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"Mark my words, Daxson," I spat, each syllable laced with venom. "After that football charade, I'll make every damn effort to avoid your shadow." My threat, however, seemed to bounce off him like a pebble against granite. Why didn't the fear flicker in his eyes?
"And I, my sweet tormentor," he countered, his voice a silken trap, "will spend every waking moment weaving myself into your tapestry." He listed my havens with an infuriating ease - the library's hushed embrace, the vibrant chaos of art class, the earthy scent of the school garden, the melody of music classrooms, the sterile familiarity of the classroom, the sun-dappled shores of the lake. He knew my every nook and cranny, a fact that scraped at my soul.
A cocktail of emotions churned within me - fear, defiance, a tremor of vulnerability I couldn't let him glimpse. These spaces, my Rosedale sanctuaries, were supposed to be my escape from judging eyes. Now, Daxson my relentless stalker, had cracked their walls. Shocking, isn't it, dear reader? But perhaps the most shocking thing is that I, the girl who craved nothing but solitude, couldn't help but wonder: what if this twisted game of hide-and-seek... was exactly what I needed?
Panic clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down, refusing to let him see my vulnerability. "These," I hissed, my voice trembling ever so slightly, "were my escapes. My breaths of air in this suffocating cage you call Rosedale."
He laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the almost empty hallway. "Escapes, you say? Darling, they're just stepping stones to where I'll find you." His eyes, dark and fathomless, held a chilling promise most especially the name he classified me as. "This," he murmured, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from my face, "is just the beginning."
"And don't think your neighborhood is off-limits, darling," Dax drawled, his voice slipping from smooth to a serrated edge. My heart skipped a beat, a hummingbird trapped in a cage of sudden fear. He knew my address, a secret I guarded jealously. My stomach churned. Tresa, the blabbermouth of an ex, must have spilled it. Who knew what else she'd shared, especially that one buried secret?
Despite the sweet nothings he whispered in my ear and the way his hand rested gently on my shoulder, sending shivers down my spine, I couldn't shake the image of him kissing Tresa just moments before. Confusion swirled within me; I had believed him when he said he was single. Now, I felt a pang of judgment, questioning why I should even care. After all, I hadn't expected anything substantial from someone like Dax.
His unpredictable nature was both captivating and unsettling. I couldn't tell if he was someone I could trust. The thought of fleeing from him, from this situation, felt like the only option, for now.
The story of "him and me" ended here, at least for the time being. Only heaven knew when I might change my mind.
Perhaps I was being overly dramatic, but I knew I needed to distance myself from Dax. I couldn't afford to pay him any attention, no matter how tempting it might be. This was the advice I gave myself, and it was what I intended to do.
Although, his words, also, laced with a barbed amusement. He knew where I lived, knew my haunts, knew things he shouldn't. Was it just the thrill of the chase, or was there something else, something more possessive lurking beneath his surface? The thought sent a tremor through me, a flicker of fear I quickly masked with a defiant glare.
Chapter Fifteen
Dax
One hour later...
Eyes glued to the pages, Skye was a universe away. Her nose, buried in a book bigger than her hands, seemed a shield against the roar of the crowd and, more importantly, against me. I'd asked her here, to my football practice, expecting the usual cheerleader treatment. Tresa, my ex, would have been all fire and fury on the sidelines, a hurricane in pink and gold. But Skye… she was a silent storm, her stillness a stark contrast to the manic energy of the field.
Frustration gnawed at me. I wanted her gaze, not that damned book. Wanted her fingers tangled in mine, not gripping the worn leather of her backpack. Even the way she crossed her legs, tucked away and self-contained, was a silent defiance. My jersey, a symbol of my dominance, felt hollow against the ache in my chest.
The jersey felt like a straitjacket, every pass a fumble fueled by her indifference. The bleachers were a kaleidoscope of cheering girls, but the only face I craved was lost in a world of ink and paper. Not my girlfriend, not yet, but the target of my most audacious game: winning her heart.
Focus, Dax. Focus on the game, they say. But the only play I cared about was unfolding in the bleachers, a silent battle for her attention.
The other girls, presumed girlfriends of my teammates, were loud, their cheers echoing like hollow bells. I wanted Skye's voice, a melody just for me, not lost in the cacophony.
Six goals. Six damn goals, tattooed across the scoreboard like a victory war cry. The cheers echoed in my ears, but all I heard was the rustle of turning pages in the corner of the bleachers. There she was, Skye, swallowed whole by her book, a fortress of ink and paper against the sun-drenched field. My teammates slapped my back, celebrating, but I felt like a hollow trophy, gleaming but empty.
Two hours later, the sweat dried, the cheers faded. I peeled off the jersey, the fabric whispering against my skin, a stark contrast to the quiet crackle of her book. I wanted to rip that damn paper world open, drag her out into the sunlight, into my orbit. Other girls, moths drawn to a flame, flickered around the edges of my vision, but they were just dust motes in the sun compared to her.
Frustration gnawed at me, a bitter pill I couldn't swallow. I crossed the field, jersey dangling like a discarded crown, and stopped beside her. A strand of hair, sun-kissed and wild, brushed my hand as I reached for it. But she didn't flinch, didn't look up, the book a shield against my touch. My victory tasted like ashes in my mouth.
As I tenderly grazed my fingers through her silky strands, awaiting a reaction, an impulsive urge surged within me. Carefully, I chose to give her hair a slight tug—not too forceful, for fear of alienating her completely. Astoundingly, my impromptu action proved effective. As her tendrils slipped through my palm, slick with her scented hair oil, I remained unperturbed. Every bit of her, including her undivided attention, was all I yearned for, despite the frustration it caused.
"What the fuck, Dax," she exclaimed, her words stumbling as her gaze locked onto mine, lingering on my sculpted, sweat-drenched chest. Gripping her soft, curly brown hair tightly, the only way to demand her undivided attention, I watched as her eyes immediately sparkled and a blush crept up her cheeks. Despite her quick effort to compose herself, her glasses slipped slightly on the bridge of her nose. I wasn't willing for her to look away; I wanted her focused solely on me, on my near divine appearance, and nothing else. Every fiber of my being yearned for her undivided attention, not the lingering stares of other female students who took pleasure in gawking at me. Skye, wrapped up in her innocent nature, remained oblivious to my intentions. My desire for her consumed me, driving me to pursue her relentlessly.
"What on earth are you reading, Skye?" I questioned, casting a surreptitious glance at the book she held in her hands.
From its cover, I assumed it was likely a clichéd romance novel or a predictable retelling of Beauty and the Beast. In an attempt to assert my dominance, I casually reached out, gripping a handful of her hair as she squirmed, her delicate hands proving to be no match for my strength.
"Dax, for heaven's sake, release my hair!" she cried out.
"Address my question!" I demanded, determined to redirect her attention back to the matter at hand rather than allowing her to evade it.
"It's a novel that I'm reading, what else!" she finally responded to me with irritation evident in her voice. Despite already knowing the answer, I just needed her to acknowledge me and respond. I craved her love, respect, and loyalty, all while taking pride in her, but Skye, being Skye, always fell short in providing any of those things.
"And why were you engrossed in this piece of shit instead of paying attention to me while I was playing?" I questioned, maintaining my grip on her soft, curly hair.
