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My father says he knows Lucia from years ago. Before he knew my mother. So, Lucia came first. Has he always wanted her, more than he wanted my mom?
Fuck.
The tightness is back, the pounding heart. It’s no good. Nothing is going to soothe the beast inside tonight other than my routine.
I get up and go to my adjoining bathroom. Grabbing two clean towels, I return to the bedroom and place one on the edge of the bed, and the other I place by me on the nightstand. Then I open the drawer and pull out my box. Dark walnut shines in the low light of my room.
I sit on the bed and roll my shirt sleeves up. Then I undo my pants and push them down. I roll the soft material of my boxer briefs even higher on my right thigh.
Heart pounding in anticipation now rather than panic, I stare at the skin, crisscrossed with marks from previous moments of panic.
Sticky shame coats me as I face the evidence of my weakness. Blowing out a long breath, I open the box and stare at my collection of implements. Finally, I take out the red penknife and flick the knife open.
Holding it by my thigh, making sure my leg is on the towel, I cut.
Chapter 11
Mackenzie
I sip the champagne Valentino has bought us, try not to feel too self-conscious, and fail. It’s not only about the dress now, but also that I’m standing in a bar clearly drinking alcohol when I’m underage. No one seems to be paying me too much attention, though—well, no one outside of Valentino and Kirill. I asked Camile about it and she said something about the college being so international that they weren’t as strict as most countries who let you drink from the age of eighteen. However, they still card on the door and at the bar so as not to openly break the law.
I rarely drink, as it can make me sick, so I try to nurse it slowly but still drink enough to fit in. The fizzy, sharp taste is delicious, and it would be far too easy to knock it all back with how nervous I am.
A part of me longs for the oblivion that comes with getting really drunk, but I don’t trust myself.
I find myself scanning the ever-growing crowd, wondering where Dom is. It’s not that I want to see him, but I find not knowing where he is to be more unnerving. I’m the gazelle standing in long grass, innocently grazing, while a lion stalks up on me.
This champagne is so bad for me, but damn, I enjoy the way it’s making me less anxious, and my body is loosening up. Over the next thirty minutes or so, Camile introduces me to a couple more people and they smile and welcome me, and I’m starting to feel like I might actually fit in here one day. If there’s a way I can block out what I did, pretend like it never occurred, maybe that will happen.
The whole time, I’m conscious of Valentino’s gaze on me, and Kirill right beside him. I put my shoulders back and toss my hair over my shoulder and pretend like everything everyone is saying is both fascinating and funny.
I get a lot of questions about the reason I’m here, especially from the other girls, and the way they grimace when I say my mother is marrying the dean sets me worrying again about fitting in and making friends.
A flurry of activity draws my attention from the gaggle of girls, and my line of sight is drawn toward a new group of guys who have walked in. They seem to have everyone’s attention. Girls flock around them, and other guys give them fist bumps and nods. Two of the new arrivals are identical—matching, thick, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes framed in thick lashes. It’s hard not to notice them.
I lean in closer to Camile to shout in her ear. “Who are they?”
“The Vipers. Louis and Mattheo Laurant. They’re from West House. They’re essentially West House wannabe equivalents of the Devils. They’re not good guys, either.”
“You mean they’re like Dom, Valentino, and Kirill?”
“Exactly. A girl killed herself here last year—jumped off the top of the tower, the building you see first when you drive up to the university. Landed in the parking lot on top of one of their Maseratis. Everyone said they pushed her to it. Some even say they might have been the ones who actually pushed her.” Camile’s brown eyes go wide, her brows peaked.
“God, that’s terrible. Was there any investigation? Were the police involved?”
Internally, I cringe at the thought of the police.
She snorts. “As much as the police are ever involved in something that happens around here. They turn up for show, but they’re all getting payoffs. It helps to have all the local cops in their pockets to turn a blind eye at all the shady shit that goes on.”
Payoffs. That makes sense. Is that why my mother brought me here? “What?—"
I don’t get to finish my sentence. A hand grips my upper arm and spins me away from Camile. I find myself almost falling into a broad chest, and, confused and flustered, I lift my gaze to find myself staring right into my future stepbrother’s green eyes.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he snaps.
“What?” I’m still too shocked to formulate a clever response.
The hard planes of his face are like glacial ice, the light from the bar bouncing off the edges. The heat of his skin burns through mine. The rest of the room has vanished, so it’s only him and me. My ears buzz with a sound like tinnitus, but is actually my blood racing through them.
