Crack.
Stars burst in my vision. Pain rings out like a church bell behind my eyes. I stagger back, stumbling, blood already sliding warm down the bridge of my nose.
He steps away from the pillar, grinning through the blood now seeping from a gash just above his brow. It runs down the bridge of his nose in thick, steady rivulets, but he doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t even flinch.
That smile—twisted, gory,thrilled—stretches across his face like something freshly born out of a nightmare.
And for a second, he doesn’t look human. He looks like what crawls out from under your bed when the light goes out. Like aderanged masochistwho gets off on pain, who doesn’t just survive the fight—heneedsit.
That’s the difference between me and Marcus.
I fight to keep my beast in check.
Marcus lets his beast wear the crown.
And that’s what makes Marcus King so terrifying. It’s not just the violence—not the scars, the muscle, the guns, or the bodies in his wake.
It’s the way heinvitespain. How he fractures himself just to prove he can crawl through worse than you’ve ever imagined.He’ll let you land your best shot—hell, hewantsyou to. Because when he keeps standing, when he’s still smiling through the blood and bone…it breaks something in you.
He’ll wear you down with his silence, his laughter, his lunatic patience—until you’re the one gasping, and he’s the one dragging you by the collar through your own blood.
That’s why men follow him.
That’s why the Raiders never say no.
Because Marcus doesn’t bluff.
Heoutlasts.
And that’s why I almost died the day I tried to walk away. That’s how hebrokeme. Not with fists. But with the sick grin of a man who feels most alive when he's dying—just to make sure you go first.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Landon.” He mocks, eyes blown wide and black as he falls to his demons. “I came here to invite you andyour girlto family dinner.”
“She’s not a Raider,” I cough.
“Nah, she’s better.” He whispers next to my ear. “She’s my ticket into the cartel. She’s more precious than a random Raider.”
“I expect you there Friday evening, 6 pm sharp.” He seethes, spit flying against my cheek as he speaks. “Don’t be late, or I’ll come drag you there myself.”
11
JASMINE
A monthinto college and the only class I look forward to is Professor Kilgore’s every Monday and Friday, with Wednesdays reserved for study hall—because, according to him, we’re going to need it.
Landon has spent most nights silently watching me, and has insisted on following me to the majority of my classes ever since that guy tried to abduct me in broad daylight. Our conversations have been clipped and professional, which only stresses me out more—because that fundamentally goes against Landon’s whole personality. I am approximately one day away from walking around in my underwear just to get a reaction out of him. Just so he can remember theprivilegeof touching me, and possibly do it. I feel like it was the wrong move to tell Landon about boyfriend #4, even if I didn’t tell him much, it feels like too much. It feels like he can’t take it.
Every week, I’ve found a new way to get lost on this campus. I walked away from Brooke twice when I saw her on the main lawn. Ignored five—no, probably seven—texts from her, despiteme never giving her my number, she’s been texting once a day since last Wednesday.
I pull out my phone and stare at the newest one:
Brooke:You know all marital couples fight, right?
I roll my eyes—and look up. Just in time to lock eyes with her.
She’s leaning against the front doors of Thomas Hall, looking like she was carved straight out of a thirst trap and dropped into a college brochure. I want to turn in the opposite direction, but Kilgore’s class starts in ten minutes, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be late and soaking wet again. I guess I can only keep one of those promises to myself.
I narrow my eyes at her coke-bottle body because, frankly, it’s not fair. She steals from me, and I’m still havingwet dreamsabout her.Such a fucking pill.
