Page 15 of You Were Always Mine
I sink into a chair at the table, bottle in hand, staring at the lipstick stain Ava left on my mug this morning. My lip curls. Wrong girl. Wrong taste. Wrong everything.
The only thing I want is gone, and I’ll tear this house apart if she doesn’t come back.
The whiskey burns, but it isn’t enough. It never is. Each swallow just feeds the fire, the rage crawling under my skin until I want to peel it off piece by piece. My hands shake against the bottle, knuckles split and raw, the taste of her still in my mouth though I never kissed her.
Scarlett fucking Everly.
The girl who spits in my face, who lies to me, who dresses like sin and pretends she isn’t begging for someone to notice. My little sister. My obsession. My ruin.
The phone on the table buzzes, rattling against the wood. I ignore it at first, drowning in another mouthful, but it buzzes again. And again.
I slam the bottle down, swipe the screen.
A text from Jax — my oldest friend. The only one dumb enough to send me news straight, no sugarcoating.
Guess who just walked into Hell.
My chest goes tight, my heart thudding like a war drum. My thumb hovers before I type back fast.
Who?
Another buzz. Another message.
Your sister. In that black dress.
The blood drains from my face, only to come roaring back hotter. Scarlett. In that dress. In Hell.
A biker bar. My territory. My kind of place. The worst place for her.
My hand shakes, the phone almost slipping from my grip. Rage claws through me, wild and feral, every nerve sparking until my vision blurs — and then another buzz.
A video.
I don’t want to press it. I don’t want to see. But my thumb betrays me.
The screen fills with light and sound, grainy but clear enough: Scarlett walking through the crowd, that black dress hugging her body like it’s painted on, red lipstick glowing under the neon. Men turn to look, heads snapping, eyes tracking her like predators scenting blood. One of them whistles. Another mutters something filthy, reaching out like he might touch her.
The phone almost shatters in my hand.
My vision tunnels, breath tearing ragged from my lungs.
She’s mine.
Not theirs. And if one of them lays a hand on her, I’ll burn Hell to the ground with every one of them inside.
I slam the phone face-down on the table, the video stillburning behind my eyes. Scarlett. My Scarlett. Walking into Hell like she doesn’t know what it is. Like she doesn’t know what waits in the shadows of that place.
I snatch the bottle again, take another long drag, but it doesn’t calm me — it fuels me. My blood roars hotter, my skin prickling like it doesn’t fit. I pace the kitchen, back and forth, the wood groaning under my boots.
How dare she.
That dress. Those lips. Strutting into a biker bar full of men who’d eat her alive and leave nothing behind. She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that when she dresses like that, when she looks at me with those wide, defiant eyes, when she spits in my face like she did this morning — she’s playing with fire. My fire.
I grab the phone again, press replay. The screen glows, and there she is, weaving through the crowd, heads turning, eyes devouring her. The camera pans just enough to catch one man leaning forward, his hand brushing too close to her thigh as she slips past.
My breath leaves me in a snarl.
I want to break his fingers. I want to rip his throat out. I want to drag her out by the wrist and lock her away where no one can see her, no one can touch her, no one can even say her name but me.
