Page 91 of Wicked Scorn
“I always will, bunny,” he replies. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. I swear to fucking God.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” I say, my voice softer now, filled with every ounce of love I have for Jeremiah Blackwood.
Jeremiah’s voice cuts through the silence. “The fuckhead who attacked you that night is gone. He’ll never touch you again. He’ll never make you scared.”
I pull back slightly, looking up at him. His emerald eyes arehard, resolute, and I see a flicker of something dangerous there.
“And that motherfucker who locked you in the freezer? He’s injured. I didn’t finish him off because I needed to find you, but I’m going to.”
“He’s gone…” I trail, my mind racing. The implications are clear, but I need to hear it. Need to know exactly what he means.
“Yeah,” he nods, his gaze unwavering. “You’re safe now, bunny. I promise.” Jeremiah’s warmth wraps around me like a blanket. “Baby, talk to me,” he murmurs, his voice a comforting rumble against my ear. “What happened tonight? Is he the one who sent the flowers, and those fucked up pictures?”
“Do you remember him?” I ask, my voice trembling but gaining strength with each word. Jeremiah shakes his head no, and I’m not surprised. Jeremiah didn’t pay much attention to anything in high school besides football and me. “He said he picked me because I was obsessed with you and—” I cut myself off because I don’t even want to repeat it.
“Go on,” Jeremiah prompts, his tone steady, encouraging.
“After I left high school, he found me online. When I stopped using the cam site, I guess that made him snap, and he found me here,” I continue, shuddering at the memory. “He didn’t get to touch me, not really, but God, the way he looked at me…it was like he thought I belonged to him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jeremiah mutters, his grip tightening protectively.
“It’s okay,” I shake my head, feeling relief wash over me. “You found me in time.”
“That bastard,” Jeremiah growls, anger etching itself intohis tone. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look me in the eyes.
“We’re okay,” I assure him, my voice barely above a whisper. “I knew you’d come for me.”
“He’s not going to hurt you again,” Jeremiah vows, his eyes burning with intensity. “I promise you that.”
“I know you won’t let anything happen to me,” I manage to say, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. “I love you.”
“I love you more than anything. I’d burn the whole fucking world down to protect you,” he replies, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face.
“I know you would,” I murmur, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with being away from downstairs and everything to do with the boy I’ve loved in one form or another my entire life. We stay there, locked in a moment that I’ll remember for the rest of my days.
“I just...I want to see him before you kill him,” I manage to say, though my voice trembles.
“Trust me, bunny, you will get to say and do whatever you want to that fucker.” His words are laced with a promise, a vow that he’s made to himself as much as to me.
Finally, we reach the top of the stairs leading to the main level of the library. Jeremiah pushes the heavy door open with a rough shove, his other hand never leaving mine. Graham is leaning against the far wall and my breath catches in my throat as my eyes lock onto the figure slumped by his feet.
Mr. Bryant. The man who wanted to torture me before he killed me is now motionless. His once confident posture is now reduced to a pitiful, injured heap. Blood stains his khakis, and his glasses lie shattered on the ground beside him. Agroan escapes his lips as he tries to lift his head, his eyes narrowing as they focus on us.
“Miss Ashford…” he rasps, his voice a twisted mockery of the authority he once held. “What...what’s going on?”
“Shut up,” Jeremiah snaps, stepping between us, his body a protective barrier. “Not a single soul alive here is going to fall for your attempt at being coy.”
Emotions churn within me—fear, anger, disgust. Seeing Mr. Bryant so vulnerable, so powerless, stirs something deep inside me. I take a step forward, my legs trembling but resolute.
“Just why?” The words slip from my lips, sharp and accusatory. “Why did you do all this?”
“Oakley, please…” His voice is pathetic, pleading. “I never meant to hurt you. I just...I couldn’t help myself.”
“Couldn’t help yourself?” I repeat, bitterness coating my tongue. “You stalked me, invaded my life, made me feel unsafe in my own skin. And you think that’s an excuse?”
“He’s not worth your time. He’s a forked tongue,” Jeremiah interjects, his voice hard.
I hold up a hand, my gaze never leaving Mr. Bryant’s pitiful form. “I need to hear it from him. I need to understand.”
