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“Come on, Ever,” Robbie coaxes, his tone low and smooth like silk. His eyes try to meet mine, but I dodge the look. He’s playing a game I don’t want any part of.
“Seriously, you need some fun,” Stanley insists, stepping closer, his hand brushing over my bum.
“Not tonight.”
“Don’t be a pussy. We’re talking an epic night.”
I shake my head, wondering what I have to do to get these guys out of my sphere. “Not interested,” I state, louder now, hoping my firmness masks the uneasy tremor I feel inside. They have to take the hint, they just have to. No one is helping me. If anything, they’re egging them on.
“You should feel special,” Stanley murmurs, close to my ear.
“Pass,” I retort, pushing past them, and they let me go, but I should’ve known better. The air’s ripe with the stink of their arrogance, and my gut’s doing somersaults as they close in again. A suffocating feeling creeps up my spine, their circling forms boxing me into an invisible pen right smack in the middle of the quad with everyone watching.
“Look, I said no.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine—it’s a whisper shouted over a cliff, lost before it ever really had a chance to be heard.
“Aw, come on, Ever. Don’t be such a prude,” Eric jeers, his words slapping against my last nerve. They’re too close now, too fucking close. Their laughter is the sort that says they’re not used to being denied anything—least of all by a girl like me.
I want to scream, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. I won’t.
“Ever looks scared,” Robbie starts, but gets cut off by a snort from Stanley.
“Scared? Nah, she just doesn’t know how to have fun.”
“Trust me, Ever, you’ll love it,” Eric adds, leaning in closer than comfort allows.
The panic is ready to claw its way out of my throat, when two more guys join the groups surrounding me.
“Fuck off,” one of them snarls, and I take a sudden step back as I recognise the Duke of KnightsGate, Alistair Gaight, stepping up to my defence. I’ve never even spoken to him before.
The guy beside him is silent but screaming volumes. Damien Wraith, I think. His stance is a wall, unyielding and cold. They don’t need to say much; their presence alone speaks a language of power that these second-years clearly understand but are stupid enough to challenge.
“Fuck off, Alistair,” Stanley spits out, his voice full of bravado or arrogance, I can’t tell which. But even as he says it, his eyes dart nervously between Alistair and Damien, like he’s second-guessing his choice to play the tough guy.
“Or what?” Alistair challenges with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. Those icy blues are all business, and I realise that beneath the designer clothes and polished exterior lies a predator. He doesn’t need to throw a punch; his presence alone is a weapon.
“Or we’ll—“ Stanley starts, but he’s cut off by Damien’s quiet, bone-chilling chuckle.
“Try us,” Damien says, but it’s not a threat; it’s a dare.
The air is thick with tension, my earlier fear replaced by a strange sense of security standingbehind these two imposing figures. I don’t know them, but right now, they’re the shield between me and the bullies who have made me their target today.
The first punch flies, swift and brutal, shocking me at the suddenness with which it was thrown. Alistair’s fist connects with Stanley’s jaw, the sound a sickening crack that ricochets through my bones as my mouth drops open.
He stumbles back, surprise etched on his face before it contorts into rage. “Fucking cunt!” he yells, swinging back wildly.
Damien moves then, a shadow slipping through twilight. His own strike is precise, a coiled spring of pent-up energy releasing in a devastating uppercut. Stanley crumples like a marionette with cut strings.
“I said fuck off,” Alistair growls, standing over the downed guy. His voice is ice, his stance unyielding. “I dislike having to repeat myself.” He crouches down and grabs Stanley’s shirt in his fist. “If I have to say it a third time, your mother won’t be able to find all the pieces to bury you in the family vault.”
Gulping at the chilling threat, I stumble back.
What the fuck is this?
But I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Go find someone else to fuck with,” Damien says, his tone so cold it could break ice.
The second-years scramble away, leaving behind a trail of wounded pride and muttered threats.
