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Tresa, a viper on a mission, hissed, "She hates you, Dax. Always has." Each word was a fresh sting, driving my anger hotter, my grip on control tighter. Before I could think, my hand found its purchase on her neck, a primal response honed in the crucible of this gilded cage we called school. The touch was firm, not brutal, a silent warning to the storm brewing within.
"You wouldn't know truth if it bit you on the nose, Tresa," I snarled, my voice a low growl. Her conviction that I was beyond redemption, a monster masquerading in a boy's skin, was a barb I couldn't pull out. In her eyes, this moment, this brief lapse, was the sum of who I was, a permanent scar etched onto my soul.
The frustration, a venomous serpent coiling in my gut, echoed Tresa's words.
I wanted to scream, to tear down the walls she'd built around me, to show her the man beneath the monster she saw. But each breath only fueled the fire, tightening my grip, a desperate, silent plea for her to see beyond the surface.
"Enough of this!" I roared, the word a jagged shard ripping through the air. My hand remained a brand on her skin, a testament to my crumbling control. Each passing second was a war I was losing, a battle against the persona I'd crafted, the one Tresa believed was all there was.
The battle lines were drawn, not between Tresa and me, but within myself. A storm raged within, and the only question was whether I would weather it or be swept away by the tide.
Tresa's words were a viper's hiss, laced with a perverse admiration that chilled me more than her initial barbs. "Only I tolerate your brand of chaos, Dax," she purred, her hand straying to my chest, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through me. "Change? Seems you're allergic to it, and that, oddly, is part of your charm."
My hand, still tight around her neck, loosened, the anger dissipating into a simmering unease. Her audacity, her twisted understanding of me, was both repulsive and strangely…enticing.
She drew in thinking I'm locked in her spells.
Fast forward to Tresa's lips meeting mine, a searing spark that ignited the embers of a desire I'd long kept buried, a desire for Skye mostly. The details of that kiss, I'd leave for Skye to share with her eager readers, another notch in her literary victory lap. The reasons behind it, however, remained a tangled mess in my gut.
In the midst of the throng of students, Tresa's unexpected kiss left me flabbergasted. It was an audacious attempt to ensnare me in her web of girlish wiles, but it fell far short of its intended effect. This impulsive act was par for the course with Tresa, always seeking to stir unnecessary drama. Her insatiable thirst for attention was evident, as she craved the undivided gaze of every individual in the classroom.
Skye's scandalous kiss with me had done little to tarnish my reputation, much to Tresa's chagrin. The kiss had elicited no outcry, no whispers or disapproving glances. Yet, Tresa's incessant need for validation compelled her to take matters into her own hands. It was a futile attempt to overshadow Skye's moment in the spotlight.
Kissing Tresa back was never a consideration. It would only serve to validate her manipulative behavior. Instead, I maintained my composure, watching the scene unfold before me. However, a sudden realization struck me: Skye was watching.
But one thing was crystal clear: Skye, the girl I'd spent years tormenting, had shown more courage in a single act than I'd ever mustered. Her book, wielded like a battering ram, had sent one of my loyal hounds flying, clearing the path to her escape.
Now, with the taste of Tresa's kiss still clinging to my lips, my mind was a battlefield. Skye, the enigma I'd desperately sought to unravel, had become a hurricane in my carefully constructed world. And I, the storm chaser, was caught in the eye of her fury.
The next move? A calculated gamble, a dance on the edge of a precipice. Skye had drawn first blood, but the game was far from over.
And this time, I wouldn't just watch from the sidelines. I'd step into the storm, eyes locked on the girl who dared to challenge the monster I'd become.
Chapter Fourteen
Skye
My gaze skimmed the teeming mass of students, a frantic search for sanctuary amidst the school's bustling arteries. The sheer volume of bodies was suffocating, a claustrophobic sea of backpacks and laughter. As I navigated the tide, a glint of icy malice caught my eye - one of Dax's insufferable minions, his eyes locked on mine like a predator sizing up prey. Four of them, a goddamn legion of prodigies, were bearing down on me with the weight of adolescent cruelty. My heart hammered a panicked tattoo against my ribs as I surveyed the landscape, desperately seeking an escape hatch. This was the very reason Dax and his pack were anathema to my existence.
Panic clawed at my throat. I retraced my steps, a desperate hope for an alternate route flickering in my mind. But like shadows, Dax's minions seemed to multiply with every desperate stride. My legs, burning with exertion, couldn't carry me far enough, and so I yielded to flight. A desperate sprint, my lungs screaming for air, with Dax's minions - my tormentors - hot on my heels.
My objective: the art room.
A risky choice, considering Greg, the resident gossip, probably already tattled on me, informing Dax of my blatant disregard for his tedious football practice in favor of the intoxicating allure of art.
Yet, the reasons behind my rebellion were a tangled tapestry, and unraveling them now would only give Dax's pack ammunition. Silence, then, became my shield. Until we meet again, faithful reader, perhaps on the precipice of the next chapter. And so, I ran... until my steps were abruptly cut short. A hand clamped down on my arm, a physical manifestation of the fear that had been chasing me.
"No running in the school halls!" the shrill reprimand cracked through the school's usual symphony of laughter and chatter. Hall monitors, the self-appointed guardians of corridor decorum, swarmed like locusts, buzzing with the power of their petty rules. I, unfortunately, had forgotten the sacred edict against sprinting, and now found myself in a sticky jam.
"There's a reason," I stammered, but my apology was drowned out.
"Save it for the principal's office," they droned, their faces masks of bureaucratic boredom. Two of the most beige-colored humans I'd ever encountered, they were the epitome of everything I hated about authority.
Panic gnawed at my insides. Over my shoulder, Daxson's minions loomed, their shadows stretching like predators in the fading light. "It's them!" I burst out, gesturing wildly. "They chased me, and I..."
But the droning continued, an infuriating mantra: "Principal's office. Now." It was unfair.
Technically, this would be my second, or maybe third, or maybe fourth visit. I'd lost count of the principal's office summons, each one a black mark on my already rebellious record.
