“I’d still seek the truth. Yes, it might hurt, but I’d find a way to come to terms with it. Being sad and struggling for a while is infinitely better than living a fake life.”
“Words. Words.”
“I mean every one of them.”
“Hmm.”
“What is ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”
“Just hmm.”
“Wow, thanks for the clarification.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Were you born this annoying or did it come with time?”
“A little bit of both. Though my dad has annoying traits, so I might have the gene.”
“Why am I not surprised that you bad-mouth your father?”
“I’m not bad-mouthing him. I’m just relaying a fact.”
I stare at his unchanging expression. He doesn’t seem bothered by talking about his father, and it’s the first time he’s spoken openly about his parents.
“I gather you have a strained relationship with your father?”
“And how, pray tell, did you gather that?”
“Earlier, you said Gareth is Daddy’s golden boy, so that means you aren’t. You also said he has annoying traits. Oh, and you never posted a picture of just the two of you on your Instagram.”
“Stalker alert. Didn’t know you went through all my posts, baby.”
My cheeks burn. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“Your relationship with your father.”
“There’s no relationship to speak of. He never liked the idea of me or the fact that I exist.”
“Surely you read it wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong with telling my mother that they should’ve stopped at my dear big bro—also spelled boring—because I’m defective.”
A body shiver goes through me. Though Killian’s tone remains the same, I can feel the change in his demeanor. The subject rubs him the wrong way, and I want to know more.
I want to sink my nails into the uncomfortable part of him and wrench it out because I know it’s probably the only real him I’d ever see.
Now, I’m beginning to think that Killian has Gareth on his shit list because of his father.
The more Gareth is favored by their dad, the more he targets him.
Not that it’s right, but it’s a defense mechanism.
Like the way Lan becomes more insufferable the more Mum babies Bran.
“You must’ve gotten the wrong idea. Most parents don’t hate their children.”
“Keyword being most. Now, drop it.”
“But—”
“I said. Drop. It.”
The dark undertone leaves no room for negotiation, but before I can think of a way to circle back to the subject, he asks in his nonchalant voice, “Back to the topic at hand. Do I have your admiration?”
“For what?”
“For being a first-class genius.”
My chest squeezes and I hate that I’m delighted that he wants my admiration.
I hate that it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
“More like, you tried to cunningly get admiration. Sorry to break it to you, but you need to try harder.”
A smirk lifts his lips. “Always up for a challenge.”
“Is that what I am to you? A challenge?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I groan. “You know that’s not an answer. Are you doing it on purpose?”
He grins. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Ugh. You’re a bloody wanker.”
“Ah. Don’t. You know I get turned on by your foul mouth. Especially with that sexy little accent of yours.”
I purse my lips, then glare at him, which only widens his grin.
We arrive in front of the dorm and he parks, then stares at me. “Okay, okay, I’ll be nice and answer your question. You are a challenge, little rabbit. The worst of all, the most infuriating of all, but most importantly, the most entertaining of all.”
My stomach sinks and a horrible, ugly feeling claws up my throat. It takes me a moment to try and breathe normally.
To try and not be affected.
To try and not let his words hold weight.
But it’s useless. They’ve already grown roots and begun to ramify in chaotic patterns.
“Glad I could be your entertainment,” I bite out.
“Lose the long face and the sarcasm. And who’s the one who was preaching about always wanting the truth not two minutes ago? I could’ve lied to you, but I didn’t.”
When I remain silent, his voice darkens to an edge I’ve never heard before. “Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to wear a mask around you, pretend to be someone who’ll be accepted by your pretty little morals, is that it, Glyndon? Because I can be your fucking Prince Charming, knight in shining armor, and dream fucking fantasy all rolled into one while I fuck up your life.”
“I don’t want anything from you.” I open the car door and basically run inside.
He calls my name once, with an edge, but I ignore him, glad that the doorman won’t let him in without a pass.
My heart is beating faster with each step I take. It’s thumping, roaring, and pulsing in my ears in a creepy rhythm.
I have to lean against the wall for a beat to catch my breath.
Damn him.
And damn me for allowing him to have this type of effect on me.
Entertaining challenge.
Screw him.
I fish my phone out of my bra for the card I have there and pause at the number of notifications on the screen.
Ava:Where are u?
Cecily: Answer us.
Remi:Are you shagging? Yes or no. Or moan in a VM and we’ll take it as a yes and leave you alone.
Annika: What are the possible reasons Creighton left me on Read the last…five times I texted him? A, he hates my guts. B, he’s like that with everyone.
Annika: Please vote B. My pride is still bruised from when he said I talk too much. Do I talk too much?
Annika: I mean, I know I do, but not that much, right?
Annika:Where are you, Glyn? We’re worried.
Bran:Call me when you see this.
I swipe the card and pause when a text swipes on my screen.
Lan: Where the fuck are you?
I swallow.
While Bran and I talk and meet up almost every day, Lan and I don’t share the same relationship. It can only be bad news if he’s searching for me.
“There she is!”
I startle at the entryway when I’m surrounded by three girls in their PJs, definitely waiting to ambush me.
There goes my plan to sneak in, change my clothes, take my books, and leave.
Walk of shame it is.
“Hi,” I say with enough awkwardness to spur second-hand embarrassment.
“Don’t hi us.” Ava crowds my space, watching me with narrowed eyes. “You left us last night, and we barely slept, worried sick about you just to find out you were getting the D.”
I choke on my spit. “W-what?”
“Are you okay?” Cecily strokes my arm.
“I don’t know.” I honest to shit mean it.
“I wouldn’t know either with Kill. You could either be in for the roller coaster of your life or we’ll find you in a ditch somewhere. No in-between.” Annika gathers me in her arms. “Hugs. I’m here.”
“Don’t go consoling her.” Ava wrenches Annika from me. “She has a lot of explaining to do.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” I ask, seriously thinking I’m losing my mind.
“Check your Instagram,” Cecily says quietly, almost apologetically.
I give them one last wry look, then tap the Instagram app. The first picture that shows up on my feed was posted an hour ago, and has over a hundred thousand likes and tens of thousands of comments.
My fingers shake as I watch the stilled picture.
It’s when Killian kissed me against the stairs. His hand is around my throat, the other on my hip, and he’s basically eating me for dinner. His bare chest is glued to mine and the way he’s touching me is so possessive that it goes without saying what type of relationship we have.
An outsider would look at this and know that not only is Killian fucking me, but he’s also so dominant and possessive of me that no one would dare come close.
He cemented it by the caption.
Off. Limits.
“No, he didn’t,” I whisper.
“He so did and also, also! He tagged you. That’s how we saw it.” Annika taps on the screen to show my account’s name on the picture.
“Everyone could see this,” I’m practically talking to myself. “Like everyone, including…”
I jump up when my phone lights up with a text.
Lan:Let’s do it your way, little princess. Don’t show your face near the fucker or I’ll kill him.
KILLIAN
Igive up on attending my classes for the day exactly two hours after I arrive at med school.
And yes, they’re important and I should probably be present, put up with the general anxious atmosphere of my colleagues and the ego of professors who think they’re special just because they’re older and have some experience.
Thing is, I’m distracted as fuck. An emotion I haven’t experienced…well, ever. I tend to be focused to a fault, methodical to the point of weeding out any need for impulsive action.
And yet, my systems, my patterns, and the very marrow of my life are being disturbed by a certain fucking rabbit.
I run a hand through my hair as I listen to the ringing for the dozenth time this morning.
When it goes to voicemail, I pull it from my ear and stare at it while tapping the back once, twice. Three times.
Maybe I should’ve chained her to me, after all, so I could choke the fuck out of her when she’s being difficult for no reason.
“You’re not coming?” Stella, a colleague with obvious fake red hair, asks on her way out of the school while carrying her white coat.
We’re supposed to have a pathology class in the morgue, and that would usually be the highlight of my week—seeing inside dead people.
Not today, obviously.