Page 11 of Wicked Scorn
“That doesn’t give you the right to—” I stop myself, breathing heavily, my mind racing with fragmented memories of the previous night.
“To what?” he challenges, stepping even closer. “To take care of you? To make sure you were safe?”
“Safe?” I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. “Is that what you call this? You played the hero and then waltz in here, calling me bunny like I’m supposed to fall at your feet and worship you like I used to. Those days were over last year, Jeremiah, and they’ll never be back. Especially not because you randomly found me at a party. I’m doing fine on my own.”
“You’re not going to talk around it,” he says, a hint of ironic humor in his words. “What happened last year? The last I checked you were thriving at your college doing fine without me or anyone else hovering over you.”
“You were checking up on me? You cut me off, but you were watching everything I was doing? That’s supposed to make me feel better? If it’s even true.” I spit out, my anger bubbling over. “You’re such a?—”
“Careful, bunny,” he interrupts, his tone low and dangerous. “I don’t have the patience I had two years ago. We’ve been apart a long time.” The way his eyes darken sends shivers up my spine. Jeremiah Blackwood used to look at me with a softness that he did not hold for anyone else. Now, though, he looks like he wants to devour me piece by piece until I only exist for him.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap at him again, my cheeks flushing with anger and embarrassment. When I hear the nickname that only he used to call me, it brings back so manyfeelings I’d much rather forget. “You lost the right to use that name a long time ago.”
“Did I?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his dimples showing as he pulls his mouth up into a tight smile. I always saw Jeremiah Blackwood as being different from his brothers. He was the kind one, the gentle one. Well, at least he was all of those things to me, but this morning I finally see what everyone else always said about him. He’s cocky, arrogant, an always-gets-what-he-wants son of Robert Blackwood.
“I won’t do this with you. You’re bigger than me. Congratulations. You’re bigger and badder than ninety-nine percent of the people at St. Charles,” I say, my words trembling with rage and desperation and it doesn’t help that I see his chest puff out like my try at sounding dismissive or condescending has only given him an ego boost. “That does not mean you can force me to stay here, and it certainly does not mean you can control everything I do.”
“Control?” he laughs, a hollow sound. “If I wanted control, Oakley, you’d know it.”
“Then what is it?” I demand, stepping closer until we’re mere inches apart. “What do you want from me, Jeremiah?”
“Everything,” he whispers, his eyes darkening with intensity. “I want everything, Oakley.”
“You’re just taunting me at this point,” I say, my tone firm despite the fear gnawing at my insides. “If I was so damn important to you, we wouldn’t be meeting at a party randomly that you were no doubt going to pick up a jersey chaser from.”
Jeremiah speaks softly, his gaze piercing through me, “You’re more important than you realize.”
“Stop it,” I plead, feeling the walls closing in. “Stop trying to twist this. Just let me go.”
“Not until you tell me why you transferred to St. Charles,” he demands, his words tinged with desperation.
“That’s none of your business,” I retort, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
“Make it my business,” he urges, his eyes searching mine. “Tell me the truth, Oakley.”
“Why should I?” I challenge, my tone wavering. “So, you can use it against me?”
“Because I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is,” he says, his words filled with raw emotion. “And I need to understand.”
“Understand what?” I ask, tears welling up in my eyes. “That I’m broken? That I’ve been through hell and back?”
“Yes,” he admits, his tone barely above a whisper. “I need to know, Oakley. Please.” Jeremiah finally takes a step toward me, and I can feel the heat radiating off his large frame. I’m not a tall girl, but next to him I feel miniature.
“Shut up,” I whisper, hating the way my body reacts to him, the way my pulse quickens, the way my skin tingles. I have not had this reaction to another man since he left me two years ago. I tried to be happy, I really did, but then my world got flipped upside down and I’ve been in survival mode ever since. With Royce and Jeremiah gone, that left my parents who can only be bothered to participate in a distracted, dismissive phone call once a month. On one hand, I’m livid with Jeremiah, but having him this close and not feeling like I’m going to be swallowed whole by my anxiety is something I didn’t anticipate but am grateful for. “I can’t do this right now. I need you to let it go.”
“Not until you tell me why,” he insists, his hand reaching out to touch my arm. His fingers are warm, firm, a stark contrast to the cold feargripping my heart.
“Why does it matter?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Why do you care?”
“Because I’ve never stopped giving a shit about you,” he confesses, his eyes locking onto mine. “And because I need to protect you. I need to know why you’re so scared. I need to know why you were at that party. That’s not something the Oakley I knew would have done. Like it or not, you’re mine to look after.”
“That’s bullshit,” I spit, pulling away from his touch. “You don’t own me, Jeremiah. You never did.”
“That’s open to opinion, I suppose,” he concedes, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But I won’t let you walk away without knowing the truth.”
“Then maybe it’s better if we don’t see each other again,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe it’s better if we just forget everything.”
“Is that what you really want?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “To forget?”
