Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I snort, but he takes a step forward, and something wavers in her eye. A flicker of fear. A hard swallow bobbing her throat. I dart between them and look up at the stupid oaf.

“Looks like this girl isn’t interested in what you’re selling, Derek,” I say, looking behind me to shoot her a grin. I get nothing back but hard glare. Okay, then. “Why don’t you move along.”

The oaf laughs. He’s got a couple of inches on me, and he’s big, but it’s not the lean mass that I have. I’m fast. Quick. And I already feel the building hum of anticipation in my knuckles, ready to slam into something hard and meaty. Beating his ass would be a pleasure. “Why don’t you move along, pretty boy. This isn’t about you.”

I grin. “First, thanks for the compliment. I really am pretty. Second, I’ve seen how you treat other people’s things, and it’s not great, Derek, it’s not great.” He tilts his head, assessing me for a minute, like he’s trying to place me. “Third—and not to sound egotistical or anything—but everything is about me.”

Derek narrows his eyes at me and a twisted grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. A moment later he lifts his two meaty paws and shoves them at my chest, pushing me back. The girl I’m defending skirts out of my way, but I keep my eyes on this asshole. He hardly moved me, but he’s just given me the opening I need to justify ruining him.

“Thanks,” I say, grinning. “This was getting boring.” I jerk my elbow back and slam my fist right into his jaw. I barely feel the pain in my knuckles, just the momentum of my arm propelling them forward. I follow through on the punch and then slam a second fist right into his gut. He growls like a beast and swings, but I jump back fast enough that he misses. He tries to barrel into me next, hoping to take me down to the ground, but it’s easy to step out of his path and bury a fist into his kidney.

“Oh, so close!” I taunt, seeing some of his boys gathering in my periphery. Fucking classic. Can’t take someone one-on-one, just keep adding dudes to the pile. Fine by me. “Everyone can get a turn,” I assure them, swiping one of Derek’s flying fists.

“Stop!” a girl cries from the growing crowd. “Stop fighting!”

I play for a second like I’m deeply considering it. “Nah. Not until this piece of shit learns a little respect.” But Derek’s had time to recover. He doesn’t lunge at me, taking in my stance—fists up, legs loose and quick. Instead, he shakes out his shoulders and braces himself, mirroring me. The sight of it pulls a laugh from me, high-pitched and crazed. “Now we’re talkin’.”

No more of this clumsy rage-driven shit. It’s too easy.

His fist flies forward, but I duck it. I’m not counting on his left fist following it, but it’s a messy, badly-coordinated punch. This guy is no south paw. His knuckles barely graze my cheek. Even though he’s not here, I can hear my brother’s voice in my head, vicious and taunting.

You’re such a little bitch, Bass. Look at you, gonna get your ass beat by this loser? Typical. Can’t even handle a drunk townie. Fuck, you’re embarrassing. This is the only thing you’re good at, and you can’t even win.

It makes my focus narrow tightly in on him, filling my head with a violent red and something so chaotic that I can’t pin it down long enough to understand it. I just know it makes me want to pound this fucker’s face in.

I reach back and slam my fist forward, getting in a solid hook that rocks Derek backward. I don’t stop. I plan to keep burying my fist into his face until it’s bloody and limp. A flash of movement comes from the side, and I know one of his boys is coming to help him. I react on pure instinct, jerking back and slamming a tight fist into the face coming at me.

The sound is almost sickening—the sharp crack, the loud gasp, the soft sound of a small body hitting the ground.

It takes me so long to realize that it’s not one of Derek’s boys that I’m already turned back to the oaf, fist raised. But I freeze, doing a bewildered double-take.

Because that was not a hard jaw.

That was not a man.

The body on the ground has long dark hair, with blue tips. A girl, the girl I’ve been defending.

My fist drops to my side.

“Fuck,” I say, and the crowd shifts, her friends shuffling forward with palms covering their mouths, watching her lifeless body.

I had to have killed her or something. She’s not moving, and I don’t punch like a little bitch. I follow through. That had been a hard hit—a devastating hit—to someone smaller than me. To someone who’s not used to it. To someone with soft skin and a delicate neck. I move forward in horror, looking down at her limp body, but notice instantly that her eyes are open. Unfocused. Squinting, like she’s confused.

“Hey,” I try, bending down to touch her arm. “I’m sorr—”

Her hazel eyes finally go into focus, landing on mine. She opens her mouth, dragging in a big inhale, and releases it in a bone-chilling scream.

I jerk back first, and then everyone else does. The scream—it doesn’t stop. It keeps building and climbing, but it doesn’t die. Even when she drags in another breath, it’s just to feed that blood-curdling shriek pouring from the pit of her chest.

I look around nervously, but the crowd is frantically dispersing. This is too loud, too much attention. The cops will come. People will ask questions. We’ll all be fucked.

Thick with terror and a pain that goes far beyond the punch I’d landed. I stare at her for another for a moment, and then I do the only thing a Wilcox can in a situation like this.

I run.

1

Sebastian