Chapter 19
Alani
The thrill of knowing he’s here is a living, breathing thing in my chest.
I’m an hour from campus, looking for trouble, and he’s somehow found me.
I grin as I think of all the danger he brings. His obsession is the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt. It’s more addictive than the alcohol rushing through my veins.
The look in his eyes is murderous when I catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder as I walk deeper into the darkness. It’s thrilling in a way I never thought I’d like.
I bite down a scream when he grabs me, trying to fight a smile when he spins me around to face him.
He doesn’t say a word, and the giddiness quickly fades as his eyes dart between mine. It feels like a test, like he’s analyzing me in an attempt to figure me out. The scrutiny scratches at my skin, the judgment something I could probably handle from anyone else but him.
He’s danger and darkness, having a hint of evil in his eyes that I’m certain isn’t just a defense mechanism.
His ability to tie four people to chairs without blinking an eye says a lot about the man.
He doesn’t conform to society’s norms. He doesn’t give a shit about what others think.
I want to be like him. I want to be able to walk around, not giving a shit about anything, without having to drink to get myself there.
I want to be able to shut off the voices in my head that are always worrying about others.
Ayla has Nash so there’s no point in caring about how she’s doing.
The people at school, other than Blakely, haven’t even checked on me.
Blaine’s attempt earlier probably had more to do with him being jealous on some level that Donavan was spotted in my dorm than anything else.
“What are you doing here?” I snap, craving the grip of his hand on my face like he’s done so many times before.
He grabs me, but his hands are clamped on my biceps, and he doesn’t attempt to pull me against his body.
I try to wiggle away from him, but he’s just too strong.
“What the fuck did you take?” he growls, his eyes darting between mine.
“Nothing,” I lie, attempting once again to get away from him.
The man probably kills people for a living. What right does he have to question the tab of ecstasy I took in the back of the Uber?
“You’re putting yourself in fucking danger,” he hisses through his teeth.
“Ayla lived her life worried about danger, and she still got hurt,” I spit at him.
He doesn’t even look at the guy that comes walking in our direction.
“Nice,” the guys says, his own voice sounding slurred, but it could very easily be the shit in my system. “Can I get a taste when you’re done with her?”
I keep my eyes on Donavan, watching his jaw flex in irritation.
I roll my head on my shoulders and look toward the guy. He’s absolutely disgusting with dirty clothes and a stench coming off of him that tells me he probably hasn’t seen the inside of a real shower in weeks.
“I was hoping to get railed by both of you at the same time,” I tell him.
“Nice,” the guy says again, rubbing his hands together as if he’s just won a prize.
I nearly crumple to the sidewalk when Donavan releases me without warning.
“Remember this is your fault,” he tells me. In the next breath, he has a knife in his hand.
He moves forward, seating the thing fully into the guy’s chest. The sound the blade makes when he pulls it from the guy’s body is sickening, but all I can do is stare as the other man crumples to the ground, his eyes wide and already lifeless.
Donavan bends, wiping the knife on the guy’s filthy clothing as if he didn’t just murder him for no reason.
Tears run down my face, like I’m only now realizing how damn dangerous he actually is. My head shakes as if I’m trying to understand my reality, but I can’t manage words when he grips my arm and drags me further into the darkness.
By the time he’s shoving me toward the passenger side of his truck, I’ve convinced myself that it didn’t happen. People don’t just kill people in the middle of nowhere with no warning. My first time taking drugs will obviously be my last because I can’t handle imagining stuff like that.
“Let go of me,” I hiss.
“Gladly,” he returns, opening the door and shoving me inside.
My head dips, and when I lift it, we’re already moving, his truck sailing past street signs and flickering lamp posts.
“Where are we going?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
His fingers are gripping the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
I clear my throat, considering I didn’t say it loud enough. I repeat myself, but it still doesn’t draw an answer from him.
“You’re being childish.”
He scoffs.
“You’re not my fucking father. You have no right to drag me to places because you don’t like how I’m acting. I’m not a child.”
He still stares straight ahead, only looking over his shoulder to merge on the interstate.
“Why are you even here? You said you were done following me around. You’re ruining my fucking high.”
We’re passing cars on the interstate like they’re standing still. As much as it should scare me, it doesn’t. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I stopped caring if I lived or died, but I feel weightless with that worry gone.
I’m warm, my skin feeling like I have a million ants crawling up and down my arms, but when I reach for the buttons for the air conditioner, I realize it’s already on full blast. I turn one of the vents some to get better airflow in my direction.
“Was it X?” he asks.
“I’m so hot,” I complain. “My skin feels alive.”
I run my hands over my body, hyper focused on how the attention sends a thrill up my spine.
“You need to stop,” he grumbles. “Put your fucking seatbelt back on.”
“It’s too tight. Everything is too tight.”
“Swear to God, Alani.”
I lift the hem of my shirt, angling the air from the vent onto my thighs.
“I’m hot.”
In a fit of madness, I reach across the seat and run my hand up his jeans-clad thigh, stopping when I brush over his erection.
“You seem to be hot, too.”
I press my lips to his neck, needing his mouth more than I ever have before.
He refuses me again, turning his head when I brush his cheek with my mouth.
“Why won’t you kiss me?”
“I’m fucking driving,” he snaps. “Get back in your fucking seat.”
My refusal is clear in the way I keep rubbing him over his jeans. He can act as pissed as he wants to, but it still doesn’t stop him from angling his hips up some when I pull away a few inches.
His hand comes out to grab me just as I feel the terrain under the tires change.
My eyes widen, that fear of death I thought I got rid of coming back with a vengeance as I’m jostled.
He never releases me. When he comes to a stop, I find my fingers tangled in his shirt as if he has the power to keep me safe even during a car accident.
When I look out the windshield, I realize we didn’t crash. He pulled over on the side of the road, having enough forward thinking to turn his hazard lights on.
“Get in your fucking seat,” he hisses.
I don’t know why I listen this time. Maybe it’s because of the look in his eyes.
Maybe it’s the realization that as hard as I try to act, there’s always going to be some part of me that’s afraid of the reality of getting hurt or killed.
I don’t think it’s death that frightens me.
I think it’s the pain I’m afraid I’ll suffer getting there.
He pulls down on the gear shift, merging back on to the road, but he doesn’t speed up as fast as we were going before.
The very next exit we come to, he takes, and then there are a series of turns.
I don’t know what his plans are, but whatever it is he’s decided, I can see the determination in his eyes.
He doesn’t say a word as he unbuckles his belt, pulling down his zipper in the next breath.
Before I can challenge him, he’s reaching across the seat and wrapping his hand around my throat.
My head hits the passenger side window, and the wince from that combines with the pain at my hips when he rips my panties from my body.
“Donavan,” I screech, but any and all further complaints fade away.
My back is at an odd angle to the door, but that doesn’t stop him from shoving inside of me.
I’m not surprised by his aggression, but I am surprised by the slick path my body has provided his.
“Open wider,” he growls, using one hand to shove at my hip, but it’s locked against the back of the seat. “Fuck it.”
He pulls from me, and I feel like a whore when I reach for him.
Hitting the button on his door, my window rolls down and before I can question what he’s doing, he’s flipping me over and shoving my head through the open window.
The bite of the door pinches the skin across my chest, but his grip in my hair lifts me from the frame just as he presses inside of me again.
Cool night air swarms around my top half while all of the heat I felt earlier settles below my belly button.
His hips are brutal, every forward jab hitting something inside of me that makes me see literal stars, or at least that’s what I thought was happening until I realize his hands are around my throat.
“I fucking hate you,” he hisses, my vision narrowing.
I try to scream his name, but his grip is too tight.
The second he releases my neck and the blood starts to flow once again, I explode. My body convulses around his. I fucking love it, but also hate it because I miss his reaction.
I don’t realize he has come until my heart rate settles some and he’s pulling out of me.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I jerk at the brush of his finger up my slick thigh.
I moan when he dips his fingers back inside of me, my body extremely sensitive after coming so hard.
When he shifts, sitting back on his ass and lifting his hips to get his jeans back in place, I turn around to face him.
Once again he doesn’t look at me, but he also doesn’t argue when I lean over and press my cheek into his thigh.
His fingers are sweeping through my hair as he pulls back on to the road. All I hear is the wind whipping through the truck as I fall asleep.