Page 37 of Forged By Shadows

“Good girl,” Dax brushes the ghost of a kiss against my cheek. I gasp softly at his playfulness, my thighs clenching. When so many other big personalities live under one roof, I can see how he might be easily discounted. But a gentleman who opens doors and then whispers dirty things in my ear? Dax is ticking all of my boxes.

Smiling into his shoulder, inhaling his sea mineral body wash, I could remain like this all night if it wasn’t for the hand that roughly grabs my arm, tearing me away. I wobble in my heels until I’m spun to meet Wyatt’s green eyes. Eyes in which the pupils are blown wide and there’s a stupidly weird smile on his face.

“Ahh fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Brooding Wyatt, fine. Glaring Wyatt, no problem. High-as-shit Wyatt? Yeah, I can’t call that. That same hand on my upper arm drags me into his personal space, his fine suit brushing against the front of my dress. I shove at his chest as Dax grabs his wrist, but Wyatt’s sneer only gets wider.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he chuckles with an ominous undertone that gives me pause. There’s nothing more unnerving than his seemingly-kind smile when I know the blackness of his heart. Or lack of, in this case.

“It’s fine, Dax. Give us a minute.” After a lengthy side glance, Dax nods and backs away, taking a lingering Huxley with him. Stalling my shoving, my hands remain on Wyatt’s chest. One arm slides around my back and in a smooth movement, he jolts me closer as a cold object presses against my thigh. It’s metal and at the hilt of my skirt’s high slit. The dimmed lighting causes shadows to fall over Wyatt’s sharp features, yet I still watch intently, trying to gauge his next move. He starts to sway us side to side.

“Not going to scream for help?”

“That would imply that I was scared,” I reply instantly. It’s all bullshit, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever sensed Wyatt so volatile. I also don’t want to become too comfortable with the Shadowed Souls coming to my rescue, which is why I don’t pay any attention to Garrett and Axel waltzing around in the background.

The cold metal inches higher, tugging at my satin. It’s a blade of some sort, a pocketknife maybe. Either way, the thrill of desire that slams through me is completely unwarranted. Wyatt, despite his inhibited state, doesn’t miss a beat. His green eyes sharpen, his head slightly tilted.

“You like this, don’t you?” he smirks. To test out his theory, Wyatt presses the knife closer, its sharp edge taut against my skin. It’s not so easy to feign indifference this time. I swallow thickly, my lids lowering. My mind slips. The world fades away. Nothing exists except Wyatt’s solid chest beneath my palms and the press of metal against my thigh. I try to predict the moment the blade slices my skin, a warm trickle of blood creeping south.

Wyatt’s mouth is beside my ear then, his breath heated. “Holy shit. You’re just as fucked up as I am.”

“No one is as fucked up as you are,” I mutter back. Yet I’m not moving back. Between the bulk of his outline, the dimmed lighting and the loud music, I don’t pull away. It’s the longest Wyatt has given me his attention and I’m seriously questioning my life choices as to why I care. Why, after everything, I want more of it. Because I hate myself, I quickly decide.

“You know, I’ve been dreading this stupid dance,” Wyatt is grinning again. Ear to ear, like the Joker. Every sway we take, the blade creeps up towards my thigh.

“Then why are you here?” My nostrils flare, the only tell that I’m affected. His chest is hard beneath my palms, long and steady breaths causing them to rise and fall. His suit is designer, I now realize. His dark hair is impeccably swept back and the cologne. That goddamn cologne which invades my senses and makes me dizzy. My lungs seize as Wyatt leans forward, his mouth against my cheek. I shiver and internally curse Garrett for putting this fantasy in my head.

“I figured since slutting around was your thing, I would just give you a helping hand.” Then he strikes. The blade moves effortlessly, gliding through the satin of my dress, over my hip and across my waist at a wonky angle. I suck inwards to avoid being cut across my abdomen, and finally his arm releases me. He’s torn away before I’ve even gathered the remains of the fabric together, just about concealing the black thong I’m wearing underneath. Wyatt must catch a glimpse anyway, his barking laughter ringing out over the music.

“Who exactly are you dressing up for, little sis?” he calls out, gaining everyone’s attention. My cheeks instantly flame. Anger boils my blood, sending me over the edge. I’ve changed my mind. Fuck this asshole.

Standing tall, I let my dress fall in its tatters. Huxley and Dax are dragging Wyatt away as I storm after them. They stop on the edge of the dancefloor, all three watching me tentatively. I grab Wyatt’s tie, wrapping it around my fist and yank him towards my face.

“I don’t give a fuck who you think you are. You don’t get to slut shame anyone.” No thought process happens beyond that, just the jerk of my leg as I knee Wyatt squarely in the balls. Whatever drug Wyatt is on infuses a trickle of laughter with his screaming, his legs giving out and body crumpling onto the floor. He’s a mess of howls and whooping, a sad sight for the men who come to stand around him.

In some silent conversation I’m not a part of, Dax and Huxley attend to carrying Wyatt out, while Axel’s arms swoop me up. Our exit is swift but not quiet, as Garrett holds his hands high and shouts, ‘there’s nothing to see here!’. It’s too late anyway. I glance over Axel’s shoulder to the sea of camera phones and flashlights pointed at me. The one and only time Wyatt has acknowledged me in public, and it’s been caught on camera for the world to see. So much for not giving a shit about outsider opinions.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Gritting my teeth, I rise from yet another stumble and glare at myself in the mirror. My feet are killing me from last night’s heels and this morning’s grueling dance practice. The sun has yet to rise, but sleep wasn’t an option. Every time I found enough peace to drift off, startling green eyes were waiting for me. All encompassing, bordering mesmerizing. They swallowed me whole, luring me into a whirlpool I couldn’t surface from. Wyatt’s laughter pounded against the inside of my ears until I woke in yet another cold sweat. I hate him. I hate that still, after all this time, he won’t let me grasp a trace of happiness.

So here I am. Focusing on all I have, all I can depend on. Dancing. It may prove a little tricker this morning, but eventually, I will find my zen. Theo had the good sense to record his piano mastery so we can practice without him being present. Perhaps our run-in spurred him to think twice about stalking around the studio in the dark. Strolling over to my phone, I restart the piece again and take it from the top.

I dance for hours, pushing myself through the entire showcase from start to finish. In the parts I’m supposed to have a partner for, I fill in the lifts with leaps and moves which fit the music better. I might have to talk to Ms. Nightingale about some transitions which don’t flow as easily as they should. During these short breaks where I’m jotting down notes, I roll my ankles and stretch. I’ve pushed myself far beyond the typical length of practice and now I’m starting to suffer for it. I can’t pretend it’s not exactly what I wanted - the excuse to shower after everyone else has left for class and return to bed for the day. I won’t be surfacing until I can sleep soundly enough not to dream.

“From one monster to another,” I mutter to myself. I can’t pinpoint when my fears changed from my birth father to Wyatt. They’re at different ends of the scale in terms of physically hurting me, but Wyatt’s insistence to exploit my weaknesses and prey upon them is taking precedent. My birth father was a bastard. Just a bad man who did bad things. Wyatt? He’s a privileged fuckwitt who never learned to share and blames me for it.

Light pierces the high windows above the mirrors. I hear the rumbling of chatter before the door opens and a crowd of dancers leak inside. All smiles and fresh faces. It seems everyone had a much better night at the ball than I did. Grabbing my phone from the piano, I head across the studio to pack up my stuff. I change out my shoes and tug Meg’s baggy sweatshirt over my head, keeping my back to those setting up around me. I don’t need any questions and at worst, I don’t need the pity. Lifting my backpack, a padded envelope sits underneath with my name on. I frown, tentatively picking it up.

I pry open the seal, pulling out a pair of compression socks. My ankles throb on instinct, welcoming the sight whilst my hand trembles. There’s a note inside, a ripped piece of paper with rushed handwriting.

‘You wouldn’t get them for yourself.’

A kind thought, I suppose, if the two letters at the bottom of the page didn’t have my heart lodged in my throat. XO. My eyes fly around the room at everyone setting up and stretching against the rail. They all greet my suspicion with raised eyebrows and frowns.

Shoving them back inside, I crush my belongings to my chest, envelope and all, and rush out of the studio, crashing into multiple shoulders as I go. For the second time in (two weeks?), I fly across campus with huge strides. My heart is pounding, the last of the energy I reserved for a shower quickly waning. Dashing across a road, narrowly missing being hit by an oncoming car, I make it to the frat house. There’s no time wasted on climbing the tree today; I throw the front door open and burst inside unannounced.

The first person I find is standing in the kitchen, leaning his hip against the counter. Workout gear clings to his muscled body, a protein shake in hand. Green eyes lift to mine, hickeys littering his neck. I can barely breathe, my grip cramping around my backpack.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks after a beat. His casualness is a red flag to my anger.

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