Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,92

says. “Why? Did you see one?”

Emory groans. “God, don’t say Vandy’s. Reyn will skin you alive if you got near that tattoo.” The look of disgust on Em’s face means that he’s probably thinking that he’d help him.

“No, not your sister.” I run my hand through my hair. “Haynes is in my swim class.”

“Oh,” Carlton says casually, then his expression darkens as the elephant in the room appears. “Oh.”

“How’s that going?” Emory asks.

I’m fucking her so hard, she’d scream if we didn’t always have to be quiet. I send him a bland smile. “It’s civil.”

He puts his glass down, leaning over the table, and I know he’s smashed. There’s no way he would have just spilled all that if he weren’t. But the way he’s looking at me right now is alarmingly sober. “Heston, I know shit hit the fan and I know you blame her for it, but if you hurt her…” He stares at me, nostrils flaring wide. “If you hurt her again, I will fucking end you.”

In a low, rigid voice, Carlton adds, “We all will. You got that?”

I look between them, finally understanding. Here I was worried about Georgia belonging to a Devil when she actually belongs to eleven.

I shift my shoulders against the fiery sting of my stomach. “Yeah, I got it.”

15

Georgia

* * *

Dr Ross’ worried eyes hold mine. “It’s unlike you to not turn in a paper.” She brought me out into the hall to ask why my essay was late. I have no real excuse, other than not feeling like doing it.

“I can get it done by tomorrow,” I assure her, feeling my stomach churn with anxiety. I really hadn’t expected it to be due so soon. “I just had a bad week and got off my routine a bit.”

Yeah. A bad week. There was the epic rush of sleeping with Heston, knowing that I had his dick on tap, and not being able to think about anything else. And then came the immediate tumble when he refused to kiss me because of this tattoo on my neck. And then came a very minor pit of depression, which I can’t even decide is because of my hurt feelings over the whole thing, or that he can hurt my feelings at all.

No, the actual issue is this thrumming, crazy-making hunger.

It hasn’t been this bad in a while. Heston was right about one thing—hurting myself doesn’t work anymore. It doesn’t temper the need, it just amplifies it. But for some reason, the second I feel my mind wandering, stomach dropping with that telltale tingle of lust, I can’t stop myself from doing it. Part of it is the muscle memory. Habit. Conditioning. But another part—a part that I’m afraid to cop to—is that I want to feel it amplified. The higher the climb, the bigger the drop. Even though it’s not good for me, I can’t stop myself from wanting to chase it.

She frowns at me, not looking very reassured. “Each day you’re late, I have to take off ten percent from your total grade.”

“I know.” I give her a weak smile, feeling tired and wrung out. I’d been up until three in the morning riding my own hand, desperate and frustrated. “I’ll have it finished by tomorrow, promise.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it.” She squeezes my arm. “And if you’re struggling, go talk to your counselor. Or me. Or someone else, okay?”

“I will.” It’s a lie. No one can know why I’m so wound up. First, Heston would get in a boatload of trouble. Second, if people think I’m a slut now, what would they think about me screwing the guy who caused me so much grief? “Thanks, Dr. Ross. Definitely tomorrow.”

Clutching my books to my chest, I beat a hasty retreat. All of my teachers are aware of my breakdown in the ninth grade. Because of this, they’ve granted me the privilege of special accommodations, just in case I’m experiencing anxiety attacks or depressive episodes. If I absolutely have to, I can request to turn in an assignment late or leave the class without asking. I try not to take advantage of it because it only brings more attention to the fact I’m a hot, crazy mess. If anyone saw my thigh right now—if they realized that I’ve been hurting myself—they’d take it the wrong way. They’d think I was suicidal or having a crisis, and I’m not. It’s not like that at all. It’s just a temporary means to an end.

But