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He smirks. “Was beginning to get the impression that you wanted me to do something with that.”
As my cheeks begin to burn, I clench my fists. I’d shoot back any of the dozens of comebacks I have for him, but I can’t afford to piss him off. Not when I need his help.
“Wow, you really have nothing to say?” Wes rolls his eyes. “Don’t know why I expected anything else.” He turns and enters his room, grabbing the door to shut it.
“Wes.”
I hate the way my voice sounds. Scared and small and pathetic. But it does the trick.
Slowly, Wes turns. He looks me up and down like he’s worried I hurt myself before he asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Kammes,” I whisper. “He texted me.”
Wes’s grip tightens on the door. “What did he say?”
“He wants me to meet him tomorrow morning like usual.” I show him the text, watching the way his nostrils flare at Kammes’s directions to wear the plaid skirt.
“Fucking bastard,” he mutters. “Tell him you’ll be there.”
“What? Wes, he’ll—”
“He’ll be dead by then,” he says, eyes meeting mine with a promise. “You never have to see him again if you don’t want to.”
“Oh,” I breathe out.
“But I need you to text him,” Wes tells me. “He can’t suspect that anything is off. No even a little bit.”
“Right.” My hands are shaking as I type out a simple text to Professor Kammes and hit send.
“Athelia,” Wes says gently.
When I look up, I’m startled by the gentleness in his eyes. I think it’s the first time he’s looked at me with any type of care since I made him beg for my forgiveness and then left with barely any acknowledgment.
“You’re safe. He’s never touching you again.”
I nod. “Y-yeah.”
But my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself. Seeing Kammes’s name flash across my screen brought back all the horrible feelings I’ve been able to squash for the past week.
“Hey.” Wes’s arm loops around my waist. “Athelia, breathe.”
I do, but every inhale is shorter than the last. I’m barely aware of Wes as he leads me into his room and sits me down on his bed.The blue light envelops me, as does the calming scent of leather and pine.
His comforter is soft under my palms, and I try to focus on that as he kneels in front of me.
“He can’t hurt you here,” Wes says.
“What if he already knows about us?” I blurt. “He knows about the hickey. What if he followed me or something? What if he already posted a video and just hasn’t told me yet? Oh my god, Wes, how do you even check for that?”
“He doesn’t know,” Wes says soothingly. His hands stroke up and down my calves. “I would’ve gotten at least an angry phone call by now.”
“But what if he’s been keeping it to himself until he gets back? What if he’s already back and he’s waiting until you leave to come in and—and—and—”
“Athelia,” Wes murmurs as I break down into sobs.
Why did he have to be the one here tonight? Why couldn’t it have been Cal?
“I’m not letting him hurt you,” Wes says. He pulls me off the bed and into his lap, where he holds me and rocks me back and forth. “Never again, Athelia. I promise.”
