Page 126 of Dare To Break

“Yeah, you’re right.” Garrett sounds disappointed.

Adrenaline rocks through me but not in a good way. It leaves me feeling sick and trembling.

Why did I ever come out here?

As their footsteps move away, I remain in hiding. Silence returns, but I’m too scared to move.

Attention shifting, my gaze lands on a metal plaque that’s been fixed on a short column of stone beside one of the headstones. Inching toward it on my hands and knees, I keep low.

When I’m closer, there’s enough light from one of the lanterns near it to make out a name.

Zoey Rivers.

The girl who had died.

This must be where it happened.

“Hi, Zoey.” My voice comes out in a whisper. “I hope you don’t mind my company for a little while.”

The wind rustles through the trees in answer.

I take that as a good sign, sit back on my haunches and study the carved name. “My name is Arabella.”

Sagging down, I hug my knees to my chest again, and rest my chin on top of them. “I’m Lacy’s new roommate. I don’t know much about you.”

I can hear the faint music from the Halloween party, but I continue to sit there, soaking up the soothing quiet.

“Were you one of the popular girls? You must have been if you were friends with Lacy. Did you ever feel like a round peg trying to fit into a square hole? That’s my world right now. I’m not sure where I belong.”

Chapter 80

Eli

I’m sitting on one of the graves when she runs into the cemetery. She doesn’t see me as she darts past and down the steps to the tomb. I don’t say a word when she pulls on the doors and finds them locked, then spins to duck behind one of the graves. I take another pull of vodka from the bottle and slip off the stone. My intention is to tell her to fuck off, but then voices reach me out of the darkness laughing about cornering her.

She lowers her head, pressing it against her knees. She’s clearly hiding from them. The thought of letting them know she’s there flits through my mind, but I dismiss it. There are many things I’ll do, many depths I’ll lower myself to, but I won’t put a girl in a situation where she loses the option of saying no. I might be a monster, I might hate the fucking sight of her, but I still have my limits.

When they leave, their voices grow fainter until silence returns, she shifts onto her hands and knees. My eyes roam over her. The dress barely hides anything and the position she’s in rides the skirt up over her ass, displaying the thong she’s wearing. My dick hardens, and I wet my lips with my tongue. I should get out of here before she sees me and accuses me of looking at her. She’d be right. I am looking at her, but that isn’t the point. I was here first. She just didn’t see me. But I don’t move toward the gates. My feet take me closer to her, because she’s whispering, and I want to know what she’s saying.

She changes position, sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. I stop behind her, and prop one shoulder against the gravestone beside me.

Something sharp twists my stomach when she introduces herself to Zoey, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to grab her shoulder and force her away from the girl I’d tried to protect and failed. Instead, I take another mouthful of vodka and just watch her.

“Were you one of the popular girls? You must have been if you were friends with Lacy. Did you ever feel like a round peg trying to fit into a square hole? That’s my world right now. I’m not sure where I belong.”

She sounds sad, defeated, and a small stab of guilt runs through me. I tense and push it away. I’ve done what I have to do. She doesn’t deserve my guilt, my concern. She’s here because she conspired with her mother to bag a rich husband.

So why am I stepping forward, and crouching beside her, bottle held in loose fingers between my thighs.

“She was popular.” My voice makes her jump. “Until she wasn’t.” I lift the bottle and offer it to her. She shakes her head.

“What happened to her?” Her voice is hesitant. I can make a good guess why. She’s waiting for me to attack.

“She got a dare.” I give a careless shrug.

The vodka has numbed my feelings. I’m not sober enough to be upset or angry, and I’m too drunk to hate her.

“She fell in with the wrong crowd. She trusted the wrong person. It killed her.” I punctuate each sentence with a drink from the bottle. “She’s not buried here though. This …” I flick a finger toward the plaque.” This is just to remember her. An X marks the spot kind of thing.”

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