Page 13 of Deadly Sacrifice

“I don’t even know your name. Asking for trust is kind of a big thing, don’t you think?” I ask aloud as he pulls me toward the parking lot. The closer we get, the more my rising panic begs me to dig in my heels. “Whoa, okay, I’m not going any further, pal.” I pull from his grip — he wasn’t holding on tight at all — and swiftly turn in the other direction.

I don’t have a car. Don’t want one. I walked from Greek row to campus, and I’ll walk my ass right back. Except the guy catches up to me with a twisted expression, gesturing out to the sea of cars and blacktop as he pulls out his car keys.

“I don’t need a ride,” I say, keeping my chin up like a freaking brat as I keep walking.

He gets in front of me, forcing me to stop. Griffin, he signs out, letter by letter. That’s my name.

“Prudence,” I offer, dropping my gaze to the concrete. It’s not a sexy name. There’s no allure there. No guy wants to call out Prudence when he’s balls deep in a woman. Shaking my head free of the cruel nicknames kids gave me growing up, I slap on a smile and add, “Now that we’re on a first-name basis, I feel better telling you and your car to fuck all the way off. I’m walking. Thank you for the offer, though.” I try to say it nicely — I swear, I do — but the memory of the last time I sat in a car has me feeling prickly.

Griffin looks back at the parking lot, then at me. After a moment, he shrugs, putting his keys away, and gestures for me to start walking. I do, and he follows at my side, his long legs eating up my small pace easily. When I peek up at him, he’s smiling softly, showing off the barest hint of a dimple.

Fuck, he’s good looking. Ruggedly handsome. A cross between a sexy mountain man and a viking, if that makes any sense. He’s tall and muscular, and he’s got that mysterious silent thing going for him.

His hair is pulled back in a bun, but a few curls are loose around his face, and they shine like liquid gold as we pass beneath street lights. And when he turns his eyes to me, I’m almost struck dead by the chilling intensity.

“Where are you heading?” I ask after having to clear my throat of all the bad things that tried to come out instead. It’s only Greek row in this direction, as far as I know. And hot as he may be, Griffin doesn’t strike me as some douchey fraternity guy.

He points toward the few lights illuminating the Greek letters in the distance. Whatever face I make has him breathing out a silent laugh, and he signs, Don’t look so appalled. Not everything at Blackwood is what it seems.

I hum as a smile creeps up my face to match his. “Entrusting me with your wisdom already. I like it. You and I might become friends if you’re not careful.” I have to say it out loud — more for myself than for him, I’m sure — because the thought of having him as anything more than a friend is fucking tempting, even though that’s literally the last thing I came to college for.

Maybe having all these handsome guys around lately is messing with my brain wiring.

It’s hard to be sure in the low light from the lampposts, but I think Griffin blushes. Just a little. Despite myself, I feel a bit warm and fuzzy right now. Looks like he’s not some raging dick, like I had assumed on my first day. Good to know.

9

Griffin

I walk Prudence to the front door of Alpha Chi Omega, watch as she slips inside with a small wave, and struggle to hold my composure until the door swings shut. The second the latch clicks into place, I turn on my heels, fisting a hand in my curly hair as I try to fight through the tightening in my chest.

Beta Epsilon Rho is right across the street, so I swallow down every raging emotion within me, steel my spine, and walk. It takes less than two minutes to get from one door to the next. I get inside, sneaking quietly upstairs so as not to draw the attention of the handful of brothers tossing back shots in the living room.

I don’t party. Not really. When I drink, I lose control, and lines get crossed.

As soon as I’m inside my own bedroom on the third floor, I lock the door and lean against the cool wood, closing my eyes as I breathe slowly. I’m accustomed to panic attacks. I get them often enough, ever since someone tried to kill me in my own home. I’ve been to therapy, I’ve learned all the tricks and coping mechanisms.

It’s all bullshit.

No matter how much I try to envision my fucking happy place, it’s just out of reach. The more I try to focus on slowing my breaths, the harder it is to take in oxygen. Counting backwards, taking stock of my surroundings, remembering what’s important to me… None of it helps.

On a silent roar, I snap my eyes open and swing my arm out, sending everything atop my dresser flying. My school books land haphazardly, a bottle of cologne shatters, and my lamp comes unplugged from the wall.

I’m thrown into an eerie darkness that only strives to thicken the cloying panic in my throat. My body reacts before my broken mind can catch up, and I stride forward, grabbing that fucking lamp and throwing it across the room.

The sound of the glass breaking against the wall makes me jump, so out of my goddamn mind that I can’t remember which direction the door is to get out of this dark abyss. It was dark in the garage that day, too. Dark and silent, until it wasn’t. Until someone grabbed me and held that knife to my throat, and pressed the blade through my skin.

My breath hitches as the metallic tinge of blood floods my senses, bringing me right back to the feeling of choking on it. I grab my throat, positive this time that I’ll feel the gaping wound, that my hand will come away sticky and wet.

I turn one way and then back the other way, spinning in maddening circles, trying to see the attacker. Trying to pinpoint their location. But all I can hear is the crunching glass beneath my boots and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Another strangled sound claws its way up my throat, and I reach out for something to ground me. All I find is empty air and more heavy silence.

From somewhere behind me, the sound of footsteps crest through the darkness, and I turn around with wild eyes and fists balled tight. I can’t see anything, though. Then there’s a knock, followed by the clatter of the doorknob trying and failing to open.

“Griff?” Asher asks in a low voice, trying the doorknob again.

I take a step in that direction, past and present battling in my mind as I try to fight my way back to his voice.

“Griffin, come to the door. Let me in, man,” he pleads, and if I close my eyes, I can picture the way he’s likely resting his forehead against the door, piercing green eyes heavy and sorrowful as he waits for me.

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