Page 29 of Wicked Scorn
“Prison, sanctuary—it doesn’t matter.” My tone is unyielding. “It’s where you need to be.”
“God, you’re so...controlling. So Blackwood,” she spits out, and it stings, but I don’t have the luxury of hurt feelings.
“Maybe,” I concede, my voice low and rough. “But someone needs to protect you, and I don’t trust anyone except for myself.”
She’s shaking now, and every instinct screams at me to hold her. Instead, I step closer, our breath mingling.
“Your door’s busted. You can’t lock it. Anyone could walk right in and…”
“Stop it!” she yells, cutting me off. “Just stop and my door would be just fine if you hadn’t come in here like the Boondock Saints.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone. It’s not safe,” I insist, my voice low and unyielding.
“Jeremiah, please,” she pleads, her voice cracking. “I need to do this on my own.”
“Fuck that,” I growl, my hands itching to pull her into my arms and never let go. But I know she’d resist. “This isn’t about your independence or your pride. This is about your safety. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“You’re impossible,” she mutters, looking away.
Oakley’s lip catches under her teeth, a nervous habit that I remember all too well. I reach for her then, my hand trembling as it finds the softness of her golden hair. It’s like silk through my fingers, and for a moment, I allow myself the luxury of just feeling her.
“Jeremiah…” she whispers, her voice barely audible. She’s fighting hard to keep her composure, but I can see the cracks forming. This isn’t easy for her. Hell, it’s not easy for me either. But I can’t let her stay here, vulnerable and unprotected.
“Your safety comes first,” I say, my voice low. “We can argue later, but right now, you’re coming with me.”
She opens her eyes, staring at me with frustration. “Fine,”she finally concedes, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “But don’t think this changes anything.”
She throws a couple of things in her bag before I grab it and lead her out of her dorm room, nodding at the wide-eyed RA just loitering in the hallway.
“I’ll have someone come by and handle this. No need to tell anyone, right?” I ask the RA and all they can do is gulp and nod their head. The Blackwood name. Instilling fear in others since 1969.
Chapter 11
Oakley
The night air wraps around me as I follow Jeremiah out to his bike. He stops and turns, revealing something in his hand—my old helmet. It’s worn, sporting a few scratches, but unmistakably mine.
“Wow, you kept that?” I quip, raising an eyebrow.
Jeremiah chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Well, you’re the only one who has ever worn it. Figured you might want it back.”
My heart does a little somersault at his words. Damn him. “Yeah, well, I’m surprised you remembered,” I say, trying to play it cool. But the tension between us is palpable. It feels almost like a coiled spring ready to snap.
“I remember every single thing about you,” he says softly, almost to himself. The way he looks at me, it’s like he’s seeing right through all the walls I’ve put up. I hate how easily he can still get under my skin.
We mount the bike, and I can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. The rumble of the engine, the smell of gasoline—it all brings back memories I’d rather bury because they’reso bittersweet. They make me want to go back to a time when hiding my crush on Jeremiah Blackwood was my only problem.
“Remember those late-night rides?” Jeremiah’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “When you couldn’t sleep and I’d wait up until you texted me?”
I stiffen. Of course, I remember. Those nights were like our secret escape, a refuge from our world where only he and I existed. But now, they feel tainted, like everything else between us. On those rides, I’d let myself sink into his back, wrap my arms around him. I can still feel the thick muscles of his chest and abdomen contracting under my light touch. I’ve craved that feeling for the last two years, but I can’t let myself go back there. I can’t fall back into his world.
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, placing my hands lightly on the side of his ribcage almost like I’m touching something so delicate. I keep myself as far away from him as possible, even though we’re on the same bike. The physical distance mirrors the emotional chasm between us.
“Those were good times,” he says, and there’s a wistfulness in his voice that makes my throat tighten. “I’ve thought about those rides, bunny. Every. Single. Night.” There’s a sexual undertone to his voice that strikes a chord in me and I’m not sure if he means it that way or if he’s just being naturally flirty.
“Sure,” I reply, my tone flat. The memories flood back, unbidden. The thrill of the ride, the wind in my hair, the feeling of being free; and then reality crashes back in on me.
“Why aren’t you holding onto me? Put your hands under my shirt, bunny. You know how cold your hands get.” His question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded with the years we’ve been apart.
