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It was one of the first things I noticed about him after the game was over and I rushed down the bleachers to get a good look at the guy who played like thunder and went toe to toe with my brother. Something that I’d never seen anyone do.
Even relaxed after his win, I could tell that the bones of his face, the structure of them, are forged in steel. The arches of his cheekbones. The jut of his square jaw. His stubborn forehead. Even his arrogant nose.
And it’s all very broad and masculine.
Beautiful.
King-like.
And as I’ve said before, he is the king.
The Angry Thorn.
Although I don’t know if that nickname is appropriate for him anymore.
After following him around for days and witnessing his beauty from all angles, I think his nickname should be something else. He may be a hothead — and he clearly looks angry right now — but what he is more is beautiful.
The Beautiful Thorn.
That is what people should call him.
Because pair his kingly face with his glittering dark eyes, his dark hair — thick and wavy, falling all over his forehead and the side of his face, completely mussed up and crazy beautiful — plus his leather jacket that bows down to the broadness of his shoulders and his washed-out jeans, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Didn’t do it to save you,” he explains, his face dipped toward me.
Oh and let’s not forget about his voice.
I’ve heard it before, here and there, from a distance, polluted by the noise of traffic or crowd. But this is the first time I’m hearing it from up close, and it’s beautiful as well.
Rough and low and gravelly.
Reminds me of dipping my toes in sand.
“So then w-why did you?” I ask, flexing my toes in my boots. “Call me yours if not to save me.”
“That I could’ve done, and did, with one look,” he goes on, ignoring my question.
Believe it or not, it’s the truth.
If he wanted to save me — and he did — he didn’t even have to open his mouth.
And that’s because they’re all afraid of him.
Afraid of his temper. His reckless anger.
I should be too, right?
But I’m not.
In fact his anger for some reason makes me feel… safe.
Like nothing could touch me when I’m around him.
No disaster, no calamity. No bullets, no arrows. No snowstorms, no hurricanes.
Because he’s the thunder himself.
Something that I’ve only ever felt with my brother. Definitely not my parents or anyone else.
“Because they’re all afraid of you,” I say, my breath going haywire again.
His eyes gleam. “Yeah.”
“Because you’re the Angry Thorn.”
Something flickers over his features that I can’t read. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
Even though his expression is a mystery to me, I somehow still think that it may resemble… hurt. And before I can stop myself, I say, “I think that’s the wrong nickname for you though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You should be called something else.”
“And what’s something else?”
“Beautiful Thorn.” I lick my lips. “B-because you’re beautiful.”
His eyes dip to my mouth for a second. “And what should I call you?”
“K-Krista,” I say, cringing on the inside.
Usually I’m pretty good at lying and I didn’t feel the same hesitation back when I told Joe and Rocky my false name. But telling it to him feels wrong.
What feels even more wrong is when he repeats it. “Krista.”
“Uh, yeah. Krista.” I smile slightly. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”
“Must be.”
“What?”
“For you.”
“I don’t —”
“I mean from what I understand, it does get tiring.”
“What gets tiring?”
His fingers flex around my arm. “Following me around all the time.”
“What?”
His eyes rove over my features before he says, “You do that, don’t you?”
My heart’s thudding in my chest. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I —”
“You’re the pretty little stalker.”
I try to twist free from his grip and step back. “I’m not —”
“My pretty little stalker,” he says, his dark eyes glittering something fierce. “So technically you’re mine. Which is why I said it.”
“I’m —”
“Have been for the past week. Since the game.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “So you… did see me at the game?”
“Black dress and a bright purple coat,” he murmurs. “Who probably cheered for me and every goal I made. Yeah, I saw you.”
I did.
I did cheer for him and every goal that he made.
I did feel guilty about it though. Because every goal that he scored was one goal less for my brother, and I could see that that frustrated him. But I couldn’t stop myself.
Like I can’t stop myself now from saying, “You were amazing on the field. The way you ran, it was like your feet didn’t even touch the ground. You were flying. Like you had wings or something. Something that the others didn’t have. I just… I thought that was beautiful. I thought you were beautiful.”
