Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ava
God help me.
I stare up into his green eyes, hating the fact that he can read my body better than I can read my own thoughts. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to unravel me, how to pull apart the pieces I’ve worked so hard to encase in steel.
My throat is still caged in his hand, but it’s not fear that makes my knees my body tremble. It’s need. Ugly, selfish, fucked-up need.
But I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
I tilt my chin up as far as I can, and meet his gaze head-on. My voice is hoarse when it finally scrapes over my vocal cords. “You might know my body,” I whisper, anger seeping into every word. “But when it comes to the girl inside here—” I point to my chest. “—you don’t know shit.”
Because if he did know me—really knew me—he’d see how close I am to breaking. And I can’t afford to break. Not here. Not with him. I just need to hold it together until this is all over. Then we can go our separate ways again.
Forever, this time.
“I’m tempted to fuck you so hard, bury my cock so deep inside you, that you forget anyone else on this godforsaken planet exists but me.”
“If you want to fuck, then fine. Do it,” I bite out angrily. “Fuck me right now, so we can get it over with.”
I’m seething, but my threat is all bravado. If he calls my bluff and actually fucks me, then I’m screwed. Literally. Because I know myself. I’ve always had a weakness for Jackson McKnight, and if I allow myself to get sucked into his orbit again, it’ll devour me.
There’s a firm knock on the door.
“I’m fucking busy,” Jackson calls out, hand still wrapped around my throat.
A deep voice filters through the door. “Your uncle is downstairs. He needs to talk to you.”
“Fuck,” Jackson breathes, his eyes tracing my face, like he’s considering how much time he has. Can he make good on his threat and fuck me before going downstairs? “Tell him I’ll be right there,” he calls back.
When his hand finally drops away, the relief is so overwhelming it leaves me boneless. Then, without a word, he’s gone. Once he’s left the room, I slump forward, my hand flying to my throat as I drag in several gulps of air.
God, how did things get so complicated so quickly?
Two days ago, I was just living my life—working, scraping by, paying bills with money I don’t have, then coming home to the people I love…
It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine. The life I built from nothing, piece by fragile piece. The life I fought tooth and nail to hold onto. And I’m not about to let Jackson storm in and knock it all down, just because he can.
I walk into the bathroom to clean up, then realize I have no clean clothes here. All I have is my Isca uniform, a bra, and a (now) drenched pair of panties. Jackson was clever enough to stalk and kidnap me, but as usual, he’s neglected the finer details of my captivity. Like clothes and toiletries.
So fucking typical.
Using a bar of soap I find in the shower, I strip off my clothes and wash up just enough to feel human again.
Then I wander into Jackson’s massive walk-in closet.
It’s stuffed to the brim with designer clothes.
Seriously, just one of his T-shirts probably costs more than I make in a week.
I grab a pair of gray sweats, pull them on, and roll the waistband a few times to cinch them tight.
For the shirt, I grab the priciest one I can find, find some scissors in the desk drawer, and hack the shirt into a crop top. Not perfect, but it’ll do.
At some point while I was knocked out, Jackson brought breakfast up.
The eggs and bacon are cold now, so I avoid those, but I gulp down a small glass of orange juice.
Then I pluck a blueberry muffin off the serving tray and pop bits of it into my mouth as I wander around the room, snooping through Jackson’s shit.
He has several academic books on history, and I wonder if he’s working toward a history degree at ExU. When we dated, he devoured any book he could on Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire. There was something about power, legacy, and control that seemed to fascinate him.
I’m rifling through his nightstand when something catches my eye.
At first glance, it looks like trash, just a random coffee sleeve.
Then I see it, my lipstick smeared across the cardboard, my name and number scrawled in my own handwriting.
A week after his mom introduced us, he asked for it.
I remember every detail of that moment. I’d just come home from school.
I had a chai latte in one hand, a pen in my pocket, and no clue that giving him my number would change my entire life…
And he kept it.
I swallow past the emotion that rises in my throat, toss the sleeve back in the nightstand, and snap the drawer shut, like I’m shutting out the past.
Damn. I need to get out of this room.
If I try to escape a second time, Jackson will be furious, but honestly, at this point, who cares? Besides, I’m not escaping. I just need a distraction. So I slip out of the bedroom and head downstairs.
In the kitchen, people are swarming. People who weren’t here just a few minutes ago, during my first escape attempt. Several cases of soda, and every kind of beer and liquor imaginable.
I grab a bottle of root beer, twist the cap off, and take a swig. It tastes…weird. I glance at the label. No wonder. It’s an organic artisanal soda from a local company. Jesus. What’s wrong with regular soda?
Activity swirls around me, and I watch for a minute before finally catching the attention of someone walking by—a girl with dark, wavy hair and bright eyes.
“Hey, what’s all this for?” I ask.
“The beach party tomorrow night,” she says, like I should know what she’s talking about. And if I were a society member, I guess I would know.
“Oh. Right,” I say. “The beach party.”
The girl drifts away, and I wander down the hallway to explore the old mansion.
I’ve only ever heard Jackson’s stories about Rush House.
I’ve never been inside. But it’s every bit as ancient and ostentatious as I imagined it would be.
Every wall, every polished surface, is absolutely dripping with old money.
I’m studying one of the giant portraits in the entryway when a burst of laughter drifts from a hallway to my right.
I follow it and step into what looks like a normal living room.
Well, normal is relative. The room is massive, all sleek modern art that’s a stark contrast to the old Victorian vibe that’s spilling from every other corner of the mansion.
A sprawling couch takes up the center, facing a wall-sized TV, and off to the side, there’s a pool table that probably costs more than my whole apartment.
And the space is packed, several people crammed onto the couch yelling at a game that’s playing on the TV, a couple of guys battling it out at the pool table, and others too busy shoving their tongues down each other’s throats to notice anything else.
It’s the middle of the day, but whatever.
No judgment. Get it when you can, I guess.
When I walk in, no one even glances at me, which is a good sign. It means they don’t know who I am, and that I shouldn’t be here. There’s no space on the couch, so I grab a beer from the coffee table, pop the tab, and lean against the wall.
I’m half-watching the soccer game on the TV when some guy sidles up next to me. He’s cute with brown hair, glasses, and a set of dimples that probably get him a lot of ass.
“Hey,” he says. “You’re new.”
Welp. Spotted already.
“You’re very observant,” I reply, taking a drink.
“I’m Brian.”
“Ava.”
“Oh, like Christian’s consort,” he says, then pauses, like he’s just realized something. “I mean, before Wyn…obviously.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I have no idea who that is.”
“Right,” he says with an embarrassed smile. “Christian had a consort. Her name is Ava, too.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not important.”
It’s a pretty common name. It probably popped up in some baby book the year I was born. There were two other girls named Ava in my grade in high school. It got pretty confusing.
“Cool. Lucky her,” I reply. I mean, what else am I supposed to say? Then something occurs to me. “Hey, do all the Sacred Sons have consorts?”
“Yeah. Except for Ash. He joined after this year’s Preference Ceremony.”
I tilt my head. “Preference Ceremony…?”
With a flirtatious laugh, he leans against the wall, facing me, blocking my view of the TV. “At the start of every academic year, all the girls in the Burning Crown are gathered up—we call them Debs, short for ‘debutante’ or something—and each Sacred Son chooses one.”
I glance down at my beer can and trace the rim with the tip of my finger, the question burning in my throat. “So, um, does Jackson have a consort?”
“Yeah, well, he did. But I think she got kicked out a few weeks ago for bad grades or something, and had to go back to…Michigan, I think?”
“Ah,” I say, nodding slowly, like that information didn’t just send a ricochet of relief shooting straight through me. “Interesting.”
A group of girls comes rushing over to us, all carbon copies of each other—tiny waists, long hair, short shorts, and bikini tops. Not gonna lie, I feel like a troll in my sweatpants and hacked-up t-shirt, but…listen, I’ve been drugged and kidnapped. It is what it is.
The blond girl latches onto Brian’s arm, her glossy smile aimed right at him. “There’s a frat dayger on the other side of campus. Kegs, a DJ, the whole deal. You coming?”
Brian glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “Wanna join?”
“Oh, um. What’s a dayger?” I ask, completely lost. I don’t know the college lingo. I’d always dreamed of going to university after high school, but it was a dream my bank account couldn’t make a reality. Maybe one day.
“It’s a day party.”
I nod, thinking through Jackson’s edict that I not escape—Try to escape, and I swear to God, Ava, I will hunt you down, drag you back to my bed, and chain you there if I have to…
But if the party is on the ExU campus, then I’m still technically on the premises. So, loophole. Plus, it’d be a distraction, at least.
There’s just one problem.
“I don’t have shoes,” I say.
The blond pinches her brows and glances down at my feet. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Eight.”
She holds her index finger up, then disappears for about thirty seconds. When she returns, she hands me a pair of designer flip-flops. “Becca had an extra pair. She said you could borrow them.”
“Oh, thanks.”
I slip them on and follow the group as they make their way through the winding campus paths, toward the sounds of thumping bass and laughter.
The party is in full swing at a converted residence on the edge of campus.
Inside, bodies press together on the makeshift dance floor while others cluster around kegs and fold-out tables loaded with red solo cups.
For the first time in days, I feel almost normal. Like I’m just a college girl at a party, another anonymous face in the crowd. I’m finally free, even if it’s just for a couple of hours...