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The muscle near his jaw jumps.
“I can’t talk about it.”
It only makes me more determined to learn the truth.
“Are they being abused? Who is hurting them?”
“Just let it go,” he snaps. “I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you. We should go back to ignoring each other like usual.”
I know I won’t get anything else out of him when he turns his body to give me his back. I turn as well, and we ride the rest of the way in silence.
Pulling up to the hotel where prom is being held, Mason and I wait for the door to open.
He plays his typical role of helping me to my feet and offering me his arm to take so he can escort me inside. More camera flashes occur, the school photographers making sure to record all the students arriving.
Finally inside, we’re free to release each other, Mason quickly running off in one direction while I go the other.
I watch as he crosses the room to meet his actual date, Milly Ferguson. She looks gorgeous in a dress the same shade as mine, her blond hair swept up into a twist with soft curls hanging down to frame her face.
When Mason and her reach a table where the other Inferno members sit, I take up my usual place by a wall and glance around the room looking for Ivy and Ava.
The ballroom is stunning. All the tables are draped in white, the glimmering rose gold decorations accented by centerpieces strung with tiny lights. Above our heads, shimmery balloons cover the ceilings, the lights around the space dancing as the balloons sway and move about.
There’s not a stated theme for the prom, but the elegance is striking, and I appreciate the prom committee’s choice to avoid anything cliché or tacky.
When I don’t see my two partners in crime, I glance over at the Inferno table again, my heart clenching tight to find the twins have arrived with Hillary and Kelly in tow.
Of course the two girls are strutting around like queens, their egos so large I’m surprised they can hold their heads up.
I ignore them and study the twins, notice the way both their mouths are turned down at the corners, the bruises on their faces finally fading.
Damn it. They’re gorgeous, both of them dressed in black on black suits with no tie or any pop of color. I wonder what marks darken their skin beneath those clothes, wonder if Hillary and Kelly have seen them or if they even care.
It doesn’t escape my attention that the twins are missing the standard boutonnieres every other guy is wearing, their dates missing the corsage.
Cocking a brow at that, I shake my head and attempt to ignore the reasons in my thoughts about why they’d skipped the tradition.
It’s almost impossible to look away, my gaze sweeping down both of them to admire the way they move with a predatory prowl, their elegant clothes doing nothing to hide that feral quality to them that calls to me with a tempting whisper.
I have to drag my eyes away, though, because the longer I look, the more I can feel the pad of their thumb on my tongue, the more I remember the salty taste of their skin or the soft kisses that became demanding.
I’m addicted already, yet also strong enough to walk away when I know it’s best for me.
Damon and Ezra are nothing but heartbreak personified.
Mason’s admission rolls through my thoughts next, his refusal to explain what’s going on with the twins, but also his roundabout confession that there is something occurring.
It only spikes my anger. So much so that when I peek back and notice one set of amber eyes turning my direction, I glance away and move along the wall to place more distance between us.
Thankfully, Ivy and her date arrive within five minutes, and I follow them to a table. Ava arrives next with her date, the five us sitting around talking for an hour.
Once again, I’m the fifth wheel, and I know they’re staying at the table with me instead of dancing because they don’t want me to feel alone.
That’s why I make an excuse to leave the table, claiming I want to walk around and mingle so they can dance and have a good time.
Both Ava and Ivy argue I should stay with them, but I won’t hear it. Being alone at these events is nothing new to me, and I refuse to ruin their fun by weighing them down with my obligations.
Eventually, I make my way to the restrooms to check my makeup and hair. I’m not all that concerned with how I look, but it’s as good an excuse as any to leave the ballroom.
