Page 101 of Diem

Where Diem is or was fire, Ramsay is ice with his pale blue eyes, black hair, and angelic face but don’t let his beauty fool you, Ramsay is their leader, commanding the lies, hurt and pain with an iron fist and a cruel smirk.

He’s a rich boy with serious control issues, lording over his fiefdom with an ice-cold heart and determination that in other circumstances would be admirable. Where Diem is the heart of their trio, and Oliver the hammer, Ramsay is the brain.

Not that I’ve been blessed with anything but their grim expressions for any length of time, I still know I should be worried about them now. But I have no feelings left—thanks to them, I’m as closed off as Oliver, as cold as Ramsay, and as angry as Diem. I’m as broken as they all are.

“You should go,” I say softly to Matt, and he stiffens.

“But—“

“Just do it,” I mutter. I don’t have the head space to deal with both Matt and Diem, dammit.

Matt kisses my forehead before he sighs and turns away. Mentally I cringe but stand my ground, ready for whatever comes next. As usual they all look good in their own way—Diem with his bulging muscles bared under the sleeveless tee, his beautiful skin tatted and gleaming.

Ramsay dressed in perfectly pressed tailored jeans and collared shirt, the pale blue hue matching his eyes. You’d think he’d look like a nerd, but nope, no one as physically perfect as he, could ever be described as something as mundane as nerdy.

He was born to command others, and it shows in every line of his powerful body because although he’s not as beefy as Diem in muscle mass, he’s no slouch.

Diem tilts his head, and the affectation sends a chill down my spine. Just last night he pleaded with his treacherous eyes. Now it’s as though I’m a fucking bug he’s about to crush under his shoe.

“Maeve,” Ramsay says, and I turn to him.

What Diem did or does feel is irrelevant. I’m wasting my time and energy on a nightmare.

When I raise a brow, Ramsay says, “There are some things better left in the dark.”

I stare at him blankly until Hailey approaches and he tips his head. Oh ho so he wants me to keep their secret. Okay, I’ll play for now but he’s delusional if he thinks I carry a shred of loyalty for him and his brothers.

Hailey’s claws grasp Diem’s bicep, and he stiffens, saying, “Whatever. Can we go now?”

Ramsay’s lip curls and I break my stare, noting Matt standing by the door watching our interaction from afar with a curious look. With a pang, I return his soft smile halfheartedly.

Another fucking albatross on my back. How do I get myself into these messes?

“Let’s roll,” Oliver says with a dangerous frown.

Staring him down, I watch through glassy eyes when his brows furrow. Funny thing is, of all of them, I hoped Oliver would have my back but here he stands beside his brothers.

When I turn away, I meet Diem’s cold as fuck stare, and he pulls away from Hailey. Her brows drop and she turns to me saying, “When will you learn to take a hint? You were nothing but a bet. Get over it, Gush.”

Bet? What the fuck is she talking about?

Raising wide eyes to Diem, I search his gaze and come away empty. Is it true, I want to ask but to what end? Does it really matter?

Spinning on my heel, I make it two steps before Diem grabs my arm. Behind him, Ramsay says, “Diem.”

But we both ignore him as we stare each other down. Finally, he quirks a brow and says, “You tell another fucking soul about her, and you’ll regret it. Feel me?”

Even after all of this, my heart clenches at his words. He’s protecting her. I guess he’s chosen and in this, a vulnerable moment, I admit only to myself that Diem’s devilish decisions hurt the most now that he’s chosen Hailey fucking Moore, my tormenter.

My wretched soul yearns to make him feel pain. Instead, I shake my head. “No, I don’tfeelyou. I'm not you…cold and fucking dead inside.”

Diem’s eyes flash and he growls, “What? You think I want to stare into your greedy fucking eyes every time I turn around? You’ve been fucking obsessed since the fifth grade. Yes, we fucked. You were okay. Get over it.”

There’s a collective gasp from the students around us and I look away, meeting Matt’s glittering gaze.

Humiliation paints my cheeks and I try for damage control, murmuring, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” he rasps. “You didn’t write me a fucking poem freshman year going on and fucking on about the color of my eyes? They’re fucking black, crazy train.”

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