“I told you that things would change after Bernadette and I were married.” Victor’s words are low and dark, drawing Oscar’s attention in an instant. “I meant it. This is your warning, Oscar. Don’t make me follow through with a threat.”
Oscar’s face darkens and tightens up as he returns Victor’s stare, all the while desperately trying to maintain his stoicism. He’s acting like this situation doesn’t bother him, but it’s breaking him into pieces. It’s written in the tense lines of his body, in the shape of his mouth, the way his knuckles turn white as he grips the tablet in stern claws by his side.
“Understood, boss.” His eyes flick my direction as he reaches up a tatted middle finger to push his glasses up his nose. “My apologies, Mrs. Channing. All I meant was that you needn’t worry about what happened between us on the couch ever happening again.” He smiles at me, and but his expression is hot with anger, and his lips are as sharp as a dagger.
I feel my spirit puncture and start to bleed from the attack.
“You're forgiven for today's transgressions, Montauk,” I purr back at him, stepping so close that when I pull in a breath, I smell cinnamon instead of salt water and sand. Oscar's stone-still in front of me, like he's managed to wrestle all those demons inside of him back into their cage. Impressive. “But you are not forgiven for fucking me on my period and running. You owe me an explanation.”
“I owe you nothing,” he breathes back, moving around me and taking off down the hill toward the picnic table where Hael and Callum are waiting. I watch him go, seething on the inside and wishing him ill with every subsequent breath.
“Jesus Christ, you two are going to put me in an early grave,” Victor grumbles, taking off down the path with the obvious intent that I follow after. With a sigh, I do, because as mad as I am at Oscar, I'm all-in for a life with Havoc.
What has been done cannot be undone.
My contract is signed and sealed in my blood; my fingers are stamped with ink; my heart is fractured into five fragments. No matter how much I wish it weren't, one of those pieces belongs to Oscar Montauk. Always has.
Like I said when he was pushing me down onto the couch, “Since elementary school.”
He let me cheat off his tests in sixth grade; he told me he was allergic to apples, so I’d take his from him, so I always had some extra food to bring home in case Pamela forgot to feed me. How can I forget those things? How can I forget that when I asked if he were in love with me, his response was, “You're bleeding.”
Gah!
I kick the sand and run the fingers of both hands through my hair to shake out the pink-tipped blond strands. I'm going to kill that cocksucker before we graduate if he doesn't start opening up to me, I swear to fuck.
“I hear you terrified some young children at the aquarium?” I ask Callum, trying to force a smile as I saunter up to the table next to him and Hael. The latter is already shirtless, basking in the sun and grinning like a man who's just escaped the noose. I mean, Brittany as a baby mama would've been rough, I'll grant him that. He deserves to smile, but only a little seeing as the bitch just broke her Havoc price.
In all the history of my boys and Prescott High, only once has any student ever broken their oath; nobody has ever made that mistake again.
I'm terrified for pretty, little Brittany Burr.
“I made them piss themselves,” Callum says with a smile, his blond hair open to the sky, reflecting back the rays of the sun like it's crafted of gold. “Not on purpose, obviously. I was trying to make our girls laugh.” He sips from a frosty Pepsi can that must've come from the vending machines near the restroom. When he offers it up to me, I take it.
“You managed that,” Hael says with a snarky laugh, closing his eyes against the sun. “But you're goddamn terrifying. Can you imagine what Eric must've thought when he saw you crouching on top of his car?”
Cal chuckles and glances out toward the ocean, where Aaron is shepherding three little girls around like he was born to do it. My heart stutters, and I feel some of that wild tension in me flee my body. This is my honeymoon; it's Thanksgiving break.
Neil Pence is dead.
He's dead.
The Thing is finally dead.
And yet … how come, when I look at my sister running across the sand in bare feet and a smile, I feel no peace? This isn't over, but I can't put my finger on exactly why I feel that way.
