Page 13 of Resisted

“Give me the bag.”

“No, and you can’t make! I’ll tell Mom that—” I began, but he stepped closer, his eyes like dark shiny pools caught in the light from my room.

“That I caught you sneaking out of the house with contraband.”

“That isn’t true!” I screamed.

“Isn’t it though?” He cocked a brow and reached for the bag. This time, I let him. He reached inside, pushing past every mortifying product inside to grab the dress and pull it out. He held it up while he dropped the bag to the floor. “See this? This is exactly what I knew was in the bag, baby. I specifically told you no. They make dog sweaters with more material than what’s in my hand.”

Before I could object, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his lighter. With a quick flick of his wrist, a tiny flame ignited. Then my dress was engulfed in flames. I caught a sob in my throat before I pushed any words out. “I’ll never forgive you for this!”

“You never have to.” He dropped the flaming material before he stomped out the fire. “Crawl your ass back through the window and wash your fucking face. Popcorn will be ready in five.”

“I don’t want your fucking popcorn!” He’d already begun to walk away, but at my screech, his body froze. Suddenly, he wasn’t just Vincent. He was a predator, one whose eyes glowed and anger flared as he stomped back toward me, crowding my space and forcing me back into the wall behind me.

“What did you say, baby?” His face was in mine. The smell of tobacco and pine, mixed with smoke, filled my senses. And I didn’t want to admit it, because he wasn’t just some guy, it was Vincent, but I could finally see why all my friends swooned when he was near. I refused to look at him, for fear my eyes would tell the truth about the forbidden thought that had just crossed my mind. His fingers found my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “I want to make something clear, Bella. You can hate me, you can loath me, you can wish every day that I die the most gruesome of deaths, but don’t you ever use that tone with me unless you’re fucking willing to suffer the consequences. I dare you to try it again.”

When I didn’t respond, he dropped my jaw, giving me one hard glare, before he pushed off the wall and was gone.

Chapter 5

BOYCE

Two years later

We gotin last night from a horrific recovery. I mean, everyone of importance lived, thank fuck for that, but that didn’t make the whole situation any better. It had been a bloodbath, one of the worst recoveries since my very first one fourteen years ago. My stomach tightened at the thought. The memory was so fucking fresh, even with all these years between now and then, that I could almost smell the scent of dampened leaves and the copper of spilled blood.

“Earth. To. Boyce.” Vince tossed a Koosh ball at me, hitting me directly in the fucking face. He was an asshole but also probably one of the best people I know, even though he would deny it every fucking time.

I tossed the ball back. “What?”

“We need the extension handle.” He looked up at the cathedral ceiling we were about to paint.

We’d bought a house. The why of it was completely murky since it was made utterly clear fourteen years ago that we would not have a female’s laughter to fill these walls. I thought we all got tired of the separation, which seemed odd. We were together so often on the road, but when we came home, went to our own apartments. It just felt…lonely, so fucking lonely without my subpack around.

“Where’s it at?” I asked.

“We lent it to George.” He popped open the can of paint. His phone pinged with a text, and he picked it up to read it. “He said he isn’t home but we could get it from the barn.”

By ‘we,’ I suspected he meant me. Still, I pretended to not get his hints. “Okay.”

I picked up a brush, and Vince waved his hand to the side in annoyance. “Well.”

“Well, what?” I enjoyed ticking him off.

“Go fucking get it,” he growled out.

“Oh.” I couldn’t hide my smirk.

“Yeah, fucking oh. We don’t have all day.” He dipped his brush into paint. “I’ll start the walls and bases.”

Convenient that he would send me on the grunt work, but I didn’t really care. I was younger than them both. I couldn’t be cooped up in a single spot for long or I went stir-crazy. I needed out. I craved the fresh air. So instead of arguing, I grabbed the keys to his truck—our truck really—and headed out the door.

George was one of Silas’ fathers and my favorite of them, if I was honest. He was boisterous and quick to laugh, a trait his son most certainly hadn’t inherited. The drive to their place was refreshing, the air outside crisp. I took advantage of it, driving with the windows down and letting the breeze pound against my skin as I raced down the road. It took twenty minutes to get there, but I wished the drive was longer.

The truck door slammed closed, but inside the house, no one seemed to stir. Still, I knocked on the door first, ignoring the countless times I’d been told to just walk right in. I was family to them, after all, and any members of their son’s subpack were welcome at any time. But it felt wrong to just barge into a home, no matter whom it belonged to.

No one answered, so I knocked again, my fist booming as it struck the wood. I waited another few minutes before I walked along the deck around the side of the house and took the creaking wooden stairs down to the grass. The barn wasn’t too far of a walk, maybe a few hundred yards, but it was far enough that I wished I’d worn my other boots, as these were already caked with a layer of moist mud and stray grass and straw.

---