7. Oakley

Chapter 7

Oakley

T he bass reverberates through the floor, the scent of spilled beer and sweat heavy in the air. I stand awkwardly amidst the throng of bodies moving to the rhythm, feeling out of place. My eyes dart around, searching for an escape route, when suddenly, a familiar figure looms into view.

Great. I don't need to be hassled on top of everything. I thought I was ready to come back out to a party, make it through a few hours of not panicking, and the number one person who can get my heart rate up is heading toward me. I refuse to let anyone see how much I'm bothered right now.

"What the fuck, Oakley?" Jeremiah's voice cuts through the noise, filled with intensity and something darker. His green eyes narrow, pinning me with a gaze that almost feels like a physical touch. "What are you doing here? After what happened last time?"

"I thought you know everything I do and everywhere I go?" I snap right back at him, trying to keep my cool despite the knot forming in my stomach. I hate the fact that even when I'm trying to be assertive or show that I'm angry, I still sound so small. It doesn't help that I wasn't graced with height, so looking up at him is like looking at a giant. "Isn't that what you told me?" The words come out sharper than intended, laced with ironic amusement. Our eyes lock, his filled with anger and concern, mine with defiance and confusion.

"Don't push me, bunny. You won't like how this ends."

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I snap, frustration bubbling over. His presence is suffocating, yet there's an undeniable magnetic pull between us.

"Not until you give me a damn good reason why you're here," he retorts, stepping closer. The heat radiates off him, mingling with the surrounding chaos. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine. It's fear and...something else.

Unfortunately for me, I think I'll always have a physical reaction to Jeremiah Blackwood. Even with the anger I feel toward him, my body wants to sway closer to him. I want to seek comfort in his warmth. I want to be wrapped in his hoodie and trapped in his big, dumb football arms. I want to use him as an anchor.

I can't afford to let him get in my head again. It's a slippery slope and I'm already on the edge of sliding. I did that once before, trusting him without question, and look where that got me.

"I'm here to prove to myself that I can handle it." I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's therapy," I blurt out before I can stop myself and then instantly regret it, but unfortunately for me, I can't shove the words back into my mouth.

"Therapy," he repeats, almost mockingly. I can feel his breath on my skin, each word he speaks vibrating in the air between us. "Does this therapy of yours involve getting drunk and reckless again?"

"Fuck you, Jeremiah," I spit out, though my voice wavers. The intensity in his eyes is unbearable, and yet, I can't look away. "Go away, Jeremiah Blackwood. I don't need you to save me anymore and I've more than proved that to you and anyone else who cares. You're embarrassing both of us."

"You want to see embarrassing?" he says, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. The raw emotion in his words makes my heart skip a beat. "I can make a real spectacle right now and you'll be the star of the show. You must not remember the way I fucking threw you over my shoulder and carried you out of the last party. Your entire ass was almost on display as you beat your tiny little fists into me. Thanks for the lower back massage, by the way, bunny."

"Why are you doing this?" I challenge, taking a step closer, our faces inches apart as he bends down to get in my face. The tension is heady, the air thick with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

"Because you're mine to protect," he whispers, his hand brushing against my arm, sending jolts of electricity through me. The possessiveness in his claim should infuriate me, but instead, it ignites a fire deep within. I know he doesn't mean it the way it sounds. I know that he feels some kind of duty to protect me because I'm Royce's baby sister, but the way he says I'm his makes me wish he meant it a different way. On a deeper level. He was all I wanted back then.

I'm a stupid, stupid girl for that.

"You're free, Jeremiah. I don't expect anything from you. Let me be," I manage to say, though my voice betrays me. The line between anger and desire blurs dangerously as we stand there, locked in a battle of wills .

"That's not happening," he concedes, leaning in closer. The world around us fades. The only thing that matters is the space between our lips, shrinking by the second. I almost think he's going to kiss me until he grins at me and says, "If you're staying, I'm staying. It's as simple as that. Unless you want me to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out like I did last time? Your choice, but I'll never say no to getting to be a caveman when it comes to you, Oak."

"Oh, how gallant of you to give little old me options." My voice conveys my annoyance, but my body betrays my mind as it leans into his touch as his fingers find the back of my neck. The smell of his cologne mixed with the possessive way he's holding me, his fingers flexing into my skin is intoxicating.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over mine, teasing, taunting, but not touching. The anticipation is maddening, the forbidden feeling of this connection crackling in the air.

"I'm not the same girl you left behind, Jeremiah," I challenge, my breath hitching as his hands leave my neck and find their way to my waist, pulling me even closer.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't back off. Instead, he steps even closer, so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Like a starfish clinging to a rock, he attaches himself to me, his presence a protective barrier against the partygoers who glance our way. Any closer and we might as well crawl into each other's clothes.

"You're not staying," he insists, his gaze darting around the room as if daring anyone to come near me. His rigid posture and brooding demeanor make it clear he's not going to let this go easily.

"Watch me," I challenge, crossing my arms defiantly.

"Oakley," he warns, his voice softer yet filled with a tension that sends shivers down my spine. "This isn't a game. Any one of these assholes could slip you something again."

"You're insane," I manage to choke out, my mind reeling from the intensity of his claim. The air around us crackles because for once I'm not following Jeremiah like a little lost puppy.

"Maybe," he admits, his lips curving into a dark smile. "Everyone in this building will see how insane I really am if something happens to you, bunny. So do them a favor and let me take you back to your dorm."

"Just forget about me. It's easy to do," I snap, trying to regain control as I step back putting some distance between us. But the truth is, his words stir something deep inside me—a mixture of fear and reluctant longing. I hate how he makes me feel, how he breaks down my walls with just a few words.

"Never," he murmurs, his eyes burning into mine as his fingers move around to the front of my throat, squeezing tentatively as if he's testing out both of our strengths. Fingertips gently tap on either side of my neck, and I'm caught in his trap. He's not hurting me, not even trying to, but the fact remains he could. Maybe I want him to, maybe I want what so many others have talked about.

The whispers about what he likes, what his brothers like have never been quiet. Not even in high school.

"You're sick," I say, though my voice lacks conviction. His presence is overpowering, and despite my anger, a twisted part of me finds solace in it.

"Only for you." His confession hangs heavy in the air, shrouded in the shadows that surround us. The night is far from over, and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm drawn into the darkness he offers.

"You're not ruining this for me," I repeat, my resolve faltering. But he just smiles, knowing he's already won this round.

"We'll see about that," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends chills down my spine. The game between us continues, each move more perilous than the last. And though I hate myself for it, I can't help but be intrigued by his newfound obsession with pestering me. It's everything I ever wanted before he ruined everything.

"Back off, Jere," I hiss, trying to put some metaphorical distance between us, but he doesn't budge. His eyes lock onto mine, pupils dilated, and it's like a magnetic pull drags us closer.

"Make me, and don't call me fucking Jere. My brothers call me Jere. To you, bunny, you can call me anything but that," he taunts, stepping forward, invading my space again, his breath warm against my cheek. I don't feel threatened like I do with other men. Instead, my heart pounds in my chest, echoing the heavy bass of the music around us. It's like he takes over all of my senses. He's all I see, and his scent invades my nostrils, reminding me of a time when all I wanted was to breathe him in. Have him settle in my lungs since he already took up residence in my heart. The music and sounds of laughter mingled with murmured conversations fade into the background.

"Why do you always have to—" My words cut off as his hand snakes around my waist, fingers pressing into my lower back possessively. The heat of his touch seeps through the thin fabric of my frilly dress that makes me stick out like a sore thumb, igniting a fire in my veins. Jeremiah always liked my style back when we were friends, or whatever it was we were. The more lace, bows, and soft fabrics I wore, the more he complimented me. I can tell by the way his fingers are soothing down my side that not much has changed in that department.

"Stop asking questions you're not ready for me to answer," he whispers, leaning in so close that our lips are mere inches apart. His other hand cups my face, and the metal of his Blackwood ring is cool against my skin. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity in his eyes. "I protect what's mine, and that's all you need to know."

"Jeremiah…" I breathe his name, feeling the electric tension crackle between us. My anger melts away, replaced by a confusing blend of desire and fear. I should push him away, but it feels impossible because I'm leaning into his touch instead.

"That's not what you want to call me," he says, his voice a seductive murmur. "Say it."

"Never," I manage to choke out, even as my pulse races and my skin tingles under his touch. But the defiance in my voice wavers, and he knows it.

"I think you will. I think in your head you still call me pretty boy when your lips speak my full name. If you're so infuriated and want me to leave you alone, why aren't you pushing me away right now?" he challenges, his lips ghosting over mine, sending shivers down my spine. His hands tighten their grip, pulling me flush against his body. The sensation is overwhelming. It's such a dangerous combination of comfort and excitement that I have not been lucky enough to experience for two years. I've fucking missed it and I hate that I'm admitting to myself that really, it's Jeremiah Blackwood that I've missed more than anything. Even more than my brother. What kind of sister does that make me?

"Because…" I start, but the words die on my lips. I don't ha ve an answer, and he knows it. His presence is intoxicating, drowning out my doubts and fears. In his arms, the chaos of the years fades away, and my mind goes quiet for the first time in just as long.

"Relax," he presses, his breath hot against my skin. "I'm here now."

Now.

But not when I needed him and that slaps me back to the present.

"Stop acting like you have me, that you own me," I hiss, my voice sounds barely audible over the whooshing sound of my blood in my ears. People whirl around us in a dizzying blur, but it's like we're in our own bubble. Jeremiah's grip tightens on my arm—an unspoken promise, or perhaps a threat, knowing him. He was always kind to me before, but I was agreeable back then. I was so star-struck with my big brother's best friend that I would have done anything he wanted.

"You're Blackwood property, bunny," he counters, his eyes smoldering with that infuriating arrogance and something darker, something more primal. "The sooner you realize that the easier it'll be for both of us."

"You're impossible," I snap, yanking my arm free. But even as I pull away, a part of me aches for his touch. His possessiveness is suffocating, yet there's an undeniable magnetism to it. My heart pounds, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay wrapped up in him. I don't want to admit the thrill that ran through me hearing him call me Blackwood property. I shouldn't want that, shouldn't be turned on by it. Women aren't property, but in his world being marked by them means something. They're a bunch of neanderthals, but gosh the way they have each other's backs is something I've never seen with anyone else.

"Am I?" He steps closer, closing the distance between us once more. His breath is hot against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Tell me you don't feel this connection, this…inevitability. Just submit."

"You're so full of yourself," I manage, though my voice wavers. Of course he is. He's a Blackwood. They're all insufferable unless you're unlucky enough to fall in love with one of them. Damn him. He knows exactly how to get under my skin, to make me question everything.

We just stare at each other, no more words being said as we silently battle with just our eyes, and our touch as the world goes on around us. Bodies press in from all sides, but it's Jeremiah's presence that feels most suffocating. Some random frat guy bumps into me roughly and I swear I hear him growl as he swiftly shoves the guy out of the way and knocks him down to the ground in one sweeping motion. "I'll fucking kill you if you bump into her again. Watch where you're walking," Jeremiah's voice is tinged with a darkness that I've never heard from him. His hand grips mine, leading us through the throng like he owns me, and I follow. Just like the way I used to. So maybe he actually does.

"That was an accident. You didn't have to throw him on the floor like a rag doll. Where are we going?" I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. It's difficult when every fiber of my being is screaming for clarity, for understanding.

"Somewhere quieter," he responds, his tone leaving no room for argument. His grip tightens, as if sensing my hesitation. "And for the record, he's lucky I didn't take his head off for touching you." Jeremiah's smoldering gazes locks me in place as he looks over his shoulder at me. He looks absolutely murderous and something inside me unfurls. I press my thighs together, needing the friction that I really want from Jeremiah. He's the only man I've ever fantasized about, and I still wake up dreaming about him despite how scared I am of touch.

We push through a side door, emerging into a dimly lit hallway. The scent of alcohol and sweat fades, replaced by a musty, almost forgotten smell of old wood and aged wallpaper. I'm not sure why there's a secret hallway in this house. My head spins with the sudden change.

"You have two choices. I can either follow you around, stuck to you like a fucking shadow tonight," he whispers, his mouth brushing against my ear. "Or I take you home right now."

"I…" My words falter, lost in the haze of desire and fear. I can't deny the pull between us, the magnetic force that keeps drawing me back to him. "Fine. You can accompany me, but no more punching people," I finally agree, the truth burning on my tongue.

"Good girl," he purrs, his lips turning up into what can only be described as a Blackwood grin. "And I didn't punch him. But keep giving me ideas. I'll fuck him up."