Page 54 of The Truths We Burn

And that was something no one else could do.

Not doctors, not psychologists, not even his parents, who desperately tried.

I’ll never forget the day he told me about what it was like, how sometimes, especially at night, these intangible mist figures appeared. How they would tug at his feet and whisper in his ear. How no matter how many times he would shut his eyes and tell himself it was just a dream, they’d still be there every single time he opened them.

There was no night-light or bedtime story that could keep his nightmares away. They were with him always.

That was the same time I told him the truth about my mom. He was the only one who knew about it or had even heard me speak about it out loud.

We were inseparable after that.

“I wonder if he knows he looks like a douche canoe or if he just doesn’t care,” Alistair announces, looking beyond me. Silas quirks a grin, just enough to change his features.

I turn my head to see behind me, greeted with the sight of Easton walking inside the cafeteria with his arm slung around Sage’s shoulders, holding her as if he’s meant to be there. As if it’s his right to.

“Next time your dad pays his mom a visit, tell him to mention that Easton is too old for his mommy to be dressing him,” Silas adds.

It’s funny to me that Easton still has no idea that we’re aware of his mother’s extracurricular activities. I’m almost tempted to use it against him, just to watch him shake with fear of his perfect family reputation being destroyed.

Because if the truth came out, the Sinclairs would be the only ones who cared. As if Alistair gives a fuck what his piece-of-shit family did or who they fucked.

My molars grind together, jaw tightening to the point it’s almost painful.

It doesn’t matter how long we’d been together or how many times I’ve watched this exact scenario play out before, the sharp sting of annoyance never dims. Every time, my territorial hunger for Sage only grows stronger, and I had warned her I was done waiting.

I can feel my palms sweating as I look at her, that fake smile dazzling the room, forcing every male to stare and every girl to roll their eyes in jealousy. That plaid skirt number is doing wonders for my imagination.

A schoolgirl coming to confess some more sins, it would seem.

Rolling my tongue and biting harder on my match, I can practically taste her juices dripping into my mouth as I ate her beneath that flimsy material.

Wanting her sexually isn’t abnormal for me. The protective need to keep her to myself is though.

I can’t help but wonder if Easton knows her secrets. If she acts out plays in her underwear for him or eats Skittles until her stomach hurts around him. If he knows her dreams and the things that scare her.

Against my better judgment, I care about her. I want her.

And because life loves reminding me how vicious it can be when you’re not paying attention, all of my worries are absolutely true.

Because as I continue my admiration of the girl I should never have trusted, I see her finger decorated with a shiny diamond ring that promised her forever.

“I wish she could see how much better she deserves, but talking to her about it is like talking to a hungry piranha. I just hate the fact he’s going to be my brother, even if it is by marriage.”

Rosie’s voice is like white noise.It crackles and hisses inside my ear, millions of little needles poking my eardrum over and over again.

“Since when did they get engaged?” I ask, hoping my tone comes off flat and unbothered.

She shrugs, biting into a stick of celery. “My mom said way before Christmas. They’d just wanted to keep it low-key until graduation. Looks like they got tired of waiting.”

I nod to her answer but also make a note to myself.

I’d been right all along. I should never have touched the pretty flower, never allowed her teeth to sink into the flesh of my forbidden fruit.

Everyone says the devil is the corrupt one; no one thinks it could have been Eve tempting trouble.

She had been pretty poison all along, and now I’m invested.

My mind is plagued with memories of her, of who I thought she was, my body infected with the feel of her.