Page 3 of Call It What You Want
My Ex.
The devil from my nightmares.
Three years have carved away every trace of the teenager I knew, leaving behind someone almost unrecognizable. His dark hair is shorter now, styled instead of falling across his forehead. His shoulders are broader, filling out his tall, lean frame.
But it’s his face that stops me cold. He has a sharper jawline, more defined cheekbones. And those same green eyes that used to dance with mischief are now harder, darker. More dangerous.
He’s standing across from me, leaning casually against the bedpost, those vivid green eyes locked on me. “Hey, Doe-eyes.”
I suck in a breath at the endearment. Doe-eyes. It was his pet name for me for the ten months we were dating. The first time he kissed me, he said I looked like an innocent, wide-eyed doe.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
Well, now that I know who kidnapped me, I should feel relieved. I don’t. Truth be told, I’d rather have been sextrafficked. Fighting off a stranger would have been far easier than dealing with the devil I know.
“Where am I?”
“Rush House.”
The headquarters of the Burning Crown, the secret society he was practically born into. He talked about it all the time when we were dating. Rush House is a sprawling Victorian mansion owned by the Rush family, sitting right on the beach, the grounds pressing against the edge of Exeter University West—or ExU, for short.
“What am I doing here?”
“We need to talk—” he says casually, like he didn’t just kidnap me, drug me, and handcuff me to his bed.
I sit back, push out a breath, and try to get my panic under control. I need to be cool. Calm. Well, as calm as I can be considering I’m facing the one guy on this entire planet I’d hoped to never see again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “If you wanted to talk, then you could have just texted me like a normal-fucking-person.”
“Texts are traceable,” he says. “Besides, you blocked me.”
Yeah, I did. Not that it helped. I’m fully aware that Jackson McKnight has more money and resources than God himself. Even if I’d changed my name, gotten plastic surgery, and moved to a small village in a foreign country, he could still find me, if he wanted to.
Because once the devil marks you, there’s no escape.
And Jackson McKnight marked me years ago.
When I was almost seventeen, my dad was hired as a property manager on a sprawling estate in St. Louis, Missouri. It belonged to Senator Davis—Jackson’s stepdad. So my dad, my older sister, and I packed up and moved into a small guesthouse at the back of the property. At that point, Jackson was splitting his time between California and Missouri. He and his youngersister would show up during the summer and holiday breaks, and suddenly the quiet estate would come alive…
“You can’t keep me here forever. When I don’t come home from work, my boyfriend is going to freak out,” I point out.
Chase is a business major at Exeter University West. We met at some random party six months ago, and now he practically lives at my tiny, one-bedroom apartment. When I don’t come home, he’ll know something is wrong, if he hasn’t figured it out already. God only knows how long I’ve been unconscious.
“Oh, right,” Jackson says, a slow smile spreading across his disgustingly handsome face. “The boyfriend. Chase.”
Fuck,Jackson knows his name. That can’t be good. It means he’s been watching me,us.And I already know what happens when Jackson gets jealous. The other guy’s blood ends up on the walls.
“Don’t hurt him,” I say quickly, my heart lodged in my throat.
With his eyes never leaving mine, he pulls his phone out, calls someone, and puts it on speaker. Some guy answers with an animated, “Yo! Finally. We good?” I don’t recognize the voice, but there’s something about their easy familiarity that sends ice through my veins. Is this guy part of the Burning Crown?
Jackson holds the phone up. It’s a video call. “Put Mr. Manbun on.”
Mr. Manbun? Who the hell is that?
“Okay, hold up,” comes the reply, followed by a flurry of rustling on the other end of the line. “Here we go.”
Jackson flips his phone around, and Chase’s face fills the screen. He’s not at my place. He’s sitting on his couch, eyes closed, head lolled forward at an awkward angle, chin tucked against his chest. He’s either passed out or dead, I can’t tell.
