Creighton’s profile picture is the same as his first post. It’s a selfie he took when I wasn’t even aware. I’m asleep in his lap, head tucked in his chest so that my face isn’t visible and only half of his is.
His veiny hand grips me possessively by the waist and the caption says:
My girl. My woman. Mine.
That was during the month we were apart. Exactly a day before he kidnapped me to that island.
How romantic.
Not.
The second picture is another selfie he took after we got back to college. He’s carrying me with a hand beneath my ass, my legs are wrapped around his naked waist, and my head is buried in his shoulder.
Did I mention that she’s all mine?
The third—the one I’m currently looking at that’s making me struggle to breathe—is one he posted just earlier.
Before the fight, I kind of slipped into the locker room for one final attempt to dissuade him from going against Jeremy.
Big mistake.
Not only did he look at me like a hungry predator, but he also oozed with savage adrenaline.
Needless to say, I didn’t stand a chance.
Creighton fucked me senseless against the bench in the pussy and then in the ass while he bit my throat and spanked me.
My core throbs and the welts on my ass sting at the reminder. I should feel demented that I get off on the pain as much as I get off on the pleasure, but I’ve learned to accept that about myself and us.
I’ve learned to own up to what makes us who we are, because I realize just how lucky we are to be so compatible despite having such different personalities.
Like a puzzle, the good and bad parts fit together perfectly.
The picture he posted is from the neck up, when he kissed me soon after we finished. My eyes are closed and his are open as he stares at the camera with chilling possessiveness.
Reminder: She’s mine.
A tingle ripples through me and dances at the base of my spine.
He’s simply impossible.
I still like the picture anyway. What? I’ve got to stake a claim, too. Next time I catch a girl flirting with him, I’m going to forward her to his Instagram account.
That he made for me.
No kidding, the other day, he was like, “Didn’t you say you’d unfollow all the guys if I make an Instagram account? Do it.”
I reminded him that I said he should have social media to follow me, not that he’d cut me off from the world, but he’s not having that.
Anyway, I’m so going to send this to Harry and his ever-growing fan club when he taunts me.
“Can’t you stop this?”
The very familiar voice filters from a few rows ahead. I let my phone slip into my dress pocket and sneak along the cars.
Sure enough, Cecily stands in the shadows, her silver hair flying in the wind as she grips her phone tight.
Oddly, her shirt is a simple black one with no quotes on it.
“You don’t understand. I just can’t do this,” she whispers in a shaky voice and I want to reach out and hug her.
She’s been distressed for a while, and even Glyn expressed her worry about it the other day.
I must make a noise in trying to get close to her, because she faces me with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights gaze before she removes the phone from her ear and hangs up on whoever she was talking with.
“Annika?” Her tone is cold, a little bit wrong, as if it’s not the same Cecily I know. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, I kind of couldn’t watch my brother and my boyfriend fighting. Especially since they have a grudge.” I air quote the last word.
“Oh, I see.” Her voice softens.
I approach her slowly, scared any sudden movement will make her bolt. “Are you okay, Ces?”
She nods soundlessly.
While Jeremy has been insufferable since he learned Cecily helped Creighton abduct me, I don’t hold a grudge against her.
One, she didn’t know and really thought he only wanted to talk to me before she was thrown out of the plane.
Two, she’s suffered from Jeremy enough as it is. I know how harsh my brother can be, and he’s never really liked Cecily.
It’s mutual, but still.
And sometimes, I catch them looking at each other in a way I can’t put my finger on.
“I’m always here if you want to talk,” I tell her softly. “Even if it’s about Jer.”
A visible tremor goes through her limbs and she stares at me, hard, as if trying to figure out if she should trust me.
I think she decides she can, because she takes a step forward. “Anni, you can’t tell anyone about this.”