Page 85 of Endless Anger
As soon as the dorm room door closes, I kick off my boots, drop my backpack, and jump into the bed. It’s warm from Foxe and smells like a mixture of him and Asher—fresh cotton and spicy cologne.
My bed growing up smelled like this all the time, since they spent most of their evenings in it, either playing with one of our dogs, doing homework, or annoying me and Aurora. My younger siblings were in my bedroom less than those three.
Stretching out beneath the plaid duvet cover, I realize how stiff my bones are from falling asleep while sitting up in the Obeliskos nightly since theincident. A shiver racks my body as I bask in the warmth of the lumpy bed; sprinting here in the rain after my meeting with Professor Dupont drenched my sweater, but I’d been too stubborn to change.
Now I’m soaking Asher’s mattress, but I don’t care. My eyelids are too heavy to afford that luxury for the first time I can remember.
Keats hops up beside me, curling against my legs.
After lying there for a couple of minutes, the clothes clinging to me becomes unbearable. Sliding away from Keats, I slip from the bed, glancing around to find something to change into. The overnight bag Aurora gave me is tucked away in the library, so I can’t exactly trudge over there for it. Not without getting rained on again.
A discarded, plain black T-shirt sits on the back of Asher’s desk chair.
Balling my hands into fists, I pinch my eyes shut and silently curse whatever ghosts are reveling in my misery in the afterlife.
Quickly, I peel off my wet clothes and yank the dry shirt over my head. The hem falls to the tops of my thighs, but it’s better than nothing, Iguess.
Nothing would send the wrong message entirely.
I hang my skirt, sweater, and tights over the open door of the wardrobe and climb back into bed, shuffling down under the covers. My panties are still damp, but I refuse to remove them.
Heat envelops me, and I sink into the feeling, pretending I don’tnotice how Asher’s scent iseverywhere. On my skin, invading my senses, blocking out Foxe entirely.
Instead of going to my next class, I fall asleep and don’t wake back up until the clock tower chimes its midnight bell, echoing through all of Fury Hill like some sort of bad omen.
Keats rubs his head beneath my chin as my eyes open, and I stroke his soft, silky fur. He purrs, shifting slightly in his slumber, and the desk lamp across the room flickers on.
Startled, I hug the cat closer to my body, my gaze darting to the figure in the room, taking a second to adjust.
At first, I swear it’s one of the men fromthatnight, somehow having discovered I witnessed their crime, and my heart drops. Fear slices through me like a serrated knife, taking root in the pit of my stomach.
I blink, and suddenly the unfamiliarity is gone, leaving Asher’s tall, lean frame instead. He braces a palm against the wooden desk, his hair hanging in wet strands over his forehead and dripping onto the floor.
There’s a tear in his T-shirt, obscured until he discards his jacket, and the material is covered in red and brown stains. He reaches up, messing with the hoop piercing in his nose, and then drops his other hand to the desk, huffing out a leaden breath.
I swallow when he moves to take off the shirt, my eyes glued to the cut muscles rippling across his back and shoulder blades. Even his biceps are corded and tight, and my belly flips as I take in his state of undress for the third time since he’s been back in my life.
He walks over to the wardrobe, pulling a long-sleeved shirt from inside. Blackish-purple splotches cover his abdomen, decorating his ribs, and my mouth parts at the brutalization of his pale skin.
“It’s impolite to stare.”
Immediately, my attention drops to Keats’s head. I gently trace his pink and black nose, warmth spreading through me when he pushes into the movement. “What happened to you?”
“Foxe happened. Or I happened to him, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. It’s settled.”
“Ominous.” I purse my lips, wondering how bad his cousin looks if he’s this beaten up. “Is he still alive?”
He doesn’t respond for a very long time. Long enough that I look back over at him, studying the rigid length of his spine and the tension threading through his forearms.
Finally, he glances at me. “Is that something you really think I’m capable of?”
I swallow. “I don’t know, Asher. I don’t knowyou.”
Not anymore.
He stares, eventually turning around with a small shake of his head. I guess I don’t need to reiterate that I’m still not convinced he had nothing to do with Celeste, even though there’s no real reason for me to think that.
Other than his sudden resurgence into my life the same night it happened.
