A heart beneath the mark

29. Part

Mattheo Riddle's POV

The moment the word left my mouth, I knew I'd gone too far.
Not because it wasn't believable; on the contrary, it sounded exactly right. Cold, sharp, cutting in the way people expected from me. The kind of word that fit the version of me they all believed in, the one I had spent years perfecting.
You're pathetic.
It should have ended there.
It usually did.
But the way her expression changed—subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn't looking for it—lingered longer than it should have. The way her shoulders stiffened, the way her eyes flickered just slightly, like something inside her had been hit harder than she'd expected.
And for a brief, unwelcome second, something in my chest tightened in response.
I ignored it.
Buried it before it could take shape, before it could become anything I might have to acknowledge.
Because that was the point of all of this, wasn't it?
Distance.
Control.
No room for mistakes.
No room for things like this.
My grip tightened around the letter in my hand, the parchment crinkling faintly beneath my fingers as the realization settled in again, heavier this time.
"You kept it."
The words slipped out quieter than I intended, edged with something I didn't bother to hide.
That, more than anything else, was the problem.
Not Ashbridge standing too close beside her, not the tension still lingering in the corridor, not even the way she looked at me like she was trying to understand something I had no intention of explaining.
The fact that she had kept it.
Weeks.
Hidden away, folded carefully enough that it hadn't been thrown out, hadn't been destroyed like it should have been.
Like it needed to be.
As if it meant something.
As if I meant something.
I should have stopped there.
Taken the letter, walked away, let the moment dissolve into nothing like everything else always did.
Instead, I leaned into it.
Into the cruelty. Into the familiarity of it.
"What, Bennett?" I heard myself say, my voice slipping easily back into that mocking edge, the one that never failed me. "Did you tuck it away somewhere safe? Read it every night and pretend it meant something?"
The words came easily.
Too easily.
That was the problem.
She flinched.
It wasn't dramatic, wasn't loud, but I saw it, and once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it.
Something in my chest twisted again, sharper this time.
Good, I told myself immediately, forcing the thought into place before anything else could follow. That's what you wanted.
A reaction.
A reminder.
A line drawn clearly where it belonged.
"Stop," she said quietly, her voice thinner than before, like it took effort to keep it steady.
For a fraction of a second, I almost did.
Almost let the moment shift into something else, something less controlled, less rehearsed.
But then Ashbridge spoke again, too close, too protective, too certain of his place next to her, and whatever hesitation I'd felt disappeared as quickly as it had come.
So I did what I always did.
I made it worse.
"I was bored," I said, each word deliberate, measured, even as something in the back of my mind resisted it. "Had nothing better to do."
A lie.
I knew it. She knew it.
"That's all it ever was."
Another lie.
And yet, I held her gaze as I said it, forcing the expression into something cold, something distant, something that left no room for doubt.
Because if she believed that—
If she chose to believe that—
Then none of this mattered.
Then I could walk away without thinking about the fact that for a moment, when I had written those words, they hadn't been a lie at all.
I stepped closer, closing the distance between us before I could stop myself, one hand braced against the wall beside her, trapping her there just enough to feel the shift in her breathing.
Close enough that I didn't have to raise my voice.
Close enough that the words didn't have to be heard by anyone else.
"Burn it, Bennett," I murmured, quieter now, the edge still there but something else threaded beneath it. "Before it burns you."
That part—
That part wasn't a lie.
It was the only honest thing I'd said.
And that was exactly why I couldn't stay.
So I left.
⸻
The corridor felt too narrow, the air heavier than before, like something had shifted and refused to settle back into place.
My footsteps echoed against the stone, sharper than usual, faster, but I didn't slow down. Didn't give myself the chance to think about what had just happened, about the way she had looked at me, about the fact that she hadn't believed a word I said.
You kept it.
The thought came back anyway, uninvited and persistent.
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through my hair, irritation settling in where something else had been moments before.
Stupid.
She should have gotten rid of it.
I should have never written it.
That was the mistake.
Not tonight. Not the words. Not the way I handled it.
The letter.
Because writing it had required something I wasn't supposed to feel.
And now it existed.
And worse—
She had kept it.
⸻
The party was loud enough to drown most things out.
That was the intention.
Noise, movement, too many people packed into one room, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in uneven waves. A distraction. Something to fill the silence that had settled too heavily in my head.
It should have worked.
It didn't,
I barely registered the conversations around me, responses coming automatically, detached, like I was playing a role I'd performed too many times to think about.
At some point, a girl moved closer, dark hair, familiar face, though I couldn't have named her if I tried—her hand brushing lightly against my arm as she leaned in to say something I didn't bother listening to.
I gave her what she expected.
A smirk. A half-hearted response. Just enough attention to keep the illusion intact.
Because that was easier.
Predictable.
Safe.
Until my gaze lifted—and found her.
Bennett.
Across the room, standing near the edge of the crowd like she didn't quite belong there, her posture slightly tense, like she was already thinking about leaving.
She looked different.
Not in any obvious way.
But I noticed.
The way her sweater slipped slightly off her shoulder, unintentional, the fabric soft against her skin. The way she held her drink like she wasn't sure if she even wanted it. The way her eyes moved across the room, restless, searching for something, or maybe trying not to find it.
She shouldn't have been here.
And yet—
I couldn't look away.
The girl next to me kept talking, her voice fading into background noise as my focus stayed fixed where it shouldn't.
Then Bennett looked up.
And for a moment, everything else disappeared.
Her gaze met mine, and it hit harder than it should have, sharper, heavier, like something had shifted again without permission.
Confusion.
Anger.
Something else beneath it.
Good.
She should be angry.
That was easier to deal with.
Safer than anything softer.
So I held her gaze, didn't move, didn't break first.
Let her see exactly what I wanted her to see.
Nothing.
She looked away.
Of course she did.
And a second later—
She was gone.
I noticed immediately.
The space she left behind felt wrong in a way I didn't bother analyzing.
I exhaled slowly, irritation settling back into place, heavier now.
This was ridiculous.
I didn't care.
I wasn't supposed to care.
And yet—
I was already moving.
⸻
The corridor outside was colder than expected, the silence almost jarring after the noise inside.
She stood a few steps away, near the wall, her shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths like she'd needed the space more than she'd realized.
I stopped in the doorway.
Didn't step closer.
Didn't speak.
Just watched.
Because for once—
For the first time in a long time—
I had no idea what to say.
And that was a problem.