Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Stray
Carrson
I’m standing outside Becky’s last class of the day, Ancient Civilizations, leaning against the bricks as students stroll by with backpacks slung over their shoulders.
She likes this one. Tells me about it when I walk her out to the clearing so she can study and I can work out, her voice going thoughtful as if she’s figuring things out as she says them.
Yesterday it was Rome, not the empire but the structure beneath it.
A handful of families dictating everything.
The right to rule inherited, protected, reinforced through alliances so tight they might as well have been chains. Bloodlines tracked. Preserved.
She watched me as she spoke like she was waiting for my reaction.
I told her it was interesting what people choose to admire.
Movement out of the corner of my eye has me looking up. Jackson. The reason I’m here. He’s been following her, lurking, ever since he saw her at Ashford House, and maybe I feel a little guilty about that. About putting her in his path.
That’s why I pick her up after school every day. Walk her back and forth to the clearing.
And now here he is, in the flesh. He doesn’t hesitate.
Angles straight toward me like this was always where he was headed, like we’re meeting up instead of him inserting himself.
He plants himself beside me, shoulder to the same wall, close enough that anyone looking might think we’re friends instead of not-so-secretly planning each other’s demise.
“Carrson,” he says.
I nod and that’s all, knowing my silence bothers him. Men like him need noise, reaction, something to push against. Without it, they flounder.
“Waiting for your girlfriend?” He rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Good,” he says immediately, grin spreading. “Hate stepping on toes.”
“You’ve never had that concern before,” I reply, glancing out across the quad.
He lets out a short laugh, like he appreciates the acknowledgment more than the insult. “Depends whose toes they are.”
“Toes end up broken,” I say mildly.
That earns me a sideways look.
“She talks to you?” he goes on, tone slipping back to that lazy, probing edge. “Or does she just follow you around like a stray?”
It’s almost funny, how wrong he is.
“She manages,” I say.
“Yeah?” His grin sharpens. “She’s got that soft look,” he goes on, like he’s describing a car he’s thinking about stealing. “I bet she’d cry if you pushed her right.”
I picture breaking his fingers.
Not all at once. That’s inefficient. One at a time, slowly enough that he understands exactly which one is next before it happens. There’s a method to it if you do it right. A sequence.
He lets out a quiet breath, almost wistful. “That hair…” His mouth curves. “I like to think about it wrapped around my fist while I fuck her face.”
How long it would take to drag him behind the maintenance building? Thirty seconds, maybe less if he doesn’t see it coming. Longer to clean up, though. Too many variables. Possible interruptions. Not worth it.
I turn to face him, and his smile widens. He’s been waiting for it. My attention.
“If you’re trying to impress me,” I say, my voice flat, “you’re doing a terrible job.”
He huffs a laugh. “Oh, I’m not trying to impress you.”
“Then this is how you are? No excuses?” I ask.
His grin sours, then hardens. He doubles down. “She tastes like she looks? Sweet? Or do you not know?” he presses. “Since she’s not your girlfriend and all.”
I shove off the wall and he follows, straightening. He moves closer, eager, body readying, hands curling, grin already turning victorious.
He thinks he’s won. That I’ll retaliate.
I almost do.
Instead, I adjust my sleeve, smoothing fabric that wasn’t wrinkled.
“You talk a lot,” I tell him.
“Someone has to,” he says, shrugging. “You’re quiet today.”
I look at him fully now, not the way he wants. No reaction. No heat. Just angles. Weight distribution. Weak points. The small, unconscious tells he doesn’t know he gives. The ones I read without trying.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“About what?”
“Planning ahead.” I smile.
It takes him a second to realize he doesn’t like my answer, and by then the classroom door opens, voices spilling out, bodies flooding the space.
Together we turn.
Because she’s there.
Becky steps out. Her face lights up when she sees me. It’s immediate. Unfiltered. Real. The kind of reaction people don’t think about before they give it, and I’m not prepared for the way that knocks me off kilter.
My mouth almost answers.
I stop it.
Then she notices Jackson, and her smile fades. She hesitates on the threshold, one foot still lifted like she forgot how to finish the step, her attention bouncing between us, wary now.
Good. She’s learning.
She’ll need that to survive here.
I glance at Jackson, expecting the same needling grin he’s been wearing all afternoon, but it’s gone.
He’s standing taller now, shoulders squared.
His focus isn’t split between me and whatever reaction he’s trying to get out of me anymore.
It’s fixed entirely on Becky. Not the way it was weeks ago, casual, opportunistic, like she was simply another way to get to me, but more heated. The kind of fixation that won’t let go.
I think back, remembering all the times I’ve seen him across campus recently, in places where he could watch her. Close enough to talk to her if I wasn’t already there.
Not coincidence.
A pattern I should’ve seen sooner.
Shit. This isn’t just about me anymore. He wants her. Not because she’s useful, but because somewhere along the way he decided she was worth wanting on her own.
Becky comes over and tucks herself close to my side, not touching but choosing me anyway. Like I’m where she’s safest. The feeling that gives me isn’t clean. It sits in my chest, contradictory, expanding and constricting at the same time.
Jackson sees it. Color rises in his face, his gaze moving from Becky to me, measuring the inches between us and hating every one of them. He stares like he wants to tear the distance apart with his bare hands.
Like he’d take her. Steal her away for himself.
And I—I know that look.
I’ve felt it too.