10. Lena

10

LENA

FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

I stand beside Talon outside Principal Matthews’s office, my heart racing. Blood stains his knuckles, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The image of him destroying those guys plays over in my mind—the raw power, the violence, the way his muscles flexed as he threw each punch. Heat rushes to my face.

"You shouldn't have done that." My voice comes out breathier than intended.

His blue eyes lock onto mine, dark and intense. "They deserved worse."

A shiver runs through me. I squeeze my thighs together, ashamed of how my body responds to his protective rage. He's my foster brother. These feelings are wrong on so many levels.

"Two weeks suspension." He wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans. "Could've been worse."

"Matthews is giving you a chance to graduate." I lean against the wall, needing its support. "You're lucky."

"Lucky?" He steps closer, towering over me. His scent—sweat and something darker—fills my lungs. "Those assholes threatened you. They're the lucky ones that I didn't—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

My skin prickles with awareness. I've noticed these reactions more lately—the way my pulse quickens when he's near, how I catch myself staring at his lips, the heat that pools low in my belly when he gets protective.

The tension in the hallway thickens as we wait. My foster parents' muffled voices drift through Principal Matthews’s door, mixing with his stern tone. Talon's presence burns against my skin—he's close, too close, yet not close enough.

"They'll blame me for this." I wrap my arms around myself, fighting a shiver when his fingers brush my elbow.

"No." His voice drops lower, turning rougher. "I won't let them."

I turn to face him, my back against the wall. A mistake. His broad chest blocks my view of the hallway, caging me in. My breath catches as his palm presses flat against the wall beside my head.

"Talon—"

"Don't." The muscle in his jaw ticks. His gaze drops to my lips, then snaps away. He pushes off the wall, creating distance between us. "Just don't."

The loss of his warmth hits like a physical blow. I hate how my body craves his proximity, how my skin tingles where he almost touched me. He runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it further.

"You're only fourteen," he mutters, more to himself than me.

Heat floods my cheeks. We never acknowledge this thing between us—this electric current that charges the air whenever we're alone. He's eighteen, legally an adult. I watch his shoulders bunch under his shirt as he paces, three steps away, three steps back.

The door handle rattles. Talon freezes mid-step, his expression shuttering closed. Mr. Wilson's voice grows clearer as he approaches the door. My foster brother shoots me one last heated look before moving further away, leaving me trembling against the wall.

The office door swings open. Mr. Wilson's face is red with rage as he storms out, followed by Mrs. Wilson wringing her hands. Principal Matthews stands in the doorway, his expression grim.

"We'll make sure he understands the gravity of his actions," Mr. Wilson says, his voice dripping with barely contained fury.

My stomach twists. I know that tone—it used to precede the worst beatings. But something's different now. Mr. Wilson's hands shake as he gestures at Talon, and he keeps his distance. The memory of those bullies' broken bodies flashes through my mind.

Talon towers over our foster father, his shoulders broad, arms corded with muscle. The last time Mr. Wilson tried to hit him was over a year ago. The bruises on Mr. Wilson's ribs took weeks to fade.

Mrs. Wilson touches her husband's arm. "Richard, perhaps we should?—"

"Shut up, Margaret." He jerks away from her, but his eyes never leave Talon. There's fear there, buried under the anger. He's realized what I already know—Talon could kill him with his bare hands.

Talon stands perfectly still, but tension radiates from every line of his body. His eyes are cold, calculating, fixed on Mr. Wilson's throat. The air crackles with violence, waiting to explode.

"Let's go," Mr. Wilson barks, but he backs away first, creating distance between himself and Talon. His attempt at authority falls flat, undermined by his obvious fear.

I hold my breath, watching Talon's face. Will this be the day he snaps? The day he finally gives Mr. Wilson what he deserves? Part of me hopes he does, which terrifies me more than anything.