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“Fun?!You enjoy killing people?”
“I do,” he says smoothly, like we’re talking about the fucking weather. “Although we’re not always killing people. Sometimes it’s other stuff.”
With a groan, I rub at my face. “I don’t want to know. I need to get some sleep, and you all need to get out of here.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Wes says.
“Yes, you are. Get out.”
Wes shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you.”
“I’ll call the cops on you. I’ll—I’ll tell them you killed Michael.”
Cal groans. “I knew we shouldn’t have told her.”
Wes just shrugs. “We’ll tell them you killed him. It’s three against one, Harper. No one will believe you.”
“Wes,” Cal snaps. “Shut the fuck up.”
But it’s too late. Hearing Professor Kammes’s words from Wes’s lips, even though the context is different, is the final nail in the coffin.
Hot tears spring to my eyes, and I internally berate myself as they fall onto my cheeks. Wes knows Professor Kammes said that to me. He knows how hopeless I felt, how hopeless Ifeel,because of that very sentiment.
“Athelia,” Kellan says as I stand up, but when I shoot him a withering glare, he presses his lips together.
I barely feel myself stepping up to Wes. His eyes still hold a challenge—like he wants me to go to the cops just to prove how right he is.
A loudslapfills the air, punctuating the absolute silence in the room. My palm stings, but I barely feel it.
Wes’s face is turned to the side now, thanks to the force behind my blow. He tilts his chin upward, and I want to pull my hair out at his stupid, amused smile. “That feel good, Harper? Wanna do it again?”
With a frustrated scream, I do. I slap him once, twice, three times. It’s not enough, so I kick at him, but it hurts like hell, so I slap him again.
The whole time, his grin only widens.
Kellan and Cal are watching silently. Well, Cal is nervously hovering, probably afraid I’ll injure myself further.
“You need to be careful, baby,” Cal says. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Your rib—”
“I don’t care,” I shout. I’m already in pain. What’s some more if I can make Wes feel even a portion of what he’s done to me?
Wes stands. He’s so close that we’re touching, so I stumble back.
“Keep going,” he says, stretching his arms out like he’s welcoming me in with a hug. “I told you I’d do anything for you, and I meant it. If you need to hit something—someone—then hit me.”
My fingers curl into a fist, but just as I start to swing, Cal grabs my wrist.
“Stopit,” I yell at him.
“Don’t punch him in the face,” Cal says. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”
I yank my arm away from him, ignoring how much pain the action causes me. I don’t want to break my hand, so I beat my fists against Wes’s chest. He barely even winces, and it hurts me like hell, so I shove him back onto the chair with a frustrated grunt.
“I hate you,” I shout. And then I pounce onto his lap and wrap both my hands around his throat. I squeeze, glaring straight into Wes’s eyes. “I wanna kill you.”
Wes’s smile is finally gone now. In its place is mild surprise and a hint of pride. He arches a brow, practically egging me on.
I squeeze harder as more tears fall from my eyes. But I can’t. Ican’t.I’m not a killer, and if I was, Wes’s life isn’t the one I want to take. John Kammes’s is.
