Page 30 of Wicked Scorn
“Why do you think?” I snap back, unable to hide the bitterness. “Two years have passed, Jeremiah. Things are not the same.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and I wonder if I’ve struck a nerve. Good. Let him feel some of the pain I’ve carried all these years.
“Things didn’t have to end the way they did,” he finally says, his voice low. “That was my fault and I own that.”
“It’s not that simple, Jeremiah,” I admit, more to myself than to him. But it’s too late for what-ifs.
The bike roars beneath us, the cool night air whipping past, and I know that calling him by his first name again is probably why he revved the engine. I can probably count the times I’ve called him his actual name in the years that I knew him.
As we ride, the memories continue to swirl around me, each one a stark reminder of what we’ve lost. And yet, there’s a part of me that can’t help but yearn for those simpler times, when it was just this pretty boy and me.
“Hold on,” Jeremiah says again suddenly, snapping me out of my reverie as his voice comes in through the helmet comms.
“To what?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my words.
“Me,” he replies, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.”
I hesitate, but then reluctantly wrap my arms completely around his waist. The warmth of his body seeps into me, and despite my best efforts, I can’t ignore the familiar scent of him—leather, musk, and something uniquely Jeremiah.
“Don’t let go,” he murmurs, and there’s an edge to his voice that sends another shiver down my spine.
“Just pay attention to the road,” I mutter, tightening mygrip, but I refuse to put my hands under his shirt like old times.
Jeremiah’s hand grabs mine. His touch is firm but not forceful. Slowly, he guides my hands under his shirt, pressing them flat against the hard, warm planes of his abs. My breath hitches for a moment as the heat of his body seeps into my palms.
“I need your hands on me, bunny,” he turns his head slightly as he murmurs. His voice is low, almost a growl, and it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
“Fine,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. Reluctantly, I tighten my grip around his waist, but I’m stiff, afraid to let my guard down.
The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body. The scent of the exhaust fills my nostrils, dragging me back to nights long past. Nights when it was just the two of us, lost in the dark roads and each other.
“That’s my girl,” Jeremiah says, his voice praising me in a way I don’t expect.
I don’t reply because I’m trying to mask the whirlwind of emotions inside me. He speeds off; the wind whipping at my face, and for a moment, it’s like we’re racing away from our broken past.
When we finally arrive at the Blackwood house, the sprawling land looms before us, as if we aren’t just off campus. I’m surprised Mr. Blackwood didn’t try to claim eminent domain on the entire college. Walking inside, I see Penn lounging casually on the couch, a smirk playing on his lips. “Hey there, little brother!” he calls out to Jeremiah, his voice oddly chipper and grating.
“Shut the fuck up,” Jeremiah snaps back. The tension between them is palpable, crackling like static electricity.Penn bursts into laughter, seemingly unaffected by Jeremiah’s hostility.
“Same old Penn,” I mumble, shaking my head slightly. That infuriating, unflappable demeanor of his never changes. If anyone can get under the other Blackwood brothers’ skin, it’s Penn.
“Jerry. Jerry, Jerry,” Penn drawls, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “You always were a drama queen.”
“Keep running your mouth, Penn,” Jeremiah retorts, his voice cold enough to freeze fire. “I’ll beat the fuck out of you in front of Oakley. I’ve done it before.”
“Touchy, touchy. And did you beat me, though?” Penn chuckles, leaning back further into the couch, completely at ease like he doesn’t have a care in the world. All the Blackwood brothers are dangerous and have no qualms about being violent, but Penn is the most unhinged. He’s the type to slit your throat while telling you a knock-knock joke. His gaze shifts to me, and I feel exposed under his scrutiny.
“Don’t start,” Jeremiah warns, stepping closer to his brother, his presence looming. It’s a silent threat, one that Penn seems to relish rather than fear.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Penn replies smoothly, his grin widening. “Welcome back,bunny.”
“Thanks, pennywise,” I reply dryly, not really knowing what else to say. It feels like I’m caught in the crossfire of their sibling rivalry.
“Don’t fucking start your shit,” Jeremiah growls at Penn, probably for using the pet name Jeremiah gave me. “Ignore him,” Jeremiah says, his tone hardens ever so slightly as he turns to me and realizes that I’m trying not to laugh at Penn’s antics. “Let’s go.”
Jeremiah’s anger is a tangible thing, almost suffocating inits intensity. Without warning, he scoops me up, slinging me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My world tilts as I clutch at his shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric instinctively. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.
“Rem, what the hell?” I gasp, my heart pounding against my ribs. His muscles are taut beneath my touch, coiled like a predator ready to strike. Each step he takes reverberates through me, the tension rippling through his frame.
