Chapter 32
Mila
Stolen moments.
That ’ s what these past few weeks were.
It felt like Dash and I were robbing Father Time himself, trying to hide away any seconds, minutes, or hours we could steal for ourselves. Every hour in class felt like another piece of me was withering away. I wish I could spend all my waking moments with Dash, trying to make him realize he could love someone.
I know life can change in an instant. It happened when Dash King entered my life like a wrecking ball and everything I had spent years building was smashed to smithereens. I thought my walls were strong, but it turns out paper can ’ t withstand fire.
Dash King is fire, but can fire withstand ice?
This afternoon, everything in my life came to a frozen halt. I went back to my dorm to change before lunch. I broke out in a sweat when I heard a sound. Upon turning around and examining my door, I noticed a note had been discreetly slid under it. That note seemed to bring forth a snowstorm that extinguished all the warmth Dash had ignited within me.
I felt numb. A feeling of dread washed over me as I thought about what was to come in a few weeks.
One single note changed my life again.
Of course, I knew what the note was. I had witnessed them repeatedly before. Dash never had, and someone decided it was my job to deliver it to him.
I should have handed it to Dash at lunch.
I should do a lot of things.
It ’ s still tucked inside of my bag, like a glacier that is melting. Slowly its cold waters are inching up, trying to drown me.
I have to give it to him, eventually.
Just not yet. When I do, it will destroy everything.
I gaze at my open hands and study the lines etched into my palms, which are now covered in charcoal, as I focus on my sketch. One day that blacken soot will be blood.
Dash is right. I might be a princess in my father ’ s eyes, but even a princess has to learn to fight. She must pick up a sword in order to survive.
My skin ripples with the sixth sense that Dash ’ s eyes are on me. I have a feeling he ’ s sketching me again, but this time refuses to show me his drawings. Outside of his room, we ’ ve barely spoken. Instead, we each suffer the day in silence.
From the corner of my eye, I see Dash move. He reaches out and takes my hand.
I almost moan. I didn ’ t realize how unloved I was until Dash kissed me.
I want to be loved and touched, cared for and caressed.
I know Dash ’ s definition of love isn ’ t normal, nor is it healthy. But in my world, it ’ s better than the versions of love I ’ ve seen others show.
Gently, Dash guides my hand to rest on his thigh. A bit of the tension in his neck vanishes.
As I start to smile, he averts his gaze. Does he realize that our time is running out? A single note has the power to alter our course and he will be obligated to repay his debt to me.
As he touches me, our fingers effortlessly entwine, just like breathing.
He hasn ’ t asked me if I ’ ve tried to hurt myself again. He knows I haven ’ t. Art is what I needed, a new outlet I could control, an expression of my hurt and fury for the world to see. In the end, I just wanted my pain to be acknowledged. Art allows others to view it. Dash knew me better than I knew myself.
I curl my fingers around his, the dirt from my sketch now staining his palm. I want to kiss him. I want so much more. I might die if he refuses me. It ’ s the only time I experience a sense of being alive.
He ’ s been careful not to show me much affection during the day. There is always someone watching and the more they think we care about each other, the bigger the target on our backs.
“ I can ’ t survive this.” I whisper. I can ’ t keep enduring endless days imagining Dash ’ s lips on my body. I can ’ t keep hoping he will have sex with me. I can ’ t survive the hope and fear that one day he will let me go because that was the bargain we struck.
I was the one who placed a timer on us.
“ Sure you can. If I can survive here with a broken leg, then you can survive, Mila.” He replies as he swipes his thumb back and forth over my hand.
“ Why haven ’ t you slept with me? Why can ’ t you touch me outside of that shower?” I mutter as I glance around, ensuring no one else can hear.
“ This isn ’ t real.” His eyes shoot a piercing gaze at our hands, searing the flesh from them.
“ Yes it is. That shower doesn ’ t wash away our connection.”
“ This is a game, Mila.” He scans the classroom.
“ I can ’ t survive you, Dash. Give me either your cruelty or your kindness.” I glance up at him. His beauty shatters another fragment of my heart. “ Then smother me with it.”
His jaw clenches. “ You don ’ t get to decide my actions.”
“ Nor you mine.”
His lip twitches up in satisfaction.
I gulp and direct my gaze towards my bag. It feels like an arctic wind is coming from it. That damn note has a heartbeat of its own, radiating the cruelty of the letters inked on it. “ I want to feel you inside of me. I want you, Dash.” I want you before you leave me.
Is it selfish? Yes. I don ’ t care.
His fingers turn clammy around mine. “ Why haven ’ t you asked me what happened to Mr. LeBlanc?” He counters.
I swallow. Because I don ’ t want to acknowledge the monster that you struggle to keep hidden from me.
Is that monster capable of killing Mr. Leblanc? Sure.
Did he? I honestly don ’ t know.
The new dance teacher is…amazing. Uplifting, kind, strict only when she needs to be. The class loves her. It wasn ’ t my doing. I was too weak, too much of a coward to tell my father.
I kept my hands clean and…I hate it.
“ It wasn ’ t me.” Dash states as he slips his hands free of mine. The vacancy of his touch is like torture.
“ I didn ’ t say it was.”
“ You didn ’ t say it wasn ’ t.”
He ’ s right. I assume he was the monster he pretended to be. “ I ’ m sorry.”
He snorts as he grabs his sketch book again. “ I ’ m not an escape, Mila, I ’ m a darkness, a terrible void you will be lost in.” He admits as he grabs a piece of charcoal and forces it into my palm, smearing more of the dirty debris into my skin.
I stare at him, my devil and savior who will grant me freedom one day. Voids swallow both shadows and light. They consume everything, just like he has taken over me.
I stand and turn from him. Our art class has a unique feature. Mrs. Jones calls it the reflection wall. I call it a mess. It ’ s a giant wall covered in canvas that she allows students to throw paint at. Mrs. Jones suggested utilizing the wall for working out kinks or experimenting with new methods. Every Monday she changes the walls, putting up a new blank canvas and by the end of the week someone has covered it. Sometimes it ’ s covered in beautiful sketches, other times students let loose and have a painting fight.
I stop next to the cart filled with paint bottles. I tip my chin up and look at the vast white canvas. It feels deafening, like a mountain I have to climb to survive.
I grab the headphones that hang heavy around my neck and place them over my ears. I press shuffle on my music app. ‘ Blood // Water ’ begins to play as I run my fingers over the paint colors. I stop when I touch the black paint. Darkness.
I grab it and look for a brush. There is none in sight. Fuck it. You want me to feel? I ’ ll feel. I ’ ll cover my hands in the dirt.
I squeeze a huge glob of paint out into my palm and then I smear it onto the white canvas. My heart beats wildly when I take in the contrast. A faint smeared outline of my fingers reflects back at me. The lyrics shout and scream into my ears and I just…stop thinking. I feel the darkness, the paint as it consumes me like the void Dash King is. My hands move wildly as I work to cover the canvas. Eventually I have to stop because I ’ m panting. I stumble back and see what I have done. A huge section of the canvas is painted black.
Was this always inside of me, lurking like an unknown beast?
A shadow falls over me as Dash steps forward, his eyes taking in what I have done. What he has tempted me to let loose. Slowly he turns, reaches out and removes my headphones. I look from side to side to find the class empty.
“ Class ended ten minutes ago. I told Mrs. Jones I ’ d help you clean up.”
I snort, “ But isn ’ t it you who wants me to get dirty?”
He tilts his head, studying me with disappointment, “ I want you to not be shocked when you realize how filthy you are. I want you to see the stains and realize you survived. We ’ re trapped in a mold we can never break, little fox, no matter how many times you try to change your coat, Mila, you ’ re trapped.”
I can ’ t help but to look at my bag again. Buried inside is a mold Dash has to accept. He will; he ’ s never tried to run from it. The very first day here, he knew who he had to be, and he accepted it.
Despite my hesitation, I must deliver that note to him soon. “ You promised to help me escape.”
He nods. “ That doesn ’ t mean you broke the mold.”
His blonde hair stands out against the black canvas, giving him the appearance of a golden halo. “ Then help me accept it,” I admit.
His lip tugs up on one side. “ I ’ ve been waiting for you to say that.” He grabs me, our bodies colliding, and then he kisses me so fiercely I think I might be dreaming.
Needing to make sure he ’ s real, I reach up and grasp his face.Our tongues collide, they curl and snake, fight, dance, cherish, and beg to unite.
It ’ s not enough.
I start to tear at his shirt, needing to feel the warmth of his flesh as I do in the shower. His hands grab my ass tugging me closer. He hisses like he hates the fact that air can still slip between our bodies. Another jerk, and we ’ re molded together.
I pull away for a moment. When his eyes turn ravenous, that ’ s when I capture my mental picture.
He dives back in, treating me like a refreshing ocean on a scorching summer day. His hot breath heats my body to a dangerous temperature.
I don't care where we are or who sees; all the worries melt away under his lips.
Is this what love is? A manic need to be claimed?
He grins as he kisses my jaw, then sucks hard, leaving a mark on my neck. He likes to mark me, and I ’ ve started to let others see it.
My core cries out. More, more, we want more! "Dash, please." Just to tip him over the edge, I divulge more, "I'm wet," I whisper. "So wet for you."
"Stop!"
"Make it stop."
I thrust paint covered hands into his icy blonde hair, which is such a strange and unique color that mirrors the man. “ Give into me,” I whisper.
“ Please. My body is aching to feel, and you make it feel.” My thighs burn at the thought of him between them. “ Let me feel all of you, Dash.” I seal my desire with a kiss so deep and passionate I feel Dash waver. His feet stumble, causing the both of us to brush against the wet canvas.
I sense his hesitation. I grab his hand. “ Mila,” he warns.
“ When did you ever heed a warning, Dash? Now isn ’ t the time.” I taunt him as I guide his hand to my sex, only the yoga pants I have on separate us. But the fabric is no match for how wet I am. I tilt my head back and feel his fingers move, feeling my wetness seep through the fabric. “ Mila,” his pupils dilate as the realization hits.
“ You did that to me.” His fingers move fast, circling my sex with pride. Even through the thin fabric of my yoga pants, it ’ s enough to make me come undone.
Our bodies press together, chest to chest, broken heartbeat to broken heartbeat, every inch of us craving the contact, the connection that makes us feel less corrupted even if we are the ones doing the corruption.
It ’ s a dance of raw passion that I memorize and embrace. I wish taking center stage felt like this. If it did, I ’ d turn to ballet and not the lips of the devil. “ Please, Dash,” I need more. I need his fire to burn every inch of me, take away all my pain, all my years of just enduring this life.
“ Please, what?” He hisses as he bites my bottom lip. He hesitates for a moment, then slips his hand into my pants. I gasp when his finger slides right into my aching, wet sex. “ You want this? You want all of me, Mila?”
I nod feverishly. “ Yes.” I sigh.
As if trying to split me in two so he can have more of me, he curls his finger and thrusts it deeper and deeper. “ What if it destroys you?”
“ I don ’ t care.” My hips ride his hand unbridled.
Out of nowhere, he seizes my neck with his left hand. “ You should.” He purrs with a mixture of admiration and hate. “ Remember this day because it ’ s going to haunt you, little fox.” He slips his hand free from my sex, only to begin rubbing my clit. I come, break, shatter; a part of me spills open, revealing itself to Dash. I come undone like an ant hill that had a bucket of water poured on it, little pieces of me scatter around trying to find some semblance of home.
When I look up, I see icy blue eyes instead of the warm hazel streaks. Dash removes his hand from my body and steps back. It is both cruel and honorable. We ’ re exposed literally in the classroom. As often as Dash says, he doesn ’ t have feelings for me, he does. He ’ s still trying to protect my heart.
“ Run away with me.”
He wears a cruel smirk. “ I wouldn ’ t even if I could.”
The feeling that sparks in my heart is stronger than a nuclear blast. “ Why? Am I not enough?” A single tear slips away.
“ No, Mila.” He turns, giving me his back, his fortress. “ I ’ m not.”