Page 51 of Always A Villain
“Everything alright?”
“I need to handle something.”
I don’t wait for a response. I storm out before I start breaking shit. Steps hard, fast, violent.
She wants the mask? She wants that version of me? Not the man who gave her fuckingeverythingshe needs.
My chest tightens, rage tangled up in something uglier. Jealousy. Of my-fucking-self.
“Fuck,” I growl, yanking open the locker. Black jeans. Shirt. Hoodie. Boots. I pull everything on. My fists won’t stop clenching.
And then the mask.
That fucking skull.
I grab it and slam the locker shut so hard it rattles. Let her have what she wants. Let her fucking choke on it.
By the time I’m on my bike, the sun’s already breaking the horizon. I peel out of the Iron, engine roaring loudenough to drown out the noise in my head.
I should’ve cut her loose the second I started needing her. The second she carved her way into my ribcage.
Too late now.
I hit the Pavilion in record time, blowing through traffic like it’s not there. No plan. Just rage.
My fists itching for something—someone—to break.
And if that someone is her, then so fucking be it.
Pulling into the parking lot, the engine snarls as I spot her by the door. She’s hunched over, arms crossed tight, hood pulled low, hiding her face as she stares at the ground.
The bike growls to a halt, tires skidding against the pavement, and when she lifts her head, our eyes lock. I flip up my visor, revealing the skull mask beneath, the one sheasked forinstead of me.
Her shoulders are shaking under the hoodie, and something about her posture pisses me off even more. I swing off the bike, stalking toward her. Anger rolls off me in waves, but as I close the distance, I see it—the bruises. A raw, angry welt stands out on her cheek, a dark gash splitting her pale skin. Her eyes are red, swollen, tear-streaked, dried blood caked under her chin.
Someone hit her. Hard.
Grabbing her chin, I force her to look up at me. My thumb brushes the bruises as I turn her face, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“Please,” she whispers. “Can we just leave?”
Her voice is wrecked. And she’s trembling—bone-deep. Like her body’s not even sure it’s safe yet.
Then she’s in my arms, clinging to me, sobbing into mychest. My hand fists her hoodie.
Someone did this.
Someone laid their hands on her.
And whoever it was?
They’re already fucking dead.
“Please,” she says again, her voice cracking like glass.
I breathe hard through my nose, jaw locked as I stare past her, already planning how many ways I’m going to end whoever did this.
She nudges me toward the bike.
