8. 8 Tori

Chapter eight

8: Tori

T horne's an asshole. I already know that, but I had no idea just how much more of an asshole he could be until yesterday. He made me admit I didn't have the money to pay him back, then lorded it over me the rest of the day. He wouldn't let me drive my car, even though he just paid for it to be out of the shop.

Nope. Instead, he took me to a dealership, and now I have a new red BMW to drive them all in. His words were, and I quote, “No way in hell any of us are getting in that piece of shit scrap of metal.”

I take deep offense to that, Thorne. Lucky Luce has seen me through some hardships, and she's holding steady for her age, thank you very much.

I'm dragging my feet as my alarm sounds, having been unable to sleep, thanks to all the pent-up emotions stirring up in me yesterday. Usually, I can cry myself to sleep, but this time, I cried and couldn't stop.

Alicia was like family, and thanks to Thorne, thanks to these boys, she's done with me—I don't blame her. I'd be done with me and my stupid shit, too. But God, Thorne made it a hundred times worse. She probably thinks I crawled back to him, begging for his sweet release .

She knows why I'm so fucked up. The only one that does.

That goddamn kiss confused me and my body the most. One minute I was crying, and the next I was restraining myself from pathetically leaving my room to try and sleep with him.

I swipe my alarm off, pulling off the silk sheets and slowly sliding down the side of my mattress until my ass touches the floor. Being lazy and feeling like I need a laugh, I act stupid and roll towards my closet. It brings a small smile to my lips at the thought of how stupid I must look.

Yes, Tori, show those boys the bad bitch you are by rolling on the floor. That's definitely going to make them think twice about messing with you.

Dammit, Inner-Tori. Don't give me your sarcasm.

I stand, opening the doors, and grab a pair of joggers and a plain white shirt. Today is Blaze's day, so I'm going to dress down. Plus, a white shirt means immediate stains for me. Those will annoy the shit out of him.

Ooooh, yes, stains. That will teach him!

I roll my eyes at myself, but do it anyway, because something small is better than nothing at all. They have successfully secluded me from everyone again, but I won't crumble. I refuse.

I shower and immediately stick my hair into the messiest bun possible, knowing I'll regret it later when I can't run a brush through it. With a smile on my face and eyes so pink and bloodshot it's impossible not to tell I've been crying, I leave my room, loudly stomping down the stairs.

Wake up call, boys.

When that does little to appease me, I decide to find their sound system. Thanks to their money, they have a full-ass set up in the living room with heavy bass speakers and surround sound. I pair my phone to the Bluetooth and blast Loser by Sueco, singing as loudly as I can as I grind the coffee beans and get started.

If you make my life shitty, I'll make sure to return the favor.

I'm almost done with one cup when the song suddenly cuts off. A shirtless Ryder stares at me with murder in his eyes, holding the power cord in his right hand. It's the first I've seen of Ryder's well defined abs, sculpted to absolute perfection against his flat stomach.

I admire not only the tone of his muscles, but also the myriad of art inked on his skin. All tattoos I didn't know existed on him. They're all placed where his shirt could hide them, adding another layer to his facade.

“Don't mess with my sleep, KitKat. It won't end well.” He throws the cord down, taking long, purposeful strides towards me.

He takes the cup of coffee out of my hands and starts sipping at it as he maintains eye contact with me. I know my pokes will wake some bears, but that's the damn point.

“Sorry. You're right,” I blink up at him, pretending to be remorseful. “You need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

He's stunned silent for a brief second before bursting into a fit of laughter. It's not the reaction I expected as he wipes at the corner of his eyes with his thumb, laughing so hard he almost cried.

“Oh. Sweet, sweet KitKat. We both know I look damn good already.” He leans in, bursting my personal bubble as usual. “Don't think I didn't see your eyes trail down my body. If you ask, maybe I'll let you touch me.”

I push him away, feeling the warmth of his soft skin beneath my palm. He takes my wrist, keeping my hand against his chest, right over the red robin he's inked there. His blue eyes stare deep into mine, searching for something, but I'm not sure what. His fingers squeeze tight against my skin, keeping me from breaking free .

“I said ask . You touched before asking. So ask, KitKat. Ask to touch me.” His devilish smirk is stretched wide across his face as he both literally and metaphorically forces my hand.

“I'm not asking.” I state plainly, not batting an eye as he tries to intimidate me.

“Then I won't ask either.” He takes a step towards me, his other hand now placed on my hip. My heart is hammering at the thought of what Ryder will do next, worried that my pride will have to suffer so that my body doesn't.

“Let her go, Ryder. You need to get ready.” Surprisingly, Thorne comes to my rescue, walking past us with disinterest as his nose is buried deep in his phone. He sighs, staring up to see Ryder hasn't released me yet. Apparently, all it takes is a singular look from Thorne for Ryder to listen as he lets me go, allowing me to continue making them their coffee.

On the list of items to get—add laxatives. Don't trust me with your coffee, boys.

Ryder rolls his eyes, but grabs his cup and turns toward the stairs. With his back toward me, I can see a very large, very familiar tattoo. Thorne has the very same one inked on his own back. The tree of life. Its thick trunk runs along their spines, as roots spread along the bottom, just above their asses. The thick branches stretch out towards their arms, but where Thorne has his branches long, running down the length of his arms, Ryder keeps them short, cutting off just past his shoulder.

I watch as he heads upstairs to get ready, leaving Thorne and I alone again. The feel of Thorne's lips against my own is still buzzing through my body, a new reminder of a time that once was. Keeping my focus on the machine in front of me, I avoid eye contact with him .

“Vic,” he calls me, and I hum in response, adding a splash of cream to his cup. “Don't let him get under your skin today. He's in a mood.”

Is he actually giving me a warning about Blaze? Does he think this is helpful? He's always in a fucking mood. That's nothing new. I grip the edge of the counter with annoyance, trying to keep my anger from boiling over.

“Like the mood you were in yesterday?” I bite back, cutting a glare at him, meeting his gaze for the first time. The whites of his eyes are a light pink, as if he'd stayed up all night, too. When those dark eyes meet my own, I see a quick glimpse of something, but it's gone before I can tell what it was.

“Worse.” He pushes himself off the counter, grabbing his cup and making his way past me like I'm nothing but air to walk through. His demeanor changes completely, and he's back to that aloof, permanently grumpy state he likes to live in.

And they say women play games. He has mood swings worse than me during my period.

Maybe it's his time of the month.

Blaze is the last one down, eyeing my outfit choice like I thought he would—with great distaste. That's right. Look at me being comfy while you're in loafers, a cashmere sweater, and khakis. I thought you said we were staying home?

“Breakfast, Doll. Time to learn how to make some.” I sip at my cup, eyeing him over the rim as he takes his own.

To be left in a house alone with Blaze is to be left in a dark room in hell with a demon ready to break me. I'm not sure which is worse, to be left alone with him inside, or to be out in the world together.

Thorne didn't give us much time here yesterday, and oddly, I'm thankful for that. There's no telling what stupidity I would have gotten myself into if left in a house with a man I both loathe and crave. Although, it would have been better than losing Alicia as my friend.

“We're starting easy,” he continues when he realizes I'm not going to respond. Thorne’s warning is sitting in the back of my mind, blaring sirens. Watch your tongue, Tori.

I nod, placing my cup down on the counter to free my hands. He's watching me, rolling the sleeves of his cashmere sweater in even, careful folds. Who cooks with something so fancy on?

“Scrambled eggs. I'm sure even you can handle that.”

I could, but I don't want to.

With a big exhale, I take a step forward, heading for the countertop stove where Blaze signals for me to stand. He gathers everything from the eggs, to the bowl, and the whisk. Salt and pepper are staring me in the face, the oldest coupling in the world.

Blaze and I are more like food coloring and oil—unable to mix completely, but fun to watch when shaken.

“You know how to crack an egg, right?” He hands me the brown egg—farm fresh written on the carton it just came from.

No shit.

“Yeah, I know how.” I'm being complacent, quiet. My head hurts and my heart aches, but I'm not going to add to my turmoil by angering Blaze, of all people. He has no problem retaliating immediately and as harshly as he likes.

What none of them know is that what I lack in cooking skills, I more than make up for in baking. Cooking always feels rushed and chaotic, having a million things going at once. Baking, on the other hand, is tranquil and easy.

It's what helps me unwind when I'm really stressed. Normally, I'd be baking up a storm with the amount of anxiety these boys have brought me, but I refuse to bake delicious treats for these assholes .

I break the egg he handed me into the bowl and whisk away. Blaze drones on about cooking, but I'm too lost in thought to give him my full attention. Was Thorne lying to me when he said Blaze is in a mood? Because so far, he's been pretty docile.

“Stop!” he yells at me just as I go to rest my hand on the counter, only it's not the counter, it's the damn cooktop. Specifically, the burner we were just using. Blaze has the pan in his hand, pushing the eggs onto a plate.

I yell as I immediately lift my palm up, feeling the burn as if my skin is cooking… maybe it is. The sound of the pan dropping to the floor is all I hear before Blaze grabs my wrist and places my palm under lukewarm water.

He's muttering so many curses under his breath, swearing I'm an idiot so quietly, I don't think I'm meant to hear it. His words aren't directed at me, more like his inner monologue has poured out into the real world.

The water helps soothe the ache momentarily before the burn comes back with a vengeance. It's not long after that, he turns off the water and takes me to the bathroom. Its black curtain and gold accents give it an elegant feel, making it feel like the last place I should be.

Blaze picks me up, placing me on the counter as he reaches for a first aid kit under the sink. He busts the sucker open, flipping through its contents until he finds what he's looking for—burn cream and gauze.

“Dammit, Victoria!” he snaps as he squeezes the ointment from the tube. “How can you be so careless?”

“It's not like I did it on purpose!” I snap back, my eyes watering almost immediately. Between the physical pain of my burn, the ache in my heart, and the overwhelming emotions that Thorne brought up yesterday, I'm spent. I can't hold it back .

I'm full-on sobbing, and not quietly either. My cry is that of an eight-year-old who just fell off their bike for the first time and scraped their knee. My head falls back as I gasp for air, currents of tears trailing down my cheeks, all the while Blaze stares at me like I've lost my mind.

I think I have.

This is the first time I've ever let any of them see me cry. In high school, I refused to give them the satisfaction, saving my tears for the old pillow at the group home I was still in. None of them know how many tears I've shed because of them. I could probably fill a whole barrel with them.

It's obvious he has no clue what to do with me. Blaze isn't the type to fumble—always calm and collected, as if he could see the outcome of every scenario. This is the first time I'm seeing that demeanor slip away, leaving a young man who doesn't know shit.

His eyes are wide, and his mouth slightly agape as he looks around the room for something to help, as if there were a band-aid for this too. Whatever waterfall he just unintentionally released inside of me won't stop, pouring out of me like a burst dam. It takes him all of thirty seconds to take a breath and calm himself while I continue to cry.

“Does it hurt that bad?” he asks when he's come back to his senses, that all-knowing look returning to his dark eyes. I shake my head, because even though it does hurt, it's not why I'm crying like this. “Then what the fuck is it, Tori?”

There's a shake to his tone, like maybe Blaze Hwan does experience fear, perhaps even anxiety. His brows pinch slightly over those assessing eyes as he scans me to see if maybe I've been hurt somewhere else. He lifts my hand, turning it back and forth, trying to find a deeper wound.

When he realizes there's nothing there, he lets me go, staring right into my eyes as he steps between my legs, placing his hands on the counter on either side of me. These boys don't understand the concept of personal space at all . He's so close to my face, I can feel the heat of his exhale brush against my cheeks.

“Stop crying and tell me what's wrong.” It's a simple command, but a command all the same.

I sniffle as I try my hardest to stop the relentless tears. “I—I—can't,” leaves me at a stutter before another sob escapes me.

“Jesus Christ, Doll. You're a mess,” he sighs, pushing back away from me and surprisingly handing me a tissue. “Clean yourself up. Nothing gets accomplished through tears.”

He turns, leaving the bathroom so that I can have a moment. It's a kindness I never expected to get from him, reminding me of the time I found him crying. The one time Blaze Hwan has shown any vulnerability. It's now inked on his chest, a reminder of our conversation of the dahlia flowers.

*Four Years Ago*

Hide, Tori. You need to hide.

I keep repeating the words, but trying to find a place at the school they know so well is like trying to use a GPS with a broken screen. They're coming for their revenge, and I have nowhere to go.

I was so angry I wasn't thinking, and I just, well… I scratched up their cars real good. I may not have signed my name, but I might as well have.

“Keep running, Icky! When we catch you, you're screwed!” Ryder's voice carries in the air, following close behind.

There!

I run down the stairs outside toward the basement doors. For once, luck is on my side as they swing open. I shut them closed behind me and stick the broom that's conveniently standing by the doors through the handles.

Ten seconds later, there's hard pulling on the other side as they attempt to get in. I back away slowly, staring at the metal entryway as if keeping my eyes on it will prevent them from opening.

“Fine! You can stay there all night then!” He hits the door, a loud bang echoing through the dank, dark basement.

The smell of mold and rust hangs in the air like a heavy blanket over forgotten machinery. The basement is dimly lit, light struggling to cut through the gloom from the small windows that give view of Ryder's receding Jordans. The other light is giving off one small, incandescent light bulb that hangs off a chain in the center of the surrounding forgotten boxes.

The concrete floor is cracked and uneven, with dark stains tracing their way across the surface. I'll have to watch every step I take so as not to stumble and fall. In one corner, a corroded furnace stands, while cobwebs drape from the rafters.

Every corner is filled with a jumble of discarded items, each one coated in a thick layer of grime, as if time itself has decided to take refuge in this forgotten space. It's the corner to the right that grabs my attention as the objects start to shift.

I blink, adjusting my vision to the dim lighting as I try to make sense of what I'm seeing. To my horror, Blaze appears as if he’s been dragged straight out of my nightmares. His hair is a chaotic tangle of black, a stark contrast to the perfect, controlled style I’m used to.

His face remains shrouded in shadows, but it’s clear something is deeply unsettling him. It's his voice that truly gives him away, trembling as it struggles to mask the sadness. But I know that voice all too well, having heard it many times at home from children who silently cry themselves to sleep, pretending they’re not when their backs are turned saying goodnight.

He's been crying ?

“What the hell did you do?”

Despite all the torment and bullshit he and his friends have put me through, I still manage to feel sympathy for him. That, and I'm intensely curious about what could make someone like Blaze break down so completely.

Cautiously, I take a step forward, moving slowly toward him, and stopping when I notice his hands clench at his sides. Too frightened to get any closer, I ask a question of my own, albeit, a stupid one.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn't answer, holding so still, I think he died standing. Eventually, I see the rise and fall of his chest, watching as his hands slowly relax. With a more composed demeanor, he steps out of the shadows, revealing the extent of his tears with his reddened eyes.

“What's it matter to you?” The bite in his voice is duller than usual, but still present.

“I guess it doesn't,” I shrug, taking a step back to feign disinterest, when in reality, it's all I care about at the moment. I need to understand what could bring someone as formidable as Blaze, a member of the Iron Triad, to his knees.

I turn to leave, not sticking around to see his reaction to what I've done to his car. I might be safe now, but once he figures out what I've done, I’m fucked. Pulling the broom out from the handles, I push against the door, finding it's locked. When Ryder said to stay in here all night, he wasn’t kidding. A chain links the doors together, keeping me trapped inside.

I pull at the handles, rattling the chains on the other side as loudly as I can. Maybe a teacher or the principal will hear me and open the door, even if they do punish me for being here.

“Hello?!” I yell out between the small cracks of the doors. “Is anyone out there?”

“No one is out there, and no one's coming. No one comes here, unless they want to fuck.” The way he so blatantly states this fact sets my body on fire. It's as if someone placed a hot coal inside my stomach, burning me with an odd sense of jealousy at the thought of him bringing someone here to screw.

I doubt that's why he's here now. There's no way Blaze would be crying over a girl, at least not a girl attending this school, anyway. They all fawn over him, throwing themselves at him left and right. There's not a single girl here who wouldn't sell their kidney to have him just acknowledge their existence. It's pathetic.

“Great. Just great.” I grunt in frustration as I turn, scanning the area for another way out. My best bet would be the window. I'm small enough that I could fit through it… maybe. The only problem is being able to reach it. I doubt Blaze will give me a boost, considering he'd have to trust me to get someone to open the door for him.

There's no way in hell that's happening.

Feeling defeated and succumbing to my fate, I dust off one of the many random boxes here and park my bottom on it. Blaze stays back, taking his own seat on a box throne. His eyes are fixed on me, but mentally, Blaze is a thousand miles away.

“Why don't you text them and tell them they accidentally trapped you, too. I doubt you want to be stuck here with me.”

More like I don't want to be stuck here with him.

“Phone’s dead.” He digs it out of his navy blue uniform trousers and waves it as if to show me its death is real. “Why don't you text your friend and tell her where you are?”

“You broke my phone last week. Remember?” I snap as my rage flares back up at the reminder.

“You still haven't gotten a new one?” He seems genuinely surprised by the fact .

Does he think they grow on trees?

“Oh, yeah. Let me just go down to my phone farm and pick one that's ripe.” My sarcasm is not appreciated as his expression changes from genuine surprise to sour annoyance. “No. I haven't gotten another one. I don't come from money like some people.”

He stiffens, as if the reminder of me being poor bothers him somehow. Probably because he couldn't possibly fathom what it's like to not have money all the time. The whole school populace is so entitled. Well, all of them except Thorne and I.

“Your parents can't afford to help you?” He leans back against the stack of boxes, his gaze firmly on my own.

“What parents?” I scoff. “I haven't had any since I was born.”

I'm bitter about the fact, always picturing what life could have been like if my parents hadn't abandoned me at the hospital. All I know is there aren't enough people willing to adopt in general, let alone adopt a kid of color—a little Hispanic baby.

I've grown up between foster and group homes all my life. I don't know anything different, having only seen it in movies. I see the love some of my friends’ parents have for them. It's hard not to crave what you've never had.

“Must be nice.” His gruff voice breaks my train of thought, cutting the silence with triggering words.

Those three words break whatever self restraint I have, shooting up immediately in a fit of rage. How dare he say something so cruel. Does he not understand?

Who am I kidding? Of course he doesn't. How could he?

He has three parents. A mother, a father, and a step-mother. Three adults to look out for him, to love him, and keep him safe. How dare he say those three words to me?

“Must be nice? Must. Be. Nice?!” I spew as I stomp my way towards him, ready to slap him so hard he'll see stars. I'll gladly take whatever he does in retaliation. “You have no idea what it's like to grow up without parents. To have to move around so much that all your belongings need to fit in a small bag. I bet you can't even fathom the idea of not having a room of your own.”

His eyes flash hot as he sits straight, readying himself for whatever I'm about to do, but his words stop me dead in my tracks. “It's not all roses and rainbows on this side of it either, Icky. At least you don't have to worry about meeting unreachable expectations.” Stunned by the sudden vulnerability he's showing, I shut my mouth, too curious about his homelife to derail his thoughts.

“You don't have to watch your father choose your brother over you time and time again. You don't have to listen to your step-mother degrade you, call you a bastard, and insult you every day, all the while your father says nothing.”

His voice quivers, cracking under the weight of his words. The tightness in his throat and the tears that glisten in his eyes betray a depth of pain he’s been hiding—one I've been very oblivious to. The rare, raw emotions he's expressing are a stark contrast to the composed facade I’m used to, a side of him I never imagined I’d see.

“I—” I sigh, letting go of my fragile ego and my own emotional baggage and sitting on the floor in front of him. “You're right. I don't know what that's like.”

Blaze’s eyes narrow, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. He shakes his head slowly, as if he can’t quite grasp that I'm actually showing sympathy. His jaw tightens and he stands from his cardboard throne, a flash of anger and distrust in his gaze. “Don't think for a second that I trust you.”

I let out a singular chuckle, one ‘ha’ of annoyance. “The same could be said for me.”

We glare at each other, our bitterness almost palpable, as if we're both blaming the other for our messy home lives. We’ve both laid our wounds bare, raw and unguarded, revealing the pain we usually keep hidden. There’s no undoing what’s been exposed, but that doesn’t mean we have to reveal any more.

But I want to. I want to know why he was crying.

“Now, look. We're stuck here until one of your friends comes and lets us out. With your phone dead, and mine history, we're stark for entertainment. So, I'll make you a deal,” I start, gaining his interest as he takes a seat once more. “For everything you share, I'll share. If you give me something deep, I'll give you something deep. When we leave this basement, we'll never speak of it again.”

He seems weary as he contemplates my offer, so I add in a clause—a security measure for us both. “If either of us speaks about anything we spoke about here, the other person will share the other's story. So, you'll have leverage over me and I over you. Nothing we tell each other leaves these four walls. What do you say, Blaze? Are you up for it, or is your life not as bad as you make it out to be?”

He releases an air of irritation as he bends forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Oh, it's bad. But fine, let's play your game.”

Of course, Blaze has me go first. Needing something deep from him, I have to share something deep to start. So, I tell him about the time I had foster parents who loved me and almost adopted me, but their son was a perv who kept coming into my room at night to see if I wanted to sleep with him yet. When I finally gathered the courage to tell them what their son had been doing, they sent me back.

Blaze stays silent as he listens intently, coming off his throne to sit beside me on the cracked, cold, uneven floor. “You don't want people like that being your parents anyway. Sounds like their son has a sister fetish, and they refuse to believe it. Some people shouldn't be parents.”

I nod in agreement, finding this moment of solace with him to be too surreal. He leans back against the wall, staring off into the distance as he starts his story. He tells me about the time his dad forced his mother to sign custody over. He was happy living with her, even if she didn't have the most money. There was love in that home.

His jaw tightens once more, straining to finish as he tells me his father then forbade her from seeing him again. Any contact would be reported to the police. He now has no idea where she lives, or how she's doing.

Here I am thinking he has three parents, when really he's missing one—a very important one.

We keep going like that for hours. By the end of it, I know that he's the result of an affair his father had. His step-mother is truly evil, and because his father feels so guilty for cheating on her, she can get away with mistreating Blaze. He has a half-brother who's younger, but will inherit his father's company since he's the legitimate child.

Blaze is a Cinderella retelling if I'd ever heard one. Turns out, the reason he was crying earlier is because today is his mother's birthday, and his step-mother told him she was dead. He'd spent the day scouring obituaries to try to find his mother's. It's why his phone is dead. He never found one, so she probably lied, but he can't be sure.

I can sympathize with what that's like, always wondering about my birth parents and whether they're alive.

I shared countless foster home stories, even some group home ones. I even told him about the boy I fell in love with in sixth grade, but I never told him his name. Because even though Thorne has been nothing but cruel to me since we've reunited, a part of me still wants to protect him.

“You know what we are?” I tell him as we huddle beside each other for warmth, the rays of the sun long since vanished, leaving us with the chill of the night.

“No. What are we, Victoria?” He uses my actual name for the first time in years, sending a wave of relief through me. Maybe things will be different now.

“Black dahlias.”

He laughs, as he lifts his arms over me, draping it around my shoulders, and pulling me to his chest. He rubs my arms, noticing the goosebumps that are permanently marring my skin due to the cold.

“How so?” His voice echoes in his chest, keeping me there to warm me up.

I can feel his hard muscles beneath my cheek, enjoying the heat he's radiating. It hasn't gone unnoticed that I should be pulling away, fighting him and hating him for all he's done, but all I feel in this moment is peace. A simple peace brought on by the sharing of our traumas.

“Because like them, we can survive in the dark, determined to stay alive. But when given the right environment, we can bloom—dark and striking.” I tap his chest with my fingers, curling myself into him more. “Soon, we'll be in that environment, and we can see each other bloom. You won't be in that house forever.”

“I won't be in that house forever,” he repeats it as if it's something he desperately needed to hear. “A black dahlia, huh?”

“Yup.”

We talk for a little while longer until my eyes refuse to stay open, sleeping right on his chest. Too bad the peace didn't last when I woke up.