Page 117 of Tempest

Ardyn

Twenty-two nights.

Those are how many evenings I spent restless, soaking through my sheets with sweat and triggered by nightmares then soothed by memories.

The terror of watching Tempest kill.

The rapture of Tempest’s tongue on me, sipping, branding, calming me with pleasure.

Blood splattering against a wall.

Tempest groaning as I take all of him in my mouth.

Having to touch and bring myself to orgasm to escape the carnival of madness lining my dreams.

And then I open my eyes in shame.

I’m not a good person. I can’t be a good girl if this is what I think of.

This isn’t like before, when I was forced to endure the worst aspects of humanity. Abduction, death, the loss of a friend… I wasn’t able to handle those tragedies, and any of my therapists would be shocked I’m functioning now.

Unless I don’t believe myself? Is that it? I’m not trusting what I saw at Anderton Cottage?

If that’s the case, then I can’t trust my experiences with Tempest, either. They could all be in my head, and I’m still a virgin wishing for her best friend’s brother to fall in love with me.

It’s for these reasons I’m staring vacantly into my bathroom mirror after a scalding shower, my skin red and puffy, my eyes bloodshot.

We’ve just escaped Tempest glowering in the quad, arguing with Rio. I’m not so arrogant to think they were arguing about me, but … I feel like they were arguing about me.

Rio probably wants me dead. Tempest, for his own selfish reasons, wants to keep me alive.

And I want to be alive with him.

Disgusted with myself, I smear my hand over the condensation on the mirror and turn away, wrapping the towel tighter around myself.

“Hey.”

I squeal, flying against the open bathroom door.

“Yikes, did I scare you?” Clover sits on her bed, idly flipping through a textbook. “Sorry to inform you, I live here.”

“Yeah, I—” Shaking my head, I push off the door. “I don’t know what’s up with me lately.”

Lie. I know exactly what’s up.

Clover not-so-subtly eyes the meds lining our bathroom counter.

“I’m not skipping doses,” I mumble, padding over to my side of the room.

“I wasn’t thinking that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were experiencing heartbreak.”

I stiffen in front of our shared closet. Then give an Oscar-worthy snort. “That’s impossible. I don’t talk to anyone but you.”

“Not entirely true. You talk to my brother occasionally.”

If my spine could turn into a solid stick of metal, this would be the time. “Only when he forces me to.”

“Mm-hmm, his social skills are totally on point. You almost ready?”

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