Lance cowers and holds his nose in his hands as blood pours down his face.
“If you come near her again, I’ll wreck the rest of your expensive face.” I spit blood on the floor before walking away. I can’t face Sam right now. I can’t control my rage.
Chapter Twenty
Dashiell
I see red as I storm down the hallway to get away from them. The rush of blood screams in my ears and I only hear the furious pounding of my heart.
In my oblivion, Lance spots his chance at redemption and rushes me from behind, wrapping his arms around my neck as if he can take me down in a headlock. The douchebot must have had some wrestling success in high school because he gets me in a decent hold. We roll over a few times on the floor and suddenly, Natayla is in the mix, trying to pry us apart.
“Sam, fuck off. You can’t afford to get hurt,” I mutter.
I drag Lance up by the scruff of his neck and wind up, ready to break his nose a second time. Punk ass asked for it. But before my fist lands, Sam jumps in again, throwing herself in between us. And in the worst scenario imaginable, my fist flies full force into Sam’s delicate cheekbone.
She reels back and falls, but Lance manages to catch her. He holds her half-collapsed as I stare in disbelief at what just transpired.
“What the fuck, you disgusting scum? You think you can hit women? Hit a Koslova in this school? Your ass is over, Cunningham. Congratulations on canceling yourself,” he sneers.
I move toward Tayla and she shoves me away. “Go, Dash! Get out of here!”
I can’t tell if she hates me or she’s trying to save me.
“I’ll take you home, Natayla. I told you to stay away from trash.” Lance pulls himself up and wipes his bloody face while he tugs at Sam, trying to get her to come with him.
I can’t stop staring at Sam. She returns my intense gaze. Her cheek, bright pink, is beginning to blossom with a bruise. My blood still rages in my veins.
“I’m sorry, Sam.” I can’t stop looking at her, feeling the invisible bond that binds us to one another. I reach out and stroke her hair and she doesn’t cower or flinch. Without thinking, I cup her face, lean in, and place a delicate kiss against her lips.
She kisses me back harder, her tongue breaking the seam of my lips and meeting with mine in a frenzied tornado of anger and lust. I slam her to me and kiss her back just as desperately. I’ve got a mind to strip her right here and fuck her in the hallway, Lance, security cameras and all. My cock rages in my sweats and I press into her hip, letting her know how she drives me insane.
“You fucking whore.” Lance’s voice is cold with shock.
Without breaking the kiss, I reach out with one hand and grab the douchebot around the neck. I let my fingers claw and dig into the tender skin until I find his trachea, then I squeeze until his voice and air are cut off, all the while tongue fucking Tayla.
I’m a dancer, but I’ve also lived an entirely different life than these blue bloods. I’ve never hesitated to kill a man when what was mine was threatened, especially my life. I have no qualms about killing douchebot, breaking his skin with my fingernails, tearing out his trachea with my bare hands and watching him bleed out of the floor.
“Dash, don’t,” Sam whispers into my mouth. She leans back, and her eyes plead with me. “Don’t ruin it all because of him. He’s not worth it.” Her blue eyes are filled with fear and the flame of lust burns bright enough for me to lose it.
I drop Lance like one discards a putrid piece of meat, and he falls to the floor. Whether he dies or survives is of no consequence to me.
He stutters and grabs his throat while I kiss Tayla again, my greedy hands helping themselves to handfuls of her ass. I steady my mind to stop myself from kicking Lance in the gut and polishing him off.
I realize, deep inside, that I’d do anything for Sam, including risking it all to have her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Natayla
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Dashiell’s Maserati, flying down the highway with my heart in my throat. We’ll be in deep shit for what happened tonight. Lance won’t let this go. He’s one of the pettiest people I’ve ever met. His family has power. Not fame, like Dashiell. They’re connected and have the influence to make our lives a living hell if they want to.
Dashiell seems calm on the outside, hand on my thigh, foot like lead on the gas as we speed recklessly into the night. He keeps looking over at me like he wants to say something but doesn’t and looks back at the road rising in front of us.