Page 49 of Wicked Scorn
How much bad luck follows my girl? She needs a fucking break.
I push through the throng of students, the usual campus chatter becoming background noise. My boots pound against the cobblestones. I need to see her, need to know she’s okay.
I shove open the heavy wooden doors to the library, the scent of old books and lemon oil polish slamming into me. It’s too fucking quiet in here, just the shuffling of papers and clacking of keyboards.
I spot a flash of golden hair between the stacks. I movequickly toward the front desk, my soles thudding against the worn carpet. I round the corner and there she is, looking small and frightened as she clutches her bag.
“Oakley,” I call out, my voice battling between relief and urgency.
She jumps, startled, her bright blue eyes blinking up at me. Her lips part, ready with a greeting.
“You came.” She whispers.
“You called.”
Her eyes get teary, and I take two large strides until I’m right in front of her and sweep her up into a hug. I can feel the tremors in her body as relief, confusion, fear, and adrenaline all battle for space.
“Grab your shit. You’re done here for the day,” I interrupt, my tone brooking no argument. Oakley’s eyebrows knit together, a silent question forming on her face. I don’t give her the chance to voice it. “Someone else can cover this desk.”
She frowns, a mixture of confusion and defiance flashing in her eyes. “But I have to?—”
“Like hell you do,” I cut her off, grabbing her hand. It’s small and warm in mine, and I grip it tighter than I probably should. “I already said someone else can cover your shift.”
I turn her head toward me. “You okay, bunny?”
She shakes her head, blonde waves tumbling over her shoulders. “N-no. But it was just some pictures and a note. Jeremiah, how did they—. Everything is okay.”
“Does it look like everything’s okay?” I snap back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable as I glance around the too-quiet library. It’s not her fault, but my nerves are frayed, and there’s no room for pleasantries. She’s trying to act like she’s okay, and I think that’s more for my benefit than hers, but she’s notthinking clearly.
“Jeremiah…can’t you just go all Blackwood and take care of it?” Her voice trails off, a mixture of hurt and confusion painting her features.
“Look, Oak, I’m not trying to scare you, but until I can handle this, then you should be scared. Scared means you’ll be alert. There’s a bastard out there who’s messing with what’s mine.” The words come out harder than I intend, possessive and raw. Her eyes widen at my statement.
“Yours?” she breathes out, the single word laced with layers of meaning we both feel but never say.
“Damn right.” I reach out, grabbing her bag and sliding it over her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
Oakley opens her mouth like she wants to protest, but I shoot her a look. I’m not budging on this. Her safety is the only thing that fucking matters. After a beat, she nods, clutching her bag tighter.
We walk out of the library and all I can focus on is Oakley’s small hand in mine and the need to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere secure. Somewhere that I control.
Oakley stumbles slightly, drawing my attention. “Rem, slow down. Your legs are longer than mine,” she protests, a little breathless.
“Sorry, baby. I just need to get you out of here.” I try to temper my pace for her sake, but the sense of urgency is screaming at me. I should just fucking pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. It’s so fucking tempting.
“Do you think this has to do with Lincoln?” Oakley’s question cuts through the tense air, sharp and loaded with worry.
“Maybe. Just…let’s get inside first.” I don’t want to think about Lincoln’s shitstorm right now, but how fucking coincidental is it that someone’s destroying his whatever the hell he’s calling Iris’ room and now I got some sick fuck toying with sweet Oakley.
The Blackwood house looms ahead, its silhouette dark and foreboding just like daddy dearest likes it. I practically drag Oakley up the steps, her small hand clutched tightly in mind, the door swinging open before us like the gaping maw of some beast.
“Jeremiah, Jesus—” Oakley stumbles over the threshold.
“Meeting. Now,” I bark out the command the moment we’re inside, where the rest of the brothers are already a brooding presence in the living room and the sound of their voices assaults us.
“What the fuck is going on?” Lincoln’s baritone rings out, all traces of his usual cockiness replaced by an undercurrent of tension.
I shoot him a look, my jaw clenched. “Ask your girl. Seems someone’s got a hard-on for fucking with her and it’s bleeding over into my life.”
