Page 78 of Ramsay

“Jealous?” he smirks, unholy glee lighting his eyes,

“Fuck you,” I say, stumbling from his lap. “I’ll take a fucking drink.”

And so, it continues, as Dixie’s dared to ride Bone’s boner for five minutes. She humps him like a little whore, until I think Bone actually ejaculates.

At that, I shift uncomfortably and look away from the sight, right into Ramsay’s fiery eyes. Arousal has been humming in my system since Ramsay’s dick rubbed me good, and with his stare, my pulse thrums painfully in my veins. I have so much need it physically hurts, but I tamp it down and growl at him instead, annoyed when his eyes light up at my feisty response.

“I don't do sloppy fucking seconds,” I mouth, feeling backed into a corner, only further annoyed when I feel anything but triumphant at Ramsay’s icy stare.

His pretty blue eyes narrow and he says, “Diem, truth or dare.”

“Dare,” Diem says.

Oliver chuffs beside me and says with a strange inflection, “Finger fuck our feisty little girl.”

At first, I think he’s talking about Dixie, and my head swings around, but Ramsay’s eyes are wide before they narrow. My chest burns at his consideration and as Diem turns to me with wicked anticipation, I chuff, “Fuck no. You think you can call to the fucking darkness and get rewarded?”

I’m rambling, and I don't make sense, at least not to anyone but me, but in my drunken state, my heart bleeds, allowing the pain to rise like welts on my skin, raw and abraded.

Ramsay collapses back to his seat and raises a brow. “Then drink.”

“Ram,” Oliver says but Ramsay just gives him a flinty stare.

It's my fucking turn again, and I know no matter what I choose, I’m fucked, but if I get dared to touch him again, my thin veneer of self-righteous anger is going to fade under the need bubbling through my veins. So, instead, I choose truth and damn myself when I do.

Ramsay cocks his head to the side, studying me, always fucking studying me. “Why didn't you go to the hospital that night?”

Squinting one eye at him, I think back to the night, which feels like eons ago now, when Oliver asked if I wanted my injuries attended to by a professional. I said no, because I didn't want anyone to get into any more trouble than they might have already been in.

Still, it's a strange question to ask, and I search his gaze, unsure why this matters, but then again, I’m not sure I understand Ramsay, to begin with. Call it a fucking weird whim. Who knows?

Turning my gaze to my lap, I whisper, “Because I’m no snitch.”

No one comments, and the game continues, to my relief. Oliver elects to drink before anyone can even ask his preference, and the others are dared to do even grosser things. I’m fading, the alcohol loose in my veins, and without conscious thought, I lean against Diem’s shoulder, half asleep when the game circles back around to me.

Drowsily I shrug and slur, “Truth.”

“Who’s the devil you don't know?” Ramsay asks softly.

Digging around in my coat pocket, I pull out the rabbit’s foot and hold it in my hand, muttering, “The Lucky Charm killer.”

∞∞∞

Everyone drops into an eerie silence before Diem plucks the rabbit's foot from my hand and rasps, “Where did you get this?”

“Uh uh,” I mumble, “my turn is over.”

“Willow,” he says, grabbing my chin.

“Puke,” I say, lurching to my feet and stalking away a few feet before dropping to my knees and losing the contents of my stomach. It feels good for about half a minute before the nausea springs up again, and I spew even harder, grossed out by the shit evacuating my stomach via my mouth.

When it finally subsides, I groan and clutch my stomach, moaning, “Why the fuck do people drink?”

“Because they’re stupid,” Ramsay says, before picking me up and carrying me away.

“Stupid, ha! Where are we going?”

“Home,” he says in a gruff voice.

---