Page 31 of A Drop of Anguish
My heart leaps, and I reach for the note.
He’s not yours.
He was never yours.
The note slips through my fingers and flutters to the floor.
What. The. Hell.
Someone sent me flowers to mess with me? That’s—God, that’s so messed up. I run my fingers through my hair. The ache in my chest is heavy, but instead of letting it consume me, I suck in a long breath and pick up one of the lilies. I sniff it, and for another few minutes, I let myself remember the good.
These flowers are not from Jarron, but he did once send me some just like it. It’s those flowers I will remember. I didn’t appreciate him at the time, but I do now. Even though I’m mad at him. Even though he’s hurt me, and I’ve hurt him. Even though I can’t be in a relationship with him, in my heart, I can remember and cherish the beautiful moments.
Because at my very core, I am a stubborn bitch, and I refuse to allow a bully to ruin a wonderful memory.
Then, I force myself to my feet and head to take care of myself to a lavish extent.
My self-care includes a long hot shower, detailed makeup, and a massive plate of bacon and eggs. And finally, my potions lab, where I imagine the face of whoever sent me the flowers while I stir my instant death potion.
14
Leftovers
The relief at the constant stares and whispers settling to a simmer is the only positive feeling I could pinpoint in the following days after Jarron’s return.
Even with less attention on me, there’s still this sense of a collective breath being held as I walk into the lunchroom each day, like everyone anticipates something could change at any moment.
But every day, I walk past the Elite table, and every day, Jarron barely looks my way. The moment I’m past his table without incident, the unwanted attention shifts away, and I can breathe again.
Along with that change, though, has come a different sort of unwanted attention. It’s subtler and more unnerving.
The average students are paying me less and less mind. Which is good. But there are still three sets of silvery predator stares that won’t leave me—and I meanconstantcontact. I don’t think those three have blinked or looked away from my table in the last thirty minutes, and it’s been like that every day this week.
“What’s their deal?” I ask Thompson. I nod subtly to the table full of shifters eyeing me. “It’s creepy.”
He follows my gaze to the shifters. They either don’t notice or don’t care that Thompson has focused on them.
“Well,” he says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, “there’s some talk about you being ‘free for the taking’.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Janet asks on my behalf.
Thompson winces. “Wolves have this weird thing where they covet a powerful supernatural’s leftovers.”
I cough. “Leftovers?”
“For lack of a better word.” He shrugs. “I kind of think of it like a sickening form of curiosity. They want to experience what that being experienced. They want to know what they desired and what turned them away. Almost like how wild wolves roll around in dead animal carcusses.”
I cough. Would it be overkill for me to exclaim “what?” again? Probably. But I sure as hell yell it in my mind.
“That sounds… pleasant.” Marcus looks as though he may gag.
“It’s not,” Thompson continues. “It tends to be aviolentsense of desire.”
Janet’s eyes widen. “What does that mean?”
“They equal parts want to kill and screw her?” Marcus asks.
“Pretty much,” Thompson admits. “I mean, the good news is that wolves are not into rape. That’s a big no-no. But the bad news is that if you deny their advances—”
