Chapter 9 Amara #3
I think of Julian, of the way he looked at me last night. Of the way my body responded, the way I was dripping with need for him, long before I asked him to fuck me.
Isolde must sense my mood. She puts a hand on my knee. “You can talk about it, you know. Whatever it is.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure where to start.
Isolde just waits. There’s no judgment in her eyes, only patience.
“I think I like him,” I say at last. “Julian.”
Isolde grins. “Of course you do. You’d be insane not to.”
“But I’m scared,” I admit.
She nods, understanding. “He’s a lot. But so are you. That’s why it works.”
I don’t know if I believe her, but it feels good to say it out loud.
Eve returns, cheeks flushed, hair a tangled halo around her face. She collapses into the booth next to me, drapes an arm over my shoulders.
“Having fun?” she slurs, already a little drunk.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it.
She leans in close, her lips just brushing my ear. “You look so hot right now. You could get anyone you wanted.”
I blush, but the compliment feels like a shield.
“Let’s go dance some more!” Eve squeals, dragging me up to the dance floor.
It’s even more packed than it was before.
I lose Eve somewhere between the bathroom and the bar.
One minute her hand is on my wrist, tugging me through the press of bodies, and the next she’s swallowed by the crowd, a flash of black mesh and red lipstick vanishing into the smoke.
I call her name, but my voice gets eaten alive by the music.
I don’t panic. The freedom is still new enough to taste sweet.
I make my way to the bar, pushing past a knot of girls in vinyl skirts, then wait for a gap to order.
My mouth is dry, my head light from too much dancing and not enough water.
I feel the press of eyes on me—hungry, curious, indifferent—but I don’t care.
For the first time, I know exactly who I am.
I get my drink—something blue, something that tastes like sugar and summer—and turn to scan the club for Eve.
That’s when he appears.
The man from the bar, the one who stared earlier, materializes at my side.
He’s close, too close, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of my dress.
His hair is dark and slicked back, his eyes are dark, eyeing me like a slab of meat.
He wears a leather jacket with nothing underneath.
The smell of whiskey and sweat rolls off him.
“You look lost,” he says, voice rough. His eyes flick over me, up, down, up again. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he sizes me up, lingering on my curves.
“I’m not,” I say, forcing confidence into the words. “Just waiting for my friend.”
He grins, showing too many teeth. “Your friend must not care much. Been watching you for a while now.”
I don’t reply. I take a long pull of my drink, hoping he’ll get the message.
Instead, his hand snakes around my waist, fingers splaying over my hip. He leans in, breath hot on my ear.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be alone,” he whispers.
I freeze. I want to shove him away, but my body won’t listen. The memory of Julian’s hands—violent, certain, inescapable—paralyzes me. I hate how fast my mind goes from here to him.
This feels wrong.
The man takes my silence as permission. His grip tightens, thumb pressing into the bruise Julian left last night. He slides his hand lower, fingers curling up the inside of my thigh, brazen, careless.
I jerk back, but he’s strong. He pulls me flush against him, his mouth crashing onto mine. His lips are chapped, his tongue wet and invasive. He tastes like cheap liquor and smokes.
For a second, I choke on panic. I claw at his wrist, nails digging, but he laughs into the kiss and traps my hands between our bodies.
“Don’t fight,” he says, and it’s almost bored. “You’ll like it.”
I try to scream, but the noise dies in my throat.
The weight vanishes. Suddenly, I’m free, stumbling backward into a wall of bodies. I catch my balance and look up.
Julian.
He’s not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to want him, but the sight of him—shirt open, hair wild, eyes blacker than I’ve ever seen—unlocks something primal.
He grabs the man by the throat, hoisting him off his feet. The stranger’s face contorts, veins bulging at his temple. Julian slams him into the nearest wall, then again, and again, until a crack spiders through the cheap drywall. The music falters, clubgoers parting to make space for the violence.
Julian leans in, his voice a hiss: “Touch her again and I’ll cut off your fucking hands.”
The man spits in his face.
Julian’s fist connects with his jaw, the crack so loud the people near us scatter. Blood sprays across the wall, dots my bare legs. The man sags, but Julian doesn’t let him fall.
He punches him again, and again, until the man’s nose is pulp and his teeth litter the floor like pearls. The crowd recoils, some filming on their phones, others shouting, but none daring to intervene.
It takes three bouncers to pull Julian off. He fights them, teeth bared, chest heaving, eyes locked on me the whole time. The man is unconscious, slumped on the ground, face unrecognizable.
The bouncers drag Julian toward the exit. He resists, but the whole way out, his eyes never leave mine.
I stand there, stunned, blood spattering my thighs, my lips still burning from the stranger’s kiss.
Someone hands me a napkin. I dab at my mouth, but it doesn’t help. I feel raw, exposed, like the skin has been peeled from my bones.
Eve appears at my side, breathless. “Jesus, are you okay?”
I nod, but I don’t trust my voice.
She surveys the mess, then pulls me close, shielding me from the stares. “We have to go. Cops will be here any second.”
We slip out the back, down an alley slick with rain and broken glass. I don’t remember the walk to the truck, just the feel of Eve’s arm around my shoulders and the sound of sirens in the distance.
Dahlia’s waiting, engine running. She takes one look at me and curses under her breath, then peels away from the curb.
No one speaks for the first few minutes. Isolde holds my hand, thumb stroking the back in slow circles. Eve lights a cigarette with shaking fingers, then passes it to me. I inhale, cough, but the burn steadies me.
Dahlia finally breaks the silence. “Colt and Bam have Jules, they’re headed to your dorm.”
It’s not a joke, but for some reason a laugh escapes me anyway.
We ride in silence. The city fades behind us, replaced by the slow, rolling darkness of the outskirts. The adrenaline wears off, replaced by a deep, shuddering exhaustion.
We reach the dorm. Eve helps me out of the truck, arms steady around my waist.
Inside, the halls are empty. The clock above the common room says 3:17.
Eve walks me to my door, then waits while I fumble with the key.
“You’re safe now,” she says.
I nod, step inside, and close the door behind me.
For a long time, I just stand there, staring at the dark. I expect to cry, but no tears come. Instead, I feel a slow, consuming heat build in my chest.
I peel off the dress, toss it on the floor. My legs are streaked with blood. I wipe it away with a towel, watching the red smear and then disappear.
I look at myself in the mirror.
My lips are swollen, my hair wild, my eyes huge. I look like a girl who could survive anything.
I think of Julian, of the way he fought for me, of the promise in his eyes.
I climb into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
I close my eyes and think of teeth and blood and the feeling of being wanted so fiercely it could kill me.
Then I’m interrupted by the sound of tapping at my window.
I cross the room and slide it open. Julian is on the fire escape, shirtless, knuckles raw and bloody.
He doesn’t ask permission.
He climbs through, gathers me up, and presses his mouth to mine.
It’s iron and salt and the memory of fear. Of being protected. Like a dark angel.
But I kiss him back, hard.
Because finally, I understand:
To belong to a monster is to become one.
And I am ravenous.