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Again.
My feet curl into my flat sneakers as my vision helplessly searches for a hint of a shadow.
The glow of my smartwatch in the darkness indicates he’s thirty-seven minutes late.
I should’ve given up and gone home by now. I should’ve grabbed some chips and curled up in front of the TV and listened to Mom talk about her latest show with her assistants.
But I didn’t.
My feet have gone numb from standing and pacing,
but when I attempted to sit down, I couldn’t stay still for more than a few seconds.
The buzz of energy that’s been confiscating my breathing is too powerful to simply ignore.
But he’s not here.
Maybe I read what he said in the cafeteria wrong and he didn’t mean for us to meet here and pick up from where we left off.
Maybe I was only projecting my own fucked-up wishes.
God. I need to talk about this to someone. Other than Akira. Because I’m a coward, even to a pen pal I’ve had for years. I simply asked if he thought it was crazy if I had weird fantasies that no one would find politically correct like being chased and caught or something.
I’m still contemplating whether or not I should go to the post office and beg to get that letter back. Maybe Akira will think I’m a weirdo and I’ll lose one of the only two friends I have—
A rustle comes from behind me and I freeze for a fraction of a second before I dash behind the rock. I don’t even know what I’m doing as I crouch. My stiff, unsteady fingers grip the edge and I slowly peer over it.
There’s no one.
Maybe I’m imagining things and letting the wait time get to my head. Maybe it’s just one of the night creatures…
My busy thoughts trail off when I sense a presence at my back right before a strong hand grabs me tightly by the hair.
I shriek, but the sound is cut off when a palm slams against my mouth. It smells familiar yet foreign at the same time. Bergamot and amber is Sebastian’s signature scent, but right now, that’s not the only thing that penetrates my nostrils. I’m also breathing in a tangible muskiness, an animalistic masculinity that’s accentuated by the way he’s grabbing me.
It’s not only his smell that’s different from his normal football star image that I’m familiar with. There’s also the way he breathes, how his chest rises and falls. It’s harsh and violent but also calm and collected.
Calculated.
He’s not a mindless beast who’s out for the kill. No, he’s a manipulative one out to toy with his prey.
Me.
He uses his hold on my hair and yanks my head back so his face is peering down on mine. I can’t see much aside from the hoodie covering his head, but I can almost make out the spark in his eyes. The sadism in there is so deep and it translates in how tightly he grips me by the hair.
It’s different from how he touched me today in the cafeteria. How he stroked my stomach and gently ran his fingers over my lip as he fed me. The contrast between then and now is so high that I get some sort of whiplash. It’s like he has a split personality or something.
His lips find my ear as he whispers, “Have you been waiting like a good little slut?”
“No!” I elbow him in the chest and squirm to free my hair, but that only makes him grip it harder until I’m screaming. For real.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
And any fighting I do only causes him to tug on the roots, tilting my head back farther, until all I can think about is the pain.
His free palm slides across my breasts before he grips one of them so savagely, I whimper. His fingers dig into the soft skin, and even though it’s through the clothes, I feel the brutality of it to my bones.
“Stop it!” I wiggle, but he doesn’t give me room to do anything.
