I roll my eyes, but I’m already compiling a list of anyone I might know at school who drives a fucking Lamborghini.
“Well, isNunayagiving you a ride back to school, or do you want a lift?”
She shrugs. “I dunno. I might just stay here tonight. I mean it’s late, I’m here…”
Just then, her phone dings. Selene frowns. “Who the hell is tagging me on?—”
Her mouth purses, and a lethal look flickers over her face.
“What’s up?”
She shakes her head and puts her phone down. “Nothing,” she growls. Then she picks up the phone again and unlocks it, tapping on and zooming in on a photo. Her eyes turn dark as her jaw grinds.
“Oh, yeah, that definitely looks like nothing to me,” I sigh as I walk around the kitchen island to peek over her shoulder. “What the fuck is?—”
I go stone silent.
Vengeful violence roars inside me, tightening and clawing to a lethal point as I glare at the phone in my cousin’s hand.
…Open to Instagram, and a post on Kirill Tsarenko’s page.
The post is captioned, “RUMBLE IN THE RUBBLE. GARRISON PARTY IN FULL SWING MOTHERFUCKERS.”
Normally I wouldn’t give a fuck about that.
Except the post is a photo of Kirill sitting shirtless on the rubble throne at The Garrison while adementedcrowd of Knightsblood students parties around a roaring bonfire, his head raised as hebellows into the night sky and a girl sitting on his knee, a glazed, glassy look in her eyes and her arm around his neck.
It’s fuckingYelena.
My jaw grinds lethally as I glare death at the photo. Suddenly, I’m keenly aware that I’m not the only one looking like they want to commit murder.
But I don’t have time to wonder why Selene’s looking so pissed.
“Actually, Achilles,” she says tightly, her voice icy as her knuckles turn white around the phone. “I’ll take that ride.” She turns to me. “Now, please.”
She doesn’t need to ask me twice.
28
YELENA
I swear,this felt like a good idea at the time.
I was still stunned by seeing Achilles with that fucking girl at ahigh schoolparty. I was furious, and then even angrier at myself for evenbeingfurious. Because, again, what right would I have to be angry?
We’re not a "we".
We don’t have a relationship.
Or…I don’t know. We’ve never really talked about it, aside from little jokes about us “being a secret” since it’s so complicated between our families with the whole ongoing building thing.
But even if there’s never been a set definition to this whatever-it-is…I’mallowedto be angry that he blew me off and then hightailed it to some fucking high school party in the city, right? That he’s there, laughing it up and throwing some girl over his shoulder?
Like he did with me.
My jaw clenches as my head fills with horrible images of him chasingher.
Grabbingher. Pinningherdown on the edge of the cliff. Makingherscream.