8. Talon

8

TALON

EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD

One year later…

I lean against the lockers, my jaw clenching as I watch that pathetic freshman, Brad Thompson, hover around Lena. His letterman jacket marks him as one of those entitled jocks who think they own the school. The way he runs his fingers through his hair to impress her makes my blood boil.

Lena’s grown so much these past few years. Her dark waves cascade down her back, and her smile lights up the hallway. That fierce spirit I saw in her as a child now radiates through every graceful movement. But the months are counting down until I graduate. Until I’m no longer here to protect her from scumbags like Brad or assholes like Jessica Martin.

Brad steps closer to her, and my fingers curl into fists. He has no right to breathe her air, let alone try to make her laugh. I know his type—seen plenty of them come and go through the foster system. All charm on the surface, rot underneath.

“Come on, just one date,” Brad says, blocking Lena’s path to her next class. “Friday night, after the game?”

My vision blurs red at the edges. I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat, watching the light fade from his eyes. It would be so easy. One quick move behind the bleachers after practice...

But I can’t. Not just because it would draw attention but because of her. Lena’s fourteen—still so young, still finding her way. And I’m eighteen now, practically a man. These feelings I have, this possessive rage that consumes me when others get close to her—I have to control it for her sake.

I watch her give him attitude as she confidently declines Brad’s invitation and heads to class. My chest aches with a familiar mix of pride and pain. She’s blossomed into a confident, strong woman I can’t help but care for. The Wilsons have tried to break her, but she’s unbreakable. In four months, I’ll have to leave high school and the thought of not being near her tears me apart.

For now, I memorize every detail of her—how she tucks her hair behind her ear, how her bag bumps against the curve of her hip as she walks. I’ll carry these images with me when I go.

Later that day, I walk the hallway after the last bell, tracking Brad’s movements. The idiot isn’t giving up. He corners Lena by her locker, his hand against the metal beside her head.

“Just one date. Stop playing hard to get.” His voice carries down the hall.

“I said no.” Lena’s voice is sharp and defiant.

My feet move before I can think. In three strides, I’m there, yanking Brad back by his collar. He stumbles, face draining of color when he sees me.

“She said no.” I lean close, letting him see the darkness in my eyes. “Leave.”

Brad scrambles away, nearly tripping over his own feet. Pathetic.

“I didn’t need your help.” Lena slams her locker shut, glaring at me. Gone is that sweet little girl who used to follow me, trying to “save my soul.” Now she’s all fire and spite. Ever since she turned thirteen, things changed between us.

“Really? Looked like you needed it to me, princess.”

Her eyes narrow at the nickname. “Stop calling me that. And stop acting like my guardian angel. You don’t need to be my protector anymore, Talon.”

I step closer, backing her against the lockers. “No? Then why do I keep chasing off guys who have the hots for you?”

“Because you’re a controlling asshole who can’t mind his own business.” She tilts her chin up, defiant. The gesture sends a thrill through me.

“Better an asshole than a naive little girl who thinks she can handle everything alone.”

“Fuck you.” She tries to push past me, but I don’t budge.

“Such language, princess. What would Mrs. Wilson say?”

Her cheeks flush with anger. It’s intoxicating, watching her lose control like this. The fiercer she gets, the more I want to push her buttons.

“Get out of my way,” she hisses.

I lean down until my lips nearly brush her ear. “Make me.”

Her sharp intake of breath hits my ears like a drug. I pull back just enough to study her face, catching how her pupils expand in those mesmerizing hazel eyes. The hallway feels electric, charged with something dangerous and raw.

My body cages her against the lockers, close enough to catch the scent of her strawberry shampoo. The same cheap brand Mrs. Wilson has begrudgingly bought for her since she arrived. The familiarity of it twists something deep in my gut.

“Not so brave now, are you, princess?” I trace one finger along her jawline, then the column of her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my touch. Her skin is soft, perfect. Everything about her is perfect.

She tries to maintain that fierce glare, but I see right through it. See the way her breath catches, how her lips part slightly. The darkness that lives in me calls to something hidden deep inside her, something equally as dark.

“I hate you,” she whispers, but there’s no conviction. Her eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

“No, you don’t.” I lean closer, letting my breath fan across her face. “You’re afraid of how much you don’t hate me.”

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, but she doesn’t push me away. Instead, she holds on like she’s drowning. Like I’m both the waves pulling her under and the life vest keeping her afloat.

The desire rolling off her is intoxicating. It matches the hunger that has eaten me alive ever since I became aware she’s not that little girl anymore—ever since I noticed how she’d grown into this fierce, beautiful creature that haunts my every waking moment.

I rip myself away from her, my hands clenched with the effort it takes. Every cell in my body screams to go back, to claim what’s mine. But she’s fourteen. Just fourteen. Reality hits me like ice water.

“Talon?” Her voice is small, confused.

I can’t look at her. Can’t trust myself if I do. My feet carry me down the empty hallway, each step feeling like I’m dragging lead weights. The exit sign glows red ahead, matching the haze of want clouding my vision.

The metal door slams behind me as I burst into the parking lot. Cold air bites at my face, but it’s not enough to cool the fire under my skin. I slam my fist into the brick wall, welcoming the sharp pain that shoots up my arm. Again. And again. Until blood trickles down my knuckles.

Four years. Four fucking years until she’s eighteen. The thought of anyone else touching her before then makes me want to burn this whole town to the ground. But I can’t touch her. If I do, I’ll destroy her. Turn her into something as twisted and broken as me.

My bloody hand leaves a smear on my bike handles as I pedal out of the parking lot. I don’t look over my shoulder. Don’t check to see if she followed me out. I just cycle, pushing myself as fast as I can, trying to outrun the memory of her pulse racing under my touch.