I’m parked outside her dorm in the G-Wagon waiting for what’s got to have been six fucking hours. Windows down, engine idling like I’ve got nowhere else to be—which is a lie. I’ve got five texts from OPA, two missed calls from Jace, and a half-smoked joint still warm in the ashtray.
But still no tiny, small town bumpkin girlfriend making her way out.
I watch the front steps. She’s late. She’s always late. Like she thinks time bends for her, like her pretty little wrists never had a watch snapped onto them by a man who paid for it.
Probably means, I’ll have to pay for it.
Then she walks out.
I blink once. Twice. Lean back in the seat just to process the visual assault she’s chosen to unleash on campus tonight. She’s wearing that dress—strapless with the material streeeeched across her chest and body like second skin. Short hemline, glossy lips, and those goddamn heels that she’s going to regret later.
I don’t move. I do, however, remember the gentlemanly manners my mother instilled in me and go open the car door.
Something tells me that’s where my gentleman ways are going to end.
I drag my eyes from the neckline up to her face and tilt my head like I’m studying a lab rat. “Who said you could wear that?”
She rolls her eyes and climbs in. I smell vanilla. And trouble. Her signature.
The leather creaks as she settles. I watch her tug the skirt down like that’s gonna help. It won’t. “Hi, Bane,” she says, voice syrupy, fake-sweet. “You look like someone spit in your drink.”
“Didn’t say get comfortable.” I shift into drive and floor it hard enough to make her flinch.
There’s silence for two blocks. Then she checks her phone—idiot.
She never changes her password. She knows I check.
“Why’s he texting you again?” I ask. “Didn’t I already handle that?”
She doesn’t answer. I’ll hit block and delete the thread when she’s sleeping, I always do it. There’s nothing in her phone that I’m not okay with. Some may say it’s a type of possessiveness that transcends just dating and into ownership territory.
To which I’d reply, it is. Ten toes, it’s ownership. My initials glow on her collarbone, stamped in gold on the necklace I bought her last week. She hasn’t taken it off once.
We pull up to the OPA house and the whole block’s already vibrating. There’s a line of bodies outside, red solo cups in hand, music thudding like a vein about to burst. The lights are warm, golden, and vicious. Someone’s already climbing onto the roof.
I throw it in park, step out, and circle the hood to meet her. My jacket’s in the back, but I don’t offer it. Not tonight.
She takes one step onto the lawn and I grab her wrist—tight. Just enough to leave a mark.
“You stay within reach,” I mutter, low and quiet into her ear. “Don’t make me find you.”
Inside, the house is pure OPA hellscape. Jace is on the kitchen counter pouring tequila into a watermelon. The pit’s already full of half-naked idiots grinding to a Travis Scott remix. People doing lines off a lacrosse stick. Girls scream. Boys bark.
I stalk behind her through the crowd like I’m her fucking security detail. Anyone looks too long, I stare harder. Someone touches her arm—he dies.
She stops to talk to some sorority chick I hate and I seize the opportunity. Step in close, hand on her lower back, fingers sliding low enough to make the girl next to her blush and pivot away.
She told me once I’m toxic. I said good—so’s bleach, and no one questions its purpose.
She likes the way I burn. Always has