Midnight Toxicity

47.

Chace eventually drifted off, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm at the back of my neck. He slept like someone who believed the whole world bent around his comfort.

I waited.

Counted the seconds between his inhales.

Finally, when his arm loosened, I slipped out from under it like a ghost escaping a chain, feet hitting the floor silently.

I didn't turn on the light. Didn't even let the door click, just eased it shut behind me.

My phone lit up in the hallway's dim glow.

The house was restless in that fragile, post-party way, floorboards cooling with laughter still trapped in the walls like smoke. The hallway was dark, lit only by the moonlight that leaked through the tall gothic windows. Motley Hall breathed around me, old and watchful.

Ian stood there in the half-dark downstairs, leaning against a doorframe like his bones had forgotten their job. His hair was a chaotic storm, and there was this flushed heat on his cheekbones that made him look stupidly good.

Drunk, yes—but not sloppy. Never sloppy.

"I was wondering when you'd sneak out."

"I just need the bathroom," I said, keeping my tone even. Neutral. Like I wasn't already hyper-aware of the way his gaze dragged over me.

His smile was neither kind nor cruel. Something worse—knowing.

"Sure," he said. "That's always how it starts."

I stepped past him anyway. Bad choice. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and when I turned the lock behind me, I felt his presence like heat through the door.

When I came back out, he was closer.

"This is different," I whispered. "You're drunk."

"A lil'," he said, pinching his fingers together. "Like... half a shot from telling you all my secrets drunk."

"You stalking hallways now?"

"Only when I'm bored," he said. "Or worried."

"About me?"

He laughed under his breath. "No. About how much you don't know what you're playing with."

That landed.

I crossed my arms, defensive without meaning to be. "You're wasted. Go to bed."

"Drunk enough to tell the truth," he said, stepping closer. "Sober enough to see you."

His eyes cut me—through me.

"You're strong," he said. "Terrifyingly so. You survive things that would hollow most people out." He tilted his head. "But shit, you're naïve."

I bristled. "We might go back, but you don't know me. Not like you ever tried."

"I hate to bring it up, but I babysat your ass more than once."

"I was eleven. You were looking out for Jack in case your mom's crackhead dealer got any ideas."

His entire frame spiked with shock at the fact that I brought up our past. He relaxed quickly, though, the alcohol kicking back in. Why did I say that? I was always on defense when I spoke to Ian, and I didn't enjoy how I sounded.

"I know exactly what you are," he said softly. "A girl who thinks being chosen means being protected. Who confuses control with care."

My pulse started doing that ugly, traitorous thing.