Running already, little sister?

Clara’s POV

The echo of their laughter clung to me even as I rushed through the hallway, my breath uneven, my chest tight. Each step felt heavier, like the weight of every stare followed me, pressing down like a suffocating blanket.

“Clara!” Jenna’s voice called after me, but I didn’t slow down. If I did, if I let her catch me, the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes would break free, and I refused to let anyone—not Nolan, not Rebecca, not this entire goddamn university—see me shatter.

I pushed through the doors, the outside air slapping me with its coldness. I leaned against the brick wall, clutching my bag so tightly my knuckles whitened. He won. Again.

My heart screamed for escape—to go home, to hide, to drown in paint and sketches until the noise in my head dulled. But my gut told me Nolan wouldn’t let me go that easily.

And I was right.

His voice—low, smooth, dangerous—slid into my ears like poison. “Running already, little sister?”

I jerked up, startled, my eyes locking on his frame leaning casually against the wall. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, as if he hadn’t just humiliated me in front of half the campus and reveled in it. Rebecca wasn’t with him this time—just Nolan, smirking as though I existed solely for his entertainment.

“Leave me alone,” I hissed, my voice raw through clenched teeth.

He pushed off the wall, sauntering closer, each cocky step deliberate. “You really think you can ignore me? After that show in there?” His smirk widened, crueler now, relishing every moment of my humiliation. “You should’ve seen your face—god, Clara, it was priceless. You looked like you were about to cry. Do you know how hard it was not to laugh harder?”

The anger boiling in my chest surged as my fists clenched at my sides. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” he asked, tilting his head as if genuinely amused, his gaze dropping briefly to my trembling hands. “Or do you hate me because I see through you? Because deep down, you know you’re just like her—your mother. Always pretending to be innocent while playing with fire.”

I flinched at the mention of my mother, a mix of anger and shame swirling violently within me. “Don’t talk about her.”

“Why not?” His voice plummeted to a husky murmur, laced with venom and arrogance. “Your mother used her body to climb her way into my father’s life, and you—” his eyes roamed over me, slow and unapologetic, “—you’ll do the same. Maybe not with him, but… someone. Maybe even me.”

The insinuation burned through me, sharp and filthy, twisting my stomach into knots. In a sudden burst of fury, I shoved at his chest, my voice shaking as I attempted to assert myself. “You’re sick! I would never—”

He caught my wrist mid-motion, his grip firm yet not painful, the warmth of his hand coiling through me despite the revulsion flooding my veins. His smirk was devastatingly smug, a victorious glint dancing in his stormy eyes.

“Never?” he repeated, each syllable dripping with dark amusement, his gaze narrowing with a dangerous gleam. “Careful, Clara. You keep saying never, but your body tells a different story.”

I ripped my wrist free, breathing hard, my skin tingling where his fingers had just been. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, but I do,” he murmured, leaning closer, so close that I felt the heat of his breath against my ear. “And the more you deny it, the more I’m going to prove just how much you crave what you hate.”

“Go to hell,” I spat, though the shiver racing down my spine betrayed me, a response I couldn’t ignore—not when he wielded that kind of power over me.

He chuckled darkly, stepping back, giving me space only because he wanted to savor my discomfort. “Sweetheart, I’ve already been there. And now? I’m dragging you with me.”

Then he walked away, leaving me trembling in the cold air, my pulse erratic, my mind spiraling. I hated him. God, I hated him.

So why did his words linger like a fire I couldn’t put out?