Page 41 of Forged By Shadows
“I’m vegan!” Huxley jolts, his arms bucking against their hold. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus and breathing to relax enough for the others to let go. “Wait, I’m not vegan,” he shakes his head and rolls his neck.
“But you are awake,” Axel smirks. “Wyatt’s ordered a road trip. You need an overnight bag, apparently.” Dax heads over to Huxley’s dresser, pulling out folded clothes and placing them on top. I marvel at the ease with which they all work together without need for words. They truly are family.
“Where are we going?” Huxley groans, laying back down.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Axel shrugs. “Nixon has requested his presence.” I straighten, placing the empty mug on the bedside table. Axel returns to my side and sits next to my legs. “You too, little Swan.” His fingers seek out mine, that need to be touched controlling his actions. My chest clenches.
“I’d rather stay here and watch this unfold,” Huxley leans on one arm, smirking knowingly. A thin blush coats Axel’s cheeks, his hazel eyes slowly waking fully. Extracting myself from beneath the covers, I crawl into Axel’s lap. All eyes fall to my small vest and shorts combo. In the mirror, I catch the light in my own eyes. My blonde hair is a bird’s nest, but there’s a smile spread wide across my face. I’m going to see Nixon. The ache of missing him hits me stronger than ever, spurring my feet to run through the opposite exit and start packing.
A short while later, we’re bundling into the garage. Bags are thrown into the trunk, excitement thrumming through us. It’s amazing what a change of scenery can do, even if none of us know where we’re going. Wyatt enters last, purposely slamming his shoulder into mine. My strap is dislodged and he catches it, dragging the backpack away from me.
“Avery rides with me. The rest of you take the SUV.” He grunts, tossing both of our bags into the back seat of his Nissan and deeming it out of use. I freeze, the rest of the Shadowed Souls creeping closer.
“No way. I’d rather be leashed and dragged along behind,” I cross my arms. Wyatt scoffs.
“That can be arranged.”
“Dude, you haven’t wanted to be near her. I’ll ride with you,” Huxley attempts. His hand lightly wraps around my wrist as the weight of their anxiety settles on my shoulders. Wyatt waves off their concern, opening the passenger door. Grabbing my nape, he all but drags me into the seat. My skin burns beneath his touch. Wyatt is touching me.
Slamming the door closed, I peer out with huge puppy dog eyes. Wyatt’s words are muffled, but no doubt delivering a threat alongside our destination. Four sets of eyes watch me longingly as Wyatt drops into the driver’s seat and the car flies forward. I smack my forehead on the window.
“Why can’t I ride with them?” I try not to sound whiny and fail.
“Nixon was clear. You are to be at this dinner. Do you really trust them to not take you somewhere discrete and finally give in to the desire that’s been destroying everything I’ve built? The battle of testosterone in my house is suffocating.”
I exhale through my nose. His house. His rules. Grumbling, I pull my phone and headphones out my bag, curling up and keeping my back to Wyatt.
Me: You’ll never guess what this asshole has just done.
Meg: I doubt it will surprise me, but go on…
I wake as the Nissan comes to a stop, the engine dying out. My ears ache from the headphones but I’m glad I managed to drift off. It saves sitting in awkward silence with unwanted company. Wyatt is already out of the car, slamming the door. I rub my eyes, groaning at the stiff neck I’ve acquired. He’s staring at his phone in front of the gas station, waiting for me to peel myself from the car.
“Fill up. I’m going to stretch my legs,” he jerks his head to the pump. There’s an aura of annoyance around him, but for once it’s not directed at me. I half-watch him constantly checking his phone, the tick in his jaw beating as he paces the gravel nearby. Finishing with filling up, I head into the small store and busy myself picking out snacks. A grin grows across my face as I pick out chili heatwave potato chips and jalapeño-infused jerky. The bottles of flavored water I pick out are solely for me. Paying, I exit with my blue carrier bag and smile sweetly when Wyatt returns.
“I got snacks.” Shaking the bag, Wyatt’s lips pinch as we re-enter the car. I couldn’t sleep any more if I tried, too wired and more than a little bored of his company already. Instead, I link my phone up to the speakers and hit play on Theo’s classical piano pieces.
I’ve put the thought of Theo being Mr. XO aside, after a basic online search showed he grew up in a rural part of Asia. His family relocated often and always to places off the grid. As a ten-year-old boy, I doubt sending me welcome letters to the Hughes household was at the top of his priority list.
Wyatt is easing the car out of the gas station when he skids to a stop. “Not a fucking chance,” he dives across me for my phone. I purposely drop it down the side of my seat.
“It's for the showcase! Since I’m missing practice today, I need to play through the dances in my head.” A lie. I know those dances back to front now, it’s just a matter of perfecting the transitions. Something I can’t do from the passenger seat while flying down a lengthy road with no civilization in sight, but it serves to irritate Wyatt. Sweeping a hand through his brown hair, he throws himself back in his seat and speeds onward. Being a good road-trip buddy, I pop open the potato chips and offer him one, keeping the packet concealed in the bag. Wyatt, not wanting to lose face, snatches it from me and stuffs it into his mouth. A moment later, the chewed remnants are spat all over the dashboard and the car briefly swerves.
“The fuck?! Drink!” Wyatt holds out his hand. I stare at it.
“Aww, I’m sorry. These drinks are only for people with manners.” I keep the bag out of his reach. He’s panting slightly, his cheeks turning red. Wow, Wyatt really doesn’t handle spice well.
Suddenly, he turns the wheel and we fly onto the roadside, the tires kicking up a shitload of dust. I scream as he launches himself at me, forcing the plastic bag from my hand. His fingers are tightly gripping both of my wrists, his shoulder pushing me back into the seat. He takes the water and gulps it down. Anger festers within me as he drinks. Typical Wyatt, taking what his wants. Getting his own way.
Feeling helpless and trapped being a toxic combination, I lower my head and sink my teeth into his shoulder. Through the t-shirt, I bite as hard as I can, uncaring of the consequences. Wyatt is on me in a second, ripping his shoulder from my grip. Flicking a lever, the chair flips backwards and his chest is covering mine. His green eyes are on fire, mirroring the blazing sunlight coloring the sky outside. His breath comes in ragged puffs of air, a testament to his fury. The silence that follows is suffocating.
“You’re the worst kind of person,” I breathe out of need to break the tension. I’m choking on it, unable to inhale beneath his weight. Slowly, too slowly, Wyatt’s hand comes between us and settles around my throat. I lie immobilized, too intrigued as to what he’ll do to stop him.
After a beat, his grip begins to tighten. His emerald gaze doesn't leave mine for a moment, even as his thumb presses into the tender flutter of my pulse. He's not choking me, not yet. It's a warning, a promise of what could come. A shiver rolls through me, but the cold touch of fear doesn’t follow. I swallow beneath the heat of his breath fanning my mouth. My hands subconsciously touch his ribs, faintly holding him in place. I want this. Wyatt touching me. An inch separates our lips and as much as my mind is screaming this is wrong, oh so wrong, it makes me want it all the more.
"Say it again," he growls, his voice barely above a whisper, but carrying an undeniable edge that makes it seem much louder in the stifling silence. “Remind me why this is the opposite of what I should be doing.” I swallow hard, trying to suppress the tiny tremor in my voice.
"You're...the worst kind of person." I repeat. I can taste defiance in my mouth, dancing on the tip of my tongue with words that could ignite a wildfire. A ghost of a smile tugs at one corner of his lips, and there's something terrifyingly thrilling about the way it doesn't reach his eyes. Caution masks itself as fear, but I’m not scared. The glint in Wyatt’s eyes has never seemed steadier, and I’ve never been so sure he won’t hurt me.
