I wish I could go back to the day I met you and just walk away.  
— Tayyab Lahoria 

Toska 
(n.) a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining a spiritual anguish 

Tuesday — September 5, 2023 

Callista 

Someone give me a gold medal and an Oscar right now because the fact that I've managed to deal with this crowd for longer than half a minute is an achievement in itself that deserves the highest recognition. 

"You're, like, famous, you know?" The girl — Paislynn, I think her name is? — beside Ryder says, face shining with condescending wickedness masked underneath a dazzling smile. 

I'd say there are a solid ten people crowded around this table. I don't know any of them, — save for Drake, Ryder, Hazel, and Destiny — though I do recognize one other guy from yesterday. I think he was with Sabrina for a while? Oh yeah, he was. 

Collarbone-sucking guy and the three others at the other end of the table don't contribute to the conversation. I can see from the harsh lines in their brows that they're probably either hungover or severely running solely on caffeine. 

I force a smile in return, going along with the travesty, because that's the nice-girl thing to do, isn't it? 

"If it's because of last night—" who am I kidding, of course it is, "—then I don't think I'm the only one sharing the spotlight." I say jokingly, glancing at Drake with a telling look. He grins back, though I notice it lacks the vitality I've come to associate it with. 

"Oh, no, trust me you're the only one." Ryder nods in agreement with Peyton, throwing an arm over the back of her chair and leaning back in his own. The red highlights in his brown hair are the strangest combination with the white dress shirt and deep teal trousers. 

"Hey, you could be sporting the headlines for much worse reasons, okay? So no worries. Besides, not like anyone's gonna dare reprimand Ambrose for his devilries. Or even Valentino." Hazel prods my arm with her elbow, sliding over a glass of mint soda to me. "And try this out, this shit's fucking good." 

I gingerly wrap my fingers around the chilled rocks before it hits my tray and upends its contents into my Brazilian fish stew. 

Not like anyone's gonna dare reprimand them? Seriously? It's not like they're aristocrats or senators or something. Even then, the law would keep them in check. 

Looks like BCA's got its own set of rules and rulers. 

"Please, you make it sound like I'm Jesus." Drake snorts and then covers his face with a palm as he yawns widely, blinking a couple of times as if returning to reality. "And Ambrose is fucked up in the head on so many different levels, don't even get me started." 

I stifle my agreement and curl my hands around the glass to keep myself from slamming it onto the table and screaming FUCK YES BITCH at the top of my lungs. 

Drake raises an eyebrow at me — at the lack of any reaction I suppose — and scarfs down a slice of garlic bread while he's at it. 

My eyes had scoured the room when I'd entered for any sign of black hair and grey eyes but had come up empty. The cafeteria is still absent of the male in question. 

I press my lips into a line as I look at Drake, shaking my head with a hint of amusement. He rolls his eyes lightly in response, and the small smile that my lips form at that isn't fake. 

"Get a room, for fuck's sake." Pauline sniggers from beside Drake, swatting his chest with her hand, though instead of dropping back into her lap after the hit, it lingers there for a second before sliding down and disappearing under the table. 

Now that's something for which you need to get a room. 

I pretend like I don't see shit. 

"Fuck off, Pearlene." Drake mumbles, swiping away her hand. I could have sworn her name was Preston. 

"Please, you two clearly look like you had sex last night, Drake. Lay it off." 

I choke on my drink at Ryder's words, coughing sharply as the soda changes its course to run down my windpipe. 

"Bro, what the fuck?" Drake flicks the garlic bread he was about to eat at Ryder, catching him straight in the eye. He curses as he furiously rubs his eye. I hope the chili destroys his retina. 

Ryder pulls his hand away from his eye and tugs Preston darling back toward him who smiles broadly when he lets her hands wander in places I'd rather not talk about during lunch.   

"No fucking way." Destiny murmurs from my left, looking at me like I just sprouted three noses right out of my forehead. 

"Girl, you did what?" Despite the grin Hazel's face stretches into, I sense the sour bite in her tone that has me shifting in my seat. 

"We did not." I mutter, shoving a forkful of salad in my mouth. 

Sabrina walks past right then and her eyes land on me with a curious light to them. 

I direct a small smile at her to wipe away the sneer that threatens to grow on my face at the sight of her pretending like she totally doesn't have a recording of my and Chance's tryst yesterday and is an innocent little bitch. 

What I'd give to be seventeen right now, just so I could report her for having a sex tape of a minor. 

"Sure you didn't." Ryder's grin doesn't drop. 

What is his fucking problem. 

"Please, if I did fuck her, she'd be glued to me right now begging for round thirty-seven." Drake runs his hands through his curls, fluffing them up and sending me a panty-melting smile. 

I should be pissed at him for what he said and grab a lasso to pull him off his high horse but that smile. I'm not strong enough to resist blonde-guy-charm. 

Gah. 

"Never gonna happen." Hazel laughs and throws an arm around me, pressing her cheek to mine. "My girl doesn't get involved with playboys." 

Wasn't she just giving me the bitch eyes ten seconds ago? 

Ryder scoffs loud enough for me to turn a look at him, narrowing my eyes ever so slightly, and send him the bitchiest smile I can conjure. 

"I mean, give me a pretty face and I'll ride any D." Destiny confesses with a sly smirk, looking right at Drake before winking at me. "I got your back, C." 

"And that is why you're my favorite person." I whisper in her ear when Hazel and Paisleigh — Paislynn? — start talking animatedly about Chanel's latest collection, and Drake and Ryder get absorbed in a conversation of their own.  

"Yeah?" She grins sideways at me and drops a black straw into the rocks glass to steal the last sip. 

"Bitch!" I shove her shoulders. 

"Hey, you're the one who said you were going to fuck her brains out." Ryder's words catch my attention and I turn my gaze to find his hands raised in submission. 

"I asked her if she wanted me to fuck her brains out!" Drake retorts. 

Wait, what the fuck? Is this about my asking Drake if he'd lost his fucking brains?  

"Hey, Callista." I turn my gaze to Ryder when he calls my name. "Tell Drake I could make you beg for round fifty-one after just one night." He says it with the confidence of a self-absorbed bastard that can only be accumulated through years of assholish tendencies. 

I'm tempted to throw a few curses and insults at him. "Tough luck, Ashfuck. I don't lie." 

Drake presents a smug look, and Destiny and Hazel start cackling at the nickname while Penelope narrows her eyes at me. "Jeez, why do you have to get so triggered? He just asked you a simple question." 

Uh-oh. Overprotective psycho girlfriend alert. 

"You sure I'm the one triggered?" I can't suppress the laugh that escapes me. 

The rage on her face tells me she's surely going to retort with knives, until Ryder tuts and shushes her. She complies instantly like his little bitch and the sight is as absurd as it is comic. 

I'm about to say something to Ryder along the lines of oh-and-also-can-we-not-talk-about-me-like-I'm-your-common-alley-whore but when I feel the light scrape of his shoe reach out and trail up my ankle to above my knees, I push my chair back and stand up, straightening my skirt. 

"Yeah, I've got somewhere to be right now, so excuse me." 

Ryder's face appears crestfallen at the pronouncement but I don't pay heed to his entitled, apathetic being — or to Hazel's cry when she realizes the soda's empty — and walk away, heading for the lockers. 

That's the most fucked up crowd I've ever met. 

●⁍●⁍●⁍● 

I'm mindlessly humming to Ex Habit as I walk toward... — I look down at my timetable that I copied onto my phone — Psychology. Room 111. So aesthetic. 

At least there, if I act like I'm drowning in an ocean of insanity, they'll disregard it as a medical condition rather than be a bitch to me. 

I don't realize I'm late until I walk into class. 

Everyone's already seated and voices carry through the room as they all chatter. 

I find only two empty seats. 

The one at the back of the class is beside a guy in a piss-yellow hoodie whose head is buried in his arms. 

The other one is beside the huge glass window, right in front of Chance Ambrose. 

Isn't this cliche. 

Well shit, I think I'll take my chances with the piss-yellow hoodie dude. And I really decide on it, until he lifts his head drowsily and picks his nose, scrunching up his face as he wipes his hand on the desk. 

No. 

Nope. Nada. Zilch. 

I return my gaze to Chance. Why is he even in Psychology? Oh right, I told him to see a therapist about his being a narcissistic bastard, and being the narcissistic bastard he is, he probably refused to consult anyone for help and instead chose to become one himself because the prospect of asking anyone for help is fucking terrifying and degrading, isn't it? 

Yeah, I think I'm onto something here. I smell shady narcissistic business. 

I'm going to figure you the fuck out, Chance Ambrose, just you wait. 

It's like we're both so in tune with each other's souls on a psychic level that every time we're in the other's presence, the knowledge is instant. On a conscious level. 

If he wants to be an asshole to me, I can be a double-bitch-with-a-cherry-on-the-top to him. 

The ankle-length boots of my uniform click click click against the onyx tiles as I keep my head high, refusing to meet the stare that's burning into me, pretending as though he doesn't exist. 

I sit down at the seat. 

The acute awareness of his nearness makes my spine tingle. I think I can hear his breath. Or at least I believe it's his. His breath was never so uncontrolled, uneven. I shut my eyes and slide my books onto the desk. 

Isn't this wonderfully cliché. 

Next to me is another girl who's half asleep, lazily doodling something at the back of her textbook. I subtly peek at it and gulp at the morbid drawing of a bird being impaled. 

I sigh and twirl my mechanical pencil in my fingers, going through the index of the textbook for the sake of doing something. 

"Switch. Now." 

I lift my head at the same time as the blonde-haired girl beside me, her resting bitch face turning to wide-eyed realization when she spots the guy who was sitting next to Chance out of his seat and standing above us. 

"One sec," she mumbles, stacking up her books and jumping out of her seat, eyeing the seat beside Chance with weariness before she reluctantly sits her ass on it, inching away from Chance's usual murderous aura as much as possible. 

Only this time when I look at Chance, he isn't glaring at me, but at the asshole who kicked that poor girl out of her seat. 

I swallow and look at the guy in confusion. 

Oh, fuck. Yup. I know this dick.  

"You bailed on me." Marcus says as he slides into the abandoned seat, his arm brushing mine as he rests them on the edge of his desk. I pull my hand away from the point of contact. 

"Did I?" I ask, feigning civility. He nods seriously in agreement, pushing his bronze hair out of his eyes. 

Funny, because I remember the exact opposite happening halfway through the evening. 

"I apologize if I bruised your ego." I insert as much chivalry as I can into my tone, flicking through the pages of my textbook absent-mindedly.  

I see him part his lips in the slightest bit of offense out of the corner of my eyes, and I take silent satisfaction in the fact that male pride is so easily wounded. 

"You didn't." The charm is back in voice after his momentary lapse of composed expressions. "I was wondering if I could prove to you that I'm a much better lay than Valentino." 

He hooks his index around mine, pulling my hand onto his lap, dangerously close to his crotch. 

"Yeah, I'll pass." 

And WHAT THE FUCK is up with people thinking I screwed Valentino. Like, alright, even if I did, does it have to be brought up in every damn conversation like my fucking him somehow defines my entire personality? 

I try to pull my hand away, but his grip remains clamped around me like a vice. 

"Wasn't a request." he says, eyes glinting with the same manic gleam that I remember from last night. 

What was he saying back then?  

Man, this shit's gold. Fuck you, Ambrose, she's mine next. 

I curl my lips in disgust. Yeah, no. 

"Marcus." I say with as much collectedness as I can muster. "If you don't get your hands off me right now, I'll sink my fingernails into your dick so deep, you'll never be able to thrust it in a hole ever again without feeling like you're sticking it in a blender." 

Erectile dysfunction should be a threat enough to have him back off. Should. 

"Fuck." he breathes and his smile grows wider, making me lean away in horror. Shit, I'm trapped in a school with raving lunatics. "Tell me more, baby." 

Nope. Nuh-uh. 

I shake my head, bemusement shining wide in my features as I attempt to will myself into disappearance. 

And isn't Chance sitting like half a meter behind me? 

"But you were so willing last night." His lips curl into a pout but fuck no, I need to get away from this maniac before he swallows me whole like a tiny pill of E. 

His face is so close, that his lips brush against mine as he speaks. I blink and return a mad grin before bringing my other hand that's clutching the mechanical pencil to his neck. 

"Need me to crush your throat again?" 

I press the lid into the soft skin of his Adam's apple a little too harshly, and only the waver in his smile and the tick in his jaw tell me I got him somewhere serious. 

A narrow line of blood trails from his neck, and he slowly pulls away, bringing up a hand to softly press again the small gash. 

I return to my work, slightly shaking when I see the drops of blood clinging to lead. I grimace and wipe them with a paper towel, only then noticing that there's deathly silence in the classroom. 

I've done it again, haven't I? 

●⁍●⁍●⁍●

"You haven't got the slightest bit of shame, have you?" Chance's eyes are sparkling with devilish condescension as he wraps a hand around the base of my seat, yanking me closer to him until my side is pressed to his. 

How did I end up in this position? 

Well, after I mutilated Marcus' gorgeous gorgeous skin, the teacher walked in — as if on fucking cue — and briefed us about Unit 1, and had everyone partnered in pairs with the person next to them for the rest of the semester for group assignments. 

Marcus wouldn't partner with me and the girl who was next to Chance wouldn't partner with Chance, because, well... Chance can be a real asshole when he wants to. 

Marcus partnered with the girl and kicked me out of my seat with a whispered warning of snapping my neck if I didn't, and now here I am, right beside the wide-open jaws of the beast that lived beneath the skin of this alluring man that detests me. 

For the rest of the semester (if I live that long). 

"I think we've established that already." My sucking him off like a submissive bitch proved as much. I keep my gaze trained on the textbook I've balanced on my lap, letting my hair fall around my face and block my view of him. 

I hear his tongue click. 

"It's like the universe is handing you to me on a silver platter, Willow." he whispers in the smallest of voices, hand reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ears so that I can't escape his prying gaze. I stiffen at the touch and my lower abdomen contracts in a very unwelcome manner. "Ripe for my taking." 

A loud buzz fills the classroom as the rest of the students start working on the day's assignment, but Chance hasn't even opened his books yet. 

"What makes you think I'll give myself up at all?" I shouldn't speak to him, shouldn't indulge, but I'm a slave to the whims of the serotonin that rushes through me. 

"What makes you think I care?" The ice in his tone is back. Even in the whispered words. "It'll just make the taking so much more eventful if you resist." 

Shit, his words shouldn't have such a massive impact on me. 

"I'll slit my wrists open if you try, Ambrose." I counter in the same detached manner he uses on me, the tone feeling entirely wrong in my mouth. 

When he doesn't respond in an instant, I turn my head sideways to glance at him, then cursing at myself for doing so right then because why the fuck was I waiting for a reply from him? 

"Bit hard to do that when your hands are strapped to my bedposts." he says casually, and my grip on my reactions falters. "Wide open and begging for release before Death claims you." 

I grind my teeth. 

"I'll even deliver the killing blow myself so that you won't have to taint your pure, innocent hands." 

His index reaches out for my hand that's lying on the desk, trailing up my thumb, my index, my middle finger, my ring finger, and ending at my pinky. 

He wraps his finger around it, tugging harshly and flipping my palm so that it faces the ceiling. 

"Oh wait, too late." 

I have every intention of confronting him. I have every intention of backing him against a wall and asking why is he treating me like this. But the words he uses on me, the things he does to me, the way he makes my head and heart tear apart and reel in an endless void — it blanks me out. 

Every. Godsdamned. Time. 

"Says the guy who offered me to his friend for a fuck like I'm a joint you can share around." 

I can't forget the bond of our friendship years ago, just as I can't forget the way he hacked the cord that tethered us and tossed my end of it into a mound of debris. 

"Says the girl who tore apart every bit of my sanity." And there he goes, talking in riddles again. "The girl who I once trusted, and the girl who shredded my soul beyond repair." 

His voice is vacant. Empty. His gaze is fixed on the whiteboard as the teacher starts writing down bullet points of something I don't comprehend. Not when I'm staring at the harsh lock of his jaw; the stiff gray eyes that refuse to spare me a look; palpable rage marring the gentle curve of his lips. 

"Talk to me, Chance." I almost plead. 

It kills me. Seeing him like this. I'll look mad to anyone who's seen the vile things he's done to me in the past few days. 

But I'm a hopeless case, and all I yearn for is to set things right between us because this feels so fucking wrong. Hating him. Playing this wretched game of who can hurt the other worse. 

"Chance," I hiss, keeping my voice low so that we don't attract attention. Asshole. Bastard. Look at me, you spineless coward. 

Either he was always such a dick to everyone but me — I'm flattering myself — and has a social image to maintain, or high school has remade him into the picture of savagery and there's nothing of the person I'm reaching out for left. 

Frustration claws at the edge of my vision and before I know it, I've grabbed one of his hands, crushing his fingers between mine as I force him to acknowledge my presence without the fog of anger clouding his senses. 

I make the right move. 

Which maybe might end up being a horrible mistake, but we'll deal with that bridge when it's time to cross it. 

His head slowly, ever so, turns in my direction, gaze straying from the whiteboard straight to his hand clasped in mine. I squeeze his fingers softly, needing him to look at me and talk to me. 

I catch the slightest flare in his nostrils, his controlled breaths. Yet his chest is heaving in a way that makes me wonder if his heart is pounding in there just as furiously as mine. 

My thumb accidentally (very intentionally) brushes against the velvety skin of his wrist. 

His pulse is thundering. 

This— it has to be because he's pissed. Has to be because his hatred for me is itching for release. That has to be it. The alternative... there's only one other alternative and I— it's just not possible. 

It just. Is. Not. 

I let go of his hand abruptly, flexing my fingers as the warmth of his skin lingers on my sweaty palms. 

He tears his eyes away once the contact is broken, eyes trailing up my body, pausing after every inch he covers as he assesses me, and there isn't a thing I can do about it. 

They reach my chest and I turn away from him instantly, sucking in a breath to clear my mind. I'm hopeless; yet I still look back at him sideways, unable to resist the temptation for longer than a second. It's driving me mad. 

His gaze is on my lips now. 

I almost dart my tongue out to chase away the dryness before realizing how wrong that would appear. 

"Chance?" I whisper. 

Whatever I think I find in his expression dissolves. I'm pretty sure I imagined the tremble in his fingers as well. 

Instead, he blinks once, then smirks at me with that criminally devilish grin, branding his gaze onto my lips. 

"God, that mouth," he whispers slowly, "Those lips. You looked like a sex goddess with every inch of my cock buried inside them—" I almost think he's going to reach out and touch them. Until he curls his palm in a fist, resting it on the desk. "—and my cum spilling from the corners of your mouth." 

I'm going to break down. I know it. Burst into sobs because only he can rip my heart apart so entirely. 

"You're not doing this. You're not painting me as a whore just to rid yourself of this conversation." 

I'm praying for that to be the true reason because if he's doing this simply for sport, I'll actually slam my mechanical pencil into my throat, through and through. 

I can't comprehend his features and reactions past the fog that's threatening to pull me under. 

"I think I like it better when you're on your knees with your mouth full." 

There's a burning feeling in my chest. I tell myself that it's rage. That it's ire. It's the want for answers that's driving my heart to tie itself into the tightest of knots. 

I don't get to speak. 

He does. 

"You touch me again without my consent, Willow," he leans in closer, murmuring in the softest of icy tones, "And I'll strap you down and do much, much worse things to you without yours. I'll make you hate yourself for loving it, — hate every inch of skin that'll belong to me — so much that you might consider running at a speeding truck just to put yourself out of your misery." 

I'm shaking, aren't I? 

His lashes create shadows on the sharp edges of his defined cheekbones, fluttering with every blink. He's my making, and he's my ruin. 

"You'll be doing the world a favor. One less mouth to feed." 

My chest is constricting. 

I'm not sure if this is rage anymore. 

I'm not sure if the fog is pulling me into its clutches or if I'm willingly submitting to it to escape the curse of reality. 

"No one's going to remember a girl as heartless as you, Willow. Not your fake new friends, not the parents who wish they never had you, not a single person. You're insignificant." 

His lips pull into the cruelest smile; he caresses my cheek with a warm touch. 

"And I'll be right there by your gravestone, drunk off my ass and kissing the feet of the universe for bestowing me the kindest of blessings." 

Chance 

I normally wouldn't have touched her. Her touch sickens me. It makes my insides reshuffle and twist and hammer at each other; makes that damned organ in my chest squeeze painfully. 

But knowing that proximity flusters her, I wondered if my touch could terrify her even more. 

Only now, I found a much deadlier weapon. 

Words. 

Delivered with a razor-sharp edge that slices deep. Leaves behind a scar that can never be erased. 

Public parading never amused her much. Didn't deter her either. She was relentless, my Callista. But whispered taunts and scathing offenses that burrowed into her soul? They were sure to drag her down, into darkness. 

And I have a feeling that the abyss had already begun urging her into its depths. 

The class comes to an end without any more conversation between us. She doesn't look at me as she makes for the door, and something about that makes my chest tense. 

It's insulting. Yes. That is it. 

I make a split-second decision, leaving pummeling Marcus' face into the dirt for later and creeping after her with silent footsteps, following every turn she takes, mirroring every pause in her walk. 

It comes to me almost naturally. 

It reminds me of when we used to play hide-and-seek around the back of our homes. She could never find me, simply because I was right behind her, never letting her out of my sight whilst never letting her catch sight of me. 

Those days will never return, I realize. 

She stops by her locker to deposit her books in there. I linger a little away from that corridor because Sabrina Lopez is in that hallway, too, phone glued to her ear as she stands in a corner and talks animatedly. They exchange waves. 

Bitches. 

The little demon takes a detour off-campus, casually walking without hurry so that no eyes catch sight of her slipping past the back gates. 

Interesting turn of events. 

I wonder if I should let her know she isn't alone, but the thrill of stalking my prey is still rushing in my bloodstream, and I don't want to give up the hunt just yet. 

"I'll stab his balls." I hear her mutter after about a minute. She better be talking about that asshole Marcus. "I'll carve him like a Halloween pumpkin and seal his remains inside his mattress." 

Someone's feeling murderous, I smirk, picturing her little body splattered in blood and bloodthirst shining bright in those emerald eyes. 

An image of my severed balls invades the vision and it isn't so funny anymore. 

The path she takes is a familiar one. I used to take this road while walking back home when I didn't have a license. Back when we were neighbors. 

The path is also quiet, which isn't surprising as it's a little past one in the afternoon. There are no signs of vehicles or people, and I'm really beginning to think I was a saint in my past life because why else would the universe be working in my fucking favor twice in a single day? 

I shove my hands in my pocket, and calm my gait to a stroll, mindful to not disturb the rocks and attract her attention. 

I take the time to observe her. Unintentionally. 

She's a few inches taller than I remember, though it can't be by much because I still tower over her. Her hips are wider, her waist narrower, and the flawless skin of her legs is on display. I've got a feeling she's bought a skirt three times smaller than her actual size because fucking hell. 

I reach up to loosen my tie. 

She's practically naked. 

Her chestnut hair falls to the middle of her back in soft curls, somehow blazing brighter under the hot rays of the afternoon sun. 

"Should've gone with them." She mumbles as her feet halt for a moment and she looks up at the sky. "He should've taken me with him." 

I furrow my brows at her words, attempting to make sense of them — and who does she mean by he? — but getting distracted when she rests her hands on her hips and exhales audibly. 

Her ass looks fucking edible in that skirt. 

I could shove her to the ground and fuck her senseless right now and no one would hear her screams. I can do it, and I want to do it. 

Take that pussy until she bleeds and destroy that plump, bubble ass with furious pounds. I'll take her mouth again just so she'll never forget the taste of me. And then I'll ravage her body. Litter it with bruising bites. 

I salivate at the mental image. Images. 

My feet are moving faster before I know it, — all intentions of stalking her lost to the wind when she's tempting me like a damned seven-course meal — and I wrap a palm around her mouth just as a sharp scream leaves her lips. Electric desire brings my cock to life as I muffle her scream. 

"You're a screamer, aren't you?" I murmur into the shell of her ear, fingers lazily dropping to trace the curves of her collarbone. The hitch in her breath makes my fly strain painfully. 

"How loud will you scream when I tear you open with my cock and destroy that dirty, whorish cunt of yours, Willow?" I ask, my arousal for this toxic woman dimming the surroundings until there's only me and her. "Tell me you'll scream loud, baby." 

I need to fuck her out of my system. Once I've had a taste, I'll throw her away like the trash she is. Just one taste. 

My teeth scrape her cheek as I lightly bite her, darting my tongue out to mark the area as mine. My breath is unsteady. "Do you enjoy this? Knowing you have me at your mercy all the fucking time?" 

Shit, I'm losing it. I'm losing myself. 

Why do I— why does she keep doing this to me? 

"I should kill you." I breathe as I pull her flush against me, dropping my head on her shoulder as my other hand slips under her skirt and roughly grips her ass. She cries out. 

"I think I— I like being alive, thanks." She's just as breathless as me. 

There she goes, thinking she has a choice in anything I'll do to her — in any punishment I'll inflict upon her. 

I didn't think she'd find the guts to speak to me. Then again, she did shatter my heart with a literal smile on her face that night, so maybe she just thinks she can get away with everything she does. 

I shake my head at the reminder of the past.  

"I will kill you." I replace the word, emphasizing my resolution. "I will kill you, and then I'll fuck your limp and lifeless body and take every last bit of pleasure you've ever known. You'll remain my plaything, even in death." 

As long as she lives, she's just going to keep screwing me over, keep laying waste to everything that I am. 

A shudder runs through her body; I feel her shiver in my hold. 

This little minx. 

She presses against my hold, hands gently pushing my arms like she doesn't realize she's in the claws of a predator ready to devour its prey. 

Her nails run across the skin of my arms as she does and I forget about her protests as I groan in pleasure at the sensation, ripping aside her panties and stroking the bare flesh of her ass. 

She twists in my hold as my grip slackens, turning around to face me. The movement makes my fingers skate across her ass and land on her hips. 

Her hands fist my shirt and she pulls me closer until my face is inches away from her. My mask slips as surprise spreads across my features at the action. I slap it back on in an instant. 

"What have you become, Chance?" She shakes her head as she speaks, looking at me like she doesn't know me. "I'm done with your games. I need answers and if you don't give them to me, I'll—" 

"You'll what?" I demand, grabbing her face and raising my eyebrows expectantly. "You'll what, Willow? Go crying to Daddy and tell him that a boy from school was being mean to you?" I taunt her with a sneer, backing her off the road and against a white oak. 

"He's just going to come and shake hands with me because he doesn't give a shit about you. You know that just as well as me." I'm grinning wider than a Cheshire, feral madness painting the grin. 

It's so predictable that she's going to go for my balls after threatening them only a short while ago, so I'm able to dodge the blow easily, caging her between my arms against the tree. 

She clenches her teeth and wipes the horror that crosses her face, her hair wildly disarrayed as she looks up at me. 

"Remember when we were young and you broke a boy's nose because he flirted with me in the park?" 

How could I ever when the boy in question is now my best friend? Marcus had been the bitchiest of assholes back in eighth grade, and of course, I was going to flip out when I saw him try his luck with my then-best friend. 

My taste in best friends is unusual, I'm aware. 

Funny how Callista hasn't yet recognized him from their interactions. 

The mention of the event catches me off-guard. 

"Vaguely." I say although the entire scene is bookmarked in my head vividly. "And I don't see the point of a trip down memory lane." 

I don't want to think of all the things I'd done for her — all the rules I'd broken and all the fates I'd damned. It brings with it a toxic bite. 

Her lips part in an exhale. "Don't you see how you've changed?" 

I scoff right in her face. Of course, I did. 

I saw the change in me every damned day. 

Every time I looked in the mirror and found the light in my eyes dimming. Every time I laughed too freely because it reminded me of her. Every time I gave a shit about anyone or anything because I was so fucking afraid of being played like a fool again. 

All because of her. 

"Don't you see that you've changed me?" I counter, forcing my voice to not crack. 

Rage and intoxication were the only emotions I was willing to drown in and so I shoved every other one into the deepest recesses of my mind and dropped my hand to her chest, flicking her breasts with my thumb and index before proceeding to unbutton her shirt. 

Rage and intoxication. 

"Is that all you want from me?" she asks, looking so tired. "Sex?" 

"At the foremost, yes." 

Get her out of my system. That's all I'm thinking right now. 

"Fine." She mutters, reaching for my belt. I almost widened my eyes; I did not see that coming. 

"What are you doing?" She's playing another game with me. I know it. That's the only answer to this madness she's willing to commit. 

"What the fuck does it look like?" She looks at me like I'm dense. 

I grip her wrists to stop her, staring at her with a look that promises death if she moves a muscle. "Whatever game you're trying at, don't." 

She rolls her eyes and shoves away my hand with strength I didn't know she possessed, unbuckling my belts and reaching to unzip my fly. 

I shove her against the tree, her hands losing their grip on me as her back rams into the trunk. 

"I said don't fucking touch me." I growl, stepping away from her and buckling my belt again. 

"What? Can't take what you dish out?" she taunts me, eyes blazing with rage. Her palms scrape against the bark of the tree as she brushes them against it, clearly wiping me off her. "Don't like it when you're on the receiving end?" 

All traces of emotions drop. 

She's fucking with me. She knows she's fucking with me. She knows I know she knows she's fucking with me. 

This is the side of her I've been trying to unearth. 

The side of her that's just as callous as she's remade me, the side of her that she hid from me all those years when she made me fall for her and then shut the trapdoor on my face, leaving me trapped in complete darkness forever. 

Hers was a betrayal I'd never recover from. 

I swallow. 

Didn't I want to fuck her just a minute ago? Wasn't that what I was going for? But then why did the prospect of her actually submitting to me make me feel disconcerted? 

"I need an explanation, Chance. So if fucking you means I'll get one, then I'll let you fucking have your way. Don't act all shocked when you're the one who turned on me." 

She speaks with such venom. With such confusion. With such hatred and such rage. 

Did she suffer damage to her brain while she was away? Something that made her forget what she'd done to me? Because the raw emotion in her tone fucking makes me balk and wonder if she truly believes she's blameless. 

"Explanation?" I say. "You need an explanation?" The manic disbelief in my voice is vividly explicit. 

She purses her lips and crosses her arms. 

Right. 

"If there's anyone who deserves an explanation—" I start, "—it's me. You owe me an explanation for what you did all those years ago, for making me believe you— that our friendship was real. You made me go against every one of my rules, beliefs, and morals because I believed that you were worth it. You made me believe you gave a shit and the second I trusted you enough to completely lower my guard, you fucking stabbed me right in the back and twisted the goddamned knife!" 

I'm shouting at this point. Letting out the words I've been biting back all this while — letting out the words that have been festering in my soul, eating me from the inside out. 

"You ruined me that night, Callista, don't you fucking get it?"