by Lily White
These dances are never fun, and I briefly wonder if I can fake being sick to get out of it.
Ava and Ivy always attempt to make me feel included, but they have dates, and I end up feeling like an awkward fifth wheel.
I know I’ll be wandering prom tonight on my own while the other kids dance and have fun.
Thankfully, everybody already has plans for house parties that begin as early as an hour after prom begins, so I’m hopeful Mason won’t want to stay too long, and we can both leave long before it’s over.
“Well, you’ve done a good job avoiding both of them. Just like they deserve,” she says, cutting into my thoughts. “Especially if they’re pulling the same game of replacing each other.”
Avoiding them hasn’t been easy. Not when there are two of them actively looking for me around every corner. After realizing under the willow tree that they were both messing with me, I’d walked out from behind that curtain of branches so fucking pissed that I swore they would never get near me again.
The first few days were tough, but then the weekend came and went, both Ezra and Damon returning to school on Monday with new bruises and cuts, their attitudes so aggressive that they’d given up on me and terrorized anyone who got near them.
I’ve noticed a pattern with that. Every other weekend something happens to them. It usually takes them a week to calm down after whatever happens that causes those bruises, and then they’re back to their usual selves for another week after.
It’s a never-ending cycle, at least as long as I’ve been watching. And to say I wasn’t angry to see the new bruises would be a lie.
I was enraged.
Livid.
I wanted to march right up to them and demand answers about what was going on. I wanted to destroy whoever was causing those bruises.
But I didn’t because I was also still mad at them.
“Are you leaving to get your hair and other stuff done soon?”
Pulling on my shoe, I groan. “Yes. I have to meet my mom in a few.”
On Ivy’s end of the line, I hear another voice, soft and feminine, a question being asked that I can’t quite make out.
“Who’s that?”
It’s Ivy’s turn to groan.
“I’m babysitting,” she teases, her soft laughter rolling through the line when the person in her room complains.
“My dad’s friend stopped by, and they asked me to hang out with his daughter, Brinley, for an hour before I leave to get my hair and stuff done. She claims being five years younger than me doesn’t mean she’s still a kid. I beg to differ.”
The two of them argue back and forth, Ivy’s laughter loud before she finally speaks to me again. “Brinley just told me that her friend, Everly, is our age and doesn’t think she’s a kid.”
Chuckling at the way Ivy is gently teasing the girl when they immediately start arguing again, my head snaps up to hear a knock at my door.
“Ugh. My mom is here. I have to go.”
“Go get beautiful. I’ll see you at prom.”
Hanging up, my eyes close, and I fight the urge to sneak out a window and run away.
An entire day with my mother is bad enough, but knowing Mason will be here at seven for the awkward, stiff photos we always take, followed by the stygian silence of the limo ride we’ll take to prom, makes the nightmare even worse.
I push to my feet and open the door regardless, ever the loyal daughter.
As usual, my mother regards me with a practiced expression. Not love. Not comfort. Not warmth. Just the same distant politeness she affords every acquaintance.
“We should go,” is all she says as she turns to lead me through the children’s wing and out to our waiting car.
The day continues on as expected. Every so often while my hair is being curled and pinned, while my nails are being shaped, buffed and painted, and while my makeup is being applied with what must be a spatula for how thick it is, my mother reminds me of my role in life.
You’re promised to Mason Strom.
You are to act with grace and decorum.
Mason calls the shots, and you’re to happily go along with them.
And always, always, remember to smile.
Even the hairdresser, nail tech and makeup artist glance at my mother like she’s insane. But I smile because one wrong move will trigger my mother’s unhappiness.
Not that I care too much about her happiness, especially when I’m miserable, but when she’s unhappy, my father is unhappy, which only leads to me being put on lockdown.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about telling them all to fuck off.
I’m eighteen now.
Technically an adult.
Per law, I can make my own decisions.
Those decisions also carry consequences, and without a job, a degree or anything else that would help me support myself, pulling the adult card would only leave me homeless.
It’s difficult to claim you’re an adult when you have no means of doing all the normal adult things.
That’s the reason I have no choice but to always remember to smile.
It’s also why I’m still smiling when the doorbell rings later that night.
Already, my mother has guided me to my usual position for this godawful tradition:
On the third step of the large winding staircase that faces the foyer, my arms delicately placed on the banister, my spine straight, shoulders rounded yet feminine, and my mind buried in so much misery I think I might barf.
Apparently, I’m not the only one.
As soon as my mother opens the door with her usual flourish, and after our fathers clap each other on the shoulders before shaking hands, Mason walks in looking just as miserable as me.
He doesn’t bother to look up at where he knows I’m standing. We’ve done this more times than I can count, and each time feels worse than the last.
Still, Mason looks gorgeous.
Standing at six foot three, he hasn’t fully filled out in the shoulders and chest to match his height, but his lean physique is perfectly complemented by the cut of his suit, the jacket just a touch darker than his hair, and the white shirt doing nothing to hide his flat, toned stomach where it’s tucked into pants that hint to his narrow waist and muscular thighs.
I’m sure our mothers were the ones who coordinated his tie to match the emerald color of my dress.
After our parents are done with their discussions, my father touches Mason’s shoulder to guide his attention to me as a grand presentation of the woman who waits on the stairs to be noticed.
The formality of this tradition is insanely ridiculous, but here we are, doing it for the hundredth time.
Mason’s light blue eyes finally flick up my direction, his lips tilting down into a scowl at the corners, but I smile regardless. Only because my mother would murder me if I didn’t.
We manage to make it through another round of stiff photographs, our bodies barely touching as he places the corsage on my arm, and I pin the boutonniere to his lapel, the flash of the camera blinding both of us so badly that we have to be careful making our way back down the stairs.
“Are they old enough?” Mason’s mom asks, her voice regal and teasing.
My mother laughs in response. “Oh, I think so.”
Both Mason and I look up in horror when our mothers say in unison, “Let’s get a picture of their first kiss.”
Our fathers laugh next, and my dad makes the joke, “Just a quick peck. Don’t be getting any ideas for later, Mason. Save that for the wedding night.”
Oh, my God.
Somebody kill me now.
While my cheeks heat up enough to match the dark red hue of my hair, Mason is able to hide his horror better, but I still don’t miss the quiet groan sounding low in his throat.
We turn to face each other, our eyes tangling together and our muscles tight, both of us leaning forward with gritted teeth for a kiss that feels like torture.
Really, it’s just a quic
k bounce of our mouths together, less than a second of contact, but it’s still enough for both of us to grimace at being forced.
Our parents applaud as Mason and I place distance between each other, me stepping one way, him the other.
“Time for you lovebirds to go,” my mother chirps happily, and it’s the best thing I’ve heard tonight so far.
Unfortunately, the relief of leaving the house is short-lived. As soon as we’re packed in the back of a limo and the doors close, awkward silence descends, just like always.
Refusing to look at each other, I’m watching the gardens of my house roll by, and Mason is staring out the opposite window, our bodies seated stiffly in place.
We’ve barely made it through the front gates of my neighborhood when Mason shifts in his seat, his movement a soft sound against the leather.
“The twins, huh? I never considered you the type.”
Surprised he’s speaking to me, I glance over my shoulder at him and shift to face him. “What type is that?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “I know how they are. I just didn’t think a prude would go for it. I guess it’s true what they say about the quiet ones.”
“I’m not a prude,” I glower with a roll of my eyes. “And I’m not the type to go for them. Having anything to do with the twins was a mistake.”
Genuine curiosity flickers behind his blue eyes, the color edged with thick black lashes. It gives his face an ethereal quality, so striking that it’s difficult not to feel trapped in his stare.
“Why’s that?”
A shrug of my shoulder. “You know how they are. They have a bad habit of replacing each other and lying about it. As soon as I figured out it was both Ezra and Damon, I decided to stop talking to them.”
His lips curl into a smirk. “You can tell them apart? Guess you figured out the freckle thing.”
The what?
I flick a glance his direction and say nothing, instead tucking that bit of information away for later. Mason may not know he just revealed exactly how to tell the twins apart. I just don’t know where the freckle is.
Silence falls again, but not for too long.
“It’s probably best you avoid them,” Mason says with a soft voice, concern bleeding through the words. “Things have been bad for them lately and -“
He shakes his head and exhales heavily.
Immediately, my mind returns to that shadowed room in Kyle’s pool house.
“Is that what’s causing the bruises?”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss the anger that rolls behind his eyes.
Still, I don’t let the topic drop. I need to know what’s happening to them.
“I saw a handprint on one of their shoulders. A fucking handprint. That’s not their usual fighting.”
The muscle near his jaw jumps.
“I can’t talk about it.”
It only makes me more determined to learn the truth.
“Are they being abused? Who is hurting them?”
“Just let it go,” he snaps. “I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you. We should go back to ignoring each other like usual.”
I know I won’t get anything else out of him when he turns his body to give me his back. I turn as well, and we ride the rest of the way in silence.
Pulling up to the hotel where prom is being held, Mason and I wait for the door to open.
He plays his typical role of helping me to my feet and offering me his arm to take so he can escort me inside. More camera flashes occur, the school photographers making sure to record all the students arriving.
Finally inside, we’re free to release each other, Mason quickly running off in one direction while I go the other.
I watch as he crosses the room to meet his actual date, Milly Ferguson. She looks gorgeous in a dress the same shade as mine, her blond hair swept up into a twist with soft curls hanging down to frame her face.
When Mason and her reach a table where the other Inferno members sit, I take up my usual place by a wall and glance around the room looking for Ivy and Ava.
The ballroom is stunning. All the tables are draped in white, the glimmering rose gold decorations accented by centerpieces strung with tiny lights. Above our heads, shimmery balloons cover the ceilings, the lights around the space dancing as the balloons sway and move about.
There’s not a stated theme for the prom, but the elegance is striking, and I appreciate the prom committee’s choice to avoid anything cliché or tacky.
When I don’t see my two partners in crime, I glance over at the Inferno table again, my heart clenching tight to find the twins have arrived with Hillary and Kelly in tow.
Of course the two girls are strutting around like queens, their egos so large I’m surprised they can hold their heads up.
I ignore them and study the twins, notice the way both their mouths are turned down at the corners, the bruises on their faces finally fading.
Damn it. They’re gorgeous, both of them dressed in black on black suits with no tie or any pop of color. I wonder what marks darken their skin beneath those clothes, wonder if Hillary and Kelly have seen them or if they even care.
It doesn’t escape my attention that the twins are missing the standard boutonnieres every other guy is wearing, their dates missing the corsage.
Cocking a brow at that, I shake my head and attempt to ignore the reasons in my thoughts about why they’d skipped the tradition.
It’s almost impossible to look away, my gaze sweeping down both of them to admire the way they move with a predatory prowl, their elegant clothes doing nothing to hide that feral quality to them that calls to me with a tempting whisper.
I have to drag my eyes away, though, because the longer I look, the more I can feel the pad of their thumb on my tongue, the more I remember the salty taste of their skin or the soft kisses that became demanding.
I’m addicted already, yet also strong enough to walk away when I know it’s best for me.
Damon and Ezra are nothing but heartbreak personified.
Mason’s admission rolls through my thoughts next, his refusal to explain what’s going on with the twins, but also his roundabout confession that there is something occurring.
It only spikes my anger. So much so that when I peek back and notice one set of amber eyes turning my direction, I glance away and move along the wall to place more distance between us.
Thankfully, Ivy and her date arrive within five minutes, and I follow them to a table. Ava arrives next with her date, the five us sitting around talking for an hour.
Once again, I’m the fifth wheel, and I know they’re staying at the table with me instead of dancing because they don’t want me to feel alone.
That’s why I make an excuse to leave the table, claiming I want to walk around and mingle so they can dance and have a good time.
Both Ava and Ivy argue I should stay with them, but I won’t hear it. Being alone at these events is nothing new to me, and I refuse to ruin their fun by weighing them down with my obligations.
Eventually, I make my way to the restrooms to check my makeup and hair. I’m not all that concerned with how I look, but it’s as good an excuse as any to leave the ballroom.
I make it down the long hall in the main part of the hotel, use the restroom, and spend a few minutes touching up my makeup and hair.
Standing by the mirrors when the door swings open, I groan to hear Hillary’s voice, her words excitable as she talks to Kelly.
“I can’t wait until we leave in a few minutes. Ezra told me the party is at Gabriel’s place tonight. You and I both know just how many bedrooms they have in that house.”
The tiny squeal that volleys from her throat to echo through the large room makes me cringe.
Ignoring it, I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and step away from the mirrors.
It isn’t until they round the corner that they see me, Hillary’s eyes pinning me in place, her mouth curling into a taunting line.
“Oh, Emi
ly. We didn’t know you were in here.”
Glancing at her as I walk past on my way to the door, I answer, “Why does it matter? If you had known, I’m sure you would have still been excited to announce you’re a slut.”
I pull open the door and flick a look at her from over my shoulder. “Have fun in the bedroom tonight.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she snaps.
The argument isn’t worth my time, so rather than acknowledging the question, I walk out into the hall. I’m barely ten feet away when they both come storming out of the bathroom, Hillary’s voice carrying a nasty edge as she yells at me.
“At least I’m not here all alone. How does it feel to know nobody wants you? Not even the person you’re supposed to marry?”
They laugh as if she said something witty.
Picking up my pace, I have my head angled to the floor because I can’t stand to look at the people staring at us now, Hillary still causing a scene despite how quickly I’m attempting to walk away.
“Would you like to know what the twins said about you? Both of them laughed when they told us how much of slut you are. The only reason they told people not to talk about you is because they were too embarrassed they’d ever touched you in the first place.”
I don’t believe her, but that doesn’t mean her words don’t sting.
The twins had invited them to prom after kissing me and playing a game. I’d be stupid to think I matter to them in the slightest.
It feels like I can’t get away fast enough, my heels painful with how fast I’m walking, my hands fisting the skirt of my gown to hold it up.
I’m almost to the ballroom when I slam against a hard body, my balance knocked off and legs unsteady.
If not for the hands that grip both my arms, I would have fallen on my ass.
The first thing I notice is the cologne he wears, something dark and haunted, a masculine spice that infects my blood until my heart is pumping far too fast.
I glance up and see an amber stare looking down at me. I don’t know if it’s Ezra or Damon, but whoever it is looks up and beyond my shoulder, his expression twisting with anger.