Page 41 of The Pact

I clench the phone tighter. She is the reason I’m here and not off at some party. She got into my head and is fucking with it. Every day at school, those legs…her mouth. Fuck, I want to kiss her so bad. Shove her up against her locker and bite that pink lower lip into my mouth. Brand her as mine. Grind my hard cock against her wet pussy and show her how hot and crazy she makes me.

Then, the next moment, I want to push her away and tell her to fuck off. To go back to her mom. Leave. Leave me again for another four years without a word.

“What?” I growl into the phone. What is she thinking, calling me at almost two in the morning after everything that went down tonight? She knows she got into my head. Fucked our play up, and we lost the game.

“Ah, is this Jace?” a strange female’s voice asks on the other end.

I sit up straighter, my anger dissipating, replaced with concern. Why would some chick be calling me from Mila’s phone, unless she’s in trouble?

“Is Mila okay?” My throat feels tight as my heart speeds up.

“No, she asked us to call you. We think some asshole drugged her.”

A chill wraps around my body at those words. Drugged. I growl in anger, at the fucker who did this, at myself for pushing her away.

I jump to my feet. “Fuck.” I rake my trembling fingers through my hair as I search for my car keys. I look down at my loose tee and gray sweats. My feet are bare. Socks…fuck the socks.

“Where is she? What’s the address? I’m on my way.”

The girl rattles off an address in Lakeview. My fingers shake as I log it into Google Maps. It says it will take me twenty minutes to get there.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

I’ve never experienced this feeling before. It’s as if I can’t breathe. My throat is constricted as I grip the steering wheel, willing my car to go faster and for no cops to pull me over.

Someone drugged Mila.

I rub my hand down my face. I need to snap out of it and be in control for this. I pull onto the street. There are cars everywhere; there’s nowhere to park. I dial Mila’s number, grateful I never deleted it and that it’s the same number as four years ago. Like mine.

The same girl answers. “Hey, you here?”

“Yeah, gonna double park out front. Can you come get me?” My hands are shaking. Why are they shaking?

“On my way.”

I hang up and get out of my car. She’ll be fine; she’s the strongest girl I know. She’s Mila fucking Hart. But then, do I really know her? The new her, the girl she is today? I don’t, and fear sets in. I glance around the property. This place is a mansion.

A girl with long, dark curls waves at me from the double front doors.

“Jace?” she asks, and I start jogging, my heart lodged in my throat when I see her worried expression. “Come with me. We saw her acting all drunk, and a guy was leading her into a bedroom. We took her from him and he ran. She vomited then passed out, but not before she told us to call you. We don’t know who she is. She’s not from Lakeview.”

I shake with rage. Some asshole drugged Mila and was going to rape her. But I need to focus on one thing right now—Mila.

The girl leads me down a hallway. The house is mostly empty, since most the party is out back, and I recognize that it’s a football party. Of course. They’re celebrating their win over us. But where the fuck is Asher? She wouldn’t have come to a Kings party without him. That’s why she’s here and not at a Rebels party.

She’s also here because you made sure no one would want her at a Rebels party.

I walk through a doorway and into a bathroom. It’s huge, like the house. The small, crumpled form of Mila on the floor has me frozen. This isn’t the Mila I saw hours ago. It breaks my heart to see her so weak and vulnerable. I take a small step forward then stop. I don’t know what to do here. How could someone do this to such a beautiful soul?

I’m so out of my element. The once strong and sassy Mila is lying unconscious on a bathroom floor of a house in Lakeview, at a Kings party. If you’d asked me four years ago what I would have seen in my future, this wouldn’t have made the list, ever.

I crouch down until I’m on my knees, and the cold tiles tell me this is really happening. This isn’t some bad dream. My hands hover over her face, her body.

“Mila? God, Mila.” I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

She doesn’t respond. I gently bush my hand over her cheek.

“Wake up. I’m here to take you home.” She is warm to the touch. That’s a good sign, right? But her breathing seems shallow.

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