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My heart stutters in my chest, seeming to come to a complete stop for a moment before it starts thrashing wildly, spurred on by the surge of adrenaline in my veins.
I take a step closer to the door, holding my breath.
He’s talking about me. I know he is.
Another voice speaks. I’m pretty sure it’s male, but whoever it is must be standing farther from the door or talking in a quieter tone, because I can’t decipher any of the words.
Gray makes a noise that could be a laugh. “There’s nothing special about her. She’s not fucking worth it. She’ll be gone by next semester anyway. I’ve got it handled, all right?”
The gallop of my heart has become so fast that I can’t even feel the individual beats anymore. I stare at the dark wood of the door and the smooth metal handle, trying to comprehend what I’m hearing from behind it.
I’m not wrong. There’s no one else that could be but Gray. I know his voice well enough by now to be certain of that.
A crack tears through my chest, as painful as if someone has physically ripped me in two. Nausea roils my stomach.
A few months ago, I could barely even feel my heart. I kept a black hole in the place where it should be, and I let that blackness smother every feeling that tried to rise up.
But Gray changed that. Declan and Elias changed that.
They showed me that I do have a heart.
And now I can feel every piece of it as it breaks.
My feet shuffle against the hardwood as I step back from the door, recoiling from it as if the damn thing is radioactive. My stomach is twisting into a giant knot, and my legs shake as I turn and walk quickly back down the hallways.
Anger and pain coil together as they surge through my body, the two emotions almost indistinguishable from each other.
Hold on to your heart, Max told me.
I promised her I had. But I clearly fucking lied.
Whether I meant to or not, I gave it over to Gray Eastwood. And he carved his initials in it before crushing it beneath his heel.
Was every fucking thing between us a lie?
I can’t stand to answer that question, so I just rush down the stairs as fast as I can, barely taking in the party that’s still raging around me. I grab my drink and down it in three swallows, gritting my teeth against the sharp burn.
It’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. I want to go back to the kitchen and grab a full fucking bottle of whiskey, then drink until the stabbing pain in my chest goes away.
But more than that, I want out of here.
I can’t be around these fucking people for another second. I can’t stand their petty brutality, their pretty little lies, and their vicious deceptions. I’m fucking done.
Gray was the one who drove us here, but there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere with him. Max disappeared from the dance floor while I was upstairs, and I’m not even sure I can talk to her yet anyway. I just need a fucking minute alone.
Pushing my way through the crowd, I make my way deeper into the house, finally ending up in a wing that’s quiet and deserted. I stop in a dim hallway similar to the one on the second floor and brace my palm against the wall, letting my head droop as I suck in ragged breaths through my nose.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tears press at the backs of my eyelids, stinging sharply, and I dig the heel of my hand into my eyes. I will not fucking cry. Gray Eastwood doesn’t get to have that from me.
My pulse finally stops racing, flipping from fast and uneven to slow and labored.
I want to leave, to stalk out of this house and walk back to Hawthorne if I have to. But I can’t stand the thought of running. I’m stronger than that, goddammit.
I have to confront Gray.
