Page 45 of Shattered Hate

Quiet Boy:

You keep saying something isn’t right doesn’t help. It should be fully healed; it’s been a month. What doesn’t look right?

If I were in his shoes and someone I inked said there was an issue, I’d rush over without a second thought.

Me:

It’s got orange pus seeping out of it.

I watch the typing bubble appear and then vanish.

Quiet Boy:

ORANGE??????

Fuck. Shit. Damn. What color is pus again? I quickly search on my phone—white and green, it says.

Me:

I meant green. I think I have a fever or something. Hurry, Daxton.

Green, orange—close enough, right?

Quiet Boy:

Shit. Okay. Give me 15. What’s your dorm number?

Me:

666

Quiet Boy:

Figures.

Daxton cracking a joke is unexpected. Even though his texts don’t indicate that he’s drunk, I can’t help wondering what state he’ll be in when he finally shows up.

Fifteen minutes later, a harsh knock sounds at my dorm door. I crack it open, trying to hold back a laugh, but it escapes uncontrollably when I take in the anxious crease on his brow and the troubled set of his eyes.

Before I can get a word out, he blurts, “Let me see it.” He’s practically tripping over his urgency. I step aside and tilt my head.

“Come in.” His eyes don’t leave the sleeve covering my arm as he edges closer to the door. I close it behind us with a subtle flick of the lock.

“Trayton, let me see,” he insists, and before I can protest, his hand grips my arm, his fingers tugging my sleeve upward. His gaze roams over the expanse of the unfinished tattoo etched on my skin, and his fingertips begin to trace it with a deliberate,searching pressure. With every passing second, his forehead creases deeper until the intensity forces him to glance up at me—while I desperately keep my expression neutral.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he demands, disbelieving; it’s as if his very words momentarily reveal his own shock at the deliberate lie I’ve made.

“You fucking prick.” He releases my arm with a rough shove. “You did this on purpose,” he accuses, disappointment and anger mingling as his nostrils flare and his fists clench with barely restrained anger.

I smirk and taunt, “Go on, I know you want to.” I fully expect his rage to erupt into a swinging fist, yet surprisingly, his assault never comes.

“It’s fine. I have Mike’s number. Move so I can get back to my evening.” He dismisses me, his tone final and cold.

“Oh, Daxton.” I lock eyes with him—those once-bright, green eyes now darkened with simmering anger and hurt. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He arches his eyebrows in a defiant challenge. “And you’re going to stop me?” It’s as though he truly believes I stand no chance of holding him back.

“Well, yeah,” I reply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No sooner do the words leave my lips than he shoves at me. Instinctively, I grab his hands and pin them securely behind his back. He wriggles, desperate to break free; his raging eyes are fixed on mine with a wild intensity.

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