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He leans forward, his soft lips pressing against mine. I don’t know if it’s the tension that burns the air around us right now, if it’s the pulsing pain in my wrist, or if it’s just… simplyhim. But the spark that ignites between us burrows deep into my heart.
Liam pulls back and smiles. “Till death do us part, sunshine.”
He kissed me. Not out of love or longing—it is a pact. A horribly toxic pact for two broken souls that have hit rock bottom.
But it is our pact, our promise.
And just like that, I think I’ve found something as compelling as death.
Resenting my new roommate, Liam Waters.
“I hate you,” I say, wiping my lips with my sleeve.
“Hate takes a lot of effort. I don’t think you hate me.” He traces my jawline with his finger.
I regain some composure and set my palm on his chest to push him back. His black hoodie is soft, but his body beneath it is taut. “You’re vile and cruel. Do you kiss all your roommates? You’re sick.”
“Clinically.” He smirks with amusement. “And you didn’t seem opposed to it.”
I furrow my brows as I examine my stinging wrist. The stitches are irritated but the bleeding has stopped—thanks to my sweater, which is now ruined. “You surprised me. I don’t think we should do that again,” I say venomously. I fold the sleeves of my sweater to hide the blood in case Jericho comes back in.
“Shit, sorry about that. I didn’t think I grabbed you that hard,” Liam mutters with the first bit of concern I’ve heard from him.
Asshole.
He walks over to his nightstand and pulls open the drawer, bringing out some medical gauze and tape. Like hell I’ll let him touch me again.
I shoot him a vicious glare. “Of course, themasochisthas medical supplies in his nightstand.”
“You’ll hurt my feelings, Wynn,” he fires back with a sharp, sarcastic tone, but the mischief in his eyes is flirtatious. Good God, is this how everyone’s first day goes here? He’s practically an angel in the flesh with the mind of a demon. “Give me your arm.” He sits on the edge of his bed and looks at me expectantly.
I glare at him. “No.”
“Excuse me?” His face hardens.
I will myself to steel my expressions just as well as he does. “I. Said. No.”
He looks at me for several moments before he holds out his hand and softens his expression. “I’m sorry, Wynn. Okay? Please let me tend to your cut.” His eyes lower to the floor and guilt pulls down at his frown.
I hesitate.
Do it for James. Give it at least a week. Do it for James.
I repeat the words in my head as I slowly get up and sit next to him. Our beds are so close we might as well push them together and have a fucking California king.
I let him take my arm. His touch is surprisingly gentle—his fingers are ice cold though.
“Do you ever actually smile?” He slowly unravels my bandages. I don’t want to watch so I avert my eyes to the window.
“I smile all the time.”
He sets the old bloody bandage to his side and dabs my stitches with some gauze. I wince at the pressure of his fingers as he says, “That fake-ass smile doesn’t count. It looks like you have bad gas or something.”
My cheeks heat. “Excuseme? No, it doesn’t.” I glare at him as he wraps new medical tape around my wrist.
His playful eyes find mine again. His grin is intoxicating. “Sure, you keep telling yourself that, sunshine. Your dead eyes give you away.”
My dead eyes… I’ve never really figured out how to smile with my eyes.How do you hide your weary soul? The fake one works on most people.
