A Mark of Death

"Stop following me." My voice trembles with the residual tremors of the horrific panic attack that nearly took me out just moments ago. The icy dampness from the bathroom sink still clings to my chin, but I force my feet to move, marching down the crowded hallway with as much speed as my shaky legs can manage. I do not look back. The heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots against the linoleum tracks my every single step.

Unfazed by my anger, Ryker completely ignores my protests. He trails closely behind me, acting as an impenetrable shadow, and follows me right into Ms. Kline’s classroom. I scan the room and immediately beeline for an empty desk on the far side, desperately attempting to sit as far away from him as physically possible. Before my fingers can even graze the back of the chair, a large hand aggressively grabs the strap of my backpack, halting my momentum in a vise grip.

He yanks me backward, physically forcing me toward the back row. With a firm, unyielding presence, he dictates my path until I stumble into the seat directly beside his chosen spot. I immediately drop my bag to the floor and snatch the heavy literature textbook off the wooden desk, lifting it upright to create a solid, physical barrier between us. I hide my tear-stained face behind the dense pages, furiously wiping away the fresh, humiliating tears that threaten to spill over my lashes.

"You don't even belong in here," I hiss at him from behind the cover, demanding to know why he is here.

He leans back in his chair, sprawling his long legs out into the aisle. He whispers, his eyes fixed dead forward on the blackboard, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. "I call bullshit."

My chest heaves with lingering adrenaline and raw resentment. I remind him in a vicious undertone that it was entirely his fault I freaked out in the first place. I had begged him to stop reading that article aloud in the library. I had pleaded with genuine terror, and he had only taunted me further, pushing me right over the terrifying edge.

Staring straight ahead like a carved statue, he mutters, "I didn't mean for that to happen."

I lower the heavy book just enough to glare fiercely at his sharp profile. "That is the worst fucking apology in history."

He finally turns his head to face me. His dark eyes are cold, sharp, and brutally calculating as they lock onto mine. "It is not an apology."

My breath catches hard in my throat.

"I'm not apologizing for something you can't control," he states coldly, his voice devoid of any warmth. He leans in a fraction, his tone dropping into a harsh, grating timber. "I learned to control my own panic. You need to learn to do the same."

My pulse pounds a frantic rhythm in my ears. I am utterly furious that he believes our shared physical scars somehow create a profound bond. He thinks showing me the mangled, burned flesh on his chest gives him a free pass to psychoanalyze my trauma. To lecture me on how to handle the demons that tear my mind apart.

I lash out venomously, aiming straight for his ego with a bitter sneer. "Newsflash. Absolutely no one wants to be friends with a degenerate."

A sudden, shaking amusement takes over his large frame. He snorts, a dark, vibrating chuckle echoing in his chest. "That's funny. My own father calls me that exact word."

I snap back without missing a single beat, my tone laced with poison. "Your father sounds like a smart man."

Instantly, the dark amusement dies. The shift in his demeanor is swift and terrifying. Ryker's large fists clench tightly on the flat surface of the desk, his knuckles turning stark, bone-white. The air between us turns to solid ice. He challenges my logic, his voice low and incredibly dangerous. "Do you honestly find it a compliment to be compared to a forty-year-old man?"

Without hesitation, I bluntly reply, staring right into his defensive glare. "When you lose your forty-year-old father, yes. It is a compliment."

A raw, piercing flash of deep hurt flickers violently in his dark eyes. It hits him hard, cracking that impenetrable, arrogant mask for a split second. He absorbs the heavy blow, his jaw ticking tight under his skin. Then, he softly retorts, holding my gaze hostage. "Then should I take it as complimentary to be compared to a forty-year-old woman?"

Shock immediately silences me.

The oxygen vanishes from my lungs. My gaze involuntarily drops down to his chest, right to the exact spot hidden beneath his dark shirt where I know his vicious, swirling burn scars lie. I snap my eyes back up to his face and recognize the exact, haunting look swirling in his dark irises. It is the same heavy, suffocating survivor's guilt that I battle every single day. The same toxic, crushing weight that eats me alive when I look in the mirror and desperately wish I had died in the crushed metal instead of my dad and Toby.

A sudden, aching empathy blooms deep in my heart for the horrific loss of his mother. I open my mouth, my defensive walls crumbling into ash as I stare at the broken boy sitting beside me.

But before I can fully process the profound grief we share, Ryker aggressively cuts me off.

"Don't give me that pitiful look," he snarls quietly, turning his head sharply to stare forward again. He cruelly assesses the situation, his tone dripping with harsh dismissal. "From where I'm sitting, you need a hell of a lot more help than I do."

I swallow the thick lump in my throat, lifting my textbook higher to shield my face once again. We spend the remainder of the agonizing class period in a blurred, incredibly tense silence. The printed words on the pages swim together, entirely impossible to read.

When the final bell finally rings, emitting a shrill and grating sound, I shove my things into my bag and bolt for the door.

He relentlessly follows me out into the hall again. The heavy thud of his boots matches my frantic, rushed pace.

"Stop following me," I protest loudly, spinning around to face him in the middle of the crowded corridor. "I'm fine now. Go away."

He effortlessly smirks away my loud protests, stepping right into my personal space with zero hesitation. "I'm not following you. These are my scheduled classes, too. I simply skipped them yesterday."

"Bullshit," I snap, spinning on my heel and marching right into the next classroom.

He settles into the seat beside me in the new room, kicking his long legs out beneath the desk. He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest and boldly declares, "I am never going to leave you alone."

I fume with helpless anger, facing forward and refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal reaction. The teacher starts talking at the front of the room, but my focus drifts entirely. I suddenly catch myself blatantly staring at the side of his head. My eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw and land on the dark ink embedded beneath his skin. I am completely mesmerized by a black, winged tattoo inked deeply just behind his ear. It features sharp, jagged edges and a pointed beak.

Ryker lifts his head, catching my gaze in his peripheral vision. He doesn't even flinch. "It's a raven," he states flatly, turning to accuse me with an arrogant tilt of his chin. "You're checking me out."

"I am absolutely not checking you out," I immediately deny, my face burning blazing hot under his intense, predatory gaze. I know fully well that I am a terrible liar. My cheeks feel like they are on fire, flushed red with embarrassment, but I refuse to look away and let him win.

He cocks his head, a dark grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as his eyes rake over me. He lets the heavy silence stretch, bathing in my obvious discomfort.

With thirty minutes still agonizingly left in the period, he abruptly grabs his bag and shoves his notebook inside. He stands up to his full height, gathering all his things to leave, loudly calling the class bullshit.

He is actually walking out. Desperate for a distraction from the intense heat lingering in my face, I blurt out without thinking, "Why did you choose a raven?"

Ryker stops dead in his tracks. His broad shoulders tense. He slowly, deliberately turns back to face me, his dark eyes narrowing dangerously as they slowly trace the soft lines of my face. His gaze travels from my hairline, down to my jaw, lingering heavily on my parted lips.

"Do you know what ravens symbolize?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

I mutely shake my head, unable to find my voice under his intense scrutiny.

Ryker stands to his full, imposing height. He steps closer, leaning in so intimately close I can smell the distinct scent of mint and smoke clinging to his clothes. Just before he walks out of the room, abandoning me once again to deal with the chaotic wreckage he leaves in his wake, he utters one chilling, whispered word that freezes the blood in my veins.

"Death."