“I’ll rip your chest open. With my hands.”
That’s what he said.
With his mouth. In front of everyone. In front of me.
And I swear on every holy book and every dirty magazine I’ve ever hidden under my bed that my p***y fluttered.
Not twitched. Not tightened. Fluttered.
Because there he was, the most dangerous man in this building, covered in blood and still probably hard from ruining me against a locker, declaring to the world that I was his. Not flirt-with-me-at-your-own-risk his. No. I-will-rip-your-heart-out-and-feed-it-to-your-mother his.
“She’s mine,” he growled, voice low and cruel and godlike. “Do you hear me? Mine. I don’t share. I don’t offer. I own.”
And I swear, every girl in that hallway started crossing their legs. Every boy looked down at the floor.
Every teacher step
