Chapter 15
The headache is still there.
Dull. Persistent. Like someone's driving a nail through my temple and leaving it there to rust.
I press my fingers against the spot and try to focus on Professor Montley's voice. She's talking about narrative structure. About tension and release. About how every scene should have stakes.
I don't care.
My entire body feels wrong. Too hot. Too tight. Like my skin doesn't fit right anymore. Like I'm wearing clothes made of sandpaper. The fabric of my t-shirt drags against my shoulders, my jeans rub against my thighs, and everything—everything—is too much.
I shift in my seat. The chair creaks. Too loud.
Someone glances at me. I stop moving.
My notebook is open in front of me. Blank. I haven't taken a single note. Haven't written down anything Professor Montley's said. The page just sits there, white and accusing.
I pull out my diary instead.
The one no one's supposed to see. My pen moves across the page before I can stop it.
I woke up in Atlas's bed.
The words stare back at me. Black ink on cream paper. Permanent.
I should cross them out. Rip out the page. Pretend it didn't happen.
I keep writing.
I don't remember how I got there. Just waking up with his scent everywhere—cedar and leather and something darker. His sheets. His pillow. His smell soaked into my skin.
I felt safe.
That's the worst part. Not that I was in his bed. Not that I collapsed and he carried me there. But that when I woke up, for just a second, I felt safe.
I hate that I felt that way.
My hand is shaking. The letters come out jagged. Uneven.
The way they all look at me now is different. Like they know something. Like they can smell something I'm trying to hide. Especially Zero. He looks at me like—
I stop. Chew the end of my pen.
Like what?
Like he wants to devour me? Like he's trying to figure out how I taste? Like he's angry that he wants me at all?
All of the above.
Like he wants me. And hates himself for it.
I know that feeling.
Heat crawls up my neck. Pools low in my stomach. I shift again and the friction makes me bite my lip.
Wrong. This is wrong.
I'm having thoughts I shouldn't have. About Zero. About the way he looks at me. About what it would feel like if he—
I cross out the line. Hard. The ink bleeds through.
Try again.
I know it's wrong. He's my stepbrother now. They all are. But my body doesn't care about that. My body just wants—
Cross out. Again.
Fuck.
The word sits there on the page. Small. Damning.
I close the diary. Shove it back in my bag before anyone can see.
Professor Montley is still talking. Something about character motivation. About desire and consequence. About how every choice should cost something.
I'm not listening.
My skin is buzzing. Hypersensitive. The air conditioning feels like ice against my arms. Someone's perfume from three rows over makes my stomach turn. The fluorescent lights are too bright, even with my eyes half-closed.
Everything is too much.
I need to get out of here.
The clock on the wall says 8:47. Thirteen more minutes.
I can make it thirteen more minutes.
I have to.
Class ends at nine.
I'm the first one out. Bag over my shoulder, head down, moving fast. Don't make eye contact. Don't let anyone stop me to chat. Just go.
The drive back to the estate takes twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of gripping the steering wheel too hard. Twenty minutes of trying to breathe through the pressure building in my chest. Twenty minutes of telling myself I'm fine.
I'm not fine.
The gate opens automatically when I pull up. Margot must have added my license plate to the system. The driveway curves through perfectly manicured grounds, lit by solar lights that line the path like runway markers.
I park in the garage. Three empty spaces beside me—one for each brother. Atlas's Mercedes. Zero's Audi. Bane's Range Rover.
All gone.
Good.
Maybe I can make it to my room without running into anyone. Maybe I can lock myself in and ride out whatever this is until the headache goes away and my skin stops feeling like it's on fire and I can think straight again.
Maybe.
I let myself in through the side door. The house is dark. Quiet.
And then I hear it.
Music.
Bass-heavy. Loud. Pounding up through the floor from somewhere below.
The basement.
Fuck.
I should go upstairs. Should ignore it. Should lock myself in my room and pretend I didn't hear anything.
I don't.
My feet carry me toward the basement stairs. Down the hall. Past the kitchen. The music gets louder with every step. Heavy bass that I can feel in my chest, in my bones, rattling through me like a second heartbeat.
The basement door is open.
I take the stairs slowly. One at a time. My hand on the railing. The music is deafening now. Some aggressive rap song I don't recognize. All bass and anger and raw energy.
The gym takes up half the basement. State-of-the-art equipment. Weights. Machines. A boxing setup in the corner. Mats covering the floor.
And Zero.
He's in the center of the room, shirtless, attacking a heavy bag like it insulted his dead mother. Each punch lands with a meaty thwack that cuts through the music. His shoulders flex. His back ripples. Sweat gleams on his skin, catching the overhead lights.
He's beautiful.
And terrifying.
I should leave.
I don't move.
He must sense me. Must feel me watching. Because he stops mid-punch and turns.
His eyes lock on mine.
Dark. Wild. Pupils blown so wide they're almost black.
He doesn't say anything. Just stares. His chest heaves. His hands are wrapped in tape, knuckles split and bleeding through the fabric.
The music pounds between us. Deafening.
He moves to the speaker setup on the wall. Doesn't break eye contact. Just reaches out and turns the volume down. Not off. Still loud enough that the bass thrums through the floor, but low enough that we can hear each other.
"Max." My name comes out rough. Wrecked. Like he's been screaming.
I swallow. Try to speak. Nothing comes out.
He takes a step toward me.
I should run.
I don't.
Another step.
"You shouldn't be down here." His voice is low. Dangerous.
"I heard the music."
"So?" Another step. Closer now. Close enough that I can smell him—sweat and something sharper, something that makes my mouth water and my knees weak. "You should've stayed upstairs."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." He's right in front of me now. Towering over me. Looking down at me like I'm prey and he's deciding whether to eat me or let me run. "Go back to your room, Max."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't—" He stops. His jaw works. A muscle jumps in his cheek. "Just go."
I don't move.
Can't move.
He runs a hand through his hair. Steps back. Puts distance between us that feels wrong.
"Fuck." The word comes out jagged. He turns away, paces to the heavy bag. Slams his fist into it. Once. Twice. The chain rattles. "You need to leave."
"I don't—"
"Yes, you fucking do." He spins back to face me, and there's something wild in his eyes. Something desperate. "You have no idea what you're doing to me. Walking around that house. Your scent everywhere. In the halls. In the lounge. In my fucking head."
"Zero—"
"Do you know how many times I've stood outside your door?" His voice drops. Gets rougher. "How many times I've had to walk away before I did something I couldn't take back?"
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Every night," he continues, moving toward me again. Slow. Predatory. "Every fucking night. I smell you through the walls. Hear you moving around. And I have to tell myself to stay in my room. To leave you alone. To not—"
He stops inches from me. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"To not what?" My voice comes out barely a whisper.
"To not do this."
His hand comes up. Cups my jaw. Thumb dragging across my bottom lip.
"You're making me insane," he says. Almost like an accusation. Like it's my fault he's falling apart. "Can't sleep. Can't think. Can't function. All because of you."
"I didn't—"
"I know." His thumb presses down. Parts my lips. "That's what makes it worse. You're not even trying. You're just... existing. And it's destroying me."
His other hand slides around to the back of my neck. Grips. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Possessive.
"I should let you go," he says. His eyes drop to my mouth. "Should walk away. Should be the bigger person."
"Then do it."
"I can't." The words sound torn from him. Raw. "I fucking can't. Not anymore."
Something in his expression shifts. Darkens. A decision made.
"Fuck it," he growls.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Brutal. Consuming. All tongue and teeth and desperation. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air. Like he's been starving and I'm the first meal he's seen in weeks.
I kiss him back just as desperately. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
He bites my bottom lip. Hard enough to make me gasp. Uses the opening to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against mine, tasting, claiming.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Last chance," he says. His voice is wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this."
I should. I know I should.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. The words stick in my throat.
"That's what I thought."
Something feral flashes in his eyes.
Before I can respond, he spins me around. My palms slam against the padded side of a weight bench. Cold leather under my hands. And then his body is behind mine, caging me in, one hand between my shoulder blades pushing me down.
"Zero—"
"Shut up." His voice is in my ear, hot and rough. "You didn’t stop me. So you're going to take it. Every. Fucking. Inch."
His hips grind against my ass and I feel him—hard, thick, pressing against me through layers of fabric. The friction sends electricity shooting up my spine. My cock is already hard, trapped between my body and the bench, and every movement makes it worse. Makes me throb. Makes me ache.
A sound escapes me that I don't recognize. Half gasp, half moan.