Badly Behaved

Forcing the self-proclaimed king to look up at one far more worthy.

“Touch her again, I’ll rip your fucking arms off and feed them to the sharks.”

Scott’s eyes narrow, snapping to me, but Arsen steps up, blocking his view, Beretta now standing behind Scott, not that he realizes it.

I jerk back, grab my things and whip around to get the hell away, but Amy slips in front of me again.

“Amy, I swear to God—”

“Look at the problems you’ve caused!” she snaps.

“You should be happy! It blew up!” I bark. “Just like you said!”

She laughs, loud and instant, and my muscles coil at the malicious sound.

“Oh man, this is...” She trails off, her laughter genuine in a hateful, cruel witch way. “God, you think this is what I was referring to?” She grins, true glee written across her. “Maybe spend less time hating our world, Jamie, and more time living in it.”

My body locks, and her smile spreads wider.

Jamie.

She said Jamie...

Her hip pops out. “You’d be surprised what you can find out, learn, or realize by simply opening those hazel eyes,” she mocks.

I dart for her, the tips of my fingers coming in contact with her hair, but Dax slips in front of me, though he keeps his hands up high.

“Don’t do this.” He shakes his head.

“Are you serious, Dax?” Jules shouts, and we both look her way.

She spins on her heels and storms out of the dining hall.

With a low curse, he chases her, and I dart forward, grabbing her wrist as I yank her to me. Her loud shriek has footsteps stomping our way.

I tug harder, and she scratches at my forearms, but I don’t feel a thing. “Why did you call me that?!”

“You’re crazy!” she screams, and I’m torn off by campus security. I kick at her, but she jumps to the side just in time.

She inspects her puny little wrist, fuming. “Screw you! You’re psycho! Just like them!”

I jerk in the man’s hold, but he doesn’t let go, and then I’m torn away by a completely different set.

Large, strong hands grip my arms, pushing me to the side and out, walking us toward the door.

I look over my shoulder and swallow.

Blood runs down the center of Ransom’s forehead, and it’s as if he doesn’t realize there’s a gash at his hairline.

Security comes toward me, but Beretta slips in front of the man, lifting his arms and cocking his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

It’s one man against three, so all he can do is shake his head and move to check Scott, but Scott, of course, jerks away from him, standing tall as if his ribs aren’t on fire.

He steps out, his friends at his back, eyes hard and on me.

I don’t realize I’m taking backward steps, away from all these people and closer to the ones who have become mine.

Scott takes small shuffles toward me. “Remember what I said about there being a difference?” He spits blood to the floor, raising a brow.

There’s a difference between fucking and fucking up...

His chin lowers. “This is it.”

My stomach turns, my pulse pounding hard at my temples.

I take a deep breath, half glancing over my shoulder without actually looking, and with a fixed expression and a straight spine, I go to Scott.

The pull behind me is strong, an almost overpowering tension that grows tighter and tighter, curling over my every limb and adding strain to my already heavy steps.

He tries to hold his smirk in, but his arrogance is beyond his control and it slips.

I reach out, placing my hand on the wall beside him, and the moment he shuffles in, my fingers curl over the championship poster on the wall, the one he’s kneeling proudly in.

I tear it from the wall.

He jolts for me before he realizes what he’s doing, and a wall of muscle is suddenly at my sides, at my back, wrapping around my middle and walking us backward as I crumple the poster between my hands, tossing it at Scott’s feet.

Anger has his limbs trembling, but he scoffs, throws his hands out as if he doesn’t give a shit, and truth is, he doesn’t. Not really.

It’s a small wound to an overflowing ego, patched the moment it was made.

I’m led out the door and only once we’re out of sight of everyone else, does Ransom release me.

He steps back, but not far, and when I refuse to meet his eyes, his knuckles move under my chin, forcing mine to his.

Blood still rolls gingerly down his forehead, over his brow and down the curve of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He stares me in the eyes, searching for a sign of something, and when the edges of his soften and his knuckle is replaced with the soft swipes of his thumb, I squeeze mine closed.

This is so messed up.