His To Keep

Sixteen An Angels Sin.

Lily Malen

At first, it's only voices drifting through the haze of sleep.

"Oh dear, you're going to wake them up," Mary's gentle scolding filters through my dream, soft but too close.

My brow furrows, my body shifting, but I'm heavy, pinned somehow, unable to roll the way I want. Still half-asleep, I let out a small murmur of protest.

Then another voice, louder, sharper, and entirely unfamiliar in tone: "Oh no, I'm not-and you can't tell me you wouldn't want a picture either!" It's a whisper-yell, as though someone is trying to smother laughter.

Confusion prickles at the edges of my fog. Picture? Wake who up?

The mattress dips at my feet, the sudden shift pulling me further toward waking.

Something warm and solid shifts beside me, a low groan rumbling against my skin.

My eyes blink open, squinting into the dim room.

Only a thin line of sunlight sneaks past the curtains, enough to paint everything in muted gray.

That's when I feel it-the weight that has me trapped. An arm, heavy and unyielding, draped across me, locking me in place. My breath catches sharp in my throat. I glance down, heart hammering.

Black hair, mussed and falling over a sleeping face, rests against me. Not just against me-his cheek is pressed flush to my stomach, my shirt rucked up in the night, his breath hot against bare skin. Snuggled. He's snuggled into me, as if I'm something he has any right to hold.

My blood rushes cold and hot all at once. I don't move, don't dare, every nerve in me screaming in panic.

Adrian.

His arm is wrapped around me tight, as though he'd drag me with him even in sleep. My hands twitch uselessly at my sides. I don't know whether to shove him off or stay completely still and hope he doesn't wake.

A quiet gasp escapes me before I can stop it.

I lift my gaze, frantic, searching the room for an escape-and freeze.

At the foot of the bed stands Logan, a phone in his hand, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he's caught something priceless. Behind him, Mary stands with her hands firmly planted on her hips, a look that says she disapproves of everything about this moment.

My heart slams so hard I think they must both hear it.

A low sound escapes him, a groan dragged out of sleep, and instead of loosening, he pulls me closer-my back pressed fully to his chest, as though his sleeping body refuses to let me go. My pulse thrashes. I shoot a desperate look toward Mary and Logan, my voice trembling, breaking.

"I-I'm sorry, I... it's not-w-we didn't-" The words stumble out in a frantic whisper, my throat tight, my tongue thick. "I don't know how... it just-"

Adrian's hand tightens cruelly at my waist, dragging me back before I can untangle myself.

I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs.

Fear cuts through the air sharper than anything Logan could catch with his phone.

Adrian cannot find me here like this, caught in his bed, in his hold. I know it. I know what he is.

My lips tremble against the silence. "A-Adrian..." I breathe his name as if it might wake him gently, as if it might save me. "Please... you h-have to let me go. I need to get up."

The sound stirs him. His brow knots, a faint scowl twisting his face before his lashes part slowly. The weight of morning light drags over his eyes as he blinks himself awake. And then-everything shifts. His gaze sharpens, recognition snapping into place. He sees me. He sees us.

His body goes rigid, his arm caught mid-hold around me. His eyes flick past me in a quick, cutting glance, and there's Logan-grinning, phone still raised.

"Rise and shine," Logan drawls, satisfaction dripping from his tone. "Cute picture, boss. Didn't know you were the cuddling type."

"Fucking hell." The words tear out of him, rough and low, and his arm slips away from me.

The sudden freedom makes me jolt upright, my body snapping back as though burned.

He shifts onto his stomach, careful with the stitched wound at his side, and even in that small movement there's power, a restless danger in the way he reclaims the space around him.

"I-I didn't mean-" The apology tumbles out of me, broken, frantic. My hands twist in the sheets, as if I can wring the shame from my skin. "I didn't mean to f-fall asleep again, I swear, I didn't-"

The words come faster, spilling into the air before I can stop them.

My chest tightens with each breath, the panic clawing higher.

I've seen how he avoids touch, how even the smallest brush seems to poison his skin.

He never shakes hands, never lingers near anyone.

When Logan claps him on the back, Adrian goes rigid, like the touch has cut him open.

Even with me-every time I've come too close, he's stiffened, as though my presence is some unbearable weight.

And now this. Waking in his bed, his arm around me, his body pressed to mine. What if this is unforgivable? What if he thinks I wanted it? My voice cracks, pleading, desperate.

"Please-don't be mad. I didn't mean to. Please don't yell at me, don't-don't punish me." My throat burns. "I didn't want to upset you, I swear, I'll never-"

"Get the fuck out." His voice lashes through the room, hard and final, echoing like the crack of a whip. He rolls, legs swinging over the side of the bed, and for a second the air itself feels dangerous, heavy with everything unspoken.

Tears prick hot at the corners of my eyes.

I can't stop them as they slip free, tracing down my cheeks.

I duck my head, afraid of what they'll see-Mary, Logan.

I don't dare look at either of them as I stumble toward the door, only knowing I have to get away, have to obey before this turns into something worse.

But then his voice cuts through again, sharper, more controlled. "Not you."

I freeze. My head jerks up, confusion rippling through me. He isn't looking at me. His gaze is turned past me, locked on them.

"Get out. Both of you."

Mary's lips part, her brow furrowed in concern, and Logan's smirk falters. They share a glance, quick and questioning, before Logan lets out a short huff. "Guess morning cuddles are a private thing, huh?" he mutters, but he moves, swinging himself down off the edge of the bed.

Their footsteps carry across the room. The door closes behind them. And then it's only him. Only me. The silence is worse than any shout could ever be.

Adrian doesn't speak. He sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders bent, his head hung low as though the weight of something invisible drags it down.

His breath moves slow and steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrays nothing.

But the sight of him, bare skin marked with faint scars, the planes of his chest stark against the dim light, unsettles me more than any word could.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, careless, leaving too much of him in the open.

Too much of what I'm not supposed to see.

I twist my fingers together until they ache, my old habit breaking me open in the silence.

Every nerve in my body screams for escape, but my feet won't move.

I don't want to be punished. I don't want him to yell.

But that's what has to happen, isn't it?

Men like him don't forgive mistakes. Not ones like this.

I know what comes after. I'll finally be taken to a room-four walls with no windows, no light, nothing but the scrape of a chair and a table waiting.

Just like the House. My chest seizes at the thought, cold terror bleeding through me until I can't breathe.

A sob rips its way out before I can stop it, breaking me wide open. My hand flies to my mouth, pressing hard as if I can trap the sound there, force it back inside. My shoulders shake, and tears spill faster, unstoppable now. I feel small, too small, a mistake that shouldn't exist in his world.

When I finally dare to glance at him, he's no longer staring at the floor.

His head has lifted, dark eyes cutting across me in silence.

He studies me the way someone might study a puzzle, slowly, deliberately, his gaze dragging from my tear-stained face down the length of me.

I realize I'm still in the short white skirt and yellow shirt from yesterday, wrinkled now, clinging to me in places where I'd shifted in my sleep.

It hadn't been meant for sleeping. It hadn't been meant for him to see like this.

The air shifts when he moves. He rises from the bed, each motion unhurried, deliberate, the tension stretched tight between us.

His steps are slow, measured, the kind that seem to echo even in silence.

He closes the distance with the weight of inevitability, every inch he takes pressing me further back into my own fear.

His footsteps don't quicken. They don't need to.

Each one lands with the slow certainty of a man who knows I won't run, who knows there's nowhere for me to go.

My lungs burn as the space between us narrows, and before I realize it, I'm moving too-backward, step by step, until the wall meets me with a muted thud.

The cool plaster presses against my spine, stealing the last of my breath.

A small gasp slips out, unbidden, and my eyes snap up to his. They're darker than I remembered in the half-light-brown so deep they look almost black, swallowing me whole. My face is wet, streaked with tears I can't wipe away, and some part of me knows there will be more. There always are.

His hand lifts slowly, and for a heartbeat I think it will strike.

But instead, his fingers find a stray strand of my hair, brushing it back with a gentleness that makes my knees weaken.

He twirls it once around his finger, holding the bright lock against the dark weight of his hand as though it doesn't belong to me.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, threaded with something I can't name. "This doesn't fit." His gaze drags over me again, sharp and unyielding. "So bright. Fire in the middle of all that pale. Like it doesn't belong to you at all."

The curl slips loose from his finger, falling back against my cheek.

"You flinch at shadows," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Skin like paper, thin, too fragile. Small in every way. But this-" His eyes cut back to my hair, sharp as a blade. "It doesn't match the ghost you are."

The silence grows unbearable. My throat tightens, raw from holding back sobs, and at last the words break free, fragile and shaking. "I-I'm sorry for... for crying. I know I shouldn't. I'll stop, I promise."

It's what I was always supposed to say. Crying was weakness, something to be punished, and the apologies had to come fast, before the anger did. My body braces for it now, even as my chest heaves with the very thing I've sworn to silence.

But he doesn't step back. He presses closer, the heat of his bare chest pinning me against the wall until I can feel the hard rhythm of his breathing against mine. The sound of his voice comes rough, quiet, and absolute.

"I don't give a fuck about your tears." The words scrape low, vibrating through his chest and into me. "Cry all you want. All fucking day if you'd like."

I stare at him, stunned. The words don't make sense.

They don't fit. My face burns, red hot with humiliation, as his eyes search mine-dark, endless, leaving me exposed in a way punishment never did.

I can't hold his gaze, not with his body caging me in, his arm braced strong beside my head, his muscles taut in the pale morning light.

His abs, the ridges of them, stand stark and unapologetic, and the shame of seeing him-of being seen like this-makes my head dip, my eyes fall.

But he doesn't let me look away. His hand lifts, deliberate and steady, until I feel the weight of it wrap around my throat. Not tight, not cruel, just there. His thumb presses lightly beneath my jaw, guiding, coaxing my face back up until my eyes meet his once more.

My pulse pounds wildly under his hand. He doesn't squeeze. He doesn't threaten. But he leaves me nowhere to run, caught in his hold, forced to bear the full weight of his stare.

His thumb lingers at my jaw, holding me where he wants me. His eyes darken, not with anger but something heavier, something that feels like the truth dragging itself out of him against his will.

"I don't touch," he says at last, his voice low and deliberate. "I don't feel. I don't care." His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't soften. "Every person I've ever let close, every person who's ever touched me-they die. That's the way it is. That's the way I like it."

The words cut deep, blunt and merciless.

A cold rush of fear coils through me, worse than the wall at my back, worse than his hand at my throat.

I can't stop the thoughts from spiraling.

If he believes that-if everyone who touches him dies-what will he do to me for this mistake?

For ending up in his arms, for staying too close?

My breath comes in shallow bursts, and the apology tumbles out again, frantic, broken.

"I-I didn't mean to," I whisper, shaking my head hard, as if I can undo the night. "Please, I didn't mean to touch you, I didn't mean to-don't kill me, don't hurt me-please, I'll be good, I'll-"

The words dissolve into sobs, each one more desperate than the last. My chest aches, my throat burns, but I can't stop. The terror claws too deep, and I can't tell if my legs are trembling from fear or from the nearness of him.

He doesn't let go. He watches me, steady and unreadable, his silence dragging the panic higher. Then, slowly, his thumb shifts along my jaw, firm enough to make me meet his eyes again.

"I'm not going to kill you." The words are rough, but not cruel. "You're too useful for that."

Confusion breaks through the fear, a hollow pause between sobs. His gaze narrows, and his hand, still at my throat, steadies me as if he's pinning the truth in place.

"You don't touch me to hurt me. You don't touch me to take anything.

" His jaw tightens, his voice dropping lower, darker.

"You touch with care. Like I'm something breakable.

Delicate." He lets out a breath, sharp and bitter, as though the thought itself is unbearable.

"No man deserves that. Least of all me."

The room is too quiet after that, his words hanging heavy between us. My lips part, but I don't know what to say, what I can say. My heart stumbles painfully against my ribs, my tears hot on my cheeks. His eyes never leave mine, and I realize he's waiting-for me to speak, to move, to flinch again.

My breath catches, caught somewhere between his hand at my throat and the way his face hovers so close to mine. He fills every inch of space, the air, the light, the silence. My thoughts scatter uselessly, leaving only the pounding of my heart and the sting of my tears.

"I... I'd never hurt you," I whisper, my voice small, halting. The words tremble between us like they might shatter if I breathe too hard. "Never. Not... not intentionally."

For a long, awful second, I think he won't answer. His gaze is steady, sharp, unreadable, and I brace myself for anger, for dismissal, for that cold distance he wears like armor.

But instead, the sound comes low, almost thoughtful-a hum deep in his chest. His mouth shifts, the corners curving into something that isn't quite cruel, isn't quite soft either. A smirk. The closest thing I've ever seen him come to smiling.

It unsettles me more than any scowl.

My eyes dart over his face, searching desperately for the meaning he won't give me.

What does that look mean? Is it amusement?

Mockery? Some dark truth only he understands?

The longer I stare, the hotter my face burns, shame and confusion tangling until I can't breathe.

Yet I can't look away. Not when his expression-this strange, fleeting almost-smile-feels like something forbidden, something he shouldn't show me at all.

His smirk lingers only a moment before his voice cuts through, low and steady, vibrating so close I feel it in my chest.

"I don't have girls in my house." His thumb presses lightly beneath my jaw as he speaks, holding me still.

"Never." His eyes sweep over me, deliberate, as if to remind me exactly where I stand.

"No woman has ever stepped foot inside my room and stayed.

" His mouth twists, the smirk fading into something darker, more dangerous.

"No one's ever touched this bed but me."

His breath warms my face, hot against my skin, and my stomach flips painfully at the weight of it. His next words land like a strike. "But now you."

I blink hard, my lips parting as though words might come, but all I manage is a fractured sound. "I-I... I d-didn't mean-" The stutter shreds through me, my throat tight, my body caught between apology and the sharp fear of saying the wrong thing.

He doesn't let me finish. His hand doesn't move, his body still a wall of heat pressing me into the plaster. His gaze pins me, merciless, his face so close I can see every line, every flicker of shadow across his features.

My body betrays me, leaning into his without thought, without permission.

Heat floods through me, a rush that makes my skin prickle, my breath come quicker.

My palms ache to clutch at something, anything, but I hold them rigid at my sides, trembling.

The nearness of him is unbearable, his bare chest solid against mine, every inhale drawing me deeper into the trap of him.

I don't understand it. The fear, the shame, the heat-it tangles until I can't separate one from the other. And still, I can't pull away.

°°°°°

Adrian Rossetti

Fuck. I can still hear her voice from last night, soft and hesitant, telling me she could help me sleep.

Like she had any clue what the hell that meant for me.

But the pills had been pulling me under, my body heavier than I'd let it show, and somehow I let her touch me.

I should've shoved her off, barked at her to stay the fuck away. But I didn't.

Her fingers slid into my hair, tentative, like she thought I'd break if she pressed too hard.

Smooth skin brushing against my scalp, careful as if she was trying to soothe me, calm the rage that's been welded into my bones since I was a kid.

And Christ, when she tugged-accidental, just a slip-my chest seized.

A sound ripped out of me before I could choke it down.

Too fucking good. Too close to weakness.

And now she's here, caught between me and the wall, her wide doe eyes fixed on mine like I'm the only thing that exists.

I should hate the way she looks at me-like I'm not a monster, like she doesn't see the blood on my hands-but I can't tear myself away.

Her body shifts, restless, like it doesn't know what it wants. Until it does.

Her hips press forward, meeting my thighs. Heat spreads through me fast, ugly, relentless. She doesn't even realize what she's doing, but I do. Every fucking nerve in me does. And I can't decide if I want to shove her away or pin her there until she forgets how to breathe without me.

My hand slips from her throat, not because I want to let go, but because I want more.

Both hands clamp down on her hips, hard enough she'll feel the ache later.

My fingers dig into her like she's mine already, and I drag her in until her hips crash against me.

The gasp that leaves her lips is sharp, helpless-fuck, it shoots straight through me.

I drop my head, burying my face against the crook of her neck. Warmth. Vanilla. Sweet, soft, intoxicating. I breathe her in like I've been starved, like I can't get enough of her even though I fucking shouldn't want this at all. My mouth hovers just over her skin, close enough she shivers.

"Your body knows," I mutter, my voice rough, almost a growl against her throat. "It's already reacting to me."

Her hands shoot up like she doesn't know what else to do with them, small palms pressed against my abs.

Not pushing me away-just touching, holding.

Her legs tremble, knees barely keeping her upright, and it forces her weight against me.

Like she needs me to hold her up. Like she's already giving in without even realizing it.

And I shouldn't want that. Shouldn't fucking crave it. But the way she clings? It's like gasoline on an open flame.

My leg shifts without thought, sliding between hers, pressing her thighs apart like I've got every fucking right to.

Her skirt rides up higher, the thin fabric giving way, leaving too much of her bare for my eyes.

And Christ-her eyes go wide, those big, startled things looking at me like I've just stolen something from her. Maybe I have.

Her thighs tense around me, the faintest brush of soft skin against my sweatpants, and I know I should pull back. I know I should hate myself for this. And I do. I fucking do.

I had a plan- make sure she understood she doesn't get to make herself comfortable in my space. She's not supposed to touch anything that belongs to me. She sure as hell isn't supposed to be in my sheets. I was going to make her regret it.

But the second I touched her, the second I felt that little gasp tear out of her throat, it all went to shit. My head's a mess, my control slipping through my fingers like sand. I should shove her away, throw her back in her room, remind her what she is to me-nothing but a piece on the board.

Instead, I'm here, holding her against me, legs parting her like I own her, and fuck if I don't want to keep her exactly where she is.

Her voice breaks soft and unsteady, "I don't... I don't know what's happening. I-I'm hot..."

The corner of my mouth twists, a smirk I don't even try to hide. She has no fucking clue what's unraveling inside her, what her own body is already betraying. Her hips twitch against me, the smallest shift, like instinct pulling at her without permission.

I feel it. The press of her against my thigh. Barely there, but it's movement. Christ. She doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her breath shudders, lashes lowering for half a second like she's giving in before she snaps them open again.

"You know exactly what's happening," I murmur, my mouth close to her ear, letting the words drag over her skin.

My hands tighten on her hips, forcing them harder against me, against the heat and pressure she keeps flinching from and reaching for in the same breath.

"Your body wants something. Wants to feel good.

You'll even take it from me after sneaking into my bed. "

Her head jerks, eyes wide. "N-no- I didn't- I just- I'm sorry- I didn't mean- I wasn't- not sleeping with-" Her words collapse on themselves, panic turning her voice small and cracked. She doesn't even hear what she's admitting.

I cut her off before she can trip further. My thigh shifts up, pressing higher, deeper between her legs, spreading her open without asking. The sound that slips out of her is thin and broken-almost a whimper.

And fuck me, I should hate myself right now. I do.

Her fingers clutch my abs like they're the only thing keeping her upright. Her legs quake around me, skirt riding higher, her thighs trembling. And still, she shifts again, chasing that pressure without even knowing it.

I lower my voice, rough and taunting, but underneath it my chest feels like it's burning. "Tell me, sweetheart... what are you feeling right now?"

Her hips twitch once against my thigh, then again, a little longer this time, dragging across me like her body's chasing something her mind doesn't have the words for. I feel every inch of it-the heat radiating off her, the helpless pull. She doesn't even know what she's doing, but fuck, I do.

Her breath breaks in uneven bursts, shaky, almost guilty.

Then she does it again-longer now, her skirt riding higher as her thighs tremble around me.

My jaw locks so tight it aches. I should stop this.

I should shove her away, get back to the anger I came here with.

But instead I press my hands harder into her hips, guiding without guiding, letting her keep going.

Her lashes lower, fluttering closed as if the world's too much, and the sight of it-her coming undone without even knowing what's happening-hits me like a shot to the gut.

"Eyes on me," I growl, my voice low and rough, dragging her back from wherever she's slipping. "Don't close them. Look at me."

Her head tilts up, dazed, pupils wide and dark. And she's still moving, slow but desperate, like her body refuses to listen to anything but the pull of instinct. Christ, it's torture, watching her discover this without even knowing what to call it.

I lean in, my mouth near her ear, the words tearing out before I can stop them. "That's it, baby. Keep going."

The word slips out, unplanned, raw. Baby. I don't fucking say that. Not to anyone. But with her, it's out before I can strangle it back, and the sound of it makes her shiver against me, makes her press harder into my leg as if she's chasing approval she doesn't even understand.

Her body's trembling now, chasing something she doesn't even understand, and I don't stop her.

I keep my thigh right where she needs it, making her grind down, making her body betray her with every little movement.

I push her harder, crueler, because I want to hear it-I want her to fall apart against me.

Her hands clutch at my shoulders suddenly, desperate, like she needs me to hold her up or she'll collapse. "W-what's happening to me?" she breathes, voice breaking as if she's confessing a sin. "My stomach feels-tight. I'm hot, I'm so hot, I don't know-I don't know what's happening-"

Her words spill out in a rush, but her body doesn't stop.

She moves faster, grinding down harder, until the sound she makes isn't even words anymore-it's a whimper, a whine, raw and innocent and fucked up at the same time.

And then I hear it-my name, whispered like a prayer, like she doesn't even realize she's given it to me.

Her head tips back against the door, helpless.

I should end this. I should shove her away, tell her to get the fuck out before she ruins herself any more than she already has.

I should. But the words won't come. My chest is tight, my jaw clenched, and instead of pushing her away, I lean in.

"Keep going," I rasp, low and rough in her ear. "Ride it out, baby."

The word slips out before I can stop it-baby.

Christ. I bite it back, but it's too late.

My mouth is already against her skin, my head dipped into the curve of her neck.

I drag my teeth along that soft, untouched flesh, just barely grazing her, but enough that I know it'll mark.

A bruise, my bruise, blooming on skin that's too damn smooth, too breakable, too fucking soft for someone like me to be touching.

And I still don't stop.

Her body's unraveling right in front of me.

I can see it in every twitch of her muscles, every strangled sound that slips past her lips.

The way her thighs quake around mine-fuck, I know it has to be the first time for her.

The innocence of it, the sheer unknowing, it's written across her face, painted in the desperate way she clings to me like I'm the only thing holding her up.

And I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't like it. But part of me does-more than I want to admit. The power, the control, the sight of her breaking apart because of me and not even understanding why. It's fucked up, but I can't look away.

Her movements get wilder, her breath sharp, broken. My name falls from her mouth-soft, pleading, shaking. Christ, hearing it like that nearly knocks the air out of me. My name, clinging to her lips like a prayer.

Her body seizes against mine, trembling hard, and I hold her through it, watching every second of her fall apart. She's coming undone, and she doesn't even know what the hell is happening to her-but I do. I feel it. I hear it. And I take it in like it's mine to claim.

She breaks with my name on her tongue, and I fucking let her. I let her because I can't stop myself.

Her body slumps against mine when it's over, soft and trembling, and every muscle in me recoils like I've been burned.

I don't let people touch me-ever. Not like this.

Not in a way that makes me feel anything but control, command.

And yet her weight is here, pressed into me like I'm something safe.

My jaw clenches so hard I swear it'll crack.

I hate it. I hate her for putting me in this position.

I hate myself more for letting it happen.

Her legs shake violently, too weak to hold her.

If I let go, she'll collapse. I know it.

And the sane thing, the decent thing, would be to steady her, talk her through what just happened, tell her she isn't broken for reacting the way she did.

But I don't fucking do decent. I don't do comfort. That's not me.

So I do the opposite.

I step back.

She crumbles instantly, just like I knew she would, folding down to the floor in a heap of trembling limbs and unsteady breath.

And fuck-it hits me then. What I've just done.

What I let her do. My chest constricts with something sharp, ugly.

Rage, disgust, guilt-every one of them aimed squarely at myself.

I freeze. My hands curl into fists at my sides. I can't stand the sight of her like this. Not her flushed cheeks, not the glazed look in her eyes that still hasn't cleared, not the way her lips tremble like she's caught between shame and confusion. I can't stand that I was the one who put her here.

"Get out," I say, quiet but edged with steel.

Her head lifts slowly. Pink still stains her cheeks. Her eyes flicker, dazed, like she's trapped in some dream she hasn't shaken free of. "W-what?"

"Get the fuck out." Louder this time, sharp enough to slice through the haze between us.

Her eyes widen. Fear-at least that's what I think it is.

Good. Maybe she'll keep her distance next time.

She scrambles, shaky, doing her best to get to her feet though her legs barely obey her.

It takes everything in me not to reach out, not to steady her.

She finally gets herself upright, fingers fumbling at the door.

"Go to your fucking room," I snap before she slips away, my voice so harsh it makes the walls vibrate. "Don't come out."

She nods quickly, eyes dropping. Her legs shake as she stumbles to the door, flinging it open in her haste. Just before she disappears, her gaze flicks up, catches mine for one fractured second-something raw, unspoken, almost pleading in it.

Then the door closes, and I'm left with nothing but the silence and the wreckage inside me.

"Fuck!" The word rips out of me like shrapnel as my fist drives into the wall. Pain shoots through my knuckles, blood instantly welling, but it doesn't touch the storm in my chest. I slam my head back against the wall once, twice, trying to drive out the poison boiling in my veins.

I never should have touched her. Never should've let her get close. And now, I don't know if I hate her for it-or if I hate myself more.

°°°°°

Something is coming... (Lily)

But no, I'm hoping this was good? It's not really smut, that's not what it's supposed to be, but I hope this wasn't shit... Did it have your heart beating?

Please tell me if it was ass I'll attempt to redo it.

But beware... A storm is brewing.

And no it's not the next thing that's about to happen, it's about what happens after the next thing.

Be scared, protect your hearts.

Also I was wondering, so we like the long chapters more?

Or the shorter ones, I don't want to bore you all with these long chapters (like I'm sure these authors notes do).

But please let me know!