Octavia
The moment class ends, I shove my pencils and sketchpad into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head straight for the door.
I need air.
But of course, Markev has other plans.
Heavy footsteps fall in behind mine, matching my pace.
I walk faster, so does he. My hand tightens around the strap of my bag.
This is far too much.
Surely he will not follow me around all day.
I stop abruptly.
He is so close he doesn’t have time to stop.
He crashes into me from behind, the force sending me forward. The world tilts, the floor rushing up to meet me, but before I can hit it, a strong arm hooks around my waist.
I slam into a hard chest.
His chest.
A scent reaches me, warm spice, cedar, and smoke.
And then the psycho’s face drops into my hair, into the hollow of my neck, breathing me in like a deranged man tasting oxygen for the first time.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You smell so intoxicating you could drive a man feral. Vanilla, isn’t it?”
His grip tightens slightly. “I’m going to have to buy whatever it is you use. Wash everything I own in it. Even myself.”
His mouth brushes my ear. “So your scent can settle into my skin the same way you are already embedded in my very being.”
Jesus Christ.
I truly don’t understand the depths of this man’s obsession, or his infuriation with me.
I drive my elbow into his side, hard, as I shove myself forward.
It is like slamming my arm into a brick wall.
I grimace as pain shoots up my arm, and it irritates me even more than his touch.
I whirl around and glare at him. He is staring back, his brows drawn together, his eyes flicking between my arm and my face, looking genuinely concerned.
“Blyad,” he mutters, stepping closer. “Did you hurt your arm?”
He reaches for me before I can move. “Let me see.”
I yank back. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes flick to my hand again, and when he finally meets my gaze, they are pitch black. It takes a second for him to surface from whatever just possessed him, and I am almost certain I hear, low under his breath, you’ll soon beg for my touch.
He glances down the corridor, his jaw tightening. “Let’s go to the infirmary. You need to be seen. Maybe I, fuck… maybe I broke your arm.”
“Stop,” I snap. “Do not follow me.”
He opens his mouth, his eyes hardening on mine, something dangerous settling into his posture. For one brief moment, I am certain he is going to haul me over his shoulder and carry me off like the barbarian I know him to be.
“I’m serious,” I interpose. “Turn around. If I hear you following me again, the next time I look back, it will be with my fist in your face.”
I spin on my heel before he can reply and stride down the corridor.
Three steps.
That is all it takes.
Before his footsteps are behind me again.
I murmur under my breath, “Do not say I didn’t warn you.”
I turn and swing.
My fist connects with his jaw in a satisfying hit. The pain that shoots through my hand? That is decidedly not.
“Oh my—damn it—what are you made of?” I hiss, shaking my throbbing knuckles.
He barely flinches. But I do see the red mark beginning to bloom along the side of his face, and that makes me feel better, if only marginally.
His mouth curves slowly.
Not that I expected the man to cry.
But the second he sees me cradle my hand, the expression vanishes, and something unhinged flickers across his face, shifting from protective to territorial to downright dangerous.
It feels like I am finally seeing the Bratva butcher people whisper about.
Before I can step back, he pulls his hoodie off in one movement.
“What are you doing—”
I don’t get to finish, as my world flips upside down.
He hauls me over his shoulder as though I weigh nothing, throws his hoodie over my arse, how thoughtful of him, and starts walking.
“Put me down!” I yell, pounding his back. “You barbaric beast!”
He ignores me and keeps going.
We barrel down the stairs, out of the building, across the courtyard, my hair hanging loose, all the blood rushing to my skull, my temper boiling with every passing second.
By the time he shoves through the doors of the infirmary, I am seconds away from taking a blade to his spine.
“I need a doctor,” he barks. “Right the fuck now.”
I feel a rush of cold air as a door swings open, and then, finally, I am set down on an examination table.
My vision swims for a second and I steady myself, blinking hard.
He stands in front of me, his arms folded, staring at my hand as though it is a mortal wound.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand.
But the infirmary doctor sweeps in before I can continue, her face creased with confusion.
“What is the emergency? I was told it was, good lord, life or death.”
She looks me over, taking in the fact that I am sitting upright, perfectly conscious, not bleeding, or dying in any capacity.
Then she turns to Markev.
“You said it was… urgent.”
He doesn’t look away from me. “It is. Check her hand. Now.”
The doctor glances at my hand, then lifts her eyes to Markev. “I was attending to a patient who is actually in critical condition. The nurse can look at Miss Bellanti.”
She shakes her head and takes a step back.
The next instant, a blade is pressed to her throat, and she stops dead in her tracks.
“Did I stutter?” the psycho whispers.
The poor woman swallows hard.
“Take a look at her hand. Now,” he continues quietly. “I don’t care if someone in the next room is dying. This,” he gestures to me, “this is the most important person in this building. Hell, on this fucking earth.”
The man is genuinely insane.
We have exchanged perhaps a handful of sentences, after I stabbed him, drugged him, and stole his car, and somehow, instead of revenge, he is obsessed?
The doctor looks between the two of us, clearly bewildered, but she collects herself and steps closer.
“May I see your hand?”
“It is not necessary,” I say.
But she gives me a pointed stare. I give up and extend it.
She examines it carefully, turning it gently.
“It’s not broken,” she says after a moment. “Just bruised and a little swollen. I’ll apply some ointment. But you’re absolutely fine.”
Markev watches the entire time, not taking his eyes off me for even a second.
The moment she finishes, I am off the table in seconds, slipping past him and out the door before he can grab me again.
I head straight towards the cafeteria, which is in the same building.
I don’t acknowledge him, but I know he is following.
As I reach the stairs, voices drift through the air.
I glance to the side.
The Ferrum Syndicate men are leaning against the wall, talking and laughing. They look in my direction as I pass, but in the next second Markev falls into step beside me, blocking their view.
I roll my eyes.
We take the stairs. He stays close, shielding me until I am out of sight, and then he stops.
Good fucking riddance.
I need a moment.
I continue towards the dining hall. Piper approaches from the opposite side, a book tucked beneath her arm. Our eyes meet for a second. She nods in greeting.
Adelaide stands a few steps behind her.
I narrow my eyes.
She smirks.
I do everything in my power not to punch another person this morning. Because every time I see her face, that infuriating little smirk, I relive the moment she had an assassin aiming a rifle at my sister, and I swear I am seconds away from combusting.
I enter the dining hall and look around.
I spot my sister sitting alone at our table. I cross the room and drop into the seat beside her, letting my bag fall to the floor.
I have only had one class, and already my hand throbs, and my temper simmers.
My morning is a goddamn disaster.
And something tells me it is only the beginning.
Because I have the distinct feeling this year is going to be a wild one.