Page 6 of Burn With Me

“Yes, I see that,” I say through gritted teeth. “But what the hell makes you think I want to move in with you? Or with…” I turn towards Damien’s son and find him staring back at me in that unnerving way of his. A shiver chases down my spine at the frosty look he gives me as if he’s daring me to continue. Does he think I won’t? I clench my fingers around the key and card for a moment—letting the metal and plastic bite into my skin before I force my palm open and drop it back onto the table. It clatters loudly. “No.”

“Aurora.” My mother’s tone is horrified. “Take the key and say thank you. You’re embarrassing me.”

I don’t fucking care. “I have a dorm room at Hazelwood,” I snap back.

“Not anymore,” Damien says coolly.

My head turns towards him, slowly and in jerky movements. “Excuse. Me?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of canceling your dorm accommodations,” he replies, picking up his knife and fork once more before slicing into his steak. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll be provided for—”

“No.”

At first, I think I’m the one who said it. After all, I’m practically screaming the word in my head. When Damien freezes, however, and looks up—he doesn’t look at me and I realize it wasn’t. Marcus levels a glare across the table, reaching out as he lets his fingers grip the edge. Something crosses between them for a moment. A battle of wills? I’m not sure. Whatever the case, though, when it ends, it’s clear who’s the winner.

Marcus stands and reaches for me. “We’re leaving, Rori. Mother?” Mom jumps in her seat and looks up at him with wide eyes. I look away as I stand. I don’t want to see it again—see her reach for her husband—a virtual stranger—rather than get up and follow her own flesh and blood. I’ve watched it happen far too many times and it never gets any easier.

Somehow, though, instead of finding a place in the far-off distance of the restaurant, my gaze finds Isaac’s. There’s neither triumph nor pity in his expression. If anything, I see an absence of both as well as an absence ofanykind of emotion that might make more sense to a guy whose father is paying more attention to his wife’s children than his own.

He tips his head down, staring at me through his blond curls and suddenly I’m struck with an image of him covered in blood. It’s leaking down the side of his face, over his porcelain skin, sliding into the whites of his eyes. Somehow, I can’t imagine him closing them though. He strikes me as the type to lock onto a target the second he’s got it in his sights, regardless of the world around him. And right now, that target is me.

I don’t hear anything else my brother says. I’m so focused on Isaac Icari that I don’t even realize I’m being dragged away until I nearly stumble and go down in a heap, only saved from faceplanting on the marbled floor ofCornelia’sby my brother’s hand on my arm.

“Keep walking, Rori,” he says. “Don’t look back.”

I suck in a breath. Those were the same words he told me the last time she got married. That night we ended up in the hospital with more faceless nurses I can only vaguely recall and Aunt Carmen. I pull my arm from his grasp and move forward, my legs eating up the distance between me and the exit.

I’m not the same as I was three years ago. I’m stronger now. Independent. Maybe I called my brother here for backup, for emotional support, but I don’t need him to hold me up or drag me out. Not when I can walk away on my own two feet. Hopefully for the last time as our mother chooses someone—anyone—other than us—other thanme.

3

ISAAC

“What do you know about Marcus Summers?” My question is aimed at Paris since he’s the one who knows everything about every-fucking-one at Hazelwood.

Surprisingly, however, it’s not Paris who answers, but Shepherd. “I know he’s not to be fucked with,” he says.

My brows shoot up. “What makes you say that?”

Shep rolls his shoulders back, leans down over the pool table in the game room of my hotel-suite apartment, and lines up his shot. He waits until he’s hit the cue ball and sunk another three balls, barely scraping by the fourth and ending his turn before he responds. Paris shoots us a look but steps up to take his place while Shep and I both move back to talk.

“Marcus Summers is a man with dangerous friends,” is all he adds.

Irritation slithers through me and I grip my pool stick tightly, thumping the bottom against the floor once before shooting a look his way. “Care to elaborate?” I prompt.

Shep’s lips press together and he eyes the table as Paris leans over and lines up his shot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was ignoring me. But I know better; he has to focus on something mundane when he’s thinking. The longer the silence stretches, though, the tighter my muscles grow. Winding and winding until one mere flick might shatter the tension until finally…

“Marcus Summers isn’t from the West Coast,” Shep states.

I frown, waiting, but when he doesn’t immediately follow up with anything else, I blow out a frustrated breath. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Paris finishes up his shot and turns towards us. “It means he likely went to school on the East Coast,” he answers for him. “And who do we know that runs the East Coast?” He arches a single brow, and I could punch myself for being so stupid. Of course.

“Eastpoint.” The mere word has both Shep and Paris tensing, but Paris nods, nonetheless.

“He might’ve chosen to come to Hazelwood, but he’s got strong ties to Eastpoint,” Shep states. “Whatever you have going on with him, you need to be careful.”

Fuck.If only I had that choice.

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