The second he’s gone, the weight of what I just did slams into me. I close my eyes, my head tipping back against the locker, my hands balled into fists so tight my knuckles go white.
I want to go after him.
But I can’t. I’m already a trainwreck, and I can’t afford to let Sage be the thing that finally derails me.
Sage
Idon’tstopmoving.
If I stop, I might actually fucking think about what just happened, about what he just said, about the way his voice curled around those words like a blade pressed against my skin that meant to cut deep.
So I don’t stop.
I push out of the locker room, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the empty hallway, my breathing uneven, my pulse hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t care. I just need to get away, need to put as much fucking distance between myself and Luca Devereaux as possible before I do something stupid.
Like turn around and scream at him.
Like shove him back against those lockers and demand to knowwhy.
Whyhe does this.Whyhe won’t leave me the fuck alone.Whyhe acts like he owns me, only to rip me apart the second I get too fucking close.Whyhe says shit likethat.
Damien didn’t fuck you good enough?
You’re easy. You show up, you give me those eyes, you’re always fucking there, and yeah, I wanted to see what the hype was about. That’s all it ever was.
The words replay in my head, each one slicing through my skin like razor wire; burning, aching, and humiliating.
I should never have gone looking for him. I should have known he’d do this.
He makes me think I might actually matter to him, like I might be different from the other people he plays with, like there’s something between us that isn’t just possession, isn’t just power, isn’t just control.
And then he reminds me exactly what I am to him.
Nothing.
A game.
A fucking joke.
I shove the door open and step outside, sucking in the cold evening air like I’ve been drowning for the past ten minutes. My hands are shaking. My whole fucking body is shaking.
I hate the way I let him get under my skin, the way I let myself want him, the way I still fucking ache from the way he touched me weeks ago, the way he made me feel things I don’t want to fucking feel.
I don’t stop walking until I reach my car, then drive to the frat house. My pulse is still hammering, my head is still a fucking mess, and my body is still burning with leftover anger, leftover shame, leftover everything.
I push through the door, and I barely have two seconds to take a breath before Nate is right fucking there, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching me like he’s been waiting.
His green eyes flick over me once and he takes in my flushed face, the tension in my shoulders, the way I can’t quite unclench my fists, and I already know he’s about to start. I shake my head before he can even open his mouth. “Don’t.”
Nate lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t what?”
“Say whatever the fuck you’re about to say.”
Nate crosses his arms, tilting his head slightly. “So, I’m just supposed to ignore the fact that you look like you want to throw someone through a fucking window?”
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s nothing.”