𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 ✍︎

42| 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛

Hello everyone! I apologise for not updating since...uh well...a very, extremely long time.

I got a few messages lately from people asking me to update, and that gave me the motivation to finally work on this chapter and publish it.

There are quite a few authors on this platform that ask to not be rushed or asked to update. I am not one of those authors (no hate to them). If I haven't posted in a long time, please send messages asking. I won't get upset. If anything, I need the motivation.

Anyways! Enjoy the chapter! :D

Ayla/Dove's POV
Age: 10
Location: Italian Mafia School (IMS), New York

I wring the sleeve of my blazer while waiting for my friends to enter the classroom.

This morning at the breakfast table, everyone was tense and uptight.

I have no doubt it's because they saw the message Vincent left for me last night.

I wanted to delete it the moment I read it, but eventually decided against it.

Keeping secrets from the people you care about is never a good idea. Especially if they're trying to help you.

I couldn't go back to sleep last night, and only now am I starting to feel the effects of exhaustion.

"What's wrong with you?" Blue asks as she falls into the beanbag next to mine.

"Nothing," I mutter. She glances at my wrinkled sleeve skeptically.

She grabs my arm and flips it up, revealing my palm. The old scars from the rulers are faint, but still there. However, new, red scratches are on top of them.

A nervous habit of mine from early childhood. I would scratch the scars or around them.

Thankfully, my hands were, and still are, tough. I never made any permanent damage to the scarred skin.

"Nothing?" She questions.

I try to yank my hand away, but she keeps her hold on me. Her finger gently traces over the angry marks I made on my skin.

"I thought you stopped doing that," she says quietly.

"I did."

Her finger stops for a moment, and she looks up at me with curious eyes. "Then what memory did you dredge up that would cause this?"

"I don't know," I whisper. I know Mr. Collins is watching us, trying to figure out what we're talking about.

I see the way some of the teachers and other students stare at us. They want to know why we're here.

Mr. Collins seems to be the only person who isn't questioning our presence, but I know he's curious about as well.

"Was it bad?" She asks. I nod, shuddering at the memory of the gory and terrifying dream-nightmare combo.

I feel the urge to pick at my scars again, and I'm suddenly grateful Blue is holding my hand.

"I'm not sure if it's a memory," I admit. "But I don't think it's a dream either."