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Astrid
Can you fight when the devil pulls you into the night?
* * *
Ugh. Not again.
I frown at the sketch in my hands.
Mum was a tattoo artist and did her best pieces when the customers gave her free reign. She used to say that spontaneous art is the best art. A real muse doesn’t ask for permission before striking.
Looks like my muse is a freaking idiot.
For the past week, the only face I’ve been able to sketch properly is Levi’s.
His pale, slightly droopy eyes. The straight, high nose. The sharp jawline. The slight curve in his neck with the tendons and veins rippling. I didn’t even miss the small mole on his collarbone.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
I’m about to rip it when a shadow looms over me. My head snaps up, and I remove my earbuds at the same time. Super Massive Black Hole by Muse continues thumping low as I meet a senior’s gaze.
He has messy brown hair and a buff physique, especially his shoulders and chest. His name is Jerry Huntington, if I remember correctly, and he’s part of the Rugby team.
“Yes?” I ask, unsure why he’s approaching me.
He smiles like a cartoon character. I’m sure he meant to woo me with it or something. In that case, epic fail.
“The guys and I are going out for a beer, do want to join us?” he asks in a suggestive tone.
“No, thanks.” I fling my backpack to the front and stuff my sketchpad and earbuds inside.
“Come on, babe, you’ll like it.” I catch him licking his lips from the corner of my eyes. “I promise.”
“I said no.” I try to speak as low as possible, hoping he’ll get the freaking hint and go away.
It’s not that I’m not interested in boys, but athletes never appealed to me.
Aside from my freaking muse, of course.
I close the zipper of my backpack when his hand snags around my wrist. His voice turns threatening as he speaks, “I said you’ll like it. Don’t pretend like you’re hard to get, everyone knows you’re a little slut.”
“That’s enough!” I push at him and attempt to yank my wrist. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t. If anything, his grip tightens until my wrist hurts.
I groan, my throat closing around the scream that’s bubbling to be set free. My face heats with exertion and even though I try to rein in my reaction, I can’t help the shivers of fear crowding my shoulders.
For the love of Vikings, this can’t be happening again.
One second, I’m trying to free myself from Jerry’s hold, the next, a large frame slams into Jerry’s bulk and pushes him straight to the concrete.
I stare in stunned silence as Levi smashes Jerry to the ground. Although the rugby player is bigger, Levi doesn’t show a sign of backing off.
He launches successive blows at Jerry’s face and abdomen like he’s a punching bag. It takes Jerry long seconds to gather his wits and hit back. He uses his upper bulk to push Levi into the ground and fixate him with a knee to his stomach before he punches him over and over again.
Something twists in my chest at the constant slaps of flesh against flesh.
But maybe it’s not because of the violence. Maybe this is b
