Page 71 of I’m The Worst

“Don’t.”

I roll my eyes and look away, scanning the warehouse. My legs are starting to cramp from sitting on the hard floor.

“I got in a fight once,” I say.

Nothing.

“I was fourteen. Some girl at school was spreading rumors about me—I don’t even remember what they were about.” I shrug. “I ripped out her nose ring.” A small smile tugs at my mouth. “She lost her shit. We were on the ground, pulling hair, clawing at each other. Gage had to drag me off her.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

“My dad was furious. Apparently, her father was someone important.” I pick at a tear in my leggings. “He had to make a huge donation to keep me from getting expelled.”

I glance at Wolff. Nothing’s changed. Same posture. Same expression. Knife flipping between his fingers like I don’t exist.

I keep going anyway.

“My dad never hit me; he hardly even yelled at me. He wasn’t like that.” I drag my thumb over the fabric again. “But he had this look. Like I disappointed him. Like I wasn’t…what I was supposed to be.”

I clear my throat, feeling emotional.

“That was worse. So, I tried after that. To behave. To not…make things harder.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He doesn’t care, and he’s not going to respond. But I keep talking anyway. Because if I stop, it gets too quiet.

I glance at him again. “Your turn.”

“No.” He goes right back to the knife.

I groan, exasperated. “God, you’re impossible.”

Leaning my head back against the wall, I pull my knees tighter to my chest. I’m cold. I’m sore. I should go back to the room. But I don’t move.

I don’t want to be alone.

She finally shuts the hell up.

Eyes closed, head tipped back against the wall, soft breaths slip past her lips. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her hair’s messy, loose strands sticking out from under her hood.

She’s too damn close.

Every time I flip the knife, my arm brushes hers. Heat bleeds through my jacket no matter how much I shift away. I move another inch, unclenching my jaw.

How many fucking stories can one person have?

Not that I was listening.

My attention stays on the warehouse—on Savva, on Viktor, on every movement in the room, every shadow that doesn’t belong. I don’t need distractions. Not tonight. Not when my head is already running on fumes.

I let out a slow breath and rotate my wrist. The knife moves faster between my fingers.

Still, my eyes keep dragging back to her.

The knife spins harder.

Last night keeps forcing its way in—how her cunt gripped my cock, how tight her ass felt around my fingers, how she tasted, how wet she was, the broken sounds she made when she came.

And worse, what happened after.

The way she started screaming her safeword. And I fucking dragged her against my chest like it was instinct. I don’t do that shit. I don’t hold Sluts. I don’t let them cling to me. I don’t let anyone close enough to feel my fucking heartbeat.