Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
I got a week’s reprieve from Avery and her minions.
I don’t know if I’ve rattled her or if she’s still recovering from whatever happened between her and her siblings, but I enjoy the peace that comes from being invisible to them all again.
I throw myself back into my studies and focus on my vocal work for choir.
I’ve figured out that wearing ear buds helps enough that I can go through the exercises Miss Umber has assigned us.
The downside is that I have no idea how I actually sound, and there’s a good chance that I’m hitting the wrong keys.
If the class didn’t directly affect my overall grade, I wouldn’t care, but my scholarship requires me to maintain a near-perfect GPA.
There’s no way I’m letting my PTSD destroy my chance at a decent future.
I won’t play it off as anything less than what it is; my trauma is a result of torture.
There is no other word for it, no pretty little name that changes what happened into anything other than abuse.
During my so-called training with the Jackal, I was subjected to a variety of methods, all of which are prohibited by the Geneva Convention.
I was taught how to withstand extreme levels of pain without screaming.
The side effect of that training is that I can no longer hear my own voice, screaming or singing, without the bone-deep fear of the consequences the Jackal threatened me with.
I have the scars to show for each punishment I was dealt, and the thought of going through that again makes my brain switch firmly into fight-or-flight mode.
It’s one of many reasons I left Mounts Bay, but, more importantly, it was the pivotal event that made me see through Matteo’s kind and nurturing front. I stopped feeling loyalty to him or guilt for wanting my own path. I stopped being his Wolf and became my own.
Sometimes, when I don’t keep myself busy, those memories creep into my mind unbidden, and I find myself shaky and nervous, twitchy even.
I’m in one of those moods when I sit in the library for my usual study session with Ash.
He’d blown off our other sessions for this week, so I didn’t really expect him to show up.
If anything, I was hoping he wouldn’t. I didn’t want him to question the tremor in my fingers as I answered the math equations in my workbook.
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
I get fifteen minutes of peace before Blaise arrives.
He looks around the library as if he’s looking for someone else to help him, then sighs and sits down in the seat Ash usually uses.
I don’t look up or acknowledge him as he empties his bag and gets settled in his chair.
Once he’s set up, he clears his throat to get my attention.
I take my time before I look up and focus on the tip of his nose instead of staring into those gorgeous green eyes.
He shifts in his seat, and I think about feeling sorry for him.
Then I remember his cold words when he publicly humiliated me on my worst day at Hannaford so far—I don’t fuck fans—and I give him the tiniest glare instead. God, I am pathetic.
“I’m going to fail math if you can’t perform a miracle on me.”
I take the paper he slides across to me and see the mess he’s made of his own workbook.
It’s bad. It’s not completely hopeless, but he’s definitely going to fail if he hands this in.
I start to mark it up and jot down observations in silence, ignoring the slight tremble of my fingers.
I can help this arrogant, gorgeous, talented, swoon-worthy asshole without having to look or speak to him. I am just that good.
He squirms in his seat.
“Look, if you don’t want to help me, then I can find someone else.”
I snort at him derisively without stopping my methodical work.
“Harley is on par with me in all of our classes, including math. Why don’t you ask him to help you?
Then you wouldn’t ever have to look at me.
I can go back to staying as far away from you as possible, and you can forget I even go here. ”
He clears his throat again and looks around the room.
His tie is off, and his shirt is unbuttoned enough that I can see his tattoos peeking out.
I try my best not to think about them and finish marking the page, sliding it back across the table to him.
When I pick up my own work again, he finally answers me.
“Harley is really impatient. He used to try to help me, but we’d always end up at each other's throats. He doesn’t understand how I don’t get it. It’s all very easy to him, so he’s removed from the work the rest of us have to do to understand.”
It’s an honest statement. Something revealing and raw.
I nod at him and sigh, looking up to walk him through the work verbally until I’m sure he’s got a decent understanding of the formulas.
He’s obviously smart, but it takes a few tries to find the right explanation to help him get a good grasp on the sums. It’s pleasant, much nicer than the antagonistic banter with Ash, and I find myself enjoying him being there.
We get the workbook in a solid A condition, and I even help him develop a great page of notes for the upcoming tests.
“So, how did you first hear Vanth?” he asks as I do a last read-through.
The question throws me, and I just barely manage to keep hold of my pen. I glance up to see his eyes fucking twinkling at me, and I choke on my tongue.
“I heard your early covers and I bought the albums.” I don’t mention what I had to do to get the money to buy them. I don’t know how well he’d take me gambling with my body in the fight scene of Mounts Bay Middle School.
He groans and rubs a hand over his face.
“How did you find the covers? They’re terrible! You must be a very dedicated fan to go looking for them.”
I know logically that he’s joking around with me, but he hits a nerve. The same nerve he’d struck uttering those words to me in this library only days ago. My face flames, and I slowly put my pen down with a glare at him. His face drops, the smile sliding right off his features.
“I didn’t go looking for them. I’m not a fucking stalker.
I’m from the Bay; music is part of daily life there, and one of the old record stores played unsigned artists all the time.
I listened to your shit from the beginning, and I followed your career from there to Vanth.
But don’t worry about going to school with a fan, I’m certainly not one now.
I’ve burned the shirt and deleted your shit from my phone.
I have no interest in listening to music from a stuck-up, spoiled, rich brat.
I’ll listen to music from people who aren’t vapid posers from now on. ”
I’ve managed to strike a nerve with him, too. I know all about his insecurities; how he didn’t want to use his parents’ money to prop up the band in their early years or use their connection to get a record deal. I know exactly what to say to piss him off, and that’s what I’ve done.
He levels me with a look so dark that my mind flashes to Ash sitting across from me. I take in every bit of his fire and give him back my own. I may never be able to speak to him again, but at least I’ve told him exactly what I think of him, exactly what his dismissal did to me.
Now Avery might actually kill me. But fuck him and fuck her, too.
Two things cross my mind when I get back to my room after dinner the next night: Avery Beaumont works fast; and where the hell can I get some locks that will keep the bitch out of my room?
I thought the urine was the worst thing they could splash around my room, and I guess it was a stinky biohazard. However, piss can be washed out. You can use enough bleach to disinfect and clean the damage done to the room.
You can’t wash out pure, industrial-strength black paint.
When I open the door and switch on my light, the blackness eats it up so much that for a second, I think the light has blown.
There isn’t a single inch of the room or its contents that aren’t now black.
My clothes and shoes, my books, my fucking pillow.
I take a step forward and feel the tackiness of the floor.
The paint isn’t even dry yet. They must have barely finished before I got here.
I can hear the tittering of laughter, a sound that will probably haunt me for life once I’ve left this damned place behind, but I don’t look back to see who it is.
I know that no matter who held the tin and brushes, Avery is behind this.
I’m grateful that I’ve made copies of all my classwork, so at least I don’t lose that. I’ll have to spend some of my precious funds to replace my uniforms and my clothing. I’ve lost every damn thing I own. Well, not everything. My safe hidden under the floorboards is fine.
I have no choice but to call the administration office and report the damage thanks to the black walls and floor.
While I wait for help to arrive, I pick through my destroyed belongings and start a mental list of what I’m going to have to replace, the bare minimum I’ll need to survive.
It’s frustrating that Avery knows exactly where to hit to cause the most damage to my life.
While Joey uses big, sweeping acts to attempt to break me, Avery knows the small pressure points that chip away at me.
The bet and the guys chasing me for sex is annoying but manageable.
Even Joey trying to fuck me against my will was something I could deal with; a knife to the dick is pretty persuasive.
The 911 call was closer to the mark, but he underestimated my mental walls.