Sins of Aiden

16

CHAPTER 16

I huff loudly when my shoulder gets swung around and slams into the lockers. The metal rattles under my weight and my books fly out of my hands like birds, littering the beige-dusty floors. The papers tucked neatly inside my history book escape the blue covers and crinkle against the swift air around me. It eventually hit the floor with the rest of my things after an embarrassing long second.

I press my lips together to suppress a whimper.

The metal lockers clank against each other. It rings into my ears and for a second there I think the world stops spinning. When the vibrations turn idle—the silence takes over and the ringing in my ears amplifies to the point I can't hear anything past it. I feel the air freezing around me, just as prim as my bones and I don't remove my eyes from the lockers opposite me for fear of meeting anyone mirth in their gazes.

Gods. How embarrassing.

I can't recall—and I don't want to know how long it takes for everyone to continue with their chatter. For the boots to begin stamping the floors to their upcoming classes. For the lockers swinging shifty shut. And for removing their empathetic eyes away from me. It feels like ages. Why does it have to feel like ages?

I straighten up eventually when I feel everyone has stopped penetrating my every pore with their stares. I bring the strap of my backpack over my shoulder again as it hooked around my elbow.

My gaze falls to the side, noticing Thomas Ford's rapid smug increase from under his blue baseball cap—blond hair neatly tucked underneath and the shadows engulfing his fading bruise. He doesn't hide his gigantic winning smirk, the incandescent mirth forming his eyes knifelike, and the absolute form of havoc. But the thing is with Thomas Ford—he doesn't have to hide anything. Not after he just shoved me so easily into the lockers like a ragdoll mid-rush between classes and he's on top of the pyramid.

"Fucking bitch," he mutters under his chuckle like a whip, and I fight for my life not to show a reaction, not to fall for his depravity but the quiver etched on my chin just hurries another wave of triumph within his features.

After he gives me a revolted once-over, he turns his head around and continues huddling away—safely tucked between his spruced-up friends—hands shoved deep inside his slacks pockets.

They continue on, like the rest of the witnessing students, except for one. Seth Larson still stands in the middle of the hallway and hasn't moved since I met the lockers. He's squeezed into neatly black jeans and a blue polar shirt—looking a lot like Thomas Ford except for the devilish glint in his eyes.

I feel the heat wave of his gaze even after I avert my eyes to the floor. I don't dare to look up. I don't want to be shoved again.

I crunch down to the floor after I hear his shoes against the floor decrease, and begin to pick up my stuff.

It's no later than a quick moment when a blow against metal and the screeching halt of shoes pull my attention away from my dispersal books.

And when I look up, my spine straightens like a pole.

He comes out from the shadows like a storm of fury—the temperament of aligned animosity rolls off him like a dragon's fire. It looms around him like a ghost not ready to leave the living world and drives Thomas Ford right into the lockers.

My fingers clench the outline of my papers.

His unapproachable allure is not lost on me and the vicious gaze of his intense onyx eyes steers a tendril of fear through my spine.