“And I thought the situation at the old house was a bloodbath,” he remarks, smirking with that annoying devil-may-care attitude of his before he finally leaves. I’m cursing him out as I clean up as best I can with toilet paper, and then head out into the hall with fury riding like a cloak around me.
I find Oscar in the kitchen, listening to CEMETERY by AViVA on his phone. The volume is cranked fairly low, but the haunting sounds of the music still stain the air like fog on a cold night.
He’s making himself a cup of tea which both weirdly suits him and also seems like the antipathy of who he was tonight when he was brandishing that weapon. Oscar Montauk is a reptile in beautiful, tattooed skin.
“Don’t think I don’t see the way you look at me,” I tell him, watching as he stirs milk into his tea with a small spoon. I rarely—if ever—see him eat or drink. This is truly a rare occurrence.
He lifts his eyes to me, and I find that they’re the color of a graveyard, when the moon is high, and the trees are barren of leaves. A shiver takes over me that I can’t fight off.
“And how, exactly, is that?” he queries mildly, setting the small spoon aside and lifting the mug to his lips with hands drenched in blood and secrets and ink. I watch those hands and wonder what it’d be like if they were on my throat instead of mine on his …
Eww.
The fuck?
No.
I banish the thought and move around the kitchen peninsula to face off against him.
Why I’m choosing to do this now, I have no idea.
Oscar stares at me, quietly sipping his tea as he waits for me to elaborate.
Lying to other people is insane; lying to yourself is suicidal. That’s what I read in that damn book, right? Devils’ Day Party. Ask me later why I bother to read bully romances. My life is a goddamn bully romance.
I’m confronting Oscar now because I can’t stand the fact that he acts like I don’t exist sometimes, like he appears disappointed at others, because he won’t let me touch him.
“Like you both hate me and love me, all at the same time,” I say, my words breathy.
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know,” is what he says in response to my statement. Not of course I don’t love you, silly little bird. The song ends and then starts all over again; it must be on repeat.
That’s an interesting fact to note about Oscar. Some people are playlist people, some are radio people with their custom Spotify stations, and others … are repeaters. I often listen to the same song on repeat for hours on end. Used to drive Penelope nuts.
And it’s something that Oscar and I have in common.
“So you’re in love with me?” I ask dryly, mouth hanging open as I lick the edge of my lip, Cal’s sweater bagging and hanging around my arms. He might not be a hulking monster like Vic or Hael, but wearing his sweater reminds me of how much bigger his muscles are. I need to start working out, like, yesterday.
“You’re bleeding,” Oscar replies, choosing instead to glance down at my pale thighs instead of answering my question. A slither of hot red liquid runs down and stains the tiled floor. Crap. In my frenzy to fight Oscar, I forgot to put my cup back in.
I glance back up at his face.
He likes the sight of it, the blood.
“And you’re deranged,” I quip back, but he just shrugs his shoulders. The way his hands are holding the white mug, they mimic the demon hands tattooed on his neck. The sight is eerie—especially with this creepy ass song playing on repeat. “Why are you always so goddamn mad at me? I get it: you didn’t want me in Havoc. Too late. Blood in, blood out, right?”
“So much blood,” Oscar says, looking back up at my face. “Is this a normal flow for you?”
I laugh then, because I know he’s just trying to needle me, get underneath my skin like a worm and crawl. I hate to admit that it’s working.
“I’ve had an irregular period since I was twelve. Find another target to attack, you dick.”
Oscar sets his mug on the counter and then starts toward me. I forget sometimes how tall he is, since he’s always trying to keep his distance. He puts his right hand on the counter and leans over me.
“I wasn’t attacking; I was admiring,” tells me, and my body ripples with an emotion that feels like fear and lust, all twisted into one unspeakable thing. I can smell Oscar now, that spicy-sweet scent of cinnamon wafting over me.
“Admiring my period? Man, you’re creepier now than you were at the house.” I lean back, so that I can meet his eyes. My gaze traces the sardonic smile on his lips, one that radiates bemusement and superiority both. It occurs to me that I’m standing in a dark kitchen, having a casual conversation with a man that killed two people just hours prior. Also, I’m bleeding everywhere. Really, I should just haul my ass to a bathroom.
“Am I though? Creepy?” he asks, reaching up with his left hand and dragging his knuckles through the air next to my face. I notice that he doesn’t touch me, even as close as we are. Oscar is aware of every breath. “You look at me the same way, you know, with that dichotomous intensity.”
I exhale, and then draw in a huge inhale. My chest inflates, my sweatshirt-covered breasts brushing up against Oscar’s bare skin. But just barely. Just barely. He registers it though, and shudders.
“Why are you always so pissed at me? Seriously, I want an answer, and I want it right now.” Oscar turns his head, watching the darkness behind me. A ripple passes through me, one that speaks of creeping predators and shadows. It’s Vic, I know it is. He watches us for a moment before heading upstairs to the bathroom.
“Jesus, Bernadette, there’s blood everywhere,” he calls down, but I ignore him. I was going to clean it up, but eh, it’s his problem now. If he wants to be my husband, he can deal.
“Why am I pissed at you?” Oscar asks with a sharp laugh. I notice he doesn’t put any space between us. My eyes find his pierced nipples, drifting lower and wishing I could see his pierced cock, too. “Because of that.” He points toward the staircase and frowns, nice and violent. “Victor doesn’t treat you well. None of them do. Why do you reward them with your affection? It disturbs me, Bernadette.”
I refocus on his face, carved of shadows and sin, and blink in surprise.
Seeing Havoc murder number six on my list and cart his corpse off to the woods certainly didn’t. This though, it’s a shocker.
“You’re mad because I hang out with the people I’m supposed to be family with?” I clarify and Oscar grits his teeth. He waits as Vic comes down the stairs, as quiet as a cat. He watches us both again for several seconds before finally disappearing into his room. I hear him murmur something under his breath, but it isn’t worth the time or effort to figure out what it was.
“I’m mad because you kiss and fuck and fawn over them, after everything they’ve done to you.” Oscar pauses and rattles his long fingers against the countertop, like the inked legs of a venomous spider. He looks back at me. “After everything I’ve done to you.”
He pauses then, and the room gets real quiet as the song ends once again. It starts up soon after, but I can feel that pregnant pause like a punch to the gut.
“Are you upset because I fuck them …” I start, taking a gamble and lifting my palms to Oscar’s bare chest. Joining Havoc has made me brave. It’s only been a few months, but I’m surprised at how much I’ve changed. What will I look like after a year? A decade? “Or upset because I don’t fuck you?” I press my fingers to Oscar’s skin, and he hisses at me.
His hands snap up to grab my wrists, but he doesn’t push me away. Instead, he traps my palms against his skin. He’s burning up beneath my touch, and I’m finding it really hard to breathe.
“You wouldn’t want me to fuck you, Bernadette. I’m not sure I could behave myself.”
I snort at that, breaking a bit of that strange magic in the air. Oscar releases me, stepping back to put some space between us. His face tells me nothing, but his body is tense, his cock hard beneath his pj pants
.
“You? The master of control?” I quip, watching him as he moves over to grab his mug again. “I highly doubt you’d have much trouble behaving. Is it just that you hate me more than you love me? Is that it?”
“Hate you …” he murmurs, sipping his tea and giving a low, cultured laugh. He’s extravagantly uncivilized, now isn’t he?
“You’ve said it before,” I challenge, giving Oscar a dark look. “You hate me. I get it. But why? Because I’m over your shit.”
He smiles at me, but the expression is sharp, cutting.
Without his shirt on, he’s a colorful mess of tattoos. His ink owns every inch of his lean, muscular form, a story made of blood and needles. Unsurprising, considering his soul is clearly crafted of darkness and pain.
“You’re bold, Bernadette,” Oscar says, stepping close to me once again and wrapping me up in his dark scent. He smells of danger and uncertainty, of wild, moonlit nights, and orgasms made of hot embers and poisonous kisses. I close my eyes as he cups the side of my face in long, elegant fingers, the fingers of a master pianist or a Renaissance painter. They’re warm, too, from the tea.
When I open my eyes, I find Oscar far too close to me again. We could kiss, if we were so inclined. But how could we be? When he hates me so goddamn much. He sets the tea down, adding his right hand to the other side of my face, touching me. Willingly.
“You, in Havoc,” he starts, letting a low chuckle curl past his lips like smoke from a slow-burning fire. “I’ve never wanted anything less.”
I reach up to slap his fingers away, but he catches my wrist with his other hand, holding me prisoner. Captivating me with gray eyes the color of a tumultuous sea, slow-moving but capable of unfathomable destruction.
“Should I be surprised by that?” I quip, my tongue as caustic and acidic as his own. We can have a verbal sprawl, me and Oscar. But I hope he knows I’ll kick his ass in repartee the same way I did with my hands around his throat.
“Maybe,” he bites back, smiling in just such a way that I feel my knees go weak. “Because I don’t think you understand my motivations, Bernadette Blackbird. You’re incandescent; I’m just trying to keep your flame from being snuffed out.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I snarl, quickly losing my patience with him. His hands tighten against the sides of my face and I reach up, placing my own hands atop his.
“You glow from the inside out,” Oscar whispers, and then he does something I never expected: he drops his mouth to mine.
I’ve been hit before, many times. In many fights. By many people, much, much bigger than I am.
None of those incidents knocked me back in quite the same way as Oscar Montauk’s kiss.
His kiss is one of shadows and spiders, of darkness and strands of old moonlight woven into webs. When I kiss him, I can taste both his violence and his desperate need for love. There’s a void inside of him, one that’s even bigger than the one inside of me.
Nobody has ever taken care of him.
Nobody has ever loved him—except for Havoc.
Except for … me.
“Since elementary school,” I murmur against his ice-cold slash of mouth. Oscar doesn’t let me finish, kissing me harder, pushing me back. I stumble a bit, but he keeps me upright, guiding me where he wants me to go.
The backs of my calves hit the side of the couch, and then I’m going down.
With Oscar on top of me.
Shit, shit, shit, Bernie, you’re on your period; you’re bleeding. I tell myself all of that, but it doesn’t matter. This is happening. It has to happen. It needs to happen, and it’s happening now.
Oscar cups the back of my head in his sinful fingers, his tongue taking over my mouth, his long, lean body between my thighs. I’m so surprised and excited by the fact that he’s actually letting me touch him that my hands begin to wander all over his body, finding his strong shoulders, sliding down his arms.
When I find the little metal swords pierced through his nipples, I give them a tug with both hands.
The sound that escapes that man’s throat undoes me completely. I moan in response, thrusting my hips up against his pelvis, feeling his right hand slide up my waist toward my breast. As soon as he grabs ahold of it, he growls.
“Thought you liked bigger boobs than mine,” I snap back at him, flushed from head to toe and shaking all over. Oscar pauses briefly, lifting his gray eyes to mine. I lift my hands up and grab his glasses, pulling them aside so that I can look into his eyes without interruption. I need to see them without a protective cover, bare and endless and deadly.
This man killed two people today. The thought should be sobering; it’s not.
“Bernadette, you have huge fucking tits. You must be kidding me? You were intended to read between the lines.” He bites my lower lip as his words settle over me. He said he liked bigger breasts; there aren’t many girls with bigger breasts around that don’t have implants.
Oscar is an asshole.
“I hate you,” I grind out between clenched teeth, but it’s impossible to maintain that caustic vitriol in my voice, not with him caressing my breasts the way he is, like he’s savoring the weight of them. My thumbs trace over his nipples, teasing the metal pieces and flicking them back and forth until Oscar responds the way I want him to by thrusting against me. “The blood …” I murmur, but he shushes me with another kiss, one that bites, one that cuts.
I’m wearing a loose pair of basketball shorts that I stole from Aaron. Oscar soon finds his way to them, pushing them over my hips. His fingers delve between my legs, finding that hot, wet heat.
Normally, I’m not one to get shy during sex, but I can’t seem to keep the flush off my face as Oscar slides two, long fingers into my cunt. His eyes meet mine, and my throat gets tight with emotion. I’m bleeding all over him and my body feels even more raw than usual, the ache between my thighs nearly painful.
With his other hand, Oscar shoves my shirt up so that he can see my bare breasts.
The way he exhales makes my body clamp down around his fingers in excitement.
“The devil take me,” he mutters, dropping his face down toward my chest. At the last second, he flicks gray eyes up to my face. I can tell he’s trying hard to maintain his usual coldness and biting wit, but it doesn’t work. His face is a mosaic of need and tenderness. Oscar’s sharp tongue flicks out, wrapping my nipple and sucking it into his mouth. Those lips of his are just as acerbic and deadly sucking on my breast as they are flinging witty repartee.
His thumb slips across my clit, nice and slippery, causing my hips to buck against his hand.
“Bernadette,” he growls out, moving his bloodied hand from my cunt to my hip. We’re making a huge mess here, but I don’t care. My heart is too full, my eyes stinging with strange tears. I have no idea why I feel like I’m about to cry, but it doesn’t matter. If I hold them back, Oscar shouldn’t be able to see them in the dark.
He adjusts himself, pushing his pants down his hips until his cock springs free. It’s impossible to see the ink in the low light, but the piercings on his dick glint in a stray shaft of moonlight. Not that he gives me long to examine them anyway.
Oscar lowers himself over me, rubbing his body against mine. For someone that hates to be touched, he sure does seem desperate to connect our bare flesh. It’s as if he’s a starving man who’s just finally found his way to a picnic.
He’s going to eat everything.
My fingers weave together behind his neck as he fits himself to my opening and then pushes inside. There’s a moment there where he freezes up, his body shuddering as we adjust to each other. The smell of blood is in the air, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it should. As weird as it sounds, it actually seems to suit us, having our first time with the scent of copper surrounding us.
Oscar moves his hips with long, slow, undulating strokes, the metal in his cock teasing me in strange places, making me squirm. Hael is pierced, too, but Oscar must have some unique metal because the
sensations he’s giving me are new.
He kisses me again, but I find that I suddenly don’t recognize him at all.
He’s … kissing me softly, almost reverently. His body moves the same way, at complete odds with his personality.
Jesus fuck, Oscar Montauk is making love to me.
My entire body flushes hot as I press my cheek to his, closing my eyes and enjoying the way his lean form feels on top of mine. His hips push me into the couch cushions, staining us both with the red of my womanhood. It feels extra good, actually, to do it like this. Whenever I get my period, I always feel like my cunt is more swollen, more desperate than usual. The blood even gives us extra lube, adding to the slip and slide, the beautiful friction.
We spend, quite literally, over an hour on that couch, locked together, moving together, joined into one person. I come more than once, but it’s hard to say how many times, lost in a fever of pleasure and connection.
We have something here, me and Oscar. I didn’t expect that, not at all.
Things change as soon as he comes, shoving his cock deep and hitting the end of me, making me cry out as he fills me with hot seed. His muscles tighten, fingers digging into the sofa on either side of my head. But there’s no release after that, no collapse, no panting.
Instead, he just sort of … freezes.
Crap.
He’s panicking, isn’t he?
“Oscar,” I start, trying to head off whatever unhealthy emotional response he’s having. He pushes up on his forearms to look down at me like he’s never seen me before, like he isn’t even sure how he got here.
“What.” Just that one word, but really, there’s not even a question mark at the end of it.
I’m so stunned by the shift in attitude that I just stay where I am, heart thundering, my emotions twisted into a violent tangle.
Without a word, Oscar sits up and pulls out of me, looking down at the red on his pelvis, his lower belly, his upper thighs, and scowling fiercely.
He stands up, yanking his pants over his dick, and takes off.
Chaos at Prescott High Page 29
