Eighteen Candles
1439 Words
Nick’s POV
The night that Ren turns eighteen, I don’t get one, single lick of sleep.
It tears away at me—agonizing me, tormenting me—the thought of her wolf waking up and telling her to be with that scum. I toss and turn, restless and aching, hardening constantly at the memory of her lips on mine, touching myself, imagining her touching me, imagining being inside of her, and then, most painful of all, remembering the way her face looked when I told her what I had done to Sabrina.
She didn’t understand. She had it wrong. I’m not who she thinks I am.
Right?
It was crystal clear what she thought—who she saw when she looked up at me. She saw her father—her real father—the man who brutalized and raped her mother, creating her in the process.
But she was wrong, wasn’t she?
Sure, I’m an asshole. I won’t pretend otherwise. I shouldn’t have f****d Sabrina like that, and I shouldn’t have taken pleasure in it.
But she liked it. She asked for it. I tried to tell her not to, and she went for it anyway.
So why do I feel so disgusting—so repulsive—so dirty, in the worst possible meaning of the term?
Is it possible Ren’s right about me?
If it is, how do I fix myself?
- - - - -
I won’t lie—I’ve been spying on her.
Spying is a strong word, I suppose. I’ve been checking up on her, now and again, since that night. The way I felt when I found out someone had tried to hurt her… Well, I don’t ever want to feel that way again. I don’t want anyone to ever hurt a hair on her head again. So… yeah. I’ve been lurking in the shadows, just to make sure she’s safe.
Enough to know that the dress she shows up in at her eighteenth birthday party is not the one she picked out with Archer and Margery.
I haven’t been able to eat, drink, or even piss all day, I’ve been so anxious about seeing her. Will she walk in on his arm? Will they kiss, laugh, and dance the night away? Will I be forced to watch?
The one thing I knew—or thought I knew—was the dress she would be in. I watched him pick it out for her. It’s a dreadful color, frankly—a pale, washed-out version of the color of the sky. It would wash out her pretty, pale skin and clash with all the perfect reds of her eyes and hair. It would still look beautiful on her, of course; everything does. But it wasn’t the right dress for her.
The dress she shows up in…
Well, it utterly takes my breath away.
As does the fact that she enters solo.
It’s a red dress—not that deep, scarlet-garnet that she wore to dinner the night she arrived at the Night Castle, but a bright, fire-engine red, designed to draw the eye straight to the wearer.
And, holy hell, does it work.
It’s not a ball gown; it’s not an evening gown. It’s a party dress. Each of its thin, spaghetti straps—of which there seem to be hundreds—web and fan and multiply across her back, spidering over the perfect arch of her otherwise bare skin. Where the straps end and the fabric of the dress begins is tauntingly, mesmerizingly low, both in the front and the back; there’s no question that every man in this room is going to think about little other than what the missing pieces of this puzzle look like for the rest of the night.
And, frankly, I’d like to claw all of their eyes out for it.
Don’t even get me started on her hair. She’s blown it out, and it seems to be twice its normal length and volume, cascading around her like a lion’s, fiery and fierce.
She’s perfect. She’s utterly, devastatingly, tormentingly perfect.
I have to touch her again.
I have to know what happened to her last night.
I only make it two steps toward her before Archer shows up and whisks her away to dance with him.
I watch them carefully, doing my best to hide from everyone else in the room how sick it makes me to see them together. My legs travel me to the bar, seemingly of their own accord, as my eyes stay riveted on the two of them.
She’s different now—that much is clear. It’s not just the dress, the hair, or the makeup—God, did I mention the makeup?—but the way she interacts with everyone around her. There’s a renewed confidence in her eyes—a teasing, seductive playfulness—as if she’s perfectly aware of her effect on everyone around her, and enjoys every second of it.
She doesn’t touch him enough to make me suspect the worst—not quite. But she does touch him. She gets closer to him with each dance, spinning, twirling, and flowing with every motion he guides her through.
But what does it mean?
Who did her wolf choose?
Did it choose anyone at all?
By the end of the fourth song, I can’t take it any more.
I approach her.
“She’s not interested,” Archer growls at me as soon as I reach them. “Thought she made that clear.”
I glance at her, hoping she’ll object. She doesn’t, but that same look is there—the confidence—even the amusement. She isn’t angry at me, and she isn’t afraid of me. It’s a start.
“Maybe she’s not,” I say, not removing my gaze from hers. “But she is here as my guest, and I suppose it’s only the royal thing to do for us to give the crowd a dance. Right, Highness?”
A tiny, ridiculously sexy grin spreads across her face as she accepts my hand. “Right.”
By the grace of whatever god us heathen vampires are supposed to believe in, the song that plays next is just about the steamiest song I’ve ever heard—slow, rhythmical, and with a deep, pounding bass that echoes the deep, pounding feeling throbbing inside of me when I’m this close to her.
“You,” I murmur into her ear as I spin her around and press myself against her, inhaling her scent and cherishing the feeling of her body back against mine, “look too good to be true.”
She laughs at this—actually laughs—as she spins back around to face me. She wraps her arms around my neck and allows me to tip her back so that her long, red hair fans out behind her and her long, slender neck is exposed to mine—ripe for the taking, had I the guts.
“I’m real,” she assures me as I lift her back to me. “And very much alive.”
I know what she means. I’ve never felt half this alive before. Every inch of my skin she’s touching feels like it might explode at any given moment.
I spin her around again, this time catching her by the stomach from behind and holding her there, pressed against me. I don’t hide my erection that’s gone into overdrive during our dance. I don’t want to. Instead, I press it up against the firmest, roundest, most torturous ass I’ve ever felt.
“I have to know,” I murmur into her ear from behind. “I have to know what happened to you last night.”
She whirls back around to face me, and I realize with profound disappointment that somehow the song is already over.
“Then we’d better go outside,” she says.
And she leads me away.
- Writer
