Page 8 of Embrace

“Been a while,” he says, and my heart plummets into the acid in my stomach.

I don’t recognize the voice, but I know the insinuation it holds. What I’ve avoided all night is now so close, with his sweaty skin pressed against my arm.

I swallow. “Has it?”

He chuckles. “Maybe if you look at me, you’d know who I am. I bet it’s hard for you to keep track.”

Don’t react.

I glance at him, my hands still under the warm water streaming from the faucet. He’s watching me with hooded gray eyes, a drunk smile lifting his lips.

He leans in, and I let him. Because apparently my brain loses any coherent thought when I’m faced with any type of confrontation, especially to do with my past.

“I texted you. I never text first.”

Get this man an award.

His other hand snakes into my space, fingers curling around a strand of my hair, twisting it slowly. Possessively. My stomach is in knots.

I’ve changed my hair color a lot. But since I got to Dalton, I’ve stuck to one that felt the most like me. The tattoos, the hair, thepiercings, they all feel the most like me. I always followed the rules growing up, so when I turned eighteen, I wanted to break them.

But a lot happened last year, namely my best friend’s accident.

After that, the thrill of the hookups wore off. The distraction faded. I could hardly go home and face my dad. He’d been steady and loving for my mom, yet even the thought of someone being that for me made me sick. So I let it all go and stopped answering these guys—though that wasn’t hard when I dropped out of my sorority and took classes online.

I don’t want to be remembered for any of that. I want to be remembered for me. For the things I care about. Not my body.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says. “Overthinking.”

He says it like he knows me, and I hate it.

I still can’t remember his name, and somehow, that hits harder than I expected. This whole year, I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad. But reality sinks in, breaking through me like a cinder block.

“You just gonna stand there?” His voice drips with irritation. “You weren’t this quiet when my dick was in your mouth.”

My cheeks burn, heat rushing under my skin like shame blooming in full color. I curse myself for not choosing better men to have sex with. But this way, I never lingered, never found out what it felt like to be held for a little while after.

I glance around and a few people look our way, watching this drunk asshole put my business out there. More than it already is. It’s not even about the sex or the obsession with body count anymore; it’s that they think I owe them something because I offered it once. Like I’ve given them some sort of blanket consent.

“Look, I’m sorry about not texting, but I just want to focus on school right now.” I can’t make eye contact with him, and that makes me even angrier with myself.

He scoffs. “Since when did you become such a prude? Look at me.”

And stupidly, I do.

“So obedient,” he murmurs, and the words slide under my skin like oil. “Let’s go upstairs.”

There’s a roar of laughter from the living room as a couple of frat guys charge in, spraying alcohol into open mouths with water guns. That’s when I seehim.

Kian Ishida, cracking open another can, head tipped back as he chugs it. Without thinking, I feel my own lips twitch at the edges.

Then there’s a touch skimming down my arm, slow and seductive. “Do you have a thing for him or something? He can join.”

My body locks up. Our study group interaction has been at the forefront of my mind for hours. If I had seen his name on that sign-up sheet I would’ve canceled the whole thing.

Kian Ishida isn’t your typical college guy. He’s not just a hockey player or even a party animal. He’s kind and polite with a squeaky-clean reputation. Always listening intently when anyone speaks. He’s got tattoos on his body that I’ve wanted to replicate, if it wouldn’t make me a total creep. His music taste is unreal. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him reading all kinds of books. Romance included. The guy is eclectic, and I’ve witnessed the way people flock to him.I’vewanted to flock to him.

My stupid crush started four years ago at a freshman kegger. We had a short conversation—something about the band T-shirt he had on—before he was pulled away by his friends. But I’ve never felt that way before, like for that entire ten minutes, I was the most important person in the room to him. Because that’s what Kian does: He sheds his light on everyone he meets.