Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Problem #11
Let’s meet at Vipers Arena in an hour?
Me
No.
Be there while I’m asking nicely, Armstrong.
Oh no. So scared rn. Please send emotional support and a juice box.
If I don’t see you in front of the arena, I’ll come find you at Jude’s place. That’s where you basically live, no? If you decide to run to Kane’s or your dad’s house, I’ll still go find you there and tell either Jude, Kane, or your father about the face you made when you came all over my hand.
You think you can threaten me?
I know I can. See you in a few, baby.
He threatened me.
Marcus threatened me.
And sure, it shouldn’t burn this much—but it does. It burns like hell, and I’m absolutely doing something about it.
Which is why I showed up earlier than agreed. Pretty sure a car followed me on the way here—probably Lenin making sure I don’t murder someone without permission, start a war, or set myself on fire.
Any of which would end with me under his charming, brutal fists.
But he vanished the second I pulled into the arena’s parking lot.
Perfect. Because I am about to cause a mess.
I’ve been waiting for Marcus.
Oh yes, I have—tucked into the shadows, where I thrive, where my demons stretch their legs and applaud my decisions.
The parking lot is empty, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that make everything look like a crime scene in progress.
A bike growls in the distance, then rolls inside. There he is, in a leather jacket, jeans, and a helmet, with a stick handle poking out of the saddlebag.
The moment he kills the engine, I pounce.
Stick in hand, I swing and crack the side of his helmet from behind. The impact echoes in the silence of the night, and he drops hard.
I drive my boot into his stomach. Again. And again.
“Threaten me again and I’ll cut your head off.” Kick. “No one threatens me, you hear me?” Kick. “No one!”
And then—I notice I’m shaking.
My grip on the stick feels foreign, like the hand holding it belongs to someone else. I grab it with the other hand, but the trembling worsens.
The stick looks less like a weapon and more like a blade aimed at my own throat. My breathing fractures in deep, jagged noises.
Gasps fill the air, and I realize they’re mine.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“I’m not having an episode,” I whisper to no one. “I’m not.”
But you are, a voice inside me says—calm, cruel, familiar.
That switch in my head flips without warning.
The world shifts from HD to static. Colors smear. Sounds distort, and everything buzzes in an endless, loud ring. My chest closes in, my brain stutters, and my nostrils flood with the smell of cigarettes and fresh mint.
“Don’t you dare say anything, Preston.”
“It’s our little secret, Preston.”
“If you say anything, your mom will be disappointed.”
“Your dad already abandoned you, if you lose your mom, you’ll be all alone.”
“Shut up, Preston.”
“Shh, Preston. Be good.”
“Don’t move, Preston.”
“Stay still, Preston.”
“Preston…”
The static gets louder. It fills every corner of my head until I can’t tell if it’s in the air or under my skin. My fingers twitch like they’re trying to peel me out of my own body.
“Preston…”
Stop calling my name.
“Preston.”
Stop. Someone, make it stop.
“Preston!”
The low, growly voice drags me into the present. I realize I’m on the ground. The knife to my throat is the stick that’s being pulled from my fingers, one knuckle at a time.
My vision is blurry, my breaths chaotic as that ugly demon peers its head from the shadows.
But in the midst of it all, there are gray eyes. Hard. Distinctive.
Blood slides down his temple as he crouches, his hand catching my jaw—not hard, just firm enough to make the world tilt and lock.
“Look at me,” he says in a strong but not harsh command.
And I do because his breath is steady, his chest expanding in a soothing rhythm. In, out. A slow tide I didn’t know I was drowning in until it started to pull me with it.
I realize I’m matching him.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The static fizzles, the lights stop flickering in my head, and the hum goes quiet.
My hand molds to my body again instead of feeling like a foreign object.
Marcus touches my forehead with his, his harsh yet grounding eyes still holding mine. Close. Not blinking.
Just there.
Like no one else ever has been.
As the heat bleeds through his forehead to mine, he whispers, “There you are, my prince.”
Something in my heart shifts, jostles, and breaks.
A disease. It must be heart disease.
Because I refuse the very notion that my heart skipped a beat.
Ridiculous.
11
MARCUS
Preston ran away.
Again.
He shut me out first, then he ran away.
But he didn’t get far. The good thing is that he didn’t drive his car into the horizon and disappear from view before I could blink like the last time.
Instead, he just headed into the arena.
Naturally, I will follow him.
But for now, I stay outside, dabbing at the cut on my temple courtesy of the violent motherfucker.