Chapter 3 #2
“T-they’re all t-t-t-oo sc-scared of-f yo-you,” she stutters, slipping her knees out from under her coat and attempting to get to her feet. She loses her balance, falling onto her knees with a thump.
Embarrassing.
A chuckle bubbles from my throat, and she flicks a nasty glare my way, then tries again.
This time, she’s barely successful—only for her to take a single step and lose her balance again.
Her limbs are numb, and I’ll grow old by the time she manages to make it halfway to the door, give up, and stay there until she croaks.
I stand, and though my teeth are on the verge of chattering, I let my rage warm my blood. I whistle a low tune, watching her struggle to her feet a third time, only to fall once again.
“You’re pathetic,” I tell her, a grin curling one side of my lips when she spits an insult over her shoulder.
No fucking idea what she said, but I can’t imagine it was that creative, anyway.
After a few more attempts, I grow bored and trail after her.
Before she can wrangle up the energy to try again, I scoop her into my arms. It takes effort not to think about how she feels tucked into my elbows.
If I do, I’ll want to drop her, and despite how amusing that’d be, I’m tired as shit, and the cold has officially begun to hurt my face.
Her muscles tense, her struggles weak as she wriggles in my hold. “L-l-let m-me g-go!” she screeches, planking her body.
Growling, I tuck her further into my chest, wishing I didn’t enjoy torturing her so much and could just let her die out here.
I should carry her up to her dorm and leave her there, but I’m not confident she can bring herself back from the edge of death. So, unless I want a goddamn murder charge on my hands, I need to ensure she doesn’t croak.
Between my exhaustion, having to get up early, her tiny-ass twin bed, and the mess Rogue and Severen created in her dorm earlier, I have no desire to stay in her room until she warms up.
Which means she’s coming back with me instead.
“You’ll sooner die before you make it to your room, and I have better things to do than answer questions about your untimely death.”
“A-a-asshole,” she snarls, her fist thumping against my chest. I grin, and she hisses from the impact against her numb skin.
I bask in the peaceful two seconds of silence before her struggling renews, noticing I’m not walking toward her dorm, but the parking lot.
“Dr-Dread, l-let me g-go.”
I ignore her, my eyes beginning to burn from the lack of sleep and frigid air. I’m more than ready for bed, and I’ll be damned if I let her delay that any longer than necessary.
When I make it to my car, I practically toss her in the passenger seat. She goes to scramble back out, but she’s far too sluggish, and I have the seat belt around her and clicked into place before she can manage to poke a foot out.
“Dr—” I slam the door in her face.
By the time I’m sitting in the driver’s seat and finding instant relief from the hot air blasting through the vents, she’s unclipping the seat belt.
Rolling my eyes, I grab the buckle before it can slide back and pin her with a glare. My annoyance only heightens when she whines like a puppy being deprived of a treat.
“Keep it up, and I’ll fucking strangle you with it,” I snap.
She looks on the verge of crying, and while I’m happy to have a front-row seat, I’d be even happier to be lying in my bed again.
I click the buckle a second time then turn down the air so the rapid change in temperature doesn't send her into shock. Then, I quickly pull out of the parking space and slowly drive back toward the road.
I make it five goddamn feet before she goes for the buckle again, I grab her frigid hand and squeeze it until she squeals from the pain. It’s jarring how icy her skin is, but I shove any thoughts or feelings on the matter out of my head.
She attempts to pull it out of my grip, but I hold tight. She’s fucking insane to think I’d ever let her go.
Trapping her with one hand, I maneuver the car with my other. It’s nearly impossible to see through the white wall of snow, forcing me to drive at a snail’s pace.
It’s slippery as hell out, and it requires every ounce of my attention to ensure I don’t crash.
Yet, most of it is still on her.
“P-please,” she whispers.
Such a rare word to hear from her mouth. I've seen her near her breaking point many times these past several years, but she was always too stubborn to beg for mercy.
My pranks started off smaller—spreading a variety of rumors, from her helping Lionel with the murders to cannibalism—but they got more intense as time went on.
Waiting until she got in the shower before stealing her entire wardrobe and burning them in a bonfire at a party.
Hijacking her car and letting it roll toward the edge of a cliff, forcing her to get in and stop it just before it crested the edge. Among other things.
I suppose this is the first time I pushed her this close to the brink of death, though.
After a few long seconds, she deflates, giving up the notion of escaping me tonight.
The drive back to my dorm goes from a two-minute drive to ten. Meanwhile, she turned her body toward the door, curling into it as the heat slowly defrosts her.
If only it could reach her heart. But I don’t know if a fire-breathing dragon would even have the strength to thaw that shit out.
By the time I’m parked outside my dorm, rounding the car to the passenger side and scooping her out of it, I’m thoroughly irritated. Especially because I’m on the second floor and have to carry her up the goddamn stairs.
Just as I kick the door shut behind me, she makes another attempt to dislodge herself from my hold, so I let her, loosening my grip and chuckling when she flops to the floor with an unceremonious thunk.
She whimpers and weakly sits up while I kick off my snow-caked shoes. A lingering chill still clings to my bones, but it’s a feeling I’ve grown used to in her presence.
The snow that covered Reverie’s body has melted, turning her wet hair a light brown from the moisture. Icy droplets cling to her skin, the grayish-blue pallor making her look closer to a zombie. Yet, as I stare at her, I feel nothing but contempt for the barely human being on my floor.
The twinge in my chest sharpens, as if to prove me wrong, but I ignore it as easily as I have since the moment I laid eyes on her chained to the flagpole like a dog.
And now, she trembles like one on the floor.
“Take your clothes off, darling, or else you’ll freeze to death,” I tell her casually, my tone bored as I pull my hoodie over my head.
I’m tempted to just take her to the showers to warm up, but I’m too goddamn exhausted to deal with carrying her there and back.
Which means I need to warm her up myself.
My upper lip curls. The thought of sharing a bed with her—let alone touching her—makes my skin crawl. However, her hatred for it might make it worth it.
Anything that makes her miserable makes me feel damn good.
“S-stop c-calling me th-that,” she slurs.
“How about Ms. D’Amour?”
“F-f-fuck yo-ou.”
I grin. “Is that what you want? For me to fuck you?”
“I’d r-rather fr-freeze to d-d-death.”
Except by the time I circle around to stand before her, one look at her face confirms she’s far past the point of freezing, now going into shock. She’s on the verge of nodding off, her eyes half lidded, and she’s no longer shivering nearly as badly as she was a few minutes ago.
Fuck.
Adrenaline surges through my bloodstream, and all thought snuffs from my brain. I move on pure instinct when I drop to a crouch and unzip her coat. She swats at my hand, but it’s sloppy and weak.
“I’m not R-Regina,” she mutters as I practically rip the coat down her arms. It takes a few extra seconds to decipher what she said, but when I do, I frown.
“What?”
She groans when I move on to her feet and tug off her heeled leather boots and socks. She’s still in her fancy attire from work, so her clothing has done nothing to protect her from the snow.
“You c-called me darling. I-I’m not Regina.”
I shake my head and grab for the bottom of her shirt, not having the mental capacity to deal with whatever the hell she’s trying to say. She’s slurring more than stuttering now, and I don’t have time to decode her fucking point.
“Arms up,” I clip, attempting to pull up her black, long-sleeved shirt, the gauzy material sliding off with ease. But even in hypothermic shock, she tries to push at my hands and curl her body inward.
“God fucking dammit, Reverie. Don’t make me tear your fucking clothes off,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.
She mumbles something but ultimately allows me to yank the damp material over her head, though not without whining about it.
I don’t process the expanse of gray-blue skin on display, or how frigid and clammy it feels, even when I reach around and unclip her bra, letting it fall to the floor.
Instinctively, she covers herself, though not very well.
Pointedly ignoring her chest, I move on to her black jeans, quickly unfastening them before grabbing the waistband on either side of her hips and roughly jerking them down. She squeaks and topples backward, unable to even catch herself.
“Lift up,” I snap.
Sloppily, she lifts her hips, giving me just enough room to tug them down past her ass. They’re soaking wet and adhered to her skin, making it difficult to peel them off her legs. By the time I wrangle them off, she’s laying down completely, her eyes glazed over.
I don’t even bother being nice about her panties and just give them one firm tug, ripping them from her body and evoking another whimper from her throat.
Then, I stand and march over to my closet, where I keep extra blankets, and grab one before hurrying back to her. She’s heavy and limp as I grab her hands and pull her into an upright position. She groans, and I make quick work of tightly wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.