Chapter 10 #2
My brow furrows as I turn to face him fully, assessing the change in his demeanor. His eyes are wide, nearly bulging, making him look like one of those creepy kewpie dolls.
I cross my arms over my chest, arching him an expectant brow.
He forces a laugh and shrugs his shoulders.
“It would appear that I’ve forgotten my manners.
” He presses the hand holding the knife to his chest and says, “Let’s start over.
I’m Aston, like the car.” His mouth twitches ever so slightly as he points the knife at me.
“And you’re Vale, like a wedding veil, but spelled V-A-L-E. ”
Ice fills my veins as I’m thrown back to when I was eight years old, hearing those exact words from my new foster brother. I wasn’t talking, so he filled the silence for me.
Aston’s watching me expectantly with a steady, unfazed gaze. It should be unsettling, but I’m still too caught up on what he just said and trying not to show it.
“Right,” I mutter.
“Do you remember me now?”
As if I could forget.
He cocks his head. “Or rather…you done pretending you don’t?” There’s a seriousness to his tone now I don’t like.
My jaw ticks and I decide to change the subject rather than entertain his questions. “Why aren’t you in class?”
He blinks into a small frown. “Well, I was, but it was awfully boring. At least at the asylum, someone was always either starting a fight, or having a life crisis, or there was an orderly who’d sneak me away to…well, you know.” He makes a crude gesture with his fist and mouth.
My nose wrinkles. The fuck?
He does that freaky bug-eye thing again. “Oh! That’s one of those things I’m not supposed to say out loud, right?” He covers his mouth in a mock show of regret. His eyes twinkle, telling me he’s fighting a smile.
I watch him even more curiously now. I know what people have been saying about him, my so-called friends included.
Hell, Casey calls him Myers…as in Michael Myers.
Word about what happened the night of the Bell Game, at the Furnaces, spread quickly. And like with all high school gossip, people were swift to twist and exaggerate what actually happened.
Combine that with everything else going around—the rumors surrounding his time at Ashwood Asylum, what led him there—and his seemingly inability to fly under the radar, and just be…normal…
He’s built quite the reputation for himself. All in a matter of weeks.
And while I’ve never been one to give much credit to high school gossip, especially given what parts I actually do know about his history to be true…
The longer I watch him, the more I can’t help but wonder if perhaps I was wrong. That this isn’t an act—that what Quentin implied about his mental state was actually true. And he’s well and truly batshit crazy.
Dropping his hands suddenly, he twirls the knife around next to his head as he starts pacing in front of the row of sinks.
“All these rules, rules, rules,” he says, tipping his head back with a great sigh.
“How do people live like this? It’s exhausting.
Don’t do this, don’t do that.” He tips the knife back and forth, dragging his heels, then toes as he starts pacing backward now too. “Don’t say this, don’t say that.”
He stops, whirling around suddenly to face me. He throws his hands out dramatically. “I’m trying!”
I blink and glance around, wondering if he’s still talking to me.
He purses his lips.
Then, bringing the knife to his mouth, nibbling on the flat side of the tip, he watches me for a long silent moment, eyes furrowed with some unreadable emotion. His tongue pokes out, gathering the chocolate and fruit juices still clinging to the blade.
Jesus.
“You’re gonna cut your tongue out,” I say flatly, grateful it’s just dark enough where I stand that he shouldn’t get a look at my dick hardening in my khakis.
He’s the one to blink at a loss this time. He pulls the knife away from his face, staring at it like he’s just realizing it’s there. “Well, that would be sad.”
A short, disbelieving laugh punches its way up my throat, expelling in the form of a grunt before I can stop it. He clearly hears it, and his face softens with this freaky sort of demur look about it.
“What?” I ask suspiciously.
“You like me.”
My brows spike. “What?”
His mouth stretches up on one side, giving him a roguish look as he drops his chin and slinks his way toward me.
Fuck.
My feet start carrying me backward, much to my dismay. What’s with him and his ability to fluster me? Making my body do things before my brain catches up. First, at the Furnaces. Now in this drafty bathroom.
And back then.
Don’t forget back then.
“Valey, Valey, Valey,” he sings.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mocks in a baby voice.
My back finds the wall with a thud, and I suddenly find myself less than an inch away from Aston. The last person on Earth I need to be up close and personal with. He’s standing so close, I can feel his breaths on my chin.
“You’re so big now,” he says, darting that wide, unhinged gaze all over me. Like he’s taking it all in, eating me up. Feeding off my energy. Not my fear, because I’m not afraid.
I’m pissed.
“Remember when we were kids? Brothers?” he gushes suddenly, smiling dreamily.
He reaches up and pokes my cheek with his pointer finger.
It’s the hand gripping the knife, and I feel my eye twitch at the sight of that sleek, silver blade so close to my face.
“You were so tiny. So small and cute. Quiet too, like a little mouse.” He starts chittering.
I stiffen, my vision momentarily blacking out.
I force a hard swallow, jutting out my chin as he leans up into me, brushing his nose over my jaw. He sniffs and I clench my fists at my side.
Sweet. Candy. Sticky.
He cocks his head and blinks into a frown, his full lips squishing up as he meets my gaze directly. “But you’re not so little anymore, are you? Still quiet, but it’s a good quiet.” He nods as if confirming it for himself. “A smart quiet.”
His gaze drops, teeth appearing to bite down on his lip as a salacious grin slides up his face. “Big everywhere, I see.” He tilts his head, brows arching. “Hard too.”
Rage blacks out my vision, and the next thing I know, I’ve flipped our positions. I’ve got a hand wrapped around Aston’s throat, and I’m pinning him against the yellowy, popcorn-textured wall I was just resting my back against.
His laughter reaches my ears, prompting me to tighten my grip on him until it stutters out.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
I can barely get the words out through the gnashing of my teeth. I can feel the vein in my temple throbbing, and I’m pretty sure my face is just as red as Aston’s is slowly turning.
He’s not scared, though. If anything, he looks…enraptured. Shocked in the best kind of way. The sight of those bright gray-green orbs swirling with happiness inches away from me sends a spark of heat rocketing through my body, but I’m quick to snuff it out.
Nope, nope. This is so fucked.
Heavy pants work their way out of my nose, and my heart pounds in a way it never has before. Not from what I can recall, and I recall everything.
“And don’t fucking look at me like that,” I tell him quietly, roughly. “When I walk out of here, you’re going to forget this conversation ever happened. You’re going to forget my name, and forget we ever, ever knew each other. Understood?”
Something dark skitters across his eyes, and my mouth ticks up cruelly. “Don’t like that plan? Well, too fucking bad.”
Easing my hold on his neck, I smirk when he sucks in a couple harsh gasps. I reach down and grab the wrist of the hand still holding tight onto the knife, and I bring it between us at chin level.
Biting my nails into his pale, bony wrist, I shake his hand. “Is this supposed to scare me?”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even glance at the blade between our faces. He merely watches me. As if nothing else exists.
“Go ahead then,” I say. “Stab me. Slit my throat. Gut me.”
I regret the words as soon as I say them. Rather than flinch away from my words—from the reminder of what he’s done—Aston rolls his lips in like he’s fighting a laugh.
My gaze volleys between his. “Jesus Christ, you really are crazy, aren’t you?”
“What?” he says, his voice raspy from being choked out a moment ago. “It’s funny.”
Disturbed, for more reasons than one—some of which I’d rather not look too closely at—I step back, releasing him. Slowly shaking my head, I keep backing away.
He’s no longer smiling. In fact, his face dulls into something utterly blank. Devoid of any identifiable emotion. It happens so abruptly, I’m left wondering what the hell triggered it.
Me releasing him?
He scratches the back of his head with his free hand, while he closes the butterfly blade with a nimble, well-practiced flip of his fingers, before shoving it in one of the pockets lining the inside of his blazer.
And for the first time since he blew his way back into my life, I feel…wary, I think.
Nervous in a way I’m not accustomed to.
There’s only two other times I can remember feeling this way so vividly. The night we were separated. And the time Quentin learned my secret.
“Do they know?
I tense. “Know what?”
His too-knowing sage-green eyes find mine. When he doesn’t immediately say anything, I think, this is it.
This is the moment it all comes crumbling down.
The moment I lose everything.
“Do they know where you come from?” he says, tilting his head, those full, pouty lips of his for once not stretched taut with a smile. “Do they know the truth about you, Cinderella? Does your Prince Charming know?”
I feel my jaw pulsing, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
He makes a small noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat. Nodding, he says, “That’s what I thought.”
And with that, he steps away from the wall, making his way past me, and back toward his spot by the windows.
Turning, I watch as he climbs back up on the radiator, resuming the position I found him in. Legs dangling over the ledge. Metal tin in his lap. A soft glow around his head like a halo.
The bell rings suddenly and I realize I’ve been gone far too long. Mrs. Cheshire is probably wondering where I am.
Without another word, I pick up the bathroom pass from the floor. I must’ve dropped it earlier when my anger took over.
That makes three times now since Aston’s come back into my life that I’ve lost control over myself like that.
This is why you need to stay away.
He jeopardizes everything.
Behind me, I hear Aston humming a familiar tune, “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe,” and I freeze. Something tells me the lyrics playing out in his head are not the ones belonging to that stupid nursery rhyme.
Does he…remember?
Bile surges up my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut, quickly forcing it back down along with the memory of his misplaced laughter and high-pitched voice—
“Five, six…Stick! Stick! Stick!”
I shake my head.
Don’t think about it.
A pipe creaks loudly, followed by the whine of the door as I push it open.
“Hey, Vale,” Aston says quietly from behind me.
I pause, keeping my gaze trained forward.
“Bury it down all you want. But the truth always comes out. Midnight will strike, and the glass slipper will fall off.” He pauses, then with a stifled giggle, he says, “It is written.”
Sucking in my cheek, I bite down the urge to slam the door shut and let my rage take the reins once more. Only this time, I wield it like a sword.
“Are you threatening me?” I utter tightly.
“No,” he says, serious once more, in that misleadingly soft voice. “I have nothing to gain from spilling your secrets. I’m far too curious to see how this all plays out.”
And for whatever reason, be it delusion or sheer desperation, or some combination of the two, I find that I believe him.
“It is odd, though, don’t you think?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find him with his head cocked. “What?” I say, though I’m not so sure I want to know.
“That somehow, we found our way back to each other. After all these years. Without even trying.” His mouth crooks up, and something sinks in my gut at his expression.
He looks…hopeful? Excited maybe?
Genuine for once?
Which is something I’m still not sure he’s even capable of. I thought he was once. I was a fool.
I force a hard swallow. “Just a weird coincidence.”
He hums. “Maybe.” He dips his head to look up at me through his thick long lashes. “Or we were always meant to be together.”
My whole body stiffens, my jaw ticking, but I try not to let him see that he’s getting to me.
“Tell Prince Charming I’ll be seeing him,” he adds softly, almost as if it’s an afterthought.
“Don’t touch him.” Hell, even to my own ears, I don’t sound all that convincing.
He huffs a sound of amusement. “Believe it or not, but I have no interest in him.”
This time, the electricity racking up my spine is near-combustible. Before he can pick up on just how volatile of an effect his words have on me, I storm out of the room.
The heavy door swings shut behind me with hardly a sound.
It’s been twenty-one days since Aston St. James swept back into my life, and while I knew it was only a matter of time before he made a move—shattering this delicately balanced stalemate we found ourselves in—I can admit that I began to have my doubts.
Not only did I wonder if perhaps he didn’t actually remember me, at least…not consciously…I began to think maybe I was wrong about him. And he actually didn’t give a fuck about me at all. What happened to us. What he did…
That whatever Headmaster Locke disclosed to Quentin about his mental state was…well, not a complete exaggeration—he did threaten someone at knifepoint after all.
But perhaps he wasn’t as reckless and unhinged as my memories led me to believe.
I even began to question if maybe Quentin’s wishful thinking wasn’t so wishful after all, and that Aston really did want to move on—start over—and forget I exist. That the night of the Bell Game was a fluke.
That he remembered…remembered enough…and decided pushing for more wasn’t worth the risk to his freedom.
Even more outrageously, I wondered if perhaps I conflated his impact on my life…my psyche. Clinging to the twisted memories I had of him as some kind of…coping mechanism.
I should be furious that none of those possibilities is actually the case.
Hell, I should be terrified and worried and stressing the fuck out now that he’s made it crystal fucking clear he’s just been biding his time. Waiting for me to lower my guard. All but laying out a trap to ensnare me the second the opportunity presented itself.
I never would’ve thought he had the restraint. The patience.
I should be anything but…pleased.
Pleased that he’s no more done with me than I am him.