Chapter 21 #2
“You’re a liar, Daisy,” he spits. “Everyone knows Ethan wouldn’t do that to you.
You just regretted putting out, and now you’re dragging a dead man’s name through the mud.
” He angles his head towards Talia, still keeping his eyes firmly pinned on me.
“You’re just as much of a slut as your best friend now, though. Congrats.”
He winks, like this is just one big joke to him.
Like my life is nothing more than a joke.
He walks away laughing before I can muster up the courage to respond, rejoining his pack of wolves.
Their cackles echo across the field as they throw glares in my direction.
My ears ring, my face is hot, and my chest hurts.
The shame crashes into me as my palms begin to sweat, my hands trembling.
Everyone’s staring now, absolutely everyone.
, even the football coach and the cheer coach. This is never going to end, is it?
Ezra kneels beside me, gentle and tender as ever as he strokes a hand up my arm. “Daisy?”
Talia’s seething, pacing back and forth in front of me. “I’m going to kill him.” She tries to run after Jason, but Ezra catches her first, wrapping his arms around her waist, physically lifting her off the ground. Her legs kick furiously as she screams at him to let go.
“He’s not worth it,” he growls, his usually cheery voice cracking under the weight of his own rage. “He’s not fucking worth it, Talia.”
My skin continues to prickle with the weight of a hundred eyes pinned to me. My throat feels unbearably tight. “I… I have to go to work,” I whisper.
“Daze—” Talia starts, reaching for me.
“I’m fine,” I say, gently shaking my head with a smile suddenly plastered across my face as I frantically blink away the tears forming. “Honestly, I have to go.”
I leave, not daring to run in case it draws any more attention to me—if that was at all possible.
I grab my stuff, ignoring the looks in the locker room, deciding not to change out of my uniform.
I’ll deal with that at work. I just need to get out.
I need to disappear before the sob building in my chest explodes out of me.
The coffee shop is quiet when I arrive, and the moment I step into the staff bathroom, I collapse down onto the closed toilet lid, my bag falling to the floor, pens scattering everywhere.
I sit, shoulders shaking, tears tracking down my cheeks, painting wet trails on my skin.
I curl in on myself, elbows to knees, hands covering my face.
How is this still happening, haven’t I suffered enough?
I choke on a sob, the world feeling a little too heavy for me to handle all over again.
I’m falling apart.
Thirty minutes into my shift, and I’ve burned myself three times on the milk steamer—my wrists are literally blistering—I dropped a coffee cup during a rush, and I’ve had to remake two orders. I’m clumsy, I’m distracted, and I’m absolutely unravelling at the seams.
An hour into my shift, I’m slowly managing to get my shit together enough to make orders correctly, thinking maybe I’ll make it through the rest of the night without messing up, when she walks in.
Phoebe and her army of clones who think giggling louder than necessary makes them relevant and not just annoying as hell.
I glance up, hearing their annoying screeches echoing through the cafe, and it suddenly feels like the air is thick.
She stops dead in her tracks, arm shooting out to halt the girls behind her.
“Ew. I’m not being served by that lying whore,” she says, loud enough that every head in the cafe turns to look at her, then me. Silence settles in quickly as the leeches surrounding me soak in the drama. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
My heart plummets into my stomach. The one place I thought I could just get on with life without drama. How naive of me. I force a shaky inhale, closing my eyes and running a hand down my face. Just as I reopen them, my manager appears beside me, his mouth in a sharp line. Shit.
“Daisy,” he says, pulling me gently to the back, out of sight of the customers.
“I believe you, what you went through. I do. Ethan was an asshole. But...” He sighs, dragging his fingers through his hair.
“I can’t have this kind of drama in the cafe.
Customers are leaving. Not to mention you’ve been flaky, missing a lot of shifts.
And now this.” He gestures to where Phoebe was standing just moments ago.
“No, please—” My voice cracks. “That wasn’t my fault. I’ll fix it. I’ll do double shifts. I’ll—”
“I’m sorry.” He says, shaking his head. “I have to let you go.”
It hits like a punch, straight to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault that my police report had been leaked. It wasn’t my fault I was raped. It wasn’t my fault that people were choosing to side with a dead rapist over me. So why am I being punished?
I nod. I don’t argue any further; there’s no point.
I grab my bag, my limbs moving on autopilot as I hang up my apron for the last time.
By the time I manage to burst out of the cafe door, I’m already sobbing.
The snow outside is falling in heavy, wet clumps, instantly soaking through my hoodie.
The wind slices through me as I begin to run, as fast as I possibly can.
My feet pound the pavement, my chest heaving as staring faces pass by in a blur.
I stumble through my apartment door and slam it shut, my breath coming out of me in broken, sobbing pants.
My bag crashes to the floor, and I finally break.
I scream. It’s raw and guttural, my soul seeming to tear in two at the sound that pours out of me.
The kind of scream that rips through your chest, that leaves your throat shredded.
I grab the nearest thing to me and throw it as hard as I can.
I watch as my sunshine mug flies and smashes into the wall, exploding into a thousand tiny pieces.
“KORITHAX!” I shriek, my voice cracking. “KORITHAX, I FUCKING SUMMON YOU!”
Nothing. Of course, when I actually want him to turn up, he doesn’t come.
I spin, tears blurring my vision as I desperately grab my phone from my bag with frantic fingers.
I begin searching the internet like a madwoman.
I pace back and forth as I read creepy forums, shady websites, anything and everything I can find that has Korithax’s name attached to it.
I don’t care, I just need to find something. Anything that will make him appear.
Eventually, I find a method that swears to work. One that didn’t need candles or incantations or fancy herbs and spices. Just blood, his sigil, and a summoning circle. Perfect.
I shove my rug aside and dash into the kitchen to grab the sharpest knife I can find.
I move back into the tiny space in my living room and, without hesitating, I drop to my knees and drag the knife down my arm, whimpering at the pain as the blood wells thick and bright, dripping down to my wrist. I steady myself as I go lightheaded from the adrenaline, then dip my fingers into the crimson fluid, drawing the shaky summoning circle the best I can onto the wooden floor, his sigil in the centre.
I glance at the image on my phone, then slowly move my bloodied fingers.
An inverted triangle with thorned tendrils curling around the edges of the shape.
A spiralled serpent in the middle, consuming its own tail.
Above the triangle sits a crescent moon, with a vertical slash through it and one across it.
The bottom, a blood drop. I squeeze at the cut on my forearm, draining more blood from my body as I sketch out the image as perfectly as I possibly can.
My fingers burn as I finish the last of the sigil, shaking as I look down at the bloodied mess on my floor.
I take a slow, deep inhale, anger still vibrating through my core as I grit my teeth. This better work.
“Korithax!” I whisper. “I summon you!” Nothing again. “Korithax!” I cry louder, voice utterly broken.
I sit there, bleeding, panting through gritted teeth as my chest heaves, waiting. Hoping that the Prince of Hell will answer my broken, bleeding call.