The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one's own. 
— Willa Cather 

Illecebrous 
(adj.) alluring; attractive; enticing 

Monday — September 4, 2023 

Chance 

I sit back with a sense of satisfaction; I didn't even have to do anything to get her worked up. She glances in my direction every few minutes as if I'm waiting for her to lower her guard and slice her throat. 

A soundless chuckle erupts from within me. 

It feels strange, having her here beside me after all these years. It's impossible to ignore her presence, so paying attention to what is being taught is out of the question. 

Which pisses me the fuck off. 

I'm not dumb. My IQ is reasonably high and so is my memory. I just don't see the point in memorizing all these things because half of this shit won't even hold any purpose once I graduated. 

Creative Writing isn't a hard subject — it's probably the only one that doesn't give make me question the education system, and the only one I enjoy — and it doesn't require much concentration under normal circumstances. But this teacher forces us to memorize every word of the inch-thick textbook, and that doesn't even include the most random shit she said in between paragraphs — things that weren't even relevant to the topic — that she asked us to elaborate on in exams. 

I hope she's fired. 

I should get her fired. I'll fuck her someday later this week. 

My thoughts stray back to the brunette beside me. Again. 

She is stubborn. Fiery. But she isn't stupid. She recognizes when she's overpowered and knows when to back down. 

What I have to do is make sure I can drive her to the edge of insanity and leave her clawing at the threshold of life and death, long enough for her to realize that she's condemned to stay at the bottom yet steadily enough to ensure she won't lose her fight in the process. 

Not until I'm done with her. 

My surroundings dissolve into white noise. Brainstorming in such a clamorous space is frustratingly impossible but with all my thoughts revolving around the same person, zoning out is nearly effortless. 

Everything but restraining myself seems to be effortless when it comes to her. 

She's uncomfortable right now, yes, but she isn't afraid. She's uncertain but she isn't terrified. 

Flashes of last night filter through my brain. 

Green to black, prey to predator. 

My gaze which is assessing her movement, her body language, and her actions and reactions, unconsciously drop to her chest. 

Fuck. 

Oxygen rushes into my lungs with the next deep breath, clearing out the unrequested thoughts. 

But along with the oxygen, something else filters through my lungs. A faint trace of coffee and cocoa and new books and roasted almonds and— 

Christ. 

I squeeze my eyelids shut. 

Why the fuck would I think there'd be roasted almonds here? 

"So," I start, drumming my fingers against the dark wooden desk. "What's your deal?" 

Callista glances at me sideways and returns her eyes to the whiteboard. My gaze drops to her fingers as they tighten their hold around her mechanical pencil. 

"Elaborate." 

Her ignorance is unnerving. 

"Why are you here? You could have picked any school, why Blackwood?" I pause for a second, trying to suppress the rage that ignites within me at the memory of the past. "Why come back after what you did?" 

The last question causes her head to do a 90 and look at me. I watched as she studies my expression intently for a moment. 

"My father lives here; you know that. And BCA's got some of the best programs." 

Father, huh. 

"Couldn't survive with mommy dearest and her new conquest?" I wouldn't know because I no longer live next door to her ex-house-turned-house-again. 

After my father and hers got into a very heated business brawl, Mother suggested that we move, since the place was anyway getting quite boring — her words — but primarily because living next door could trigger another disagreement, one that had the potential to go public. 

And unwarranted publicity is something we all hate. 

Callista mutters something under her breath that I can't quite catch. 

"What was that?" 

She smiles at me with sickening sweetness and gives me the finger, directing her attention away from me. 

I grab her wrist before she can retract her hand and lower my mouth to her ear. "I don't like repeating myself, Willow." 

I don't miss her mask of nonchalance drop for a second, giving way for uncertainty to take over. 

She whips her hand out of mine harshly and glares at me. "I haven't got the time or patience to live up to your likings so I suggest you find someone else to pick on." 

A subtle smirk crawls onto my lips. 

Breaking her is going to be so much more eventful than I envisioned. 

Callista 

I've never resented Destiny as much as I do right now. 

Bitch seriously decided it was a better idea to camp at her house with popcorn and Nicholas Leister than to help me get around on my first day. 

She'd texted me halfway through Third Period saying she'd been caught by my housekeeper and was supposed to face trials before my father the next hour but had managed to seduce her into letting her slip past and raced towards the doors to freedom. 

Events as described by her. 

Events as assumed by me: my housekeeper had probably found her lying on my bed like a dead rodent and had informed my father about it but before Lillian could do anything about it, Destiny bolted out and returned to the haven of her house, only a five-minute walk from mine. 

She also texted me to ditch the rest of school and come over to her place but I didn't want my first impression on the next five teachers to be absence so I, reluctantly, had to proceed with the day. 

Alone. 

Unsurprisingly, my day has been pretty shitty. 

Not to mention how skin-crawling First Period had been. The urge to scoop out one of his eyeballs with my mechanical pencil kept fighting common sense throughout, not giving a second's peace. 

The five classes had gone by in a blur, except the first one. How could it have when Chance was seated three inches away from me, radiating an energy of brutality I couldn't possibly look past? 

Lunch break has rolled in a couple of minutes ago and I am in no mood to drag myself through the corridors like a zombie-looking sore loser so I resort to using the time to run a brush through my hair. 

I snort at my thought. 

Which brain-damaged creature spends an entire half-hour brushing its hair? Me, that's who. 

I shove my books and stationery unceremoniously into my yet-to-be-organized locker and head toward the girls' washroom. 

I set my black mini-purse on the counter and turn to the mirror, frowning when I see that my hair is perfectly set, just like it had been when I'd left my house. 

Now what? 

I pull out a clear lip gloss and run it across my lips. Once I'm sure I'm satisfied, I peer into the purse and rummage around for my pills. 

It has been only two weeks since I'd lost — not willing left, lost — my previous life. The wound is fresh, open for anything to inflict more pain upon it. 

The social worker I'd briefly met back in Vancouver where I'd been living up until now had made me talk to a therapist before I left. I'd been prescribed a few pills that supposedly help with the anxiety and nightmares but I haven't bothered using them. 

But it won't hurt to slip a few into my pocket. 

The door creaks open. 

My movements pause. 

I don't turn to see who it is. I don't need to. 

I feel his presence before his figure reflects in the mirror. Not that it would matter because my eyes are still trained on the contents of my purse. 

I don't move. I don't breathe. My brain stops working. Just as it had last night. 

I feel hands rest on my waist from behind. 

My core betrays me, pulsing at the mere touch. A strangled cry, something between a whimper and a moan is stuck in my throat. 

His hands pull me back, pressing my back against his front. 

I press my eyes shut. 

The stone-hard curves of his washboard abs dig into my back through the material of both of our clothing. His body radiates an unwanted warmth that sets me on fire. 

God, make it stop! Rationality cries. 

The devil on my shoulder decides to come to life at that very moment, swatting away logic to the pits of hell and taking control of the gears of my mind. 

Hands on my body hands on my body his hands were on my fucking body. 

A lever is pulled somewhere in my neurons and my lips part open, letting out the sound that was stuck in my throat. 

The moan sizzles through me. 

And then I feel his chest rumble, letting out an uncharted laugh. The vibrations of the sound reverberate through me. 

My eyes remain shut. 

All I can do is feel. Feel every foreign emotion known to mankind assault me all at once, unearthing a ravenous urge inside me. 

His touch brings back unwanted memories and every cell is begging me to be disgusted by the uncharacterized feeling of his skin against mine. I want to push him off me and land a punch on his face so badly, but my body refuses to cooperate. 

One hand moves from my waist to my front so that his arm wraps around my body completely, coiling around me like a snake. 

His face nuzzles into the crook of my neck and I know my knees are seconds away from giving up. 

And that feeling of softness is gone just as fast as it appeared. 

"Hi," His voice reaches my ears as he runs his other hand through my hair, harshly jerking my head back, forcing my eyes to meet his. 

Pain blossoms at the roots of my hair. 

The distinct buzz in the atmosphere — a product of involuntary intoxication — dies as soon as my gaze clashes with his. 

Emptiness. 

Emptiness laughs in his orbs; nothingness thrives in their depths. 

Last night, there'd been something in there. There hadn't been happiness or charm, but there had been something. Something dark, unidentifiable, swirling in the pits of grey. 

Now, they hold nothing. 

The haziness of desire clears from my vision, clears from my head. 

A crooked smirk hangs at the corners of his lips, amusement reflecting from his features. His lashes cause faint shadows to appear on his angular cheekbones. 

But his eyes scream something entirely different. Something entirely... nonexistent. 

His touch burns through the material of my shirt, ingraining his mark onto my skin. Realization hits me like a brick and I become acutely aware of how utterly wrong this is. 

"Chance," I whisper, trying to look away and pry his hands off me but that only makes him tug my hair harsher and grip my waist tighter. 

His electric grey eyes no longer draw me in. 

Brutal fingers gently slip under my shirt and caress my skin. My bottom lip quivers at the touch. 

"Chance." I say once more, more firmly this time. As firm as firm can be when his unimaginably distracting hands are on me. 

My eyes flutter shut as his fingers lazily flick the side of my waist. Was that fear or something else? 

His fingers pause. 

His grip on my hair loosens. Just by a fraction. 

His hand retracts from my hair, only to slither around my neck and form a death grip around my throat. I inhale with a sharp gasp and my eyes jerk open. I make a futile effort at trying to unclasp his hands. 

"Ambrose." His voice spits out bitterly. "You will call me Ambrose."