A**hole

*WARNING DEPICTION OF PANIC ATTACK*

MILES

I stumbled through the mansion’s endless corridors, each step heavier than the last. My head was a battlefield of chaos, the torment different—inside me. I needed to be alone, so I tried every door until I found an empty bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door and leaned against the cool tile. The room was vast and sterile—a temporary sanctuary from the judgment of the world outside.

I forced myself toward the large mirror on a lone wall. My body trembled as I turned, expecting to see the latest map of bruises and splatters: large, vivid circles of purple, green, and red. And there they were, a cruel mosaic I’d tried so hard to hide.

A gasp tore from my lips. Everyone had seen them—maybe even people from school. Panic surged, raw and familiar. I swallowed hard, trying desperately to muffle the rising terror. I couldn’t let anyone see me like this. I didn’t want anyone to know I was weak.

"Don't forget, Miles, you're nothing."

My mother's voice echoed in my mind—haunting, relentless. Like a ghost with unfinished business, it clawed at my self-worth. I clamped my hands over my ears and crouched down, wishing I could shut it out.

Time lost meaning as I waited, hoping, praying that the panic would subside, that her voice would fade to nothing. But it didn’t. Instead, the words hammered at me again and again, until I knew I had to escape this prison of my own making.

I pulled on my beer-soaked flannel and, with trembling fingers, unlocked the door. Stepping back into the crowd, I was disoriented. Kenzie was nowhere to be seen. The mansion was so enormous—I couldn’t even locate the entrance we had come in through. The noise of voices and laughter was drowning me, and I felt my body heat rise as if my lungs were being squeezed shut. I clutched the flannel tighter around me. Were my bruises still exposed? Could everyone see the evidence of my daily beatings, the constant reminder that I was nothing but a broken doll?

I searched the chaos frantically until I finally spotted a door that led to the darkness of night outside. Without thinking, I bolted for it. My lungs burned as I ran, bumping into strangers, not caring if I passed out. The grass under my feet was a welcome distraction—a fleeting sense of freedom—until a loud moan startled me and sent me sprawling to my knees.

I gasped for air, my throat clogged as I clutched the damp grass. Only strained, short gasps escaped me as I tried to steady myself. In my mind, my mother's words roared: "You're nothing."

"What's wrong with her?" a muffled voice asked from beside me, but I couldn’t tell. I tucked my knees in, trying desperately to retreat into the safe confines of my own little box—the one I had so carefully built to keep the pain out.

"Fuck off," came another deep, muffled voice. I heard protests in the distance, but they were swallowed by the pounding of my heart. I rocked back and forth until I let go of the grass, clutching my flannel as if it were a lifeline.

"Get in your box, Miles. Get in your box."

But my lungs felt tight, and panic clawed at my mind. I was losing control. Was it possible to die from panic? A part of me, so twisted and numb, even wondered if death would be a welcome escape.

"You're nothing."

I whimpered, "I'm nothing," barely audible. In that dark, ragged moment, I thought I heard something—a faint, broken whisper... "Ju... br..."

Then, something warm touched my face.

"Brea—"

My eyes snapped open.

"Breathe!" a voice commanded, urgent and soothing.

I took a deep, desperate gulp of air, as if emerging from underwater. I opened my eyes to see golden eyes—amber, honeyed—staring back at me. "That's it," he said softly, "just breathe. In and out. Nice and slow." His voice was a balm, deep and steady, vibrating through me like a gentle tremor.

I followed his instructions, drawing in long, deep breaths until my pulse finally began to settle. Slowly, I became aware that my hands were entwined around his wrists—fingers clasping like a lifeline—and the comforting presence in front of me belonged to the same man who’d once poured his beer on me.

Dominic.

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to lean into the sincerity in his eyes. I let the warmth of his hands calm the chaos in my chest. But then the panic, the shame, and the haunting memory of abuse surged back, and I shoved him away, causing him to stumble onto the grass. His surprised face mirrored my own.

"I'm sorry!" I blurted, then—without thinking—added, "No, fuck you!" I smacked my forehead. "Fuck... that's not what I... you're still an asshole but thanks."

My words were tangled, my thoughts a jumbled mess of alcohol and panic. I didn't even know what I was trying to say.

He smirked as he got up. "Which is it?" he asked coolly.

I sat on the plush grass, looking away as I tried to piece myself together. I was in a garden now—the mansion's hidden sanctuary. Somehow, I’d escaped into the night. I didn't recall how I got there, but the overwhelming panic had forced me out.

I knew I had to leave, but just as I began to stand, Dominic's voice cut through the silence.

"So you're not a swindler?"

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms, forming a wall around myself. Now he wanted to know if I was a swindler—how convenient. "No, asshole, I just learned from the best. It's not my fault you showed your insecurities."

He took a step toward me, eyes flashing a warning. "Careful."

Something about his tone ignited a spark—a challenge, like he’d laid a chess piece on the board and dared me to make a move. I wasn’t one for mental games, yet I knew exactly how to play them. I had grown up under my mother's cruel rule, and now, that fire of defiance flickered inside me.

I scoffed. "Or what? You got another drink to spill?" I teased, unable to resist.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile, making my heart skip a beat. Why did he look so damn good in his plain T-shirt and jeans? Why did his eyes, dark and intense, make my stomach flip?

"I'll admit it wasn't my finest moment, and maybe I didn't expect you to wipe the floor with my ass, but I showed horrible sportsmanship last time," he said lightly, as if it were nothing more than a minor slip.

I studied him, my anger mingling with a strange sense of excitement. "Is that supposed to be an apology?" I challenged, raising my eyebrows.

He smirked and rolled his eyes. "It was just a little beer. You brought my mother into it," he shrugged, as if that justified everything.

I forced a laugh, bitter with envy. "So you're a child. Noted," I muttered, hating the sound of my own voice.

"Seeing as you keep testing me, either you don't know who I am or you're just plain stupid." He took another step closer.

His eyes raked over me slowly, making me feel simultaneously exposed and desired. And for a fleeting second, I wanted him to keep looking—wanted to be seen for once.

"Yes, I'm sure you're very special. I just don't care," I egged, desperate to hold onto the feeling.

He stepped even closer. "That would be a mistake."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not scared of you."

"Maybe you should be." His tone was low, laced with challenge—daring me to continue.

Under the moonlight, his dark hair looked deliciously disheveled, and his lips bore faint traces of pink—reminders of recent passion. One I had rudely inturrupted.

"Not in the slightest, asshole," I retorted, my voice edged with defiance. But my body betrayed me, squirming as his heated gaze made me weak.

I watched him intently, the twitch of his mouth, the playful glimmer in his eyes—every detail seared into me.

"That's the third time now," he noted, his tone softening slightly, a dangerous promise in his voice.

"Third time that what?" I asked, holding my ground. I knew he was edging closer, but I refused to back down.

He stood directly in front of me now, and I became painfully aware of how much larger he was—how he towered, a silent reminder of my own fragility.

"That you've called me an asshole. I don't think I like it." His voice was deep, resonant, and it made my insides shiver.

I smirked through the hurt and challenge. "It has a nice ring to it," I countered.

"You're pretty fucking mouthy." He said it with a chuckle that was both teasing and taunting.

He smelled of bourbon and sandalwood—a heady, intoxicating blend that made me lean in, desperate for more.

"Take away 'fucking mouthy' and you almost made a compliment," I whispered near his ear, my hand twitching to touch his chest.

"Don't make me mad, sweetheart."

My heart hammered as he murmured that mock endearment in my ear. Did he mean it? Was his hand already sliding to rest on my waist?

"I'm shaking in my sneakers," I said, voice laced with sarcasm. But it wasn’t a lie—I was shaking. Not out of fear, but pure, unfiltered excitement.

"Pretty bold coming from someone who just had a panic attack." His lips, soft and inviting, were nearly within reach—I wanted to taste them.

I flushed, hissing under my breath, "That's a low blow," I paused for effect, "... asshole."

Suddenly, he gripped my jaw, his hand firm around my chin, his hold on my waist steady but gentle—enough to make me feel both secure and exposed. My body responded, every nerve singing under his touch.

"What's wrong? Too soon?" he murmured, his lips hovering near mine.

I forced out a laugh, gripping his shirt. His eyes were intense, dilated with something dark and delicious, and he ran his tongue over his canines. I shivered uncontrollably.

"I think," he said, voice husky, "you should be taught a lesson."

I cursed myself for not fighting him off—part of me wanted to, but the thrill, the heat, the dangerous game had already taken over. And I knew—I was playing with fire. But I wanted to burn.

"You know what I think?" I said, raising my hand to his face, roughly swiping my thumb over his stained lips. He simply hummed, his gaze fixed on my mouth. "I think you should fuck me."