My heart stopped, and my back went rigid.
“So, keep her close, Isaiah. We do not want a repeat of Journey.” My uncle was remembering exactly what I was. I looked down at my hands hanging down by my sides, the veins pumping some seriously hot blood throughout. I still felt Journey’s limp body in my arms as I handed her off to Cade.
“I’ve got it under control,” I said before stalking out of his office and shutting the door behind me. My eyes clenched tightly as I ran a hand through my hair, tugging on the ends slightly to get myself to clear my head. A few heavy breaths left my tight chest, and just like that, I was fine.
For once, I was thankful for all the fucked-up shit I’d seen as a child. At least now I had the capability and threshold to deal with traumatic shit and push it away until it disappeared altogether.
Did that make me fucked up?
Probably.
But hey, we were all a little fucked up at St. Mary’s.
Chapter Thirty
Gemma
My fingers ached the next morning, and up until just a few moments ago, charcoal had covered every inch of my hands. Now they were red and raw from scrubbing them in the sink so no one would suspect that I was in here instead of in my room, tucked away underneath the comfy blankets that were given to me by the headmaster.
After Isaiah and I had parted ways last night, and Sloane had finally drifted to sleep after drilling me about Isaiah and our tutoring session, I couldn’t sleep. Not a single freaking wink. Which wasn’t at all unusual, but since arriving at St. Mary’s over two weeks ago, I had slept better than I had in months. Ever since Tobias was sent away, my dreams had been more potent than normal, and they occurred more and more as I aged. They felt more real than reality, at times. It was terrifying, and every time I closed my eyes last night, all I could hear was Richard’s voice lingering in the back of my head. His familiar sickening breath of pleasure that floated through the phone after I’d given in and called him his favorite little pet name caused my stomach to twist with unease, and I knew the only way to untwist it was to get it out.
I needed to spill everything onto the canvas—my outlet.
So, at around five in the morning, I climbed out of bed, tiptoed over to the bathroom, and hurriedly got ready for the day. A quick shower, moisturizer, a little bit of lip gloss (just to spite Auntie), my uniform, and I was out the door and creeping along the dark hallway with only the flickering sconces as my audience. Nerves pushed at my belly with each corner that I turned, wondering if it was okay to be out of bed that early in the morning, especially given Isaiah’s warning. But the sun was going to peek over the tall, lush trees any minute, so I kept going. And I had to admit, breaking the rules—even by a few minutes—felt good. Dangerously good.
The very second I stepped in the empty art room, I breathed in a sigh of relief. It only took me minutes to gather my supplies and get ready. I pulled my damp hair into one long braid, freeing any stray pieces from my face, and slipped my blazer off my shoulders. I draped it over a stool, my lips twitching when I saw that I’d placed it on Isaiah’s stool that he sat on during class. Next, I took my white blouse off in case I got charcoal on it, because I knew I would. I was only in my knee-high socks, maroon plaid skirt, and a tight, white tank top, which sent a chill over my skin.
But then, I got to work.
Time flew by, and before I knew it, the hallway lights were turned on, and the clock showed that I had been working for nearly two hours. Breakfast was soon, and I didn’t want to make Sloane worry, so I rushed over and washed the charcoal off my skin before standing in front of the canvas with my raw hands. I scanned the creation that I had no recollection of even creating. Sketching had always been a release for me. A way to work through my secrets without revealing a single thing. My head was in a different space. I was in a different space.
I was there, reliving whatever horrendous memory that wanted to resurface, and in a way, it was therapeutic. It was a way for me to take control of the situation and then toss it right the hell out of my head.
But it never really left.
A shaky breath fell from my lips as I looked at the smudged charcoal. It was mostly the color of ash, but some parts were darker than others. It was a messy, rushed sketch, but that was exactly why I liked it. In the middle of the canvas, it was me—half of my face, at least. I trailed down the sharp black curve of my button-like nose and the shadows around my right eye. The arch of my high cheekbone was encased with long stray hairs, and my lips were split, like I was gasping for air. Then, on the other side of the canvas, where the rest of my face should have been, were the words Good girls don’t break rules, over and over again, getting messier and even more smudged as they trailed down the entire length of the paper. The words blended with my face, and something in my chest cracked. Animosity and the slow burn of anguish tore through my soul as I quickly spun, taking my eyes off the shattered girl that I’d drawn.
The sudden urge to whip back around and tear it into pieces consumed me as a scream clawed at my throat. I was fighting like hell to make the torturous memory disappear. I even glanced down at my hand to see if the blisters were still there from the last time he made me write the phrase over and over again until my hand had bled, but no. The only thing I saw were the scars that circled the diameter of both wrists. The shiny skin that was lighter than the rest of my golden flesh.
Counting backward from ten, I stared at the ceiling, calming myself. Movement outside the classroom door was beginning to catch my eye, and I knew I needed to get a move on. Forcing the sickly feeling of the past from my mind, I hurriedly ran over to Isaiah’s stool and grabbed my blouse and blazer. I pulled my shirt up and over my head, not once looking at the mirrored, charcoaled version of me. I knew I couldn’t leave the canvas sitting out in the open like that, and Mrs. Fitz and I had never discussed what I should do with my projects if I were to use the art room like she and the headmaster had suggested, so I did what any sane person would do. I unclipped it from the easel and ran over to the supply closet—the one that Isaiah had pulled me into on that first day—and hung my work in the very back, near the broom that looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. The ends of
it were frayed, and cobwebs hung off the wooden stick as dust danced around me. Perfect.
It was vital for me to keep these sketches a secret, and I was too proud of the actual work to throw them away. I made the mistake of letting someone else see them once, and that bit me in the ass.
Just as I shut the supply closet door, a deep voice floated around me, causing me to freeze.
“I was wondering if I’d find you here.” Isaiah’s tone was light and airy, and it was a welcomed sound from the angry and panicked beating of my own heart.
“Isaiah,” I started, then I felt stupid because I seemed to always address him by his name when he popped up out of nowhere. It was like my brain and mouth were no longer connected when he was within sight. Clearing my throat and hoping that my cheeks didn’t give away my embarrassment, I asked, “What are you doing here?”
He leaned back onto the table that he usually sat at, his feet somehow still touching the floor as his butt rested along the edge. He was utterly beautiful sitting there, and my fingers twitched to sketch him instead of the nasty memories that kept resurfacing. There was a shadow under his jawline, and the maroon blazer he wore was snug around his biceps and cut off just below his waist, showing his slim hips and black pants that led to his shoes.
Yes, Isaiah was definitely the definition of dark and dangerous.
Until he smiled.
Which he was currently doing at the moment.