Page 39

CHAPTER 39

ARIELLA

W hen it rained, it poured—And right now, it felt like a monsoon.

Everything I'd worked so hard for was gone.

I was four years old the first time I saw the Westbrook University dancers perform on the massive field, and I was eight the first time I got to tag along for a day. I knew I wanted that. I'd spent years in dance practicing, training, and dancing to be the best, and now it was all for nothing.

All because of Zaiden and his stupid plan to ruin me for something I didn't do.

I stared at the empty suitcase standing closed at the end of my bed. I didn't want to go back to my dad's house, but I also didn't want to be here. I'd never wanted to be here.

My gaze shifted, freezing on Kacie's MacBook sitting on my desk, and I released a slow breath as my shoulders sagged. I couldn't leave without trying to figure out what happened to Kacie. I knew there was a big chance we'd never figure it out, but I had to get into that laptop. The fact that it had a different password than all her other devices told me that there was something she didn't want anyone to see. But what? I was her best friend, and I had no idea what it could be.

I leaned forward, jerking the laptop off my desk and onto my lap. Flipping it open, I stared at the login screen, gently tapping the keys.

"Okay, Kacie," I mumbled. "What is your password?"

I thought back over the passwords she used for everything else. Her bank and school logins were the first love of her life, Bella, her four-pound dachshund who passed away when she was twelve, and Kacie's birthday. Her social media logins were her best friend's initials and the date we met, but neither of those worked for her laptop. She always used something that was most important to her. My mind raced through the things she loved.

My phone buzzed on the bed beside me, pulling me from my pity party.

It was Mila. Again.

I'd ignored all her texts and phone calls because I didn't want to explain what happened again.

Mila: We're at the front door. Let us in.

I started typing out a text telling her to go home, but an email chimed.

My heart knocked against my ribs when I spotted Dean Sweeney's name in my inbox. Already? The board never moved this quickly.

Mila: Okay, well, we are coming in.

I barely registered Mila's text. My finger hovered over the email, trembling slightly. One click separated me from knowing whether I'd be packing my life away or staying. I closed my eyes, drew in a breath, and tapped the screen.

The first line blurred as my eyes raced ahead, searching for the only words that mattered.

Ms. Ledger,

The school board has determined that your actions were in poor taste, however?—

My gaze stumbled, caught on the word "however." The kind of word that pivots futures.

—They do not call for harsh actions since the incident occurred off campus. Your spot on the dance team will be reinstated, and your suspension will be lifted.

I gasped, the air rushing from my lungs as if I'd been holding my breath underwater. Staying. I was staying.

But then, at the bottom:

We do apologize for misspeaking before we had all the details.

I froze, rereading the line. Dean Sweeney had never apologized to a student in the history of Westbrook. My eyes narrowed as understanding clicked into place—Zaiden. This had his fingerprints all over it.

My lips curled up into a grin. I didn't care as long as I could dance. As long as I didn't have to leave school and go back to my dad's.

"Ari," Mila burst through my bedroom door, freezing, as her gaze scanned the room. "Wow." She paused. "I haven't been in here since…" Her words trailed off.

"Yeah," I sighed. "It's a constant reminder that she's not here anymore."

She stepped into the room. "She loved you. If she would want anyone to move into her old room, she'd want it to be you."

I forced a smile as I nodded, my chest squeezing tightly as a hint of sadness hit me.

"Are you okay?" Journey asked, pushing past Mila. "You didn't show up to the meeting."

"It's a long story, but yeah, I'm good." I tucked my hair behind my ear, avoiding their concerned looks. "How was the meeting? Did they introduce a new coach?"

"No." Journey leaned against my desk, idly spinning a pen between her fingers. "They said they're working to find someone, but for now, they put the captain in charge."

My eyes widened as realization dawned. "You're the captain." I straightened, grabbing Journey's shoulders with both hands.

"Yep." Journey tried to look nonchalant, but the slight lift at the corner of her mouth betrayed her pride. She crossed her arms, rocking back on her heels. "And we're dancing at the home game this week."

"That's freaking awesome!" I bounced on the edge of my bed, my body automatically moving to an imaginary beat. Some part of me was already choreographing in my head.

Mila's smile faded as she sank into the desk chair. "As exciting as that is,” she leaned forward, voice dropping, "we may have a problem."

Something in her tone made my stomach tighten. "What kind of problem?"

"I was in the athletic building earlier." She glanced toward the open door and back. "EJ and some of the guys were in the weight room. They didn't see me."

I waited, the silence stretching uncomfortably.

"They were talking about revenge. For what happened at the party between you and Zaiden."

I waved dismissively. "Zaiden's a big boy. I'm sure he can?—"

"They're not coming after Zaiden," Mila cut in, her eyes holding mine. "They're coming after you."

A shadow fell across the floor. "Who's coming after Ariella?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Zaiden stood in the doorway, his frame blocking the exit completely. His knuckles whitened against the doorjamb; the only visible sign of the rage I knew was building beneath his controlled exterior.

"It's nothing." I shifted in my chair. "Just team drama."

He stepped into the room, his gaze never leaving Mila's face. "Who. Is coming. After. Ariella?"

Mila's eyes flicked to me, silently asking permission. I shook my head slightly, mouthing "no". The last thing I needed was Zaiden starting a war over something I could handle myself, especially when we both knew how his wars ended.

"Who?" Zaiden's voice cracked, making all three of us flinch.

Mila broke. "EJ and the football team," she blurted, the words tumbling out like she couldn't hold them back anymore.

I groaned.

"What did they say?"

"Their exact words—" Journey hesitated, glancing at me.

"What?" Zaiden pressed, taking a step toward her. "What exactly did they say?"

Journey swallowed. "They said they were going to—" Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "—ruin that pussy for you." She looked at the floor. "They talked about passing her through all of them."

The room went silent.

Zaiden's face remained perfectly still—too still. Only the muscle ticking along his jawline betrayed any reaction. His head tilted slightly as his eyes narrowed, processing this information with the cold calculation of someone planning a war strategy.

"They're all talk," I said quickly, stepping between Zaiden and Journey. "They're pissed about what happened at the party. Give it a week, they'll find something else to obsess over."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Journey muttered. "EJ seemed pretty?—"

I shot her a look that could have frozen hellfire, and her mouth snapped shut mid-sentence.

"Everyone is overreacting." I kept my voice light, as if discussing tomorrow's weather instead of threats against me. "The football team is harmless. They're just boys with bruised egos."

I squared my shoulders and met Zaiden's gaze directly. The temperature in his eyes had dropped to something arctic.

"I'm not worried about any of them." My chin lifted, the lie smooth on my tongue. "Don't make this worse than it already is."

I held his stare, refusing to blink, silently pleading with him to let it go.

"Any luck getting into Kacie's MacBook?" Mila asked, effortlessly changing topics like she always did when tension rose too high. Zaiden finally broke eye contact, and I blew out a quiet sigh of relief.

"No." I shifted back to the laptop, running my fingers along its closed edge. "There was something in there she didn't want anyone finding. She never changed passwords unless—" I trailed off, the implications hanging in the air.

"This would be easier if we had her phone." Zaiden's voice was clipped, matter-of-fact, his problem-solving tone.

"But we don't." I met his eyes, matching his bluntness. "So, I'll keep working on her laptop."

"Let me know if I can help with anything." Mila gathered her bag, always the mediator. "But we have to go, like, now."

"Right." Journey checked her watch. "Tutoring in an hour." She curled her lip and flicked her dark hair over her shoulder. "God, I hate tutoring. Professor Martinez makes us explain the same concept, like, twenty different ways."

"Want to meet up after?" I asked.

"Yeah," Mila said. "Let's all meet at the library."

Mila led the way out with Journey following her.

My gaze shifted to Zaiden, still standing in my room, and my smile faded. I knew he had something to do with that email from the Dean, but that didn't change the fact that it all happened because of him.

"So, does that mean you're staying?" Zaiden asked, his eyes dropping to my empty luggage and then back to me.

I pushed off the bed and took a step toward him. "This was all your fault." I shoved my finger into his chest. "If it wasn't for you," I shoved it harder, "I wouldn't have been kicked off the team to begin with?—"

"But." His lips curved into a grin as he caught my wrist, squeezing tightly.

"But—" The words caught in my throat as he pressed his body against mine, trapping me between him and the wall. "Thank you. For whatever you did to fix it."

His hands found my hips, his touch deceptively gentle at first before his fingers dug in, just enough to make me wince.

"So you forgive me?" The question floated between us, soft as a caress but sharp with danger underneath.

I met his gaze. "No." I twisted away, shoving his hands off with force. "You're still the reason all this happened."

One step toward the door. Two.

The air shifted behind me, the only warning before his hand shot out, catching my throat and spinning me around. My back slammed against the wall, the impact forcing the air from my lungs in a quiet gasp.

I blinked, suddenly aware of how close he was, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, and the smell of the mint on his breath.

"That's okay." His thumb traced an agonizingly slow path along my jawline, the unexpected gentleness making my skin tingle in contrast to the unyielding grip at my throat. "I like it better when you hate me."

The pressure at my neck increased by fractions, just enough to make my pulse leap beneath his fingertips.

I refused to look away, to surrender even the smallest victory in this twisted game between us. "You make it so easy," I gritted out.

Something darkened in his eyes then, a shadow passing over deep water. His lips curved into that smile I hated, the one that said he knew exactly what effect he had.

"You don't really hate me," he breathed, so close now that the heat of his breath brushed against my lips. "You want to hate me—" His free hand skimmed up my side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "But you don't."

My lip curled into a defiant snarl, but the betrayal came from within—heat flooding my body, pooling low in my belly and between my thighs.

His gaze shifted momentarily toward my bed before returning to me, now lit with cruel intentions. "You want me." Each word fell like stones dropping into still water. "You want me to fuck you."

The worst part wasn't that he was wrong.

The worst part was that he was right.

His fingers squeezed, and I felt the contact everywhere. "You want me to make you come."

I was about to argue, to tell him to fuck off, but I was spun around so fast I hadn't fully processed what was happening when he pressed his hips into my ass, pinning me against the wall. His hand tunneled into my hair, ripping my head back and to the side, giving him better access to my neck.

A deep groan rumbled through his chest, vibrating against my skin as his teeth scraped the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. My body betrayed me instantly—back arching, pressing harder into the rigid length of him. The rational part of my brain screamed to push him away, to hold onto my anger, but it was drowning in a flood of want.

"I hate you," I whispered, the words lacking any real conviction.

His only response was a dark laugh against my throat, his hands tightening on my hips.

The world tilted as he spun me away from the wall. One moment, I was standing; the next, I was bent forward, the mattress edge catching me at the waist. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, blood rushing hot beneath my skin as his fingers hooked into the waistband of my leggings. The soft fabric slid down my thighs, taking my underwear with it in one smooth motion.

Cool air kissed my exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. I heard the soft thud of cloth hitting the floor, followed by the sound of him stepping between my feet.

"Spread your legs." His voice had dropped an octave, rough with desire but deadly calm.

The metallic rasp of his zipper sliding down seemed to echo in the silence of the room. Time stretched, suspended in that moment of anticipation, of choice.

My hands flattened against the mattress. Some last flicker of resistance made me push upward, an instinctive attempt to regain control, to remind myself I wasn't a puppet dancing on his strings.

His response was immediate. One large hand wrapped around the back of my neck, pressing me down with unmistakable authority, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who was in control. Just enough to make my stomach tighten with a shameful thrill.

"Spread. Your. Fucking. Legs."

I hesitated for one heartbeat—two—before surrendering to the inevitable. Slowly, I shifted my feet apart until my hips lay flat against the bed, exposing myself completely to him.

Behind me, I heard his sharp intake of breath, the smallest victory in this power struggle between us.

The distinct sound of a foil wrapper being ripped open echoed through the silence as his free hand curled around my hip. "Take this dick like a good girl." His hips snapped forward, and I cried out as he filled me with one brutal thrust.

My hands curled into the comforter. There was no chance to adjust to his massive cock before he started fucking me. He withdrew before driving back into me harder and faster each time.

The way his cock filled me, stretched me felt so good, I couldn't think straight. My hands reached back, my nails digging into his thighs. "Oh fuck," I cried out as my belly clenched and my blood heated, sending me spiraling closer and closer to what I craved.

The wet sounds of his hips slapping against my ass filled the room.

He wound my ponytail around his fist and tugged, forcing my back to arch. "Oh—My—God."

His speed increased, thrusting faster, hitting a spot that set my body on fire. Every ruthless snap of his hips sent another jolt of pleasure coursing through me until I hit my peak.

My body tensed. "Zaiden!" I exploded around him, my orgasm so severe I couldn't breathe.

He doesn't stop fucking me hard and fast. With a harsh grunt, he withdrew one last time before slamming into me and holding himself deep as he came.

He collapsed on top of me for a long moment as we caught our breath.

"See," he breathed, his lips brushing against my ear. "You don't hate me as much as you think you do."

The satisfaction in his voice cut through the lingering haze of pleasure, a cold reminder of what happened—of my weakness, my surrender.

I placed my palms against the mattress and shoved hard enough that he rolled off me with a grunt. The sudden absence of his weight and warmth left me feeling exposed in ways that had nothing to do with my nakedness.

"Fuck you," I said, each word precisely shaped and delivered with quiet venom.

His laugh followed me as I slid off the bed, my legs still trembling slightly. I felt his eyes tracking me as I crossed the room, forcing myself to walk normally despite the pleasant ache between my thighs.

I didn't look back as I entered the bathroom and closed the door with a softness. A slam would have shown him he was right. Instead, I turned the lock with a soft click that said more than any shouted curse.

Only then, with the barrier between us, did I let my forehead rest against the cool wood of the door, eyes closed, breath unsteady.

I hated that he was right.

I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as I could stand it, as if I could wash away not just the evidence of him on my skin but the knowledge that some broken part of me would welcome his hands on me again.