28. Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Seven

G ritting my teeth, I rise from yet another stumble and glare at myself in the mirror. My feet are killing me from last night's heels and this morning's grueling dance practice. The sun has yet to rise, but sleep wasn't an option. Every time I found enough peace to drift off, startling green eyes were waiting for me. All encompassing, bordering mesmerizing. They swallowed me whole, luring me into a whirlpool I couldn't surface from. Wyatt's laughter pounded against the inside of my ears until I woke in yet another cold sweat. I hate him. I hate that still, after all this time, he won't let me grasp a trace of happiness.

So here I am. Focusing on all I have, all I can depend on. Dancing. It may prove a little tricker this morning, but eventually, I will find my zen. Theo had the good sense to record his piano mastery so we can practice without him being present. Perhaps our run-in spurred him to think twice about stalking around the studio in the dark. Strolling over to my phone, I restart the piece again and take it from the top.

I dance for hours, pushing myself through the entire showcase from start to finish. In the parts I'm supposed to have a partner for, I fill in the lifts with leaps and moves which fit the music better. I might have to talk to Ms. Nightingale about some transitions which don't flow as easily as they should. During these short breaks where I'm jotting down notes, I roll my ankles and stretch. I've pushed myself far beyond the typical length of practice and now I'm starting to suffer for it. I can't pretend it's not exactly what I wanted - the excuse to shower after everyone else has left for class and return to bed for the day. I won't be surfacing until I can sleep soundly enough not to dream.

"From one monster to another," I mutter to myself. I can't pinpoint when my fears changed from my birth father to Wyatt. They're at different ends of the scale in terms of physically hurting me, but Wyatt's insistence to exploit my weaknesses and prey upon them is taking precedent. My birth father was a bastard. Just a bad man who did bad things. Wyatt? He's a privileged fuckwitt who never learned to share and blames me for it .

Light pierces the high windows above the mirrors. I hear the rumbling of chatter before the door opens and a crowd of dancers leak inside. All smiles and fresh faces. It seems everyone had a much better night at the ball than I did. Grabbing my phone from the piano, I head across the studio to pack up my stuff. I change out my shoes and tug Meg's baggy sweatshirt over my head, keeping my back to those setting up around me. I don't need any questions and at worst, I don't need the pity. Lifting my backpack, a padded envelope sits underneath with my name on. I frown, tentatively picking it up.

I pry open the seal, pulling out a pair of compression socks. My ankles throb on instinct, welcoming the sight whilst my hand trembles. There's a note inside, a ripped piece of paper with rushed handwriting.

‘You wouldn't get them for yourself.'

A kind thought, I suppose, if the two letters at the bottom of the page didn't have my heart lodged in my throat. XO. My eyes fly around the room at everyone setting up and stretching against the rail. They all greet my suspicion with raised eyebrows and frowns.

Shoving them back inside, I crush my belongings to my chest, envelope and all, and rush out of the studio, crashing into multiple shoulders as I go. For the second time in (two weeks?), I fly across campus with huge strides. My heart is pounding, the last of the energy I reserved for a shower quickly waning. Dashing across a road, narrowly missing being hit by an oncoming car, I make it to the frat house. There's no time wasted on climbing the tree today; I throw the front door open and burst inside unannounced.

The first person I find is standing in the kitchen, leaning his hip against the counter. Workout gear clings to his muscled body, a protein shake in hand. Green eyes lift to mine, hickeys littering his neck. I can barely breathe, my grip cramping around my backpack.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asks after a beat. His casualness is a red flag to my anger.

"You know what," I throw my bag down onto the ground. Upending the envelope onto the island, Wyatt's eyes slowly trace the note that floats against the marble. "Yeah, you can fucking help me. You can do your damn job!" Slamming my fist down on the counter, I instantly regret it but refuse to let my face falter from its glare. Wyatt doesn't react aside from the dip in his tone.

"Excuse me?"

"You are most definitely not excused. You were told to watch over me. Nixon ordered you to keep me safe." My shoulders are so tense, my neck will snap if I shift too quickly. Finishing his shake, Wyatt toys with his tongue against his teeth. Again, he looks at the note with a lack of interest. Maybe fan mail is a common occurrence for him too, but I certainly have never received one without a postage stamp. Without an address. As far as I know, this is the first time Mr. XO has hand delivered a message. It means he was here . He is here, somewhere in Waversea. At a loss, I grip the socks and toss them across the room. They hit the refrigerator and drop to the floor.

"What's happening in here?" Huxley appears. His presence brings the others from wherever they were hiding. Wyatt sighs, slowly walking to leave and pausing when he's looming over me.

"I believe it's the definition of a bitch fit." Forget the red flag. I lunge at him, grabbing fistfuls of hair and skin. I fight dirty, my nails digging into anything I can find, hanging on with all my might when someone else tries to drag me away. Using one hand to grab the back of Wyatt's hair, I punch him with the other. His head whips to the side, an instant welt blooming across his jaw. A hand catches my arm before I can do it again.

"How's this for a bitch fit, asshole?!" I scream as I'm finally pried away from him and into the cage of multiple bodies. No one attends to Wyatt, who's massaging his jaw and checking his teeth with his tongue. My mind is screaming. Now I've had a taste of his pain, I want more. He deserves more. I attempt to dodge those holding me, my fist clenched and ready. Maybe I can liberate a few of those perfectly straight teeth as well .

"Avery, stop." A voice finds me amongst the bodies. Hands cup my cheeks, tilting my face upwards to Dax's. He pleads with his blue eyes, his concern palpable. I scrunch my eyes closed, refusing to let go of the rage. Wyatt will never take me seriously. He'll never listen to me, and I don't know why I still care. The anger twists bitterly inside, turning on myself. He's part of the problem, but this desire for his attention is what will always haunt me. Why do I want him to accept me?

"Breathe. Talk to me." Dax tries again, his thumbs stroking across my skin. Wetness pools there, the first hint that a tear has escaped my eye. Tiredness wins. My limbs drop, the tension ebbing away.

"I have a…I don't really know. A fan, I think." I open my eyes. The others are crowding me, but it's Dax I talk to. He's the one I know is always listening. "He…I mean, I think it's a he. Meg and I call him Mr. XO. He's been sending me birthday and Christmas cards for the past ten years, sometimes other letters and flowers. My favorite chocolates," I shrug. "It's all been pretty innocent, but I forward his notes onto our private investigator anyway."

"Okay," Dax nods. Slowly, he shoulders his way through his friends to guide me to the sofa. Huxley is at my back the entire way, until we sit and he nestles into my other side. I keep my attention on Dax's hands stroking mine. "Then what? "

"I received a note and a gift this morning in the dance studio. He was here, in person. He's never felt this close before, and I kinda freaked out."

"The night you came to me with your ankle twisted," Huxley breathes. "Something spooked you then too." I can only nod. Garrett reappears, sitting on the coffee table with his long legs crossed and a bag of chips in his hands. His loud crunching earns him scowls from everyone, but he couldn't care less.

"Stop struggling," I hear Axel huff. He's moved away to attend to Wyatt's jaw, muttering that it needs ice. I can't hide my smirk at that.

"Dax and I will head to your dorm, pack up your stuff." Huxley kisses the top of my head. I grab his thigh to stop him from getting up.

"Wait, what?!" Looking at Dax, he seems to be in agreement.

"You're staying here until we find out who this Mr. XO is. Maybe Wyatt doesn't care about protecting you, but we do." His eyes remain soft, his touch lingering. I swallow thickly, watching them don jackets and shove their feet in their sneakers. Huxley's jaw is set, his back rigid as he swings his keys around his index finger.

"Wyatt, ice your own fucking jaw. Axel, attend to Avery's hands. Garrett, share your snacks." He dishes out orders in a tone I've yet to hear but instantly find attractive. My eyes lower to my hands, finding my knuckles red and pulsing. My nails are cracked, and a few half-crescent moons in my palms are prickling with blood. The three of them stalk out of the door, Wyatt's glare promising revenge. It doesn't have the same appeal with a pack of frozen peas pressed against his face.

Before Axel gets close, I jump over the back of the sofa and seek out my phone, sending a quick photo of my hands to Meg. She's going to love this.