Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

But I don’t stop there. When it comes to Heston, this burning, furious thing inside me won’t be satisfied until I’ve hurt—someone else or myself, it doesn’t give a shit. I strike out without really thinking about it, being driven by the knowledge that this car is just one more thing—one more tool—for my brother to use.

His.

The first blow is a hard punch to the hood. I kick out mindlessly, smashing the front side panel. Over and over, the dull thuds of my fists and boots sound in my ears, and it’s not enough. I grab a tire iron and slam it into a door. My muscles scream as I beat it into the car’s body, not out of exertion, but out of this rabid need to thrash and destroy. It’s like being hooked up to an exposed light socket, a constant feedback loop of shock and strike.

Everything.

He ruins fucking everything.

The more damage I see, the more I want to cause. I lop off a sideview mirror and keep slamming forward, raising the tire iron over my head to take out that fucking window next.

“Sebastian?”

I feel a hand on my back and I spin around, iron still held high.

Sugar’s standing there, face morphing into wide-eyed terror as she shrinks back, throwing her hands up. “Sebastian, stop! What are you doing?! Stop!”

It’s like the switch on that socket gets flipped. One second I’m boiling over with rage, and the next, I’m cringing away from it. She’s so small next to my car, up against my anger, that I suck in a shocked breath. The wave of emotion ebbs, pooling in my gut like a bitter, toxic waste.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sugar! I could have—” If I’d hit her again? My life would be fucking over.

She’s still staring at me with those eyes. Those huge, alarmed, frightened eyes. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I—” There are no words for this. No excuse can transform this into anything resembling sense. There’s just me, with all my flaws, laid bare for her to see. I’m coated in sweat, still panting, the result of my outburst imprinted like scars upon the car, and I think yeah.

That’s it.

She’s going to run now. That stunt in Dr. Ross’s class was bad enough, but she could forgive it, because it was for Georgia. This? This is the exact kind of crazy, nonsensical, indiscriminate violence she’d accused me of. The perfect display of ‘I told you so’.

I wait for her to bolt.

Amazingly, she doesn’t. “What happened?” My knuckles burn and I flex them, wincing in pain. “Goddamn it, Bass, talk to me!”

Turning to brace my hands against the top of the car, I struggle for air. “I can’t fight him. God, I want to, so fucking bad, you have no idea. But I can’t. I can’t risk it, but I just…” I’m shaking and it’s not even just the anger. It’s that I could have hurt her. It’s that I’m wedged in this place I can’t get out of. It’s that I’m such a fucking slave to it all, unable to control this storm that’s always raging inside of me. “I hate him so fucking much.”

I choke on the words, hands balling into tight fists. It’s like I can’t fill my lungs anymore, breaths coming in shallow, barely-swallowed pants. I flinch at the sudden weight of her hand on my back, and I feel her flinch back in response

The weight returns almost instantly. “Take a deep breath.”

I inhale sharply, but it’s like razor blades in my lungs. Her arms begin winding around me, slow and careful, testing. I don’t know what to do with the warmth of her chest against my back, the press of her cheek against my shoulder.

“Breathe with me,” she says, chest expanding and contracting against me.

My body falls into the same rhythm as she guides me through a full breath. When I truly feel like I can breathe again, I shudder an exhale, hanging my head to gaze down at her arms around me.

Softly, I ask, “Can I touch you?” and I feel her stiffen.

“Sebastian,” she says, voice low and strained. “Please don’t make me say no to you right now.”

I nod, head feeling heavy on my shoulders, and push back from the car. The loss of her warmth against my back is like a physical pang. “Thank you.”

She’s shifting from foot to foot, looking cagey. “Who is this ‘he’ you keep talking about, and what does he have to do with beating the shit out of Jasmine?”

My jaw clenches. I don’t want to tell Sugar about Heston. I don’t want her to even know he exists, like just having him in her head would be enough of a violation. I sure as hell don’t want him to know she exists, but there’s a shit-ton of damage I have to clear up if I want her to keep touching me like this.

“My brother, Heston,” I explain, kicking a screwdriver toward the back of the car. “He’s forcing me to race tonight.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “I have a hard time believing you, of all people, could be forced into doing anything. So how does that work, exactly?”