by Everly Frost
Peyton casts a glance in my direction, making me aware she wasn’t so oblivious to my presence as I thought. Those long legs that wrapped around me on the combat mat today carry her right past me and to the bathroom without a word from her lips.
She closes the door and the shower turns on.
I head back into my room, get dressed, and pace back and forth twice before I retrieve the medical kit from its hidden location in the wall.
I’m the only student allowed family visits—only because my father has some control over this institution and my sister insists on visiting me. If Zara were younger than me, she’d have no sway, but she’s older, a woman in her own right and proving to be a thorn in Dad’s side.
Even so, she can only visit once a year, but each time she brings me precious medical supplies—magically enhanced healing gels, antiseptics, and antibiotics, along with tape and bandages. She gets the healing gels from an apothecary in Boston that she swears is the best in the country.
Despite the power I keep hidden, I can’t heal my own wounds. I can accelerate my healing if I allow my power to flow, but I’m not strong enough to heal broken skin or bones. My power is destructive to its core.
I pull out the tube of healing gel. It’s rolled up nearly to the end since I’ve squeezed every little smear from it. There’s only enough left for a few more applications, but if I don’t treat the scratches on Peyton’s face, they’re going to scar. Not that I care. I don’t.
When I hear her bedroom door open and close, I cease my indecisive tapping of the tube against my palm, make my way to her bedroom, and pause in front of it with my hand raised to knock.
Knocking is what polite people do.
I’m not a polite person. I never learned how to be, and my father sure as hell wasn’t any sort of role model.
I shove on the door and stride right in, inviting a dramatic response. I brace for her to leap out of the darkness beside the door and aim a fist at my face. Or for her to scream bloody murder at me. Or to throw something. Not that there’s much to throw in here, not even a chair. I never bothered to care how bare this room was before, but it hits me like the slap in the face I was expecting from her. A slap that’s conspicuously absent.
I find her standing perfectly still at her window, her back to me, her head slightly tilted, as if she’s considering something intently. Without turning, she says, “Nobody taught you how to knock, huh, Draven?”
“That would be correct.”
She gives a self-satisfied “hmm” but falls silent. Her only movement is the slow tap of her forefinger against her thigh. She’s wearing a white T-shirt that barely covers her backside, black underwear peeking out from the bottom of it. Her curvy silhouette is highlighted in the moonlight shining around her. She’s not wearing a bra and her legs go on for miles until they reach the floor.
She drips with snark as she asks, “Did you want something?”
Hell, yes. Wrap those legs around me again and I promise to make up for that underhanded maneuver on the combat mat today.
I stop myself. “What are you looking at?”
“Have you ever noticed that the sky is wrong?”
What the hell is she talking about? I approach cautiously, wary that she could twist at any moment and clobber me in the face—a more expected reaction than the one I get.
She turns, but only slightly, a bare indication that she’s aware of my approach. I can’t get too close because of the narrow space between the bed and the closet. A glance down tells me she’s standing on my blanket, which is spread out along the floor with a pillow at its head. The dark rune on the ceiling explains her sleeping arrangement. I sense its sickening pull the closer I get.
“What makes you think the sky is wrong?”
She points. “See the glimmer across it? Stars don’t shine like that. Neither does the moon.” She pauses as if she’s trying to find the words. “It’s thick, not crisp.”
I squint, cautious about getting too close to her, but I don’t think I’ll see what she sees unless I’m standing right where she is. I push forward. “May I?”
She turns fully this time, arching an eyebrow at me. “Was that a polite request?”
“Hell, no,” I reply, annoyed at myself. “Get out of the way.”
She steps aside, but she’s not in any hurry to do so, annoying me even more. She leans up against her closet door, an odd smile on her lips as she turns her full attention from the sky to me, staring at me as I peer at the sky.
Her shirt is way too see-through to maintain my concentration.
I wrench my gaze from her body back to the window with a growl. “If you want me to see what you see, stop distracting me.”
“I’m not doing anything. Do you see it or not?”
I see… curves and legs, lips that snap at me, and eyes that promise she’ll kill me in my sleep. I see a woman who guards her boundaries and isn’t afraid to tell me to get fucked.
Only my last shred of common sense stops me from asking her for permission to kiss her. I might be a completely aggressive asshole, but consent is non-negotiable. I’ve never crossed that line and never will.
I force myself to focus on the sky. Stars. Moon. Deep blue night. Also… a sheen across it that doesn’t spring from any of the natural light sources.
I shift a little and tilt my head. The deep blue is too luminescent. It’s like looking through another transparent layer. “It must be the window. Imperfections in the glass.”
She sounds certain. “It’s not.”
Pulling away from the closet, she dares to move up close, pointing. “See that ripple? That’s not in the glass.”
“Then what is it?”
She looks up at me. “I was hoping you would know.”
I shrug, even though the answer is disturbing. “Some sort of cage, most likely. In case one of us learns how to fly out of here. Or levitate,” I add pointedly.
She lowers her arm, but her weight shifts enough that her bicep brushes mine. The hairs on the back of my neck shoot up, as if she’s an electric fence and she just jolted me. Her power… whatever it is… she just transferred it to me again.
She gives me a startled look, making me realize that I just growled at her.
“What?” she asks.
Damn. The beast must have woken up. I wait for its latest snarky comment, but it’s completely silent.
I guess that was all me, then.
I clear my throat. Up close, consent becomes a clearer necessity. My focus remains on her face and doesn’t descend no matter how much I want to take in the sight of her gorgeous curves.
Lifting the tube, I keep my tone even. “I need to take care of your face.” I cringe. That came out wrong. I don’t need to take care of anything…
She eyes the tube before she takes a step back. “What is that stuff?”
“The same sort of medicine I put on your back. I just need to put a little on your—”
“You mean the stuff that stung like hell? No, thank you.”
Annoyance floods me. “You’re going to scar. All over your face.”
“Oh, and you need to stop that from happening? You’re my hero, Draven. Thank you for worrying about whether other people can look at me without disgust. I’m used to that already, thanks.”
She takes another step back, but she quickly bumps against the closet. Whatever languid pose she took up before, it’s long gone now. She is all tension and anger. Her gaze darts around the moonlight-flooded room, but she has nothing to throw at me or fight me with.
I exhale in frustration, reaching for her. “It won’t sting. Just let me—”
“No.” Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she drags air into her lungs, watching my lowering hand like it’s full of claws. “Just leave the medicine and I’ll do it myself.”
I try to remain patient. “You can’t see the wounds yourself and there’s not enough gel left to get it wrong.”
Her voice rises. “I can do it myself!”
> My fist closes around the tube as I study her. Her breathing is too rapid. Her hands press flat against the closet door. The tension in her shoulders, in the way she presses her head back as far from me as she can get it, is palpable. Sweat forms on her forehead before she wipes it away with shaking hands.
I’ve never seen her panic, but she’s close to panicking now. I don’t understand it. She stood in the combat ring with me today and took multiple hits and yet… now she’s panicking. “What are you afraid of?”
“Are you freaking serious right now?” A little of the fire returns to her eyes. “You actually think I’ll ever invite you to touch me?”
She wrenches herself away from the closet, taking rapid steps toward me, but it’s the kind of move a cornered animal makes, retaliation on instinct alone. “We fight because we have to. I let you hit me because I have to. Last night, I had no choice but to accept your blood into my body. But this?” She shoves my hand away. “I don’t have to do this. This is where I get to choose.”
I take a step back, ending up hard up against the edge of her bed. The poultice painted on the ceiling is stronger than any I’ve felt before. It pulls at me so hard that I have to slide away from it—and away from her. No wonder she sleeps on the floor.
My gaze lands on her blanket. It’s a bargaining chip and I’m not ready to give up yet.
“If I swap rooms with you tonight, will you let me put this on your face?”
She startles a little. “What?”
“That blanket can’t be comfortable. If I give you my bed tonight, will you let me help you? I’ll sleep in here.”
“No.”
I peer at her. Stare at the tube. Replay her words in my mind. She said she will never invite me to touch her. Invitation implies willing participation. It implies consent. Everything that’s happened since she arrived has been against her will. Including me and all my bullshit behavior.
I ask the question with the answer I don’t want to know. “Has anyone ever touched you in a way that wasn’t hurtful?”
She recoils. Her mental defenses are so strong, it’s like a physical push. I thought Lady Tirelli could speak like a whiplash, but she’s got nothing on Peyton. “What do you think?”
“Is that a no?”
“Go to hell, Draven.” She glares at me, her gaze so sharp, it could be a blade in my chest. “Along with the rest of the world.”
I stare at the floor, remembering the conversations we had today. She asked me to train her and I told her…
Oh, hell. I told her she wasn’t worth my time.
And she said… Like I haven’t heard that a hundred times before.
Lucinda asked Peyton when she was going to ask for help and Peyton said… I’m not. Peyton wasn’t kidding.
Making a decision, I point to the corner of the room behind the door. “I’ll wait as long as it takes, Peyton. But I’m not leaving this room until you let me touch your face.”
“You won’t make it to class tomorrow then,” she retorts.
I shrug. “If that’s how long it takes.”
Dragging the old, scratchy blanket off her bed, I pull it around my shoulders and settle into the corner beside the door, closing my eyes against the moonlight. I’m surprised she can sleep at all with all the light pouring into her room.
My choices are limited right now. I can walk out of here with the medicine she needs and be the true asshole that I am. Alternatively, I can leave the gel with her, knowing she’ll be lucky to get enough out of the tube if she misses a spot—that’s assuming she can place it where it’s needed to begin with. I’m surprised her whole face doesn’t feel like it’s on fire right now. Or maybe it does and she’s hiding it well.
Third option: I can grab her, pin her arms and legs, and force her to accept it. Again, like the asshole that I am. Use of force is what she knows and expects, so she’s probably ready for me to do just that.
Or… I can wait and see if she changes her mind and gives me permission.
I’ve never been the patient type. I act in the moment and deal with the consequences after. My emotions have always been a livewire. The beast is my excuse, but I can’t blame him for all of it.
Tonight, I’ll wait.
I tell myself that if she doesn’t give me permission, I can always try the third option while she’s sleeping. It won’t be difficult to subdue her. My decision to wait doesn’t mean she’s got under my skin. Nope. She’s the last thing I care about. She’s an annoyance. She… and her gorgeous curves and her go-to-hell eyes and her fierce spirit. I can deal with all of it.
With that thought firmly in mind, I close my eyes and try to sleep.
17. Peyton Price
Over in the corner of my room, Striker’s breathing becomes deep, but my own is still erratic. I crawl into my blanket and press up against the wall, not taking my eyes off him. The last time he pretended to help me, I ended up bleeding to death in the rain.
The moment I close my eyes, he’ll jump up and grab me. I know he will. I’d kick him out of my room right now, but I don’t have the combat skills to take him on yet.
Yet.
That’s something I’m determined to change.
I have no choice but to accept that he can barge into my room any time whether I’m dressed or not. In fact, I expect him to do it. I was ready for it. But I wasn’t ready for his offer of help.
I pull the blanket to my chin and sit like that for the next hour, unable to sleep. The strange gleam in the sky is the last thing on my mind now.
Hating on Striker allows me to avoid the real problem.
My face really hurts. It’s been getting worse all day. I thought maybe his blood was the reason my back felt so good—I convinced myself my face would feel better soon too—but now I know it must have been the medicine he smeared over me last night.
I need that tube, need the treatment inside it, but he’s right. I can’t see the wounds. I’d have to apply it all over my face, and judging by the rolled-up state of the tube, there’s not enough left to waste any.
But I can’t trust this guy.
I can’t trust anyone. Well, maybe Lucinda, Bree, and Ashley but I’m still figuring that out.
If I walk on over to Striker and give him permission to touch me, I’ll be giving away the last bit of control I have over anything. I can’t escape the physical force that has been used on me my whole life by my parents, my brother, kids at school, and even teachers on occasion.
The last thing I control is consent.
To give Striker consent to do anything feels like giving away everything. Pain strikes through my chest. My hands are shaking. I’m more afraid than I am when I know there’s a punch coming my way.
One irrefutable fact remains: I can’t do this alone.
I rise to my feet, my blanket pulled tightly around me like a protective shield, and force myself to cross the distance. He leans into the corner, his eyes closed, his head tilted away to that side, his blanket slipped low across his chest, which rises and falls in an even rhythm.
He doesn’t awaken when I lower myself to my knees beside him, his breathing remaining deep. The fact that he fell asleep at all tells me he doesn’t fear me anywhere near as much as I fear him.
I hate the way my hand shakes when I push it out of the blanket to gently nudge his shoulder. “Striker?”
He inhales, his eyes opening slowly, but his body remains still. He makes no sudden movements other than to raise his head. “Peyton?”
My mouth is completely dry, my voice catching. “Okay.”
He takes a moment, his gaze running across my face, before he quietly and carefully shifts his arms out of his blanket and repositions himself so he’s facing me, also kneeling.
He doesn’t ask me why I changed my mind or say anything else about it. One of his hands still grips the tube. The other reaches for my face.
I flinch away from him but force myself to stop.
He retracts his hand, saying, “I need to use two
hands for this. Is that okay?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
He nods and shuffles all the way out of his blanket. “You need to face the light.”
He slips to the side, staying within my sight as I turn to face the window, before he returns to his knees, studying my face again. “The slashes on the right side of your face are the worst, so I’ll start there. The cut above your eyebrow where your brother hit you is next. Then I’ll treat the scrapes on your left cheek. Okay?”
He waits for me to answer. I try to breathe out some of my tension. “Yes.”
Opening the tube, he places the merest blob onto his forefinger before he leans in and cups my chin with his left hand.
I squeeze my eyes closed. His left hand is warm, gentle, but firm. All business. His right hand is feather-light, breezing down my face. I was worried it would sting, but it soothes instantly, the pain disappearing.
He lets go of my face.
My eyes fly open to see what he’s doing, but he’s simply looking down, portioning out another blob onto his finger before he reaches for me again. This time I welcome his touch and the absence of pain that comes with it.
After three gentle swipes down my right cheek, the tension drains out of me. When his forefinger grazes the cut above my left eye, I nearly moan with relief, swallowing the sound before I can make it. I refuse to let him know how much I needed this. Pain makes me cry, but the absence of pain is making me want to weep. It’s completely unfair that he’s the reason I feel so much better right now.
His serious eyes meet mine. “There’s enough for the rest of your face, so I’m going to use it up. But if I do, you can’t get cut up again, okay?”
“That’s up to you,” I whisper. I don’t only mean whether he uses it up or not. He’s bound to be the reason I’ll end up wounded again.
He considers the tube, studies the left side of my face, and eventually shakes his head. “It won’t heal on its own.”
He sets to work and I close my eyes again. His movements slow toward the end, his fingertip grazing down my left cheek. This time, the way he cups my chin softens and the entire palm of his right hand settles against my face. His fingers splay out, the lightest touch brushing my jaw and earlobe in a way that makes me shiver. He’s close enough that the slightest lean forward would close the gap between us.