Page 60 of Shattered

“I’m sorry, Bray,” I murmur. He remains motionless, suspended in the water.

“I projected my own issues onto you and your brother,” I continue, my gaze fixed on his face. “That wasn’t fair, and I see that now. I’ll personally apologize to Bexley.” Still, Brayden doesn’t react. “There are things I haven’t shared with you,” I confess, my voice faltering. “I’m not ready yet. It’s not an excuse, but—”

“Can I ask you something?” Brayden’s voice remains detached, as if my words barely registered.

“Yes,” I reply, my heart racing.

His eyes open, locking onto mine. Coldness radiates from him, and I brace myself for what comes next.

“Tell me, Mr. Stiles, who do you think about when you wrap your hand around your dick at night?”

My jaw clenches, and I avert my gaze. I try to maintain composure, recognizing that he’s drunk—this isn’t the real Brayden.

“Because I think we both know it’s not Ms. Banksy, is it?” he says, swimming toward the edge. He stops right in front of me.

“It’s me.” An icy smile stretches across his face. It’s as if I’m staring at an entirely different person.

“Do you think about sinking your dick into my mouth?”

“Brayden,” I stammer, my inner turmoil churning. Despite my hate at his words, my twisted mind has conjured these scenarios when I wrap my own hand around my dick in the darkness.

I despise my vulnerability, the way he sees right through me. And what I hate most? How I’m hardening for him right now, despite it all.

He chuckles, the tequila bottle forgotten, sinking to the pool’s bottom without a care. His hands grip the ledge, pushing himself up. My eyes betray me, tracing the contours of his glistening body as water cascades down, leaving nothing to the imagination. He kneels before me, settling on the floor, his face inches from mine. The scent of tequila wafts from the puffs of air that leave his mouth. His lips brush my ear, sending an involuntary shiver through me—a connection he feels too, as his lips curve upward near my ear.

“Do you think about sinking yourself so far inside me until we both don’t know what planet we’re on?”

Yes, I’ve thought about it—more times than I care to admit. My body betrays me with a pathetic, guttural groan. His words hang in the air, a blade slicing through my defenses. It doesn’t escape me that as he leans over me, his dick is hard against my leg, which causes me to gulp.

“I just want you to know that,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Those moments will forever be illusions of your mind. I’d sooner fuck a pig than let you touch me again.” The venom in his voice stings, and I struggle to hold on to the truth: this isn’t Bray. Not my Bray. Anger simmers, threatening to erupt.

He stands in front of me, his hard dick bobbing in my face. “Maybe Lan will handle this for me,” he adds, and my resolve shatters. I rise, closing the distance from his retreating form, my hand wrapping around his neck. His eyes dance with mischief, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I meant what I said,” I hiss. “Touch an inch of skin on that kid and you’ll fucking regret it, Bray.” He frowns, confused.

“Who said I’ll be doing the touching?” His wink is a taunt. I tighten my grip. Fire blazes in his eyes.

“Let go,” he grits out, my fingers constricting his windpipe. I release instantly, regret biting at me. My resolve crumbles.

“Bray,” I plead, but he steps back, hands raised.

“Stay away.” As he walks away from me for the second time today, shards of glass pierce my heart.

This time, it feels like heartbreak.

Chapter thirty-two

Brayden

Today’s classes have been a slow, relentless grind. Last night’s straight tequila was a desperate escape, a wasted attempt to drown my inner havoc. If it weren’t for my slipping grades, I’d have skipped today altogether. But here I am, trudging through every class, including the extra one Mr. Stiles begrudgingly arranged for me. The timing couldn’t be worse. This morning, regret weighed heavy and still does hours later.

I can’t believe the venom I spewed last night, fueled by alcohol and my own sharp tongue. It’s why I shouldn’t drink when I’m angry. Nothing good ever comes out. Bohdi shouldn’t have shown up at the pool, but that’s him—caring and concerned. And I repaid him with cruelty.

Anger still rumbles within me, yet, deep down, I know Bex’s relapse isn’t Bohdi’s fault. An addict will always twist any excuse to justify his actions. I grasp this truth, yet it doesn’t excuse what Bohdi said to Bex. I know Bex and that would have played in his head over and over. If Kal or Tray had uttered those same things,I’d react just as angrily. Perhaps I overreacted, but anger blurs the reason, But I hate how much my heart ached remembering what I had said to him last night. I wish I could walk into the next class and tell him how sorry I am for what I said last night, but my stubbornness won’t allow it. Maybe heartbreak is the price of pride.

As I step into Bohdi’s class, I keep my head down, avoiding his gaze. Will he be hurt? Angry? The weight of last night presses on me. I climb the steps to my usual seat, eyes fixed on the desk. Kal and Tray follow, flanking me on either side.

“You good?” Kal nudges me, concern etching his features.

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