14. Cain
CAIN
Goddamn it.
I only make it a few paces down the hallway before I swing my fist and connect it with the nearest wall.
Pain bursts through my knuckles and races up my arm, and I take pleasure in it.
The plaster where my fist impacted the wall has cracked a little, but it won’t be noticeable unless someone were to point it out.
The walls of Verona Falls are thick and solid, and it would take more than a punch to do damage.
I’ve pushed her too far. She said she didn’t want to talk about what happened to her, and I hadn’t listened.
I’d touched her face and been transported back to when we were kids.
I remember how feisty she had been, how fearless, and now she’s an imitation of that person.
It’s like someone has taken over Ophelia’s body and left a ghost of a different girl inside her.
The door next to the wall I’d hit opens, and a male head pokes out. “What the fuck, dude?” the guy says.
I lunge at him with a roar, balling my shoulders and clenching my fists. He darts back, his eyes wide, and quickly slams the door shut again.
“Good choice,” I growl.
I’m in the mood to hurt someone. I’m frustrated that Ophelia hasn’t opened up to me about what happened to her.
There’s a burning need to know her truth, which is building inside me every damn minute.
She’d been my anchor and then she’d simply disappeared.
Now she’s here; what are the odds? But instead of it being a joyful reunion between us, it’s tense and strange.
She’s a shell of the vibrant girl she once was, and I hate that.
I need to know why she’s changed so much.
Where the hell has she been for the past six years?
It occurs to me that I could contact her parents and ask them directly. How would they react if I did? Would they tell me? Or would they whisk her straight out of Verona Falls if they knew I was here, too?
I remember the last time I saw Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, how Mrs. Sinclair had broken down, and Mr. Sinclair had yelled. I’d just been a skinny kid back then, and they’d been overwhelmed with grief. Maybe they’d treat me differently now, but is it really worth the risk of losing her all over again?
No, it isn’t.
Besides, it would be wrong of me to go behind Ophelia’s back.
She’s still so beautiful, even with the scar, or perhaps even because of it. There’s always been something ethereal about her. Now she’s scarred, it makes her more human. Her scar tells at least a part of the story about who she is now, and she shouldn’t be ashamed or embarrassed.
From the first moment I saw her at the party, she’s been the only thing on my mind.
She’s constantly in my thoughts, and I can’t see that changing any time soon.
I’d loved her as a child, and now we’re back in each other’s lives as adults, I’m starting to wonder if that love never went away.
It feels different, though, more protective, and with something darker at its core.
I can’t examine that too closely because I don’t like the idea of anything dark between my Angel and me.
Ophelia said she’d met Malachi, too. Mal hasn’t mentioned it to me, and I wonder at the reason behind his silence. Has she caught his attention in the same way she has mine? The same way she has Romans?
I clench and unclench my fists again. I love that man like a brother, but the idea of him having feelings for Ophelia makes me want to rearrange his face.
Shit, I need to get a grip. I need to fight, to take out my anger and frustration on someone.
They run fights here at Verona Falls, but they’re overseen by the staff.
They can get pretty fierce but definitely aren’t what I need right now.
I need something where there are zero rules, and where the audience is out for blood.
Luckily for me, I know just the place.
It’s an underground fight club located in a disused building about ten miles outside of Verona Falls grounds.
Not many people at the college are even aware it exists, but people travel from all over to attend the fights.
They drink and gamble and get so close to the ring they feel the blood spatter on their faces.
They love it, especially some of the women who turn up in their finest dresses.
They seem to revel in the violence and the bloodshed.
One time, I punched a guy, and his blood hit a woman like a shower of red rain over her face.
She’d smiled, poked out the pink tip of her tongue, and licked some from her lips.
I’d been hard at that, but I’d not acted on it. Not least because she’d been with one of the organizers, but also because of the promise I’d made to the other Preachers.
Anyone can show up to fight. You just have to challenge the reigning winner. Because the only rule is no weapons allowed, there aren’t exactly willing competitors lining up to take part. I know if I show up there this evening, they’ll get me in the ring.
I haven’t told either of the other Preachers where I like to go sometimes.
We’re best friends, but we don’t own each other—something Roman seems to have forgotten lately.
They know I come back to Verona Falls with the occasional black eye or split lip and busted knuckles, but I just tell them I got into a bar fight.
They know what I’m like, so it’s not as though my story is unbelievable.
Fighting is sometimes the only way I can cope with the rage buried deep inside me without losing my mind.
I grew up unable to fight. As Ophelia pointed out, I was a skinny kid.
Any time I did something my father didn’t like—which could be something as simple as stacking the dishwasher the wrong way—he took off his belt.
I still have the scars across my back from the beatings he gave me.
I lived in constant fear of him. Before I met Ophelia, I’d just run off into the woods and hide.
I’d find a bush to crawl beneath or a tree to climb, and doze off, sheltered in its branches.
But then I’d met Ophelia that day at the river, when she’d been cursing out her attempt to build a dam, and she’d become my new safe space.
Of course, I hadn’t stayed small. I’d grown, naturally, and I realized I had some control over my size.
By the time I hit my teenage years, I started spending more time in our home gym—always when my father wasn’t home—and I learned what weights to lift and what I needed to eat in order to build my muscle.
I got bigger and bigger. Soon enough, my dad realized I was too big for him to raise his belt to, but that didn’t mean I forgave him.
I never forgot all the years of me cowering in terror in a corner while he rained down lashes with that goddamned belt.
The man was a fucking bully, and he still is, even if he knows he can’t take off his belt for me anymore.
I leave the grand building of the college.
I need to waste some time before the time comes to leave for the fight, but I’m unsure where I’m even going.
Normally, I’d head to the old water tower, where we all hang out, but truthfully, I don’t want to see the others right now.
They might want to talk about Ophelia, and I’m not sure what to tell them.
I remember that tonight is Roman’s night for the history club he goes to.
It’s such a geeky thing; it always makes me smile because it’s at such odds with the way he is in general.
It means if I go there, it might just be me and Malachi, and I don’t want to bump into him when it’s only the two of us after that conversation with Ophelia.
I need to work some aggression off before I ask him about their encounter.
I’d prefer to pace around the woods, lost in thought, until the time arrives to go to the fight. Taking out my phone, I message them both and say that I’m going into town and won’t be back until later. Then I walk farther into the forest.
From here, you can only catch glimpses of the main Verona Falls building, but you can still see its towers.
It looms over the land, gothic and imposing.
The place is kind of creepy, but I love that about it.
There’s not an awful lot I like about college, but the history and atmosphere of the building is one of them.
The other students are mostly total dicks, and the classes are boring.
We Preachers already have our futures decided.
One day, we will build something together that will rival all our families’ businesses.
Roman will be the brains of the operation, and I’ll be the brawn, and Malachi will provide the cunning.
Together, we are stronger than we were apart.
They might annoy the fuck out of me sometimes, but I’m glad I met them and that we became so close.
I care more about them than I do my own flesh and blood.
The wind whips through the trees, and I shiver.
I glance at my watch again and decide it’s late enough for me to head to the fight.
Jogging toward the tree line, I head around to where I’ve parked my vehicle.
Next to my old truck is a Bugatti. I stare at it and shake my head.
Fucking flashy idiotic status symbol. I overheard one of the girls in the bar once say she thought any guy who needed his car to be his status symbol had to have a small dick.
I bet Lex has a small dick. Saint, too, since he’s Lex’s twin. Zane, probably not. He gives off big dick energy. He’s the only Viper I don’t actively disdain.
Maybe it’s because we both understand sign language, and sometimes we’ve had short conversations. Zane doesn’t use full American Sign Language. He uses a bastardized form he’s taught the other Vipers, but it contains the basics. Enough so we can communicate.