Page 197 of The Devil We Crave
“Fuuuuck,” Galina pouts. “Mine too.”
Crap.
I turn to the crowded bar, weighing shoving my way through a pack of drunk men who’ve been watching us like legit predators for the last hour and a half to ask the bartender if she’s got a charger.
“First time here?”
My head snaps around at the deep, honeyed voice.
Okay, we’re not the only ones here who are out of place.
The tall, blonde guy looks more like Galina’s type than the motley crew of tattooed bikers filling the rest of the club. He flashes a winning, blindingly white smile at me, then turns that charm onto my friends.
“You ladies look lost,” he laughs over the music. “You Explosions fans?”
“Guilty!” Lucia yells, grinning. “I dragged these two with me!”
He introduces himself as Travis, and swears despite his clean-cut, preppy look, he’s actually a huge Explosions fan.
He’s a pre-med student at Yale, which isn’t that far away up in New Haven. His family summers on the coast of France.
He’s charming, vanilla, regular, and apparently has eyes only for me.
It’s not that I’m into him, at all. I don’t feel “special” or flattered or anything when he starts dancing with me, winks at me, and leans in to tell me I’m beautiful.
And that’s part of why I’m so twisted inside.
I don't want to want Achilles, or anything like him. Idowant to want someone “normal” like Travis.
Charming and golden, without it being a mask. Beauty with nothing illicit and venomous hiding beneath it. Sexual practices that include missionary with the lights off,maybefrom behind on special occasions.
If only that was actually what I wanted.
But it’s not.
None of Travis—not his looks, his charm, his pedigree, his lofty, saint-like musings on working in pediatric oncology—interests me in the slightest.
So when he starts to dance a little closer, and puts his hand on my hip, it’s not that Iwanthim to touch me. I’m just tired, and drunk, and too caught up in trying to figure out why I can’t just erase Achilles from my head to tell him to stop.
But I don’t have to. Because suddenly, a black, venomous shadow does it for me.
Violently.
My brain tries to catch up with my eyes as I gape at the sudden circle of surprised concertgoers that's formed around us, staring at Achilles as he looms menacingly over Travis, who is now slumped on the floor holding his bleeding nose.
A million thoughts rush through my alcohol-slowed brain.
How did he find me?
How is he here?
Why is it so weirdly hot that he’s just knocked this other man to the ground in a Neanderthal show of…what, possession? Ownership?
But the most pressing, confusing question is trying to figure out if I’m relieved or furious that he’s here at all.
A week ago, I’d have been over the moon if he'd swooped in to make sure charming blondTraviskept his mitts off me. I’d have thrown myself into Achilles’ arms, kissed him, and sealed myself as tight against him as possible.
But that was before I learned the cold, hard truth that this whole thing has been a lie.
