Page 3
Remnants of the Past
T he video plays on repeat in my mind. Alex walking across campus, completely unaware of the camera tracking his movements. His shoulders are hunched against the autumn wind, and even through the grainy footage, I can see the shadows under his eyes. He looks thinner than when I left him.
I’ve watched the video seventeen times since my parents sent it an hour ago. Each viewing feels like another knife twisting in my chest, but I can’t stop. The timestamp shows it was taken today—further proof that their threats aren’t empty. Keeping an eye on him, just like they promised. Keeping him safe while making sure I stay in line. No matter how angry I am, how hard I’m trying to prove myself, this place will never allow me to forget why I’m here. One mistake could cost Alex everything.
My thumb hovers over the replay icon. Just one more time, and then I’ll stop torturing myself. When the video starts again, I mute it.
The knock on my door startles me so badly I nearly drop my phone. “Luna?” Belle’s voice drips with fake concern. “The girls are having a little welcome gathering downstairs. You should join us.”
I delete the video with trembling fingers, even though I know it won’t matter. They’ll just send more. “Not interested.”
“Come on,” she insists. “It’ll be fun. Unless you’re scared?”
The challenge in her voice makes my teeth clench. I know exactly what she’s doing—trying to bait me into showing up so she can humiliate me somehow. But right now, the thought of sitting alone in this room with nothing but that video playing in my head seems worse than whatever petty game Belle has planned. I catch a glance at my reflection in the window, looking at the hollow eyes, the unsmiling mouth. If they see me like this, they’ll think they’ve already won.
“Give me five minutes,” I call back, already reaching for my makeup bag. If Belle wants to play, I’ll give her a show she won’t forget.
Belle waits in the hall while I get ready. She runs her fingers through her blonde waves, an uncharacteristic flicker of hesitation in her eyes. I tug at the hem of the navy and gold school blazer that belongs to someone else’s body, to a girl who took what she was given and never fought back. I was the perfect daughter and dutiful heir to an empire built on pain and suffering until it all fell apart around me, and the thing I’d always known, that my parents weren’t normal people, suddenly wasn’t something I could tolerate any longer. That was the beginning of the end.
And now? Now there’s no telling when the end will come.
“Ready?” Belle asks. Her brow arches elegantly. From the expression on her face, I must look like shit. Not that she’s surprised. She knows exactly who my parents are and that my acceptance on their terms means I haven’t had an easy few months.
I check the mirror one last time. The eye makeup looks too severe without the rest of my armor to match. I fix my red lipstick and follow Belle down the spiral staircase. I didn’t bring much with me, so the dorm is surprisingly bare. A twin bed covered with a cozy navy and gold comforter takes up most of the space, and the stone walls make me feel caged in. I’ve slept in worse places, of course—from locked basements to beds covered with all sorts of bodily fluids—neither one of them was by choice.
The party’s being held in one of the common rooms, but the noise coming from down the hall tells me everyone’s migrated to the boys’ wing. Apparently, even under constant supervision, Shark Bay’s naughty, rich kids know how to bend the rules and avoid getting caught. I follow the sound of music and laughter, letting my hips sway with each step. The uniform skirt I still haven’t changed out of hits mid-thigh, and I’ve left the top three buttons of my shirt undone. Let them look. Let them want. It’s all they’ll ever get.
The door to room 512 stands open, music and colored lights spilling into the hallway. Inside, about twenty students are crowded into the space, drinking from red cups and pretending they’re at a real college party instead of playing dress-up in their expensive prison. The air is thick with designer perfume and desperation, everyone trying so hard to prove they’re having the time of their lives. But I recognize the hollow look behind their perfect smiles—we’re all prisoners here, some of us just wear our chains better than others. Belle moves to hold court near the window, surrounding herself by her usual admirers.
“Luna!” Leyla appears at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. “You came! Here, let me introduce you to everyone?—”
“I can handle it myself.” I brush past her, heading straight for the drinks. A boy I vaguely recognize from orientation is playing bartender, mixing vodka with various sodas. His eyes widen as I approach.
“Hey, Luna,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. “What can I make you?”
“Vodka and lemonade. As strong as you can get it.” He hands me a red plastic cup full of expensive booze. I drink greedily. It’s not my favorite, and it doesn’t taste familiar, so I take another large sip, letting it burn all the way down.
“How’s that?” he asks. I can feel his eyes raking over me, taking in every detail of my body. As if we could stand there and flirt, as if everything I have isn’t fucking tainted beyond saving.
“It’s almost there,” I murmur, letting my voice drop to that husky register that makes boys think they have a chance. He fumbles with the bottle, splashing even more vodka into my cup. Perfect. I hold it up, clinking it against his in a silent toast. For a moment, I wish I’d asked Leyla to make the introductions. The more people I surround myself with, the harder it’ll be to track my actions, but I can’t back down now. Besides, it’s best if I leave an impression on my own anyway.
I take a long sip, scanning the room. Most of these people probably know exactly who I am—or at least, they think they do. The Queen family’s black sheep daughter, sent away to be reformed. If only they knew the truth about what really happens at those parties back home.
A girl calls his name, drawing his attention away, and I’m once again left alone. Before I can panic, someone slides an arm around my waist. A deep voice murmurs, “There you are.”
“Do I know you?” I turn to face him, my voice slightly slurred from the alcohol. It’s taken effect a little too quickly, but I brush off the feeling. Everyone here is drunk.
He grins at me, and a tiny memory nudges the back of my brain, asking if we’ve met before. We definitely haven’t. I wouldn’t forget that grin or the way his eyes light up when he smiles. Plus, if we’d been introduced, I would’ve noticed how tall he is. He has several inches on me, and I can feel the warmth radiating from his chest, so close it seems like he’s everywhere. I pull away, but his arm tightens around my waist, as if he’s afraid I’ll run away.
“We’ve never been formally introduced,” he says. Even over the thumping music, his deep, drawling voice commands attention. He shifts to stand behind me. “But I’m confident I’m going to change that.”
With his warm body pressed against mine, it’s a challenge not to flinch, but the alcohol clouding my brain helps. Besides, I need this—a good distraction, a pretty face, someone who can take my mind off everything. Someone to use until my heart has returned safely behind its old defenses and I can remember why attachments aren’t an option.
Instead, I lean back, feeling his hard muscles under my shoulders. As his arm tightens, I almost ask what brand of cologne he uses—it smells familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Whatever it is, the musky, warm smell does something funny to my pulse.
“How do you plan on changing that?” I ask, forcing a smile. Keep him on edge. Make him prove he can handle you.
“I have a few ideas, actually.” His breath tickles the shell of my ear. I bite back a shiver as it sends an unexpected zing down my spine, and something more—this aching need, building inside me.
He’s a distraction, a stranger, and someone I’ll never see again. That’s all. That’s all I can allow this to be.
“Prove it,” I say, turning to kiss him on the lips. I let my hand rest on his chest, and he responds immediately, kissing me hungrily. I don’t bother to respond in kind. When the kiss ends, I’ll flash him a coy smile and leave him panting and wanting more. He’ll chase me, and when we find ourselves in some dark corner, I’ll make him fall apart for me. It’s always the same and always easy. Easier than letting people in, than admitting how fucked up I am.
After all, who in this country doesn’t have a skeleton or two hidden somewhere?
When the kiss ends, though, I don’t sense his immediate desire the way I normally would with some random guy I was messing around with. Instead, he pulls away first, smiling. “That was a surprise,” he says. His gaze flicks down to my chest, which is rising and falling rapidly from my quickened breathing.
“But a nice one.” I return his smirk. Fuck, he smells good. His handsome face looks vaguely familiar, but I’m still hazy from the alcohol and can’t pinpoint it.
This isn’t unusual. People only ever want me for one thing. The only time they care is when they’re craving something, and I can provide it. This guy is just another trust fund baby who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. His messy brown hair and muscled frame practically scream jock. I force myself to give him the same look he’s giving me: curiosity mixed with the confidence that he can have anyone or anything he wants.
“Are you looking for trouble? Because I guarantee I can provide it.” The playful glint in his eyes leaves me undone. “I haven’t seen you around here, but I heard rumors about your arrival. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure you’re Luna Queen.”
I let out a soft laugh and then hold my finger against my lips, feigning embarrassment. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Dougie. Dougie Holland. And we have plenty of mutual friends.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I mutter into my drink. His looks and the mention of multiple friends clearly indicate he’s part of the most annoying “popular” crowd at Shark Bay, the clique made up entirely of golden kids born with silver spoons in their mouths, and Dougie obviously fits right in. “Your name sounds familiar though.”
“There was a news article about me two years ago… an unfortunate incident that got me exiled to this godforsaken island,” Dougie mutters as he plays with the neckline of my shirt. His light touch is enough to send sparks through my entire body. He dips his hand lower, hooking his fingers against my skirt and running his hand down my thigh. I close my eyes, momentarily wishing this could be someone else, and in a desperate move to redirect my thoughts, I tilt my head upward, leaning in closer to his gentle warmth. “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
“All bad things, I hope.” I press closer than necessary to be heard over the music, letting my breath ghost across his neck. His pupils dilate.
“Nothing but trouble, according to Belle.” His thumb brushes the sliver of skin exposed between my shirt and skirt. “But I like trouble.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the line. Instead, I trail my fingers up his arm, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. “Prove it.”
As expected, his hand travels higher up my leg, tugging the hem of my skirt upward. It’s probably clear what he expects to happen tonight. When you sell it, boys are always looking to buy it.
Dougie doesn’t hesitate, pulling me toward the hallway. We stumble into an empty bedroom—probably his, judging by the sports posters and scattered textbooks. The door barely closes before his mouth is on mine, eager and demanding. His kisses taste like expensive whiskey and desperation. Heat rushes through me as I kiss him back, working the buttons of his shirt open.
Dougie grins at me. “Eager, are we?”
“Trying to beat the rush before the party’s over,” I say, smiling innocently.
He lets his gaze rake over me, his pupils dark with lust. The edge to his movements tells me that he’s too far gone, too deeply immersed in imagining the next several minutes. To him, this is a game—slipping away from his friends, bringing a stranger home, moving in for the kill, bragging to his buddies and maybe mentioning it in the right places… if there’s even an afterward.
Part of me wonders if I should stop. A night like tonight would only make me feel worse and offer nothing in return, but the rest of me needs to lose myself, even if it’s temporary.
“God, you’re hot,” Dougie whispers in my ear, trailing his lips down my neck. His fingers fumble with the buttons of my blouse. Once my chest is bare, he inhales sharply.
I lift his chin, pressing my lips against his once more, and then push his shoulders. Dougie lands on the bed, eyes wide, and I climb on top of him. I’m already wet—whether from the anticipation or the alcohol, I’m not sure. I pull my panties down with his help and kick them to the floor. Slowly, I climb on top of him, positioning my pussy above his face.
“Sit on it,” he breathes, sounding amazed.
I snicker. It’s pathetic, the amount of shit these guys would do if you gave them the chance. They’re so easily manipulated, but only because they enjoy pretending, deep down, not to care. What most people don’t realize is that these types only ever tell the truth when they’re thinking with their dicks—sometimes, not even then. The only honest moments in these people’s lives come when they’re in a blind haze, unable to hide behind fake smiles or layers upon layers of subterfuge.
“If you do it well, I might return the favor,” I tease, lowering myself against his mouth. A soft moan escapes me as his hot tongue darts out, grazing my clit. Pleasure explodes throughout my core, making me gasp. I take his thick brown hair in my fists, grinding on him and controlling the pace.
One arm moves from where it rests on my hip, creeping down until he can tease a finger inside. I yelp in surprise, the sensation setting off fireworks inside me.
He crooks his finger again, this time sending another wave of pleasure through me, and when his teeth graze my swollen clit, I shudder. My legs tremble from the exertion and his warm breath ghosts over me, adding to the heat building between my thighs. Every lick, every graze of his teeth sends sparks through my body until all the tension, all the anxiety, ebbs away under the delicious feeling.
I clench my thighs, bucking against his face, and Dougie slips his fingers free. Then, slowly, gently, his tongue enters me. It’s too much, and soon I’m crying out, everything around me disappearing except the rising pressure.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I breathe, lifting myself and then slamming back down again. “Fucking do it harder.”
My nails rake his hair, hard enough to draw blood. I wonder, vaguely, if the pain gets him off. Normally, it would. Right now, though, my only concern is getting myself off.
“Jesus, you’re amazing,” he breathes, swiping his tongue across my sensitive folds.
The buzz of the alcohol is beginning to wear off, and the strange sense of drifting settles back into the cold numbness. At least a few more hours with Dougie will hold off the ice and wind for just a bit longer.
Dougie’s tongue hits a particularly sensitive spot, and a pulse shoots through me, forcing everything else out. His name escapes my lips in a low moan, and my grip on his hair tightens.
“Yes. Come for me, gorgeous.”
He applies just the right amount of pressure with his hands and mouth to speed up my release. White-hot heat rises inside me, building and building until finally, it bursts. The world narrows until it’s only Dougie’s touch, his voice, his scent enveloping my every sense. My hips buck wildly, riding the tremors that rip through my body with each crest. Then, just as quickly as it began, the unrelenting waves of pleasure begin to recede.
Spent, I let myself relax, but the reprieve doesn’t last long. Dougie grabs me by the hips and throws me with my back against the bed. He climbs on me and without warning, thrusts his cock balls deep into my pussy.
My back arches, the sudden stretch followed by just enough pain to make me want to do it again. When I cry out, Dougie brings his lips to mine, tongue fighting its way into my mouth. He thrusts again and groans against my neck. Sweat drips from his forehead onto my neck and arms.
We kiss violently, tongues pushing against each other, teeth dragging along swollen lips. I smile as his large hands explore me, clawing at my breasts, my ass, anything he can get his fingers on. “Do it harder,” I groan. He slams into me again, hitting just the right angle. “There. Fucking pound me right there.”
“You like that?” He pushes down again, and a whine catches in my throat. The pressure is unrelenting, and soon, the pleasure is building again, an impending explosion. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Right fucking there.”
“So wet. Your pussy feels fucking perfect, Luna,” he pants. As he shudders, his grip on me tightens.
Again, I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn’t let me speak. He swallows my moans, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Every nerve inside me burns, desperate for a reprieve.
His strokes become more frantic. Our breathing becomes ragged, heavy gasps of air pushed against one another’s mouths. All of the tension, all of the buildup crashes together, sending me hurtling toward the inevitable release. My moans blend with his, the only sounds loud enough to make sense. My muscles seize up and then, all at once, I lose myself.
Dougie thrusts into me again and again, his face contorting, the warmth of his cum filling me, and together we break apart, floating as one toward the ceiling. Gently, he lowers his body onto mine, our lips meeting in an explosive kiss.
After a moment, his ragged panting evens out and he rolls beside me. His heart beats in rhythm with mine, almost as if they’re dancing.
“You’re on the Pill, right?” he asks, not moving.
“I’m good,” I say, giving him a breathless smirk. He breaks into an easy grin, rolling to lie by my side. I give him exactly thirty seconds before pushing him away. He rolls to the side, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as I collect my clothes.
“That was—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“A one-time thing.” I button my shirt with steady fingers, not bothering to look for my underwear. Let him keep it as a souvenir. “Don’t expect a repeat performance.”
He props himself up on an elbow, confusion creeping into his post-orgasmic haze. “But I thought?—”
“You thought wrong.” I check my reflection in his mirror, fixing my smudged lipstick. “Thanks for the distraction.”
“Come on,” he laughs, swinging his legs off the bed. His boxers sit low on his hips. “It was fun. Let’s do it again some time.”
I slip my feet back into my shoes, the sharp heels making an exaggerated clicking noise on the wooden floor.
“No, thanks. Been there, done that.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I’ve gotten good at turning pain into poison. It’s easier to be the villain in someone else’s story than the victim in my own.
The shock and devastation on his face would’ve been hilarious, but I’m more concerned with getting out of his room than laughing. My skin crawls with the familiar mix of satisfaction and self-loathing. Another notch on the bedpost, another brick in the wall between me and everything I left behind. It was a quick fuck, nothing more.
Back at the party, the music seems louder now, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing in my ears. The bass thrums through my bones like a second heartbeat, drowning out the whispers that follow me across the room. Belle spots me immediately, her eyes narrowing at my disheveled appearance. Her perfect mask slips for just a second, revealing something darker beneath the polished surface—jealousy maybe or recognition of a fellow predator in her waters. I flash her my sweetest smile as I walk past.
“Leaving so soon?” she calls after me. “But the party’s just getting started.”
I pause in the doorway, making sure my voice carries. “Sorry, but I got what I came for. Your parties are exactly what I expected—amateur hour with daddy’s whiskey and borrowed condoms.” I wink at Dougie, who’s just emerged from his room looking shell-shocked. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”
The room erupts in whispers as I sashay out. Let them talk. Let them think they know me. It’s easier that way—being the wild child, the slut, the girl who fucks strangers at welcome parties. Those labels are armor, protecting the parts of me they can never see.
Even on the cusp of ruining yet another chance my fucked-up life’s given me, I won’t allow anyone to pry behind my defenses and catch a glimpse of the damage within. Let them see what they expect to see—the wild child, the black sheep, the girl who fucks strangers at welcome parties. It’s safer that way. Because the truth is far more dangerous than any reputation they could give me.
Sharks never show weakness, not even when they’re starving. And I’ve been starving for so long, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be full. But that’s okay—hunger keeps you sharp, keeps you moving. And in these waters, you either keep moving or you die.