Page 31 of Wicked Scorn
Instead of answering, he just growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “Just hold on and stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”
And I do. Against my better judgment, I cling to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body once more. I’m like a fiend for it and I kind of hate myself for it. We ascend the stairs, each step bringing us closer to his room, away from prying eyes and mocking brothers.
When he finally sets me down on the bed, his hands are surprisingly gentle, a sharp contrast to the fury simmering in his eyes. His gaze locks onto mine, raw and unyielding, pinning me in place.
His voice is rough with determination when he says, “I’m going to find the person who hurt you, ya know? I don’t care how long it takes, or what I have to do. I’m going to find them, and you know what I say is true. No one truly is a ghost. They will have left at least some minuscule thread for me to find and tug on. Once I find it, their life is over.”
I look away, my throat tightening. The memories still feel too fresh, too painful. I can still feel the phantom ache, the violation that lingers in the corners of my mind. Vulnerability washes over me, mixing with the fear I can’t quite shake. I should have known that he was too calm after I admitted tohim what happened. He just wanted to get me here without much of a fight.
“Stop,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Just…don’t.”
“Look at me,” he commands, and I reluctantly meet his gaze. There’s a fire there, a promise of retribution that both terrifies and comforts me.
“You’re not alone in this,” he continues, his tone softening just a fraction. “I won’t let that bastard get away with it.”
“Rem…” My voice cracks, betraying the turmoil inside me. But he’s relentless, his determination unwavering.
“This won’t be the first time I killed someone because of you,” he says, stepping closer and I think my brain has short-circuited because…WHAT?
“You’re joking,” I sigh, the words heavy with resignation because he has to be. Right?
“Jeremiah,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the confession sits heavy on my chest, but I force it out. “There were no cameras where it happened. I never saw his face. I have nothing to give you.”
The words hang in the air like a dark cloud. Jeremiah’s jaw tightens, and I can see the muscles in his neck strain as he processes what I’ve said. His fists clench tightly at his sides, knuckles turning white with the force of his anger. It’s almost palpable, the anger radiating off him in waves.
“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping back, his eyes blazing with an intensity that makes my heart race. “Fuck!” he repeats, louder this time, the word echoing off the walls of his room. For a moment, I think he’s going to punch something, anything, just to release the rage that’s consuming him. But instead, he exhales sharply, trying to regain control.
“Jeremiah…” I begin, unsure of what to say, how to comfort him when I’m still grappling with my own fear and vulnerability.
“Don’t,” he snaps, though there’s no real bite in his voice. He paces the room, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. His movements are restless, agitated, like he’s searching for an escape. “I can’t stand the thought of someone hurting you and getting away with it.”
His words cut through me, and all I hear is pain and something else—something that feels dangerously like longing. Before I can respond, he stops suddenly, pulling off his t-shirt with a swift motion. The sight of his bare chest, sculpted and familiar, sends a jolt through me. My breath catches in my throat as he tosses the shirt at me, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes.
“Here,” he says, his voice softer now but still tinged with that underlying tension.
I catch the shirt instinctively, the scent of him filling my senses. Memories flood back: late nights curled up in his bed, wearing his shirts that always seemed too big on me, feeling safe and cherished in a way I hadn’t with anyone else. It’s a bittersweet comfort, a reminder of what we once had and what we’ve lost. Just childhood dreams remain crumbled at the back of my mind.
“Are you sure?” I murmur, clutching the cotton to my chest.
His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that leaves me breathless. “Just put it on, bunny.”
“Thank you,” I finally say, my voice trembling slightly. It’s not enough to convey the depth of my gratitude, but it’s all I can manage in the moment.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, stepping closer until thespace between us is almost non-existent. His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it stirs something deep within me.
“Don’t leave the room,” Jeremiah commands, his voice low and intense as he points around the dimly lit space. “There are cameras everywhere. They’ll catch any movement if you try to leave the property. Plus, Penn will snitch. You know he loves telling everyone else’s business, so don’t think you can trust him.”
“Great,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Big Brother’s watching.”
“Seriously, Oakley,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “Stay put. You can go wherever in the house, but enter one of my brother’s rooms at your own caution.”
“Fine,” I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. A strange mashup of vulnerability and curiosity stirs within me at his concern. “Just don’t take forever.”
He nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary before he turns and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sprawling room that reeks of his presence.
I sink down onto the bed, the mattress firm beneath me. Jeremiah’s shirt is still clutched in my hands, the fabric soft and worn. A part of me wants to toss it in the corner just out of spite, but a larger part is desperate to put it on and feel that safety net.
The safety net wins, and I tug my dress off before slipping on the t-shirt, some leggings, and my favorite pair of slouchy socks.
