Chapter 28
REVERIE
My heart pounds as my wet clothes drip over the thin carpet in Dread’s room. I was so intent on getting away from him, I forgot my towel and just ran out into the equipment area, quickly tugging my clothing on over my dripping wet suit.
Rogue was gone when I went out there, which means Dread must’ve sent him home when he arrived, so thank fucking God I drove us to the center in my car.
Half of me was expecting Dread to be hot on my heels, but he dragged behind. I wasn’t out of his eyesight for long as I sprinted to my car, though. When I was pulling out of my parking spot, he was getting into his car. Fifteen seconds later, I received a text from him.
The Antichrist: You better be on your way to our dorm. Don't make me come drag you back home.
It was absolutely diabolical the way my heart fluttered at the words ‘our’ and ‘home.’
Now, I rush to put on clean, dry clothes.
For reasons I'm not entirely sure of, my heart pounds as I dig through the laundry basket, still filled with mine and Dread's clean clothes from when I was staying here before.
It became easier to just wash them all together rather than trying to keep them separate, which is a weird enough concept to send me back to therapy if I think too hard about it.
I snag a T-shirt, set it on top for easy access, then quickly strip off the wet clothes and bathing suit.
Goosebumps consume my entire body from the cooler air hitting my damp flesh. But I'm so worried about Dread walking in on me, I ignore it and rush to put the T-shirt on.
All I need is underwear and sleep shorts, but I don't even get the chance to bend over to rifle through the basket again before his door flies open, prompting us both to freeze.
Dread fills the entryway, one hand on the doorknob, and his other holding a medium-sized black bag.
I almost return my attention to the clothes, but something about the way he's staring at my shirt makes my heart drop, and my head instantly snaps down.
My. Fucking. God, do I hate my life.
I'm wearing a vintage Nirvana T-shirt. This isn't mine—it’s fucking Dread's.
Panic instantly zips through my veins, ramping up my heart rate and flipping my heart upside down. I stare down at the T-shirt with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights.
This is incredibly mortifying and will definitely go one of two ways.
Option one: he's going to think I've been wearing his clothes to bed like some creepy, lovesick weirdo.
Or option two: he's going to get incredibly turned on.
Either way, I might as well be wearing a sign around my neck begging Dread to fuck me, and I can’t exactly trust the asshole not to oblige, even if he thinks I'm a creepy, lovesick weirdo. While I can’t exactly say it would be a skin-crawling experience, I think I would rather punch myself in the face than let that man inside me again.
Liar.
Fuck, I am.
But it’s still in my best interest to keep him firmly outside my body, so wearing his T-shirt is the absolute worst thing I could’ve done.
Thankfully, it hangs several inches past my ass, but wearing nothing beneath still makes me feel incredibly exposed, like my skin has been peeled back, allowing the soft material to brush against every raw nerve.
Everything about this situation fucking sucks, and what’s worse is that I only have myself to blame.
Hesitantly, I lift my stare to Dread's. His features seem to sharpen as his gaze slowly glides down my form, only to take his sweet time dragging it back up again.
The second our eyes meet, several things happen at once.
His jaw clenches until the muscle appears on the verge of splitting skin.
He steps completely into the room, shutting the door behind him.
The air thickens, filling with heat and tension—and possibly toxic fumes, too.
All I know is that I can’t fucking breathe, and he looks pissed. Any softness from the pool is nowhere to be found, and if his hair wasn't wet at his nape, I'd question if I imagined the whole thing.
So option one it is. He's back to hating me because of what I did—or rather, didn't do—after catching Lionel with Georgia Farrell, and he thinks I'm a fucking creep.
My heart drops, and anxiety swells in my stomach, but I steel my spine for whatever cruel words are going to come out of his mouth.
He's probably going to say I'm dirtying his shirt or tell me it's unflattering on my body.
“Get on the bed—”
“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.”
The ensuing silence is loud as I blink at him, my mouth flopping. I was wholly prepared for a derogatory remark and nothing else.
Especially not what the fuck actually came out of his mouth.
He arches his scarred brow, the thin white line cutting through it making him appear more intimidating than he has any right to be. Meanwhile, my entire face burns with embarrassment.
Clearing my throat, I bounce my gaze around the room as I say, “Okay, wow, this is awkward. I was totally expecting you to say something else.”
He nods slowly, glancing down my body in a way that tightens my stomach. I realize now I mistook the heat in his eyes for anger rather than lust.
“Get on the bed, Reverie.”
I shift uncomfortably, my fingers playing with the ends of the fabric, and I force myself to meet his stare with a tight expression.
“Are we sure we shouldn’t fight about the shirt instead?”
His tongue rolls to the side of his cheek, clearly becoming impatient.
“Do I need to come get you?”
My stomach flips, adrenaline flooding my system as I struggle with both the urge to listen and to revolt.
“Dread,” I whisper helplessly.
I don’t know what to do. His expectant stare borders on threatening, but we’re supposed to hate each other, for fuck’s sake.
Who cares if he just taught me how to swim? This shouldn’t even be a thing.
“This isn’t— We can’t do this again,” I try to reason, my tone cautious. He looks like he might pounce, and for the first time in my life, I just might run screaming if he does.
My muscles are tense as he silently regards me, only deepening my nervousness.
I’m on edge, and even the slightest twitch of his finger might spook me.
It’s like slowly climbing to the top of the roller coaster, and with each passing second, the anticipation builds until you’re somewhere between fearing it and just wanting it over so you can breathe again.
God, I don’t remember feeling like this with him before. I always stood my ground, even when he terrified me. So why is it now that I want to run? Why, when his intentions aren’t to cause me pain?
Because it’ll hurt more when he’s finished with you and breaks your heart.
I instantly crumple that thought into a ball and chuck it out the window. I reject any possibility he could hurt me like that.
That’s the one part of me I will never let him have.
He still says nothing as he sets the black bag on his nightstand, keeping his piercing stare directed at me.
Then, he pinches the zipper on his coat and slowly drags it down.
I follow the movement as my throat swells, making it hard to breathe.
He shrugs it off and tosses it over to his computer chair, leaving him in damp black clothing that molds to his body like papier-maché.
His joggers don’t appear soaking wet, so he must’ve taken off his briefs before putting them back on.
Again, I shift, my heart pumping a mile a minute.
“One.”
I frown, unsure of what he means until he says, “Two.”
I shake my head, my nerves morphing into panic. If we were anywhere else, I’d tell him to fuck off. But here, in his room, when I have nothing but his T-shirt on—I’m completely vulnerable with nowhere to run. I’m a goddamn mouse with its leg caught in a trap.
He picks up the black bag again and unzips it, his demeanor intense yet casual.
“Three.”
“Fucking hell. Fine,” I snap, practically stomping to the bed and sitting on the side of it with a frustrated huff, facing him directly.
I cross my arms, and while he may think it’s because I’m irate, it’s truly because I don’t want him to see my hard nipples poking beneath the fabric. I'm only thankful he doesn't have infrared vision to see the heat pooling low in my stomach.
One side of his mouth curls as he drops his attention to whatever is inside the bag.
I swear to fucking God, if he pulls out a snake or a spider, I will quite literally lose my shit, and I will do it all over his fucking bed, too.
“When’s the last time you played with your pussy?”
My mouth parts, and for what feels like the hundredth time, I stare at him blankly as I try to compute his question.
“W-what? That is not any of your business,” I stutter. Flames lick at the base of my throat before spreading up to my cheeks.
He reaches in the bag and pulls out a familiar object. I gasp, staring at what’s in his hand with both shock and mortification.
“What the fuck, Dread? Why do you have my vibrator?” I shout, getting to my feet. I’m about to charge at him and wrestle the damn thing from his grip when he reaches in the bag again and pulls out my dildo.
It’s like dousing me with gasoline and flicking a lit match.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, balling my hands into fists and glowering at him. “When did you even get those?”
“Before I went to the pool,” he answers, not the least bit bothered by my fury.
Of fucking course he did.
The asshole has broken into my dorm more times than I have fingers and toes to count, so it’s the least surprising part.
I’m so angry and humiliated, it anchors me where I stand, despite my desperation to grab the toys and rip them from his hands.
He holds up the dildo, presenting a seven-inch lifelike dick. I’m seriously contemplating running to his window and yeeting myself out of it when I note the anger melting the frost in his eyes.
“You will never use this shit again. The only cock that will fuck your pussy is mine.”