“Thank you,” she whispers.
Then she pulls away and scampers off to the bathrooms.
A small smile creeps over my lips.
Shit.
I might be fucked.
I start to sit when a glow flickering in the darkness to my right catches my eye. I frown as I walk over to the edge of the huge bonfire pit, then realize the glow is Yelena’s cell phone.
Wren
Duuuuude where are you?? 911!!
Wren
sry not actual 911
Wren
Emotional 911. Bryce 911.
I don’t know or care who Bryce is. But as much as I enjoy prying into every facet of Yelena's life, thisdoesfeel like snooping.
Stalking is fun.
Snooping is lame.
I go to close her phone, but my thumb slides across her screen, swiping from her text messages to a web browser she must have had open.
And instantly, whatever smug, possessive feelings I was having a second ago are obscured by livid red clouds.
The browser is open to the site forKyle’sfucking hedge fund.
…And she’s got the page zoomed in on his smug, shit-eating professional headshot.
Violence erupts inside me.
A cacophony of jealous fury.
Throbbing, snarling, green-eyedrage.
I leave her my hoodie and jeans, and whatever is left of her shredded clothes.
Then I’m gone.
21
YELENA
Why the fuckdid I do that?
Perched in my chair halfway up the staggered seating of the old lecture hall, you'd think I was engrossed in Professor Llewelyn's talk on the resurgence ofBushidophilosophy in Japan in the Meiji era of the late 19thcentury.
I’m…not.
I’m thinking entirely about dark woods, crashing waves, jagged cliffs, and giving myself to a man who shares the same vicious black desires that I do.
