Page 48 of Shattered Hate

Instead, I do what I do best. “Jamie sucked dick better.” His eyes widen in shock, and he shakes his head in disbelief before storming off down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the walls.

I want to grin, to revel in the satisfaction of fucking with him.

But instead, a hollow feeling settles in my chest.

I feel almost… sad.

Chapter twenty-three

Daxton

Did I sleep at all last night? Not a chance. The whole night felt like some bizarre fever dream—did it really happen? Well, yeah, it must have because every attempt to swallow sends a sharp twinge through my throat. It was my first time sucking dick, and my throat feels raw, as if it’s been scraped with sandpaper. I think he’s actually bruised me from the inside. Despite the discomfort, I can’t deny the thrill that coursed through me during those moments.

Every single second of Trayton treating me as a toy to play with and having his way with me plays on repeat in my mind. It’s twisted, I know. After everything he did last night—disrupting my evening plans with Mike, someone I still haven’t texted back. Spinning lies and then blackmailing me into submission. All before uttering those final words as I left.

Of course Jamie had gone down on him at the party. There’s no surprise there, especially after witnessing Jamie practically devour Trayton’s face. A pang of jealousy hits me when I thinkabout Jamie with him, an ache settling in my chest. Anger follows, knowing he’ll continue to fuck whoever he wants. Why am I letting this get under my skin so much? But it does—it really does.

I should be more furious with Trayton than ever before. But strangely, I’m not.

The memories of last night won’t leave me alone, and that’s why I’m lying here, restless and dripping with need. Thankfully, Cope was already asleep when I returned; I couldn’t handle questions about my night with Mike when, in reality, it was all about Trayton and his intoxicating existence. As much as I hate to admit it, Trayton is addicting in all the wrong ways.

It figures that I stopped smoking weed to then just get hooked on something worse.

I glance over at the bedside clock, its red digits glaring five a.m. at me. I can’t just lie here, consumed by thoughts of him and my strange want for him. I should have fought back, broken free from that room. I should never have let myself fall to my knees for him.

And most definitely, I should never have sucked his dick.

I know what it’s like to get a taste of Trayton now. How am I meant to let that go?

I scrub my hand down my face, hoping to rub away these thoughts, but they cling stubbornly. Maybe some fresh air will help clear my mind. I slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb Cope. The room is dimly lit by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. I know I could lie. After all, when does Cope ever talk to Mike? But I’m terrible at lying. My voice always falters, and my cheeks betray me, flushing bright red every single time. My damn cheeks.

Closing the door quietly behind me, I linger in the shadowy, deserted corridor, my heart pounding in my chest. Pressing my ear against the wooden surface, I strain to catch any sound from Cope, but all I hear is silence; a relief washes over me. The cool air outside greets me as I step into the darkness, the stillness calming my racing thoughts. The campus sprawls behind me as I wander down the deserted path, the gravel crunching softly beneath my feet. I let my mind drift through the memories of past years, each step a reminder of the struggles and the accomplishments that have shaped who I am today.

I’ve carved my own path, and though I rarely acknowledge it, I deserve to recognize how far I’ve come. Yet, as inevitable as the sunrise, my thoughts circle back to him—Trayton King.

He was the mysterious boy who always seemed just out of reach, the one I watched from afar, craving the impossible. But over time, that wanting twisted into something that resembled hatred, or so I convinced myself. Did I truly despise him, or was it easier to mask what I felt with hatred? Every harsh word he directed at me was a shield, a barrier that made it easier to pretend I didn’t crave his touch or the taste of his lips.

After last night, the truth became undeniable. When he told me to drop to my knees, my resolve crumbled. I didn’t resist, and he knew I wouldn’t. His threat to tell Max was a mere formality, a way to give me an escape that I didn’t truly want. If Trayton ever asked me to drop to my knees again, I know that resisting would be a battle I might not win.

But it will always be hate between us because when Trayton said, “Let me show you how much I hate you,” he did just that. The sick thing is, I love how much he hates me. If that’s his way of expressing himself, then I’ll forever be content knowing that Trayton holds such strong feelings toward me. If that’s Trayton’s version of hate, then I’ll give him hell every single day.

This walk was supposed to clear my mind of him, to let the crisp air and rustling leaves distract me, but instead, his image dominates every thought. I find myself recalling every detail—those piercing, haunting eyes that have followed me since childhood. His strong jawline, tense and defined as he spat out his hatred for me last night. His large, powerful hands that gripped my head with a force that left me no choice but to accept everything he was giving. His full, commanding lips that parted wide when I brought him to his climax. Those lips that I will forever crave to feel against mine.

I knew this would happen. I saw it all along, yet I tricked myself into thinking I could control it. I can never control anything Trayton King does, and that’s the undeniable truth. I can never control how deeply that guy makes me feel.

Sighing, I pivot on my heels, kicking at the gravel beneath my feet. The new sunrise creates long shadows across the empty street, and I feel a tug of acceptance deep within me. What’s the point of being out here, walking, trying to clear my head, when I’ve already admitted to myself what I’ve known all along? I want Trayton King. It’s as simply complicated as that.

I let out a chuckle, a sound lost in the breeze, as I start walking back toward the campus. My thoughts are a tangled mess of emotions, so much so that I don’t notice the black sedan creeping along the curb, trailing me, until it’s too late.

“Daxton.” That voice slices through the air, sending a jolt down my spine. It’s the voice that echoes in my nightmares, the one that wraps around me with an icy grip. My heart skips a beatas I glance up, the familiar brick buildings of the campus just visible in the distance. If I just sprint, I might make it…

“Don’t even think about it.” My Uncle Marley’s chuckle is as cold as the wind that whips around us, the car inching along at a snail’s pace beside me. I turn my head slowly to meet his gaze. Those eyes are like chips of ice. The devil, I’ve always called him that. Making a deal with Marley is like selling your soul; you never truly get it back, and you never truly escape its grasp.

There’s no point in running. Marley would sooner run me over than let me walk back through those gates. The car halts, and I exhale heavily, a cloud of breath in the cold air, knowing I have no choice. Panic claws at my insides as I circle around the car. I grip the handle, the chill of the metal grounding me momentarily, and a lump forms in my throat. Am I ever going to see that campus again? It seems melodramatic, but if Marley wants me to vanish, he could make it happen. The car door creaks open, and I steal a glance back at the campus, a fleeting thought of escape flickering in my mind.

“I just want to talk to my nephew, that’s all,” he says. The shadows obscure his face, but I don’t need to see him to know he’s lying. The sarcasm and smirk are palpable in his voice. With one last look at the campus, I sink into the front seat, the door closing with a final, ominous thud.

As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, my mind races, expecting the doors to lock with a mechanical click, but the sound never comes. Marley sits motionless, his hands resting on the steering wheel. I had assumed he would speed off the moment I was inside, but the engine remains silent. My gaze is fixed on the dashboard, knowing that if I allow myself to look at him, the flood of anxiety will overwhelm me, and I can’t afford a panic attack in front of him. I can’t let him see the power he holds over me.

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