It Was Too Late

I slip out the front door long before the sun finishes rising, desperate to beat my mother’s chaotic return. Dodging her drunken, resentful morning moods has become a depressing reflex, a silent routine I have perfected just to survive my own home. I keep my head down, pulling my jacket tight as I start the short walk toward the Oakhaven campus. I cannot depend on her for anything, not even a ride.

Despite the morning chill, a nervous, fluttering heat builds in my chest at the distinct prospect of walking through those gates. Yesterday ended in a nightmare down in Mr. Burke's basement, but the thought of seeing Declan again acts as a buffer. It feels silly to hyper-fixate on someone so quickly, but he treated me like a human being.

When I walk into first period, my pulse jumps. Declan is already at our shared desk. He leans back in his chair, catching my eye the second I cross the threshold.

"What’s up, Georgia?" he says, flashing a devastating, disarming wink.

My stomach does a pleasant flip, turning my insides to warm puddles. I slide into my seat, dropping my bag onto the floor. "You do actually remember my real name, right?"

He laughs, a smooth, rich sound that settles deep in my ears. "Yes, Jessa. I know who you are. How did your basement detention go yesterday?"

Mr. Burke starts the lesson before I can explain the horrors of Ryker trapping me down there. The teacher avoids looking in my direction, ignoring us even when our hushed voices border on disruptive. I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances at Declan, riding a fragile wave of bright optimism that maybe today will be different.

That optimism shatters the moment lunchtime hits.

I bypass the crowded cafeteria, choosing to sit alone on a patch of grass near the outdoor courtyard tables. I rub the thick scar on my wrist, staring at my shoes while I bite into a crisp apple. The sweet juice runs down my chin.

A loud, raucous cheer erupts from the tables nearby. I blink, lifting my head toward the commotion.

My breath snags.

Declan sits on top of a wooden picnic table. A gorgeous, curvy girl blatantly straddles his lap. Her skirt is hiked up high, exposing her bare thighs as she presses herself against his groin. She grabs his jaw, leaning down to kiss him passionately. It isn't a simple peck; it is open-mouthed and wet.

Declan laughs into the kiss. He does not push her away. Instead, his large hands slide up her waist, roaming freely and possessively over her body before dropping down to grab her ass. He kneads her flesh, pulling her hips flush against his dick.

A strange, undeniable heat of jealousy twists viciously in my stomach. My mouth goes dry. I watch his long fingers dig into her curves, wondering what it feels like to have heavy, capable hands touch me like that. He is muscular and handsome, and he clearly knows exactly how to handle a girl's body.

Then, my blood runs cold. I freeze.

Over the curvy girl’s shoulder, Declan opens his eyes. Amber irises lock directly onto mine. He does not look away. He glares at me with an intense, teasing, and predatory stare. He is closely watching my reaction while he devours the girl in his lap. He grinds his hips upward into her crotch, dominating her on the wooden table, yet his heavy gaze remains dead set on me.

My skin prickles. The suffocating weight of his stare makes my chest tight. Unable to stomach the blatant display or the confusing, heavy ache in my lower belly, I stand up. I throw my half-eaten apple into a nearby trash can and hustle toward the main building. I glance over my shoulder one last time before pulling the heavy glass door open.

He is still watching me. Still kissing her.

I shake my head, seeking the quiet sanctuary of the library to hide. The massive room is dim and nearly empty, offering a temporary shield. I drop my bag beside a secluded table in the far corner and pull out my notebook, desperate to doodle and scrub the image of Declan’s hands on that girl from my brain.

"Jessa."

The dreaded voice slides over my skin like ice. My hard-won sanctuary shatters.

Ryker drops into the chair directly across from me. Brant takes the seat to his left, while another lackey slips into the chair right beside me. They seamlessly surround the table, caging me in.

"What luck," Ryker remarks, his dark eyes gleaming with sick amusement. "Running into each other again."

I refuse to meet his pitch-black gaze, staring hard at the grain of the wooden table. "It feels much more like bad luck," I whisper under my breath.

Ryker chuckles, a low, grating sound. "Ouch."

I lift my chin, forcing myself not to tremble beneath his oppressive presence. "What are you doing here? You don't seem like the library type."

Brant snickers. Ryker feigns a hurt frown, pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh, do you think I'm stupid?"

I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. "If the shoe fits."

A soul-cutting, cruel smile stretches across Ryker’s face. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Well, I think it's time I show just how studious I can be."

My heart begins a frantic, terrifying race against my ribs.

Ryker reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen, the pale light illuminating his sharp jawline. "I did some deep research on you last night."

I shoot a desperate look at the wall clock, praying for the bell to ring and save me, but we have twenty minutes left. I press my back into my chair, bracing myself.

Ryker’s eyes flick from his screen to my pale face. "Jessa Bradley. From Georgia."

The oxygen rapidly abandons my lungs. I dig my fingernails into my own forearms to stop the sudden burn of tears in my eyes. "Stop," I gasp.

He ruthlessly ignores my pleading. "Found this interesting article about you."

I grit my teeth, struggling to pull air into my chest. "Stop."

Ryker clears his throat, projecting his voice just enough to ensure I hear every single syllable. "Jessa Bradley, sole survivor of fiery crash that kills both her brother and her father."

The world spins out of control. The library shelves blur into a nauseating smear of colors. A loud, high-pitched ringing pierces my ears. Bile rises thick and hot in my throat, acting like a tidal wave crashing against my throat. I grip the edges of the table, squeezing the wood until my knuckles ache.

The overwhelming stench of raw gasoline floods my nostrils. Scorching hot asphalt burns against my imagined skin. The horrific, metallic scent of burning human flesh ruthlessly assaults all my senses.

*Dad.*

*Toby.*

I hear them. The horrifying, echoing screams of my father trapped in the crushed metal. The desperate, high-pitched cries of my little brother pleading for help in the backseat. The boiling lava of my trauma swallows me whole. Flames lick the edges of my vision. The inferno surrounds me, melting the world away. I am burning. I am dying with them on that highway.

*Let me go!* I sobbed back then, begging the paramedics to leave me in the wreckage if they could not save my family. *It's too late!*

Pushed far beyond my breaking point, the memory drags me under. My mouth opens. A bloodcurdling scream rips from my throat, tearing through the silent library.

A shocking splash of ice-cold water hits my face.

I gasp, my eyes flying open. I am no longer in the library. My legs feel like jelly, buckling beneath my weight. I desperately cling to the edge of a cold porcelain sink to keep from collapsing. Blinking through the dripping water and my own blinding tears, I realize I am in the empty men's room.

Strong hands grip my upper arms, physically holding my trembling body upright.

Ryker stands directly behind me. I stare at our reflection in the wide mirror above the sinks. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw tight, engaging in a quiet, intense, and unapologetic study of my shattered state. He does not offer a single word of comfort. He just stares at the mess he created.

I drag a trembling breath into my lungs, grabbing a rough paper towel to wipe the dripping water from my chin. When I can finally bear my own weight, Ryker takes a single step back and cocks his head.

He points a long finger toward my wrist, eyeing the scarred tissue there. "Is the crash how you got your scar?" he asks bluntly.

Hot fury replaces my terror. I glare at him through the mirror, my nostrils flaring. I refuse to speak to the monster who intentionally triggered my panic attack for his own sick entertainment. I spin around, shoving my shoulder forward as I aggressively try to push past him toward the door.

Ryker shifts his weight, catching my arm in a vice grip. He pulls me firmly back into the center of the tiled room.

The lunch bell rings loudly in the distance, echoing off the bathroom walls.

Neither of us moves an inch.

Ryker holds my gaze. He takes a heavy, deliberate inhale, his broad chest expanding. Slowly, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his dark t-shirt. He pulls the fabric up, exposing his stomach, and continues lifting until the shirt bunches just below his pecs.

My breath catches hard in my throat.

Covering the entire left side of his muscular torso, stretching from his belly button all the way up to the edge of his chest, is a vicious, angry mess of thick, twisted burn scars. The skin is puckered, raised, and aggressively mangled. It is a massive, horrific testament to surviving unimaginable fire.

I stare at the marred flesh, my lips parting in stunned disbelief. The air leaves my lungs in a soft, shaky exhale. He shares the same brand of fire. The twisted parallel between us hangs heavy in the damp bathroom air.

Before I can process the magnitude of his revelation, Ryker drops his shirt. The fabric falls, hiding the mangled skin. He reaches out, grabbing my arm again with undeniable authority.

"Come on," he says, his voice devoid of emotion as he drags me toward the exit. "We will be late to class."