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She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a weirdo. The only student in the history of higher education who wants more mid-terms.”
“What can I say?” I tap the side of my head. “Gotta keep this damaged brain busy.”
“It’s not damaged,” she insists, shooting a sharp look at the girls around us as if daring any of them to say something bitchy.
A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. I love how protective she is of me. I’ve never had that before, and I didn’t know what I was missing not having a best friend. I’d be just as willing to step into a lion’s den for her, and I’d kick the ass of anyone who gave her shit.
“Right.” I nod. “Thanks.”
Unfortunately, she’s not quite right. Something is fucked up about my brain, just like doctors have been telling me for as long as I can remember. And as class workloads ease a bit after mid-terms, the dreams worm their way back into my sleeping mind again.
Only now it’s not just strange, half-formed images invading my dreams at night. The nightmares are interspersed between dreams about the Sinners.
I have vivid dreams of Elias’s lips on mine.
Declan’s tatted arms wrapped around me, pulling me close.
And then… then there’s Gray, whose body I have seen and felt so intensely in real life that the dreams are too damn vivid to handle. I wake up more than once over the next week with my hand between my legs and my clit still throbbing from the remnants of an orgasm.
Even in my fucking dreams, I can’t resist the pull between us.
The only plus side in all of this bullshit? The heightened emotions churning through me make for great paintings.
I do some of my best work in the weeks following mid-terms. I manage to get some proper canvases, and the paint just flows onto them as if it’s guided by a force outside my conscious mind. Every emotion spills out of me through the strokes of my brush. Angry reds and dark blues, shadows and highlights and muddy shapes that don’t mean anything but somehow convey everything.
It’s become part of my routine, and I paint for an hour or two a day if I can manage it.
But when I return to my dorm after dinner on a Thursday in mid-November, my footsteps slow as I near my door.
It’s cracked open a little.
Just an inch or so—but that’s enough to make my heart beat harder.
Goddammit. The hazing and bullying has been slowly getting better, but if someone decided to get their kicks in by fucking with my dorm, I’m gonna be pissed as shit.
I step inside quickly, hand resting on the door handle as I take in the interior of my little apartment unit.
And my heart seems to stop beating entirely.
Someone didn’t fuck with my dorm. They fucked with my art.
They destroyed it.
Canvases and papers are strewn everywhere. Shredded, broken, Sharpied over, the pieces tossed carelessly all over the floor and couch.
Like they’re worthless.
Like they mean nothing.
Red colors my vision. It’s all I see. Blinding, rage-filled red consumes me as vicious certainty rises up in my chest.
I know who did this. Who else could it possibly be?
I remember Declan vaguely mentioning that all three of the Sinners have dorms right next to each other during one of our smoking sessions. And I’ve been on campus long enough to know which building is theirs.
My body goes into autopilot, moving without conscious thought as my brain grapples with the horrifying fact that all of my pieces—every last one—have been destroyed.
I march across campus in the dwindling twilight and pace outside until a guy whose name I don’t know uses his key card to get into the building. I shove my way in after him, ignoring his muttered curse and the glare he levels at me. I don’t care. My mind has narrowed down to a singular focus, and it’s all I can think about.
