closed the door behind me, and locked it from the inside.

Her room was on the left side of the dorm, and the door was slightly ajar. Just enough for me to see her lying there, curled up against the window. The other room, the one for the roommate who never arrived, was closed.

I pulled my gas mask over my face, hood still pulled over my head, and headed for her door.

Oh, hi there.

She clung to a pillow, her eyes open and red from tears. Moonlight spilled through the window, catching on the wet tracks of tears that stained her cheeks.

I tested the door. It barely made a sound.

The moment she closed her eyes, I slipped inside.

She didn’t notice.

Moving closer, I reached the edge of her bed, and that’s when I saw it. A razor blade.

It lay at the very edge of the mattress, its surface glinting with her blood.

I picked it up between my fingers, turning it over, looking at the sharp edge.

This. This was what she used to hurt herself.

Her breathing caught.

Her eyes flew wide, her mouth widening as a harsh gasp tore from her throat.

Her gaze locked onto me, flashing with anger, then flicked toward the razor, which was but a meter from her, too close. I turned, flung the window wide, and threw the razor out into the night. It dropped through the darkness, landing with a splash in the waters below the cliffs.

“No more,” I told her, my head trembling as our eyes met.

She didn’t answer. She moved towards the window, her eyes cast downward at the spot where her blade was now gone. She turned, her hands against my chest, pushing with all her might. She balled her fists and hit me once more, this time with more force, until I grabbed her wrists.

I took hold of her, spun her around, and pinned her against the wall.

Her hair was tangled from sleep, her wild tresses curling around her face. Her eyes, tear-stained, locked onto mine with rage she would not speak. The shirt was massive on her, drowning her out, but she was still beautiful. Too beautiful.

“How did you find me?” Her voice trembled, betraying her.

“I do things my way,” I said softly, pinning her wrists above her head. My other hand traveled the length of her arm, gliding over her skin up her neck. My fingers stroked her cheek, supporting it.

“Your path is misguided. You understand that,” she whispered, turning her face away.

I drew her in closer, forcing her eyes toward me.

“Why would you hurt yourself?” I asked, cutting through the hollow words she was trying to hide behind.

Her mouth parted, uncertainty flickering in her eyes before she spoke. “You hurt me. Why is that any different if I hurt myself?”

My grip closed—just enough. She inhaled sharply as my fingers ran along her neck, pressing gently, sensing her pulse against my palm.

“It is different,” I said softly, my voice little more than a whisper. My hand trailed down the line of her neck, along the frantic pulse thudding against her skin. “You do not get to hurt yourself, you have no right.”

She blinked, a tear slipping, rolling down her cheek. “You’re crazy,” she whispered. “And selfish.”

I smiled. “No. I want what belongs to me. And if that is selfish, so be it.”

My hand traveled downward, sliding along her waist, pulling her in against me.

“I’ll never be yours,” she told me, her voice breaking. But her body betrayed her, twitched against my touch, and then stilled, waiting, as if she dared not react.

“You say that,” I murmured, watching the way her breathing trembled, “but you never stop me.”

Her silence was oppressive.

“I hate you,” she said, but her words lacked any real conviction. Not even for herself.

I smiled softly, releasing her wrists. But they did not shift from their place—above her head, pinned by something stronger than my grip. I tilted her face upward, drawing her in, watching the way her breath fogged against the cold glass of my mask.

“No, Little Star,” I whispered, spinning her around in my arms. “You do not hate me. You hate that you want to.”

My hand traveled from her wrist along the curve of her hip, pulling her against me, lifting her leg onto my hip. But she shoved me away, retreating to the other side of the bed.

“No,” she snapped, her voice slicing through the air like glass. “You don’t get to walk in here and tell me how I feel.”

Tears ran down her face. She folded her arms, biting her lower lip like she was holding something back: anger, fear, maybe both.

“You think you’re better than me?” Her voice rose, shaking with rage. “Hiding behind that awful mask. Chasing after people you don’t even know and forcing them to like you.”

I smiled softly. “Do you?” I tilted my head. “Like me?”

“I don’t.” She turned her back to me, the lie lingering in the air between us.

I stepped forward, curling my fingers around her wrist, pulling her back toward me. “I’m a crazy man, Little Star. You can’t change that. But wouldn’t it be nice to talk to someone just as broken as you? Someone who won’t judge?”

My voice was muffled, distorted, the words twisting through the plastic of the mask, losing something, gaining something else.

She trembled in my grasp but didn’t pull away. Not this time.

“This isn’t a competition about who’s more broken,” she whispered. “And if you want me to talk… then you’ll have to talk first.”

I backed away, moving toward the window. The glass reflected me—the ghost of a man in a gas mask. A reminder. A curse.

I closed the window, locking us inside. And when I turned back to her, I let the past disappear.

“When I was twelve,” I began, “my mother left me with my uncle.”

I pressed my fingers against the stone wall by the window. It felt solid. Real. Unlike memories clawing back to the surface.

“She didn’t know that every night when I closed my eyes, he would sneak in. At first it was just sitting on his lap while we watched cartoons. But then… then he started making me take my pants off.”

A pause. A deep breath. The mask made it sound like a hiss.

“He used his belt.” My fingers twitched. “He hit me so hard I gritted my teeth until one of them cracked.”

The reflection in the glass wasn’t just me anymore. It was her, standing behind me, one hand on her mouth, eyes wide, moving closer to me.

“It got worse,” I continued, the words coming from somewhere deep, somewhere corrupt. “One night, when he wanted more, I pushed him. Hard. He fell back onto the table where he kept his whiskey. The candles tipped over. And when alcohol meets fire…”

I turned to her. “By the time I looked back, the house was already on fire.”

She exhaled sharply, staggering backward until she hit the wall. “If this is your way of making me feel better… It’s not. It’s worse.”

Her voice cracked, and she slid down, curling up in the far corner of the room.

I crouched, my mask crooked as I looked at her. “I’m not trying to make you feel better.” A mirthless laugh slipped from my lips. “We all carry something broken inside us. We all have a past we’ve tried to burn away.” I tilted my head. “But I’ve never told anyone this. I’m telling you.”

She blinked at me, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

I reached for her. “I’ve been chasing you, Little Star. Let me be the one to catch you, too.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled as she wiped her face, and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the words refused to come.

“You won’t be that man,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”

“Lies, Little Star.” A smile curled beneath the mask, hidden from her. “You’re already falling.”

She took a breath, but the struggle in her eyes was fading, bit by bit.

I moved closer, slowly. My fingers brushed her cheek, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Come here.”

And this time... she did.

She let me lift her, her arms sliding around my neck, her head resting on my chest. I carried her back to the bed and laid her down, lingering just long enough to watch her face—watch her fight something she wouldn’t name.

Then, like a moth too weak to resist the flame, she reached for my hand.

I curled my fingers around her, squeezing her gently. Possessively.

Because no matter how much she wanted to deny it...

S he was mine.