Page 13 of Velvet Thorns
I peel myself out of bed on shaky legs and with a head that feels like it’s been smashed open with a crowbar. My body is wrapped in nothing but black lace underwear, and a sleep mask isshoved halfway into my hair, and honestly, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I flick the light on and instantly flinch when the white-hot glare burns my eyes. And the sight of me? Jesus.
My dark cherry hair is all matted, my skin is pale, and mascara is smeared across my cheeks. I crumble to the cold tile floor, hugging my legs tight, and bury my head into my knees.
How the hell is that mess of a woman supposed to seduce the man who destroyed her life?
No one’s going to want to rip my clothes off if I don’t pull my shit together. I look like I’ve been gangbanged in a dumpster and dragged through the fucking streets.
It’s not much different from how I looked the day I met Phoenix, minus the hangover, but the hollowed-out exhaustion is the same. Back then, I was just a kid in beat-up jeans and an old hoodie, seeing things no kid should ever have to witness.
Phoenix was a storm even then, this brooding dark cloud that hovered at the edge of every room, and I was drawn to him instantly, like pain recognizes pain. He never hid his darkness from me, and I was never afraid of it. If anything, it felt honest, matching something broken and bruised inside me.
Everyone else at school was all shiny smiles and plastic laughter, the walking embodiment of everything I hated. But Phoenix was raw and intense. He felt everything too deeply to ever fake it.
I fell in love with him so fast.
The day someone tripped me in the hallway, Phoenix didn’t just help me up—he shoved the kid so hard against the lockers that the metal dented. When a spider bit me during biology, he didn’t hesitate to crush it under his boot and then spent the rest of class checking my arm for swelling. And when Mr. Grady pulled me aside after English, suggesting I “diversify my social circle”because our friendship was becoming a “distraction,” Phoenix’s hands went straight to that ridiculous red tie the old bastard wore every single day. I had to physically restrain him, my fingers wrapped around his wrist while I whispered him down from whatever dark place his mind had gone. He was my shield against everything this shithole town threw at me. Untilhe wasn’t.
How does someone go from wanting to strangle a teacher for suggesting you spend less time together to choosing everyone else over you? How does that fierce, protective love just… disappear? What did I do that was so fundamentally wrong that he stopped seeing me as worth defending?
No.
I catch myself before I spiral down that familiar path of self-blame. It wasn’t my fault. I spent too many years asking that question until it nearly killed me. My therapist finally managed to beat it through my thick skull one day that some people are just broken in ways you can’t fix.
When Phoenix made the football team, something in him fractured. It was like someone reached inside him and flipped a switch. One day, he was mine—the only one who saw me as something more than a punching bag—and the next, he was surrounded by cheerleaders with dead eyes and boys whose egos barely fit in their heads. He became just another empty, pretty face in the crowd, parroting whatever bullshit his new friends fed him. The boy who once looked at me like I was something rare was gone, replaced by someone who looked right through me, and I hated him for it. The only time I saw a flicker of the old Phoenix was the last day I saw him, when he kissed me like he meant it and held me like I was still his.
It lasted only a few seconds before reality hit me like a fist, and the illusion shattered. In an instant, I was remindedof who I was and what I was worth to him—or anyone—which was nothing. Less than nothing.
I lost Phoenix because I believed in him too much. I pushed him to be great because I saw everything he could be when the rest of the world didn’t. I was the one who told him to try out for football because he was good at it, but I was the idiot who lost everything in the process. Forget the stupid crush, the late-night fantasies, and messy feelings I couldn’t name at the time. He was my safety net in a world that never cared about me and the only one who made it all feel bearable. Then he dropped me as if I'd never mattered at all.
With barely enough time to spare, I made a desperate last-minute call to a salon close by to get my red hair touched up. I haven’t been blonde in nearly seven years, and I’m sure as hell not showing up looking like the girl I used to be.
My hair is straight, blood-red, and glossy, falling like silk to the middle of my back. The dress I picked clings like it was stitched to my skin, black with a plunging V neckline and a thigh-high slit that leaves almost nothing to the imagination.
My nails, which Barb, my go-to technician in New York, did, are nearly the same shade as my hair: deep red and perfectly shaped. My makeup’s flawless, a sweep of dark-red lipstick tying the whole black-and-red look together. The feline mask is the final touch, ready to hide me in a room full of people who’d love nothing more than to tear me apart if they knew who I really was.
The mask is made of black velvet, covering everything except my mouth. Technically, you can see my eyes, but I’ve slipped inopaque black lenses to hide the giveaway gold that would out me to Phoenix in a heartbeat.
Not what I want.
There’s built-in mesh beneath the eyeholes, shadowing my gaze without blocking my vision, making it nearly impossible for anyone to really see me. Gold detailing curls around the temples—delicate, swirling patterns that lift the eyes—and pointed cat ears arch over the top, secured at the back with a soft satin ribbon tied into a bow. Patent black stilettos finish the look, and those iconic red soles flash with every step.
I passed a few costumes on my way to the foyer. Harley Quinn and the Joker were practically mauling each other in the elevator like the world's ending at midnight, while across the lobby, some poor bastard dressed as a giant tomato was having a full-blown meltdown, trying to wedge his ridiculous foam ass into a chair without tipping over and rolling across the floor.
The young guy behind the front desk lets his eyes drag over me as I approach, and that look right there—the hungry, distracted kind, like he might’ve just forgotten how to breathe—is exactly how I want Phoenix to look at me.
“Can I help you?” he asks, swallowing hard. He can’t be older than twenty, and based on the way he’s blinking at me, it’s clear he has a classic case of boner brain.
“I need a car, please.”
He clears his throat. “Uh… for when?”
“As soon as possible, please.”
He grabs the phone with both hands and confirms the car more professionally than I expected before he gestures toward the double doors.
“Outside,” he says, still not quite meeting my gaze. “It’ll be right out front.”
