shove us apart as they hurry up the stairs, the bell ringing overhead, but we continue our standoff. His chest rises and falls with every consecutive second, and my attention can’t help but drop there. Some demented part of me, a part that I hate more than anything else, wants to place my palm directly over his heart and feel if it’s beating as rapidly as my own. That same part wants to run my fingers across the smooth planes of his chest and stomach, memorizing his muscles through touch alone. Would he have scars? I imagine not. Lucas seems too…perfect for something like that. Too ethereal.
“Tell him no.” Lucas’s cold voice drags me out of my wistful fantasies, reminding me of what, exactly, we’re fighting about.
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Lucas doesn’t answer; he simply takes a step closer. I have to crane my head back to maintain eye contact.
His hand moves to touch a strand of my white hair, pulling it between his fingers. I scowl, attempting to pull my head away, but he doesn’t let go of my hair.
“When you got hurt at the football game…” Lucas trails off.
“What?” I ask dryly when he doesn’t continue. “Did you forget what you were going to fucking say? It’s a good thing you’re pretty, you fucking prick, because you don’t have a lot else going for you.” I rap my knuckles against the side of his head, and his scowl deepens.
“Such a bad girl. Such a filthy mouth.” He takes a step even closer until my heaving chest touches his muscular one. “Do you know what I want to do when you sass me like that?”
“Lock me in my locker?” I hold up my hand and begin to tick off the various offenses. “Pour tomato sauce on my hair? Cut my hair? Call me a freak? A weirdo? Torture me in gym class? Trip me in the halls? Oh wait, you’ve already done all of that!”
“You hate me,” he says simply. It’s not a question, but I take it as one.
“I fucking despise you,” I seethe, allowing all of my loathing to spew from my lips like a sickly poison. “I hate you and everything you stand for. How can you stand here and think that you have the right to tell me what to do? How can you stand here at all, after what you did to me?”
“Peony.” His voice is harsh, a warning, but I continue on.
“I want you to bleed, Lucas Scott. I want you to burn at the stake the way you made me burn.”
“I’m not a good guy, Peony,” Lucas says gravely, and I see in his eyes that he’s thinking about all of the things he’s done to me. All of the things he will continue to do. I truly believe there’s something irreparably broken inside of him. Something dark and twisted and laden with shadows. Maybe that’s why he’s so obsessed with breaking me—he’s already fundamentally broken himself. A man like him can never love, can never find true happiness. In ten years, he’s going to end up in rehab or dead. That need for control…
It’s going to kill him.
And while one part of me wants to dance on his grave, another twisted part of me rebels. Screams. Cries. Her agony is almost palpable.
“You’ll never forgive me,” he continues on, and this time, his voice is high-pitched in wonder, as if the thought that I could hate him forever never crossed his mind. Those eyes of his become guarded, almost cautious, as they narrow on me. “Even though that was five years ago.”
“You don’t just forget about years of torture,” I hiss.
“I’ve never forgotten.”
“What?”
His voice is quiet, a breath in the wind. “I never forgot you, Peony. I never stopped thinking about you.”
“And you won’t forget me.” I stand up on my tiptoes so our faces are mere centimeters apart. “I’ll make sure of that, Lucas Scott. I can’t—”
His lips collide with mine before I can even finish my sentence. Before I can even catch my bearings. Before I can even blink. His lips feel softer than I would’ve thought, lighting up everything inside of me like a wildfire. A tiny voice, almost muffled, sighs in contentment, as my body arches towards him like a flower seeking sunlight.
I want to run my fingers through his dark red hair until the strands stick in all directions. And then when he leaves this spot, I’ll be on his arm, a queen to his