by Everly Frost
Keeping the dagger pointed at my face, he pushes me around the fallen table toward the window. I can’t fight him or I’ll impale myself.
“I promised you I’d tell you about your eyes,” he says, forcing me up against the window pane. The wooden surround digs into my back and my fear of heights rears its ugly head when Bloodwing’s garden comes into view far below me. If I fall through this window, I’ll land in a grave of red roses.
He grabs my chin, forcing my face into the light.
“Your pupils dilate when they should constrict,” he says. “Right now, your pupils should be pinpoints in the sunlight. Instead, they’re widening, taking in more light. So much light, you shouldn’t be able to focus on me. Yet you can see me, can’t you, Price?”
I can.
I don’t want to.
“You killed innocent people,” I say. “People you weren’t given permission to kill.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “Now, how could you possibly know that?” He nods to himself without easing up on me. “Possible psychic capability. Interesting.”
When I don’t respond, he grabs my hair and bashes my head against the wooden window surround.
His movement is so sudden, so unpredictable, that I don’t have a hope of protecting myself. The thud reverberates in my hearing. My vision blurs, my stomach turns, and everything goes black for a second. I fight the darkness, coming back to find he’s running the dagger’s tip down the front of my shirt, leaving a thin red line from my neck to my bra line. He’s already cut through my tie and discarded it on the floor. The blade barely breaks skin but stings like hell.
I struggle against his hold, kicking against his legs, but my hits barely have an impact. He quickly uses his weight to immobilize my lower half against the windowsill. Gripping my jaw in his free hand, he ignores the extra blows I land on his chest. My hands are free, but fighting back isn’t making any difference.
Oh, ancients. This isn’t good. He broke his word about letting me go if I picked up the knife, but I guess he never intended to let me leave.
He pushes harder against me and—
Pop. The knife slices through the threads holding the buttons onto my shirt. They hit the floor one by one, rolling away across the room.
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure you out,” he says with a smile that chills me to the bone. “Let’s see if we can break those barriers you’ve built around yourself.”
23. Striker Draven
The seat beside me remains empty all through Magical History. Mr. Mallard drones on about Zeus and the power of lightning, how it manifests in today’s storm mages but no known supernatural has power over all of the storm’s elements. It would be nice to believe that we are all somehow descended from the gods, but I don’t buy it for a millisecond. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a theory that’s been invented by the Magical Magnate to make mediocre supernaturals feel self-important.
My greater concern right now is Peyton. She doesn’t show for the entire lesson. When gym class begins, I expect her to appear at the back of the building, but she doesn’t.
Dread creeps into my chest, heavy on my mind. The conversation I overheard between Osprey and Lady Tirelli tells me that Raptor is The Specialist Lady Tirelli was talking about. Even Osprey considered him dangerous in the extreme.
I end up on the combat mat with Joseph, but I’m distracted, taking glances at the back of the building whenever I can. Peyton’s going to appear at any moment. She has to, or I’m going to lose it.
Joseph thumps my face several times before he finally tackles me, clips me across the forehead with a savage right hook that gets my attention, and snarls, “We’re all worried about her. You’re the only one who can find out what the hell is going on, so do it already, Draven.”
He releases me and I jump to my feet, striding from the mat without a backward glance. I should have left class half an hour ago to find her.
“Draven! Where are you going?” Ms. Hawk screams at me, but I’m already disappearing into the building at a run. “Come back or I’ll—”
The slamming door cuts off whatever she says. I’ll deal with the consequences later.
Peyton was told to go to the east wing, third floor so that’s where I run first. I take the stairs two at a time, my feet flying along the corridor to the only open door.
The room is empty.
A bloody towel lies scrunched on the table.
Dread claws inside me. Why the hell did I let her come to this class alone? I should have stalked her, made it look like I was here to torment her, but protected her somehow.
I run farther along the corridor, opening every door in case she’s in another room. Empty classrooms, all of them. Racing back to the stairs, I have a decision to make. Up or down? There are so many rooms in this place. She could be anywhere.
Panic strikes through me. There was too much blood on that towel. I need to find her fast.
Beast!
My blood sizzles as he roars to the surface. I’m here.
Where is she?
As soon as I ask the question, my senses expand. Power floods my mind and I fight to make sure it doesn’t take over. I inhale the air, seeking Peyton’s scent, a scent I’ve avoided naming because it’s too complicated even for the beast to separate its layers. She isn’t roses and flowers, not artificial sweetness, but something far more powerful.
Upstairs.
I burst into movement, taking the stairs all the way to the top, colliding with Collin and Colby. It’s dangerous for me to show real emotion in front of them, so I grab Collin by the scruff of his neck.
They expect angry, so that’s what I give them. “Where the hell is she? If she thinks she can avoid me on the combat mat today, she’s got another think coming.”
“Your timing is cold, Draven,” Colby says, but he doesn’t get in my way. “She’s already beaten up, but, sure… go ahead. She’s in her room. We’ll be downstairs if you need us.”
He and Collin move out of my way, their boots clumping on the stairs as they descend. I pace my steps along the corridor to Peyton’s room until I’m sure they’re gone. Then I run again, skidding to a halt outside her door.
The sun has ascended over the building, leaving her room in greater darkness. My heightened senses draw me to her location. She’s curled up in the far corner, wrapped in her blanket in a way that tells me her knees are drawn to her chest beneath it. I can’t see her face. It’s turned away, resting on her knees, her hair cascading down her side outside of the blanket.
The coppery scent of blood is so thick in the air, I nearly lose my mind. Fighting my raging instincts, I approach carefully, quietly, listening to her shaky breaths, the way her breathing drags as she inhales and exhales. “I’m not falling. I’m not… falling…”
She’s shaking, but she’s wrapped up so tightly, I can’t see where she’s hurt and it’s driving me crazy with panic.
Every instinct tells me to pick her up, but grabbing her is only going to startle her and make things worse. I force myself to kneel beside her without reaching out. “Peyton?”
She doesn’t lift her head. Her voice is muffled. A bare whisper. “You only call me ‘Peyton’ when you think I’m dying.”
The need to pull her into my arms is growing more intense. Every sound out of my mouth is forced. “I need to know if you’re okay.”
Her breath catches. “Don’t pretend to care, Striker.”
Annoying, stubborn… “I know you’re hurt. Tell me where so I can do something about it. I need to…” Blood drips down my palms and I realize I’m digging my fingernails into them so hard that I’m cutting skin. Clawed fingernails. If I don’t figure out what’s wrong with her, I’m going to transform into full beast mode and so help me if I do.
I grit my teeth, then force myself to speak coherently. “I need to do something about it.”
Her speech is slow and labored. “I don’t want your help, Striker. I can handle it. Just leave me alone.”
/> That’s it. I’m done being patient. I can either pick her up now while I’m still all me or I can pick her up while I’m full-on beast. Of the two, being me will be less shocking for her.
My voice is a low growl, not my own. “No.”
I scoop her up, sliding my arms all the way around her, but she stiffens, crying out and arching her back. “No, please, don’t touch—”
Her cry descends into a low moan that drags at my chest like a knife. I loosen my arms, but she’s already close enough to me that when I lower her down again, she settles onto my lap, curled up on the top of my thighs. The most shocking thing is… she doesn’t fight me or try to push me away. She maintains her tight curl, her face turned toward me but covered by her hair, her right shoulder pressing against my chest.
Resting back against her closet doors, I carefully sweep her hair aside so I can see her face. Her forehead is clammy, her eyes closed, and her hair clumped with blood. The only relief is that her face isn’t bleeding.
I ease the blanket open, coaxing her fingers to relax so I can draw it away from her shoulders. Her tie is missing and her shirt is covered in blood all over her back, telling me she’s wounded, but there are no slits in the material, nothing ripped. That means… she wasn’t wearing it when she was hurt.
Focusing hard to control my anger, I pry the blanket away from her knees and nudge her legs away from her chest. Her shirt gapes open at the front, every button missing. Cuts crisscross her chest above her bra line. One bra strap is cut clean through across the shoulder, the straight edge of elastic telling me it was a sharp knife.
Each cut is an act of precision. Not too deep. Just deep enough.
Rage spirals through me. “What the hell?”
I quickly scan her legs. As far as I can see, there are no cuts beneath her waist and her skirt isn’t damaged, still zipped up. The damage is only waist up.
She opens her eyes, lifting her head, her hair falling across her eyes again. “Why so shocked, Draven?” she asks, an edge of defiance in her voice even though her cheeks are pale. “Are you angry that he did your work for you?”
I don’t know how to feel about the fact that she thinks I could ever do something like this. I’m callous, uncaring, and aggressive but this… “I’ll kill that sadistic bastard.”
Ignoring her defiant stare, I ease her shirt away from her shoulders, one sleeve at a time, drawing the material carefully down her back.
It’s worse than her front.
She continues to surprise me by not fighting me. Instead, she winces, inhales, and squeezes her eyes closed before she drops her head to her knees again.
“He asked me questions,” she whispers. “Every question came with a cut. He asked me about everyone, even you. I didn’t tell him anything.”
I need the medical kit. I don’t have any healing gel left but I do have antiseptic and bandages. I could bring it to her or I could take her to my room—that’s safest in case someone interrupts us since there’s nowhere to hide the kit in here. However, it’s going to be hard to carry her without hurting her. “Can you walk?”
“Where, Striker?”
“To my room.”
“Why? So you can heal me? They’ll break me again tomorrow.”
They won’t. She’s too tough for that. Before I think about what I’m doing, I press my lips to her forehead, the lightest kiss before I murmur, “They’ll never break you, Peyton.”
She shivers in my arms, her lips parting as she sucks in a sudden inhale. A faint crease appears between her brows. In contrast to the suddenness of her breathing, she opens her eyes slowly, her gaze meeting mine. Her lips purse as if she’s puzzled, mystified by something. I have no idea what she’s thinking, but for the first time, her eyes don’t tell me to go to hell.
She doesn’t recoil like I thought she might. Like she should. Hell, she should run for her life right now.
I force myself to resume breathing, cupping the back of her head to support her, avoiding touching her back as I press my other hand to her arm, preparing to help her stand.
She startles me by leaning in, her lips close to mine. “Striker would you… do something for me?”
I cease moving, taken by surprise. I’ve mostly pushed the beast away but my power simmers beneath the surface. Her sudden nearness is like a spark, drawing me closer to her, but I fight its effects, determined to remain still.
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Would you… kiss me again? Properly this time?”
I’m sure I didn’t hear her correctly. She swore she would never give me permission to touch her and I promised her that I wouldn’t. I’ve already broken that promise but only to protect Ashley, and I’m determined to keep my hands to myself as much as I can. Although… fighting her yesterday… I couldn’t help myself.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, intensely confused by her request.
She doesn’t contradict me. “I know it isn’t, but… I think you can help me.”
I shake my head, firmly focusing on her eyes. The moment my gaze lowers to her lips, I won’t be able to stop thinking about kissing her. I remind myself that she needs medical attention, and she needs it now. She’s in shock and we shouldn’t be wasting time. “I can help you by getting you to my room and treating these wounds.”
The openness in her expression closes off and it’s like watching a light die out.
“Of course.” She rises slowly to her feet and the blanket falls away. Her broken bra strap flops to her lower back as she turns in my arms. “Not worth your time.”
Oh, hell. “That’s not what I said.” I flounder. Damn, damn, damn. “I mean… it is what I said. But you can’t… You don’t really want to… You can’t make decisions like that right now…”
Dear ancients, I’ve never been this tongue-tied before.
Her eyes grow wider with every word I speak.
A fierce frown descends over my face as I give her an order. “You’re hurt and you’re coming with me.”
I scoop one arm under her backside and the other across her upper shoulders, avoiding pressing against the worst of the cuts on her back. I hold her out from me as much as I can, careful not to press her chest against mine in a way that will hurt her.
“Okay,” she says, tucking her head against my chest and sliding her arms around me.
I nearly miss a step before I decide that she really is in shock. I quickly step over her ruined shirt and carry her to my room, placing her down on my bed so she can see the room and everything in it—including me—before I pull the blanket to her waist and close the door.
I retrieve the medical kit, pull up a chair, moisten a swab with antiseptic, and apologize. “This is going to hurt.”
She bites her lip and squeezes her eyes closed as I set to work cleaning the cuts. I move around her as I go, propping my knee on the side of the bed for balance. I wasn’t wrong about Raptor’s precision. None of the wounds needs stitches, but they’re deep enough—and there are enough of them—to traumatize even someone as steel-hearted as Peyton.
There must be thirty cuts on her back and front. She said he gave her one cut for every question he asked. It’s nearly impossible to bandage them all. I need a patch large enough to extend across her entire back or else I’ll end up taping across the cuts and that will hurt more.
“Damn.” I sift through the meager contents of the medical kit, trying to figure out a solution. For now, I’m avoiding the possibility that Raptor will cause every student the same pain. Ms. Sparrow’s paper cuts suddenly look like child’s play compared to this.
Peyton’s touch on my hand interrupts my thoughts.
“Striker?” She leans across the bed, meeting my eyes. “There’s nothing more you can do.”
“There’s always something more.” I push around the medical patches in their sterilized packets. Maybe I can put them side by side and tape over the top of them, make a larger patch that way.
Her grip tightens, her fingertips closing
over mine. “You’ve done enough.” She slides her legs over the edge of the bed with a surprising certainty.
I’m not prepared to let her leave until I’m sure she’s okay. I grip her hand, trying to figure out a way to ask her to stay without it sounding like I’ll force her. To my surprise, she grips my hand, rises up off the edge of the bed, and plants a kiss on my cheek.
My heart thuds as her lips linger against my jaw, the softest, most hesitant touch.
She says, “I’m going to—”
“No.” My beast roars to the surface. He won’t let her leave. Hell, it’s time for me to face the fact that I don’t want her to leave. Even though I have no right feeling that way, I don’t want her to walk out that door.
She pulls back a little. “Striker, you don’t—”
“No.” My arm circles her waist, low to avoid her wounds, pulling her close. The heat from her stomach and thighs seeps through my clothing. She’s much warmer than I was expecting.
Sudden color blushes through her cheeks. “Striker, I—”
“No.”
She breaks into a dazzling smile that lights up her eyes. Their chocolate depths suddenly dance with a fragile sort of vulnerability. I’ve never seen her smile before and it’s like the cage around my chest just cracked open and my heart started beating again.
It’s painful, it hurts too much, but I’m struck senseless, too mesmerized to interrupt her when she asks, “Will you let me finish?”
I can’t tear my gaze away from the smile in her eyes. “Maybe.”
Her left hand brushes my jaw, fingertips trailing across my neck. She speaks softly. “I’m going to…”
She pauses. Glances up at me. Looks pleased when I don’t stop her.
“I’m going to kiss you now, Striker Draven,” she says. “Is that okay with you?”
Hell, yes.
I dip my head to hers, sensing her quick inhale before my lips touch hers. I want to claim her mouth but I force myself to go slow. Her kiss, her quick breath, is hesitant, seeking to explore the shape of my mouth, as if she’s fitting herself to me. I sense her shiver. I soak up the way she presses forward, her chest connecting with mine. She shouldn’t be doing that. She’ll hurt herself… but kissing her is like inhaling flames and they’re only getting higher, a wave that’s about to crash down on me.