Page 62 of For Fillies and Monsters

And I sure as fuck am never going to be in their circle.

The only person who has ever been nice to me is Dale, and a searing pang of regret hits my gut, knowing she will worry about me Monday when I don’t meet her out front of the school like we always do. I didn’t tell her I was leaving; she wouldn’t have talked me out of it, but she would have insisted I keep in contact, or at the very least, tell her where I was going. And I can’t risk putting her in danger. So I’m cutting her out, just like everyone else in this miserable place.

I will miss her, though.

As I turn the corner, I nearly smack into a solid wall of muscle, halting only inches from him. His dark curls glisten with sweat, trails of it racing down the crevices of his back and over the corded muscles of his tanned neck. Snug jeans grip around his thighs and ass and I admire just how round and full it is; it’s the kind of ass every girl would be envious of, myself included. I admire his backside another moment—I recognize him from the grocery store the last time I went in. Honestly, he will be impossible to forget, especially his onyx eyes, so dark you could drown in their inky blackness.

Maybe I should turn around and sneak away before he sees me.But my feet stay glued to the sidewalk, an invisible thread anchoring me to this spot. I want him to see me, to look at me the way he did the other morning. Being openly ogled is nothing new to me. But by a man like him? It could be addicting.

“People come here to die,” he huffs, clearly still lost to whatever dialogue plays in his beautiful head, unaware I’ve almost tackled him. Interesting assessment and I couldn’t agree more. The thought has me laughing quietly, but it’senough to break him from the trance of his private conversation and whirl on me. His eyes scour over my features, lingering on my breasts, which I now remember are free of a bra. My nipples harden at the realization and his eyes blaze to life, the black pupils swallowing the muddy brown surrounding them.

I feel trapped and naked; both emotions making me strike out in frustration. I know better than to provoke men, especially angry ones, but something about him makes me feel… safe?Is that the fuzzy feeling expanding in my chest?

Whatever it is, it’s bizarre and unwanted, so I do what I do best:lash out.

“Geez, I thought maybe you just hadn’t had enough coffee the other morning…” I pause, waving at his scowling face. His burning gaze both pisses me off and turns me on, the mix of emotions beyond irritating. I don’t have time for such distractions, or brazen men who think they can look at me however they like. I’m tired of being seen as an object and not a human. Cocking my hip, fueled by my sudden anger, I continue, “Now I know you’re just rude.”

The truth is, he looks vicious, dangerous, andso deliciousI’m considering throwing all of my plans of escape out the window just to be able to continue standing here looking at him,looking at me. Because the way he’s looking at me,like he’s hungry to consume me, is the most heady, powerful feeling I’ve ever experienced. I want to bathe in it, revel in it, consume it. I’ve only ever felt weak in this life, but something about this stranger makes me feel formidable in the best way.

And it terrifies me.

I wave my hand again in his face. “Hello?”

“Was there a question in there, sweetheart? You came up to me without a ‘hey, how’s it going’ or nothin’. As far as rude goes, you sure are painting a vivid picture.”Fuuuccckk, that voice.I’ve always known some voices could be hot, but his voice? It should be illegal.

“I am most definitely not your sweetheart,” I snap. The way his voice is causing butterflies to erupt in my stomach is confusing. I don’t have time to be confused. Not tonight.

“You could be. I can go find your boyfriend and solve this little problem right now.” The words come out sounding like a threat, and I have to fight back a smile.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. Never found a use for one.”

Why are you challenging him, Stetson? Have you not learned your lesson with dominating, terrifying men?

No, not men like him. Normally, I feel dead inside around dominating men; this man makes me feel alive. And I’ve never been truly alive—the electricity thrumming through my veins is proof of that.

“You obviously haven’t found the right one.” He steps toward me, and although my instincts blare at me to run, all I want to do is lean into him—see just how fast his flames will consume me.

Fighting off a smirk, I lean forward just a hair, but being even that much closer to him makes my skin sizzle as if being touched by an open flame. Alarm bells blare in my head, but I can barely hear them over the thumping of my erratic heart.“I guess I’ll just have to keep trying then, won’t I? You don’t happen to have a brother or friend with you, do you?”

He growls,actually fucking growls, and my body responds like a traitorous bitch—my toes curling and pussy clenching. I know, without a doubt, if I reached between my legs right now, my fingers would come back glistening with my want for him.

Fucking hell, what’s happening to me?

He takes two menacing steps toward me, and I have the good sense to step back. Only a little. The movement causes him to snap, his hand clamping down on my wrist and I freeze as ifgripping a live wire. I hate being touched, grabbed, forced. And yet, nothing about his touch is disgusting to me—if anything, it is the most arousing thing I’ve ever felt. My eyes are glued to where his skin is seared to mine, and I don’t notice him reach out with his other hand until it is brushing my braid from my shoulder, his thumb grazing over my hammering pulse.

And the bruises I hastily attempted to cover.

His thumb digs into my neck harder, and I wince, trying to pull away.

“Is that a bruise or a hickey?” His voice is murderous now, but I still don’t feel afraid. I feel unexplainably turned on. And that is so, so wrong.

What the fuck is wrong with me? What is he doing to me?

“Which would you prefer?” I ask, more nonchalantly than I feel, and he grinds his teeth.

“Which is it?”

“A bruise.” Dropping my eyes, I trace a small arch in the dirt beneath my toe.What’s the point of lying?

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