Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Torin,” I say to him, the evening catching up with me.
He turns to look at me, his gaze piercing. “What?”
“Why were you there?”
He exhales, looking me up and down. “Because I was following you. You stalk me, you get a stalker, too. Now get inside.”
6
Torin
When I was younger I used to get called a thrill-seeker.
Back then, people said it like it was a bad thing. My teachers. My mother. My own friends.
I can still remember the way Mom said it after school one day, when I got suspended for trying to free-climb the side of the tallest building at my middle school: Torin Jensen, you could become a millionaire one day if you channeled your energy into something as much as you chase adrenaline.
But for me, that’s just choosing to chase life.
It’s not that I need to live on the edge, but there’s just so much of life that most people never touch. Never get close to touching.
Do I want to skydive? Fuck yes.
Do I also want to learn how to carve a serpent into a block of cherry wood? I do.
In between all of that, I want to kiss and touch and fuck anybody I want. I want to taste the whole world, especially when it wants to taste me back.
As I shove open the front doors to Onyx House now, I feel like I’m alive.
Back in my body.
Blood fucking pumping, in a way that’s only happened…
Well, so far, it’s only happened when I’ve gotten the preppy, rigid frat boy to show me what he actually wants. He thinks I can’t tell, but he wanted this tonight, too. He definitely didn’t expect to nearly get kidnapped at gunpoint, but I can recognize a thrill-seeker when I see one.
He doesn’t know what the hell he’s getting himself into, and he sure as fuck doesn’t know how to handle the repercussions of what taking risks like this can mean.
He’s an emotional wreck right now, but I can still tell.
In the past, Noah met that need by blasting his nights with alcohol, parties, and casual hookups until he quit all of those things, leaving a big, fat void.
Now Noah’s searching for something.
I think he was excited to go do Roman’s dirty work, at least until it turned serious very fast. But he was thrill-seeking. Even just a little.
It’s one of the sole things Noah and I have in common.
It’s a deliciously dark, sadistic pleasure to discover that…
But he needs to learn his limits.
“Come with me,” I tell Noah, reaching for his arm the moment we’re through the front doors of the house. “You’re going to explain everything, in deep detail.”
“We just need to talk to Roman,” Noah protests.
I look back at him and come to a stop in the front entryway of the house. I reach behind Noah and gently push the giant front door shut behind us.
For a moment, I let him catch his breath.
There’s a table lamp nearby, and I’m finally able to get a better look at him than I did outside.
“You are so out of it, Daisy,” I murmur, looking him over.
It’s worse than I thought. He looks like he’s barely hanging on, actually.
He must have been getting by on pure adrenaline as we ran back to the house, but now he looks like he saw a ghost and is about to pass the fuck out onto the floor.
His hair is a dark, disheveled mess.
His eyes look shellshocked, and he keeps blinking as he looks at me, then looks at my hair, and then stares behind me into the rest of the house, his lashes flicking up and down.
And for some reason he’s feeling in his pockets, now, over and over again.
“God, where the fuck is it?” he says under his breath, finally reaching into one of his back pockets.
He pulls out something small and metallic. As he puts it down on the little entryway table beside us, I see that his hand is shaking pretty badly.
“Is that a switchblade?” I ask, reaching out for it.
“Yeah.”
I reach out and grab the thing, flicking it open. “This is the smallest blade I’ve ever seen.”
“Small blades still hurt,” he tells me. “Even a razor blade could make someone bleed. My switchblade was fine.”
I close the blade and put it back onto the side table.
When I look back up at Noah, he’s leaning against the wood-paneled wall. I see a glint of something on his cheek as he’s looking at the floor.
“Roman’s probably out back—”
“Noah, are you crying?” I interrupt him.
I bring my hand up to wipe at his cheek but he glares at me, batting my hand away. “Quit acting like you give a fuck.”
He isn’t breaking down in sobs, and his face doesn’t even look sad. It’s more like a single tear broke off from his eye without him even realizing it, and he’s too numb to even register what that means.