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But he still can’t make me admit that I’m his, something that enrages him every time, and then he shows me exactly how much it angers him.
But screw him.
I’m keeping that last piece of myself even if I die trying. It might be a useless pride thing, but I know, I just know that if I give up that part, I have to be fully ready to accept being completely controlled by him.
That one day, I’ll wake up and not recognize myself, because I’d be molded into his little fucktoy.
And that’s just not me.
So my fight isn’t a useless manifestation of my ego. It’s my only survival mode.
Walking to class, I check the texts I got this morning.
Gareth:The footage I sent last time was the only one we have of Devlin. The last one who saw him alive aside from you was the red mask, and I’m sure you know who that is.
My fingers shake as I read and re-read the text.
Over the past couple of days, Gareth has kept his part of the bargain and sent me surveillance footage clips of Devlin going into their mansion exactly one night before his death. And the footage Gareth was talking about just now is a video where Devlin was ushered into the basement by one of the creepy bunnies. The one who was waiting for him there was the red mask.
Killian.
Then the video ended.
During the initiation, I heard the participants mention that the last one was about mind games. And there’s no one better at those than Killian.
But why did Devlin decide to drive his car off the cliff right afterward?
The only one who can answer that question is probably Killian, but whenever I want something from him lately, he’ll be all like, “Say you’re mine first.”
When I refuse, he shrugs and leaves me hanging.
This will be no different. In fact, he’ll probably be a dick just because he can.
I tuck my phone and thoughts away as I step into Professor Skies’s class. I’m ready for him to roast me for being fifteen seconds late, but he merely gives me a look and says nothing.
Wait. He’s letting it go?
My movements are slow and awkward at best as I take a seat at the back of the class, thankful to be hidden by my canvas.
That’s when I realize the painting I did last time is missing, and in its place, there’s a blank one.
And then, something completely out of left field happens. Professor Skies pulls out a painting, and not just any painting—mypainting—and showcases it to the whole class.
My ears heat, ready for the onslaught of his words, this time to embarrass me in front of the whole class.
But I can’t look away from the black and red shadows intertwining, clashing, and slamming into each other like forces of nature. I’m proud of that painting, of my state of mind when I put it together, but now, the professor will downright humiliate me again.
Maybe I should run before the roasting starts.
No. I’m a big girl. I can take it.
“The blend of cold, gloomy, dark, flat, and absolutely exaggerated impressionist style can manifest in different ways.” He motions at the painting. “This is one of them. Definitely not the best, or the first, but it has a unique style that’s worth studying for emotive value. Well done, Miss King.”
The whole class's attention slides to me, but the best I can do is stare incredulously as if I’m having a stroke.
Maybe Iamhaving a stroke.
If this is a dream, it’s too cruel. Wake me up, please.
