Page 512 of Filthy Elites

“So are you running from something, or training for a comp?”

“I’m definitely not a competitor,” I laugh as my breathing starts to normalize.

“So should I be keeping an eye out for a dude in a mask with a machete or something?”

“No,” I smile. “Just trying to outrun my personal demons, not real ones; you know how it is.”

His expression sobers, and something that I don’t recognize flashes through his eyes. “Ah, personal demons, I have a few of those myself. You know what helps?”

“What?”

“Sex. Those bastard demons are allergic, sends them running. Want to try it out?”

My eyes widen and for a brief moment I look at him and consider it. Chase is attractive, tall, good-looking, muscled but not in a meathead way. Sebastian might be the only man I’ve had sex with, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t be with anyone else. I could kiss him. I could let him touch me, touch him in return. I could go back to his room and let him fuck me. Only the thought literally does nothing for me. My stomach doesn’t curl with anticipation, my sex doesn’t pulse with heat and desire, my brain doesn’t spark with how wrong it is but how right it feels, like it did when I was with Sebastian. All I feel with this boy is nothingness.

“Interesting offer, but no thanks. I’m pretty fast, I don’t need to scare the demons off when I can just outrun them.” Rolling to my feet, I smile. “Thanks for the water, see you later.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I reply quickly, lifting my bottle in salute to him as I turn and walk away, glad that my legs are solid enough that I don’t stumble as I head back toward the house.

The sounds of the guys are coming from the kitchen when I drag my tired ass through the door, but I head straight upstairs, showering the sweat from my skin and then redressing in soft short shorts and the tank with the wide armholes that flashes my bralette. The memory of the way Sebastian looked at me when he growled and insisted I changed—refusing to let me leave the house in something this revealing—fills my head.

Brushing out my wet hair, I leave it loose, not bothering to try to blot the water dripping from the ends and making the fabric of my shirt almost opaque. I couldn’t one-hundred-percent say that I haven’t dressed specifically for the purpose of provoking Sebastian, though I’ll never admit it out loud. Something inside of me needs to prove that he still gives a crap, but I don’t understand why. What does it matter if he still wants me or not? I don’t want to be the object of his obsession. I just want to know that he can’t get over me so easily, that his impact on me and my life was more than just a passing fancy he can forget about the moment he loses interest.

My phone beeps with a text and I immediately expect it to be him, only when I glance at the screen, it’s not, and I force down the wave of disappointment that sweeps through me.

Evan:Hey Sis, Bastian said you’re having dinner with us **Shocked face emoji** that’s awesome. Come down, Hunter says it’ll be ready in five minutes.

My stomach churnsuncomfortably at Evan calling me sis, I know technically I am his stepsister now our parents are married, but it feels alarmingly similar to Clay saying I felt like their sister because I was Sebastian’s and he was their brother. He said they felt protective of me, because they’d watched me, which I suppose is kind of sweet; or as sweet as stalking gets anyway.

When I pass the full-length mirror on my way to the stairs, I take a moment to inspect my reflection. Long toned legs, tiny shorts that cling to my ass, a glimpse of my stomach, the loose tank that shows the hot-pink bralette beneath. My cheeks are rosy and my skin is beginning to tan from the Florida sun, my eyes look wide and alive for the first time in too long to remember.

My mind refuses to think about why I look different, why I feel more awake, more animated than I have in years. It can’t be him. Sebastian Lockwood is the cause of all my misery and pain, he can’t be the reason why I’m finally coming back to life.

Pushing the disturbing thoughts to the back of my mind, I ruffle my wet hair until it resembles more beach tousled rather than drowned rat, and then head downstairs, ignoring the butterflies that burst to life in my stomach.

“Starling,” Clay says excitedly the moment I step into the kitchen, the rich smell of garlic surrounding me as Hunter stirs a pan on the stove.

“Hey.”

“Come, sit,” Evan says enthusiastically, like an overeager puppy.

My eyes search the room for my nemesis, but he’s not here and I’m disappointed. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t be disappointed that Sebastian’s not here, there’s no way that’s possible. I’m wary, that’s all it is. Years of paranoid conditioning has me looking for him, nothing more.

“Er, is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, feeling like I need to be on my best behavior.

“Hunter’s fine, come and sit,” Clay grins, reaching for me and then stopping himself at the last minute.

“Thank you for offering, but it’s only pasta, as soon as Bastian gets down here, I’ll plate up,” Hunter says, his voice soft. Weirdly, Hunter is the one I’m the least angry with, maybe it’s the fact that he’s always appeared to feel bad about the things Sebastian did? He never did anything to stop it, but I think on some level he felt how wrong it was.

“Is he?” I swallow. “He’s eating too? I wasn’t sure.”

“We can ask him not to,” Evan offers.

“No,” I reply a little too quickly. “No, it’s fine, I just wasn’t sure if he had class or whatever,” I trail off lamely.

All of the air is sucked from the room when he walks in. His chest is bare and his hair is still wet. He must have just gotten out of the shower and all he’s wearing is a pair of loose basketball shorts, even his feet are bare. I can’t look away.

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