Page 134 of Bound By Fury

“Are you drunk?” I ask incredulously.

“Are you?” he counters.

I snort, shaking my head as he spins me. I turn, once, twice, three times, my skirt billowing before I come crashing back to him, my hands against the solid planes of his chest.

For the first time in a long time, I feel the tug of a genuine smile on my lips, but I hide it. From him. From myself. From the universe that seems determined to thwart every attempt I have at being normal even for just one night.

He looks like he wants to say something, but the upbeat pop ballad simmers down into a smooth melody, and he changes his mind.

Our movements slow to a stop.

My palms are clammy, and I wipe them down my front as I take a step back.

And he takes a step forward.

He reaches out and lifts my arms from my sides, wrapping them around his neck once again. His hands are warm as he places them low on my waist, hugging me to him, rocking our bodies together. His moss-colored eyes lock on to mine, and suddenly I’m breathless.

The music—the other students—fade away.

It’s just me and him.

“Despite everything,” I say, because alcohol makes me stupid, “I’ve really missed you.” My voice wobbles dangerously. It feels like if I don’t tell him this now, I might never get the chance.

He stares down at my face like he’s memorizing me, or rememorizing me.

“I’ve missed you, too.” It’s a whisper. A secret we haven’t let ourselves reveal until now.

He squeezes me to his chest. I give in, my head turning to rest against him. I close my eyes and marvel at how different I feel in his arms. It’s not quiet like it is with Lucas, or unbearably loud like it is when I’m alone. It’s a thrumming, like a freshly tuned and plucked guitar string.

I listen to the rapid thump of his heart—a curious echo of my own. A silver chain hangs above his shirt, a hexagonal pendant dangling in front of my face. My fingers catch on the edge. Etched over the surface is an engraving I don’t recognize: Vx.

As we stand there, drunk and clumsy and forgetful of the hatred that’s erupted between us, a slew of memories sweep me away.

The magic of our summers in Earnest.

Malachi’s arms are still wrapped around me, but I pull back and look at him. I mean really look.

This boy who stands before me is not the same.

But neither am I.

Raising my hand, I graze the pale scar that now cuts through his left eyebrow, a match to the ones that litter his body from the accident.

“What are we doing?” I whisper as my fingers skate over his shoulder and chest, trailing down the length of his bicep and forearm to where inky black swirls adorn his pale skin. This is the first time I’ve really been able to look at them up close.

I watch as his tattoos move beneath my touch.

As they follow my finger like a living thing.

FORTY-THREE

I’M SO ENTRANCED BY THE impossibility of what I’m seeing that my question starts out slow. “Wha—”

He yanks his arm from beneath my touch before I can get the whole word out.

I whip my head up in confusion, and he closes his eyes, pain creasing his brow before he opens them. I reach for his face, unsure of what’s happening, when he grasps my wrist and pulls my hands away.

“I—We can’t do this,” he mutters, any openness that had been on his face now completely shuttered before he turns and stalks out of the gym. The door slams behind him, and I stand there for a second, unsure if I should follow.