Born to burn

10. HIGH SCHOOL HELL II. _______________________

PHOENIX POV

•

Silverton High. Tuesday.

•

Next day? f***k, but I wake up actually feeling all right. So much so, that I dare to look in the mirror. And… what the f***k? Almost all the bruises are gone. The swelling nowhere to be found… like some kind of cosmic joke. Cheekbones are smooth and sharp. Lip is almost healed. That purple-green storm from yesterday? Fading fast like it never wanted to be seen in the first place. My skin’s still a little puffy, but the kind of puffy that could pass for bad sleep and cheap makeup. Not violence. I blink. Twice. Then smirk. My eyes? Kinda f.ucking pretty today. One blue. One brown. And for once, I don’t look like a walking caution tape. Just… tired. Dangerous. Sharp. The kind of girl who might kiss you or kill you, depending on what you say. So, yeah. I swipe on a little mascara. I don’t even recognise the girl staring back at me in the mirror. Pretty for once… f.ucking h.ell. Am I feeling happy or what is this? Did the sleep do this or is there something in the air here? Like someone adjusted the contrast on my trauma. It’s so strange, but for the first time in a while, I don’t look like a corpse that crawled out of a bad memory. And it’s warm out. End of March. The kind of weather that tricks you into thinking you can survive. So I decided to go right today. Not soft. Not invisible. Right. Whatever the f***k that means. Jeans again. Grey and tight around my a.ss. I like it. They grip like hands that don’t ask permission. Tight black long-sleeved t-shirt that hugs you in the right places. Hoodie black, oversized, sleeves stretched from pulling them over my fists. Soft and dangerous. The kind of thing that smells like comfort if you’re broken enough. My faded black backpack is slung over one shoulder. Frayed, denim-washed, stitched up at least three times. And to top it off, cause I might actually smile today. My lovely old, but good, platform Dr. Martens. Still mine. Still moving. I skip breakfast. Again. Obviously. Don’t want anything to ruin my mood today. And on top of that? This time, I don’t walk. Today? I take the f.ucking bus. And let me tell you, there is nothing quite like climbing onto a school bus full of strangers, headphones on, hoodie up, and giving the entire world the silent middle finger. My black Beats clamp down over my ears like armour. Music? My lovely Caskets. Who else… blasting something angry and loud and fast enough to drown out the fact that my ribs still ache. The seat’s sticky. The air smells like bleach, cheap perfume, and bubblegum. Someone sneezes three rows down. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. I lean against the window and watch Silverton blur by like it owes me something. My reflection flickers against the glass. I look like a girl you don’t f***k with. Good. Let that rumour spread. I don’t hate myself today, which is nice for once. I don’t talk. Don’t make eye contact. I chew the inside of my cheek and replay yesterday’s hallway slam like it’s a movie scene. One of them had that stare… cold as a morgue and just as familiar. The other? That scent. Black pepper. Cedarwood. Still clinging to the inside of my lungs like smoke. I hated it. I hated how I didn’t hate it. Anyway, the bus doors hiss open like a warning, and I step out like I’ve got nothing to lose. One strap over the shoulder, my old Dr. Martens hitting pavement like percussion. Hoodie up. Mood dark. The sky is clearer than it should be. The sun’s out. The air smells fake. And I’m walking into this school like I didn’t bleed for two hours last night. Because guess what? I’m still f.ucking here. And today? They'd better pray I stay quiet. Because of my smile? It’s very much present. But my bite? Still f.ucking loaded. Beat pounding in my ears, I tug the strap of my backpack higher, one shoulder already aching, and walk through the front gates like the school owes me rent. And maybe it does. Inside, Silverton High is the same stale f.ucking play I saw yesterday. Bleach and bravado. Locker chatter. Fluorescent lights flickering like they’re scared to burn too bright. A girl shoves past me in the hallway and mutters something under her breath, but I keep walking. No time for weak jabs. First period? Boring. World History. The teacher looks like he’s been dead since Nixon resigned. I sit in the back. Hoodie still on. Headphones are still around my neck. Eyes on the clock. We’re covering revolutions today. How poetic. A girl two rows up whispers something and snickers. I catch the word stripper paired with Goodwill Barbie. How creative. I smile without teeth and stare her down until she shifts in her seat and forgets how to breathe. Second period? Advanced chemistry. The kind that stinks of vinegar and teen boy sweat. Some i***t spills something acidic on the floor and another i***t tries to light a Bunsen burner with a tissue. Riveting. I keep to myself. Scribble nothing. Watch everyone like they’re threats or jokes, most are the second. A guy across the lab keeps sneaking glances at me, like I’m gonna start glowing or pull a knife. I don’t. Not yet. Like they expect me to spill something poetic across it. Please… if I bleed, it won’t be ink. Then the door opens. Late. Confident. And f***k me, of course it’s him. The other twin. Not buzzcut rage-machine. The other one. Dark hair. Jaw like sin. The one who didn’t slam me into a wall but definitely watched. Like I was a fire he hadn’t decided whether to piss on or feed. He strolls in like the world’s already forgiven him. Hoodie half-unzipped. Tank top clinging to a body that knows it’s been watched. Silver chain swings at his throat like punctuation. And those eyes? Obsidian black. Sharp. Bright. Alive. He sees me. Of course he does. And he smiles.

„Sorry, I’m late.” His voice is syrupy. Slick. The kind of voice that slides under your skin and curls up there like it owns the place. Cranwell waves him in.

„Oh, look. Dorian blessed us with his presence? What a lucky day. Take a seat, Mr. Thorne.” He nods and walks past two open chairs. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Drops into the seat right next to mine. Of course he f.ucking does. I don’t look at him. But I feel it. That heat. That energy. Like static building under the skin. Then, his voice. Soft. Low. Too close.

„You always smell this sweet, or is that just for me?” He murmurs. His breath hits the curve of my neck and I swear to god, that scent slams into me like a memory I never had. Rosemary. Sandalwood. Thick. Hot. Spicy and intoxicating. Like smoke curling around wildflowers. Clean but wild. Warm but sharp. It wraps around my spine like a pair of hands curling slowly, deliberately around my throat. Not choking. Not yet. Just reminding me who’s bigger. And I’m not sure I hate it. f***k…

•

My head snaps toward him so fast it might leave a bruise. His smile is already waiting. Crooked. Infuriating. Confident in the way only boys who’ve never been told „no” can be. His gaze drags over me like a lazy hand. Not lewd. Not respectful either. Just… curious. And something more.

„Didn’t think you’d come back after yesterday. Most girls don’t like hitting the floor before third period.” My jaw tightens. I narrow my eyes.

„Most boys don’t need backup to knock a girl down.” I shoot back, voice dry as bone. His smile widens. Slow. Unbothered.

„Didn’t need it. Just enjoyed the view.” I don’t blink. Don’t look away.

„You're always this charming, or am I just that blessed?” I ask, saccharine and laced with venom. He leans in. Closer. His shoulder brushes mine like it’s an accident. It isn’t.

„Only for you, sweetheart.” Oh f***k no. My pulse skips. Not fear. Not exactly. Something darker. Warmer. Dumber. I hate how his scent is already crawling into my throat, sticking to my lungs like honey-dipped poison. What’s with their scents? This is so f.ucking weird. I want to slap him. I want to lick the words off his mouth. I want to shove his scent back where it came from and breathe it in at the same time.

„What do you want?” I ask flatly. He tilts his head. Pretends to think.

„To know what kind of girl wears steel under her smile and walks through wolves like she’s already survived the worst.” f***k. I clench my pen like a weapon. Don’t say a word. He laughs softly. A real laugh. Low. Rich.

„That’s what I thought.” And then he leans back in his chair like he didn’t just crawl into my skin and rearrange my f.ucking nerves. I stare straight ahead. Teeth gritted. This boy? This boy is dangerous with a smile. And I’m not sure I hate it… which is new. He doesn’t stop watching me. Not even when the teacher starts talking about chemical bonding and thermodynamics, voice flat like he’s narrating a funeral. Cute. I’m sitting next to my f.ucking sin in a hoodie and silver chain, and he’s smiling like he knows it. I try to focus. I really do. But his scent is still wrapped around my senses like a velvet leash. Rosemary and sandalwood. Spicy, burning, thick. Every time I inhale, it feels like warm hands sliding up my thighs and curling around my throat. And my body? It’s reacting. Like a f.ucking traitor. Then a whisper. Low. Hot. Dangerous.

„You always that sharp with your tongue, sweetheart?” His lips barely move. Like he’s speaking in sin. I don’t answer. I keep my eyes forward, jaw tight. He leans closer.

„Bet you bite when you’re bored.”

F.uck. I feel the heat crawl up my neck like it’s looking for a place to nest. I don’t look at him. I don’t move. But my fist tightens on the pen so hard it might snap. He chuckles, dark and pleased. Like he won.

•

The bell rings. Saved by the bell? What a f.ucking cliché. I shoot out of my seat like I’m on fire. Because I might be. Not the good kind. The kind that burns when you touch but never tells you why. I bolt into the hallway, backpack half-sliding off my shoulder, boots hitting tile like warning shots. But he follows. Of course he f.ucking does.

„Hey, hey, slow down.” His voice is that same honey-slicked mockery. Like the sound of secrets with no apology. I spin around just enough to glare.

„What?” He grins. That same crooked, lazy smile that says he likes this. The chase. The fire. Me.

„Just wondering what it’ll take to get a name outta you that isn’t laced in poison.”

„Try not breathing.” I snap. He laughs again. Low. Real. And then he f.ucking moves. One hand slams against the locker beside my head, not touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat of him crawl under my skin. His body leans in like gravity’s playing favourites. Like he wants me to feel cornered. Like he thinks I’ll melt. He doesn’t know me at all.

„Gods, you’re fun.” His voice dips, smooth like black velvet soaked in gasoline.

„Do you always talk like you wanna bite, or am I just that lucky?” I roll my eyes. Shift my weight. He’s so corny.

„You’re in my space, sugar boy.” My voice is acid. Sweet. Fatal.

„Back the f***k up before I mistake you for a mosquito.” His smile grows.

„So you do bite.”

„Only when something’s too dumb to get the hint.” I say it slowly. Cruel. Like a razor dragged over silk. His smile slowly fades.

„What’s the matter? Does this usually work for you?” I tilt my head. Smile cold.

„Cute.” That does something to him. His jaw flexes. His eyes narrow, not with anger, but with interest. Real interest. Like I just handed him a puzzle and then threatened to set it on fire.

„You’re dangerous.” He murmurs, still not moving. Still not touching.

„Good.” I say. But then it hits me. That chill. That pressure. The back of my neck goes tight. And I feel it. The other one… Victor. Somewhere to the left, across the hallway. His eyes. His f.ucking presence. I don’t even need to look to know he’s watching. Staring. Like he wants to rip something apart and he’s just deciding where to start. But I do look. Because of course I f.ucking do. And there he is. Standing still as death. Shoulders squared. Jaw locked. Staring at Dorian like he wants to rip the skin off his bones and serve it cold. That stare? It slides over me like poison. Heavy. Hot. Claustrophobic. And this Dorian? He f.ucking laughs as if he’s doing this on purpose. Not scared. Not sorry. Just amused. He leans in a breath closer, just to twist the knife even deeper.

„You always make the wolves this jealous, sweetheart?” Wolves? What a f.ucking game is this?! f***k this.

„You’re both insane.” I mutter, straightening up. I shoved him away and my backpack higher. My body’s still buzzing, but my mind is f.ucking done.

„This town is twisted. You’re both weird. And if either of you thinks I’m intimidated or impressed? Think the f***k again.” I shoulder past him. But even as I walk away, I can still feel it. The burn of Dorian’s smirk on my back. The weight of Victor’s eyes like a brand across my spine. What the f***k is this? What kind of place is this? What kind of people are they? And why the hell is part of me still shivering? This is so strange. The hall swallows me up, but not the feeling. Not the eyes. Not the sick, sweet confusion swirling in my chest like smoke.

•

What the f***k was that? What game are they playing? And why, why the hell does part of me want to lose? No. No. I’m not doing this. I don’t flirt. I don’t fall. I don’t play nice with pretty monsters who think I’m something worth sinking their teeth into. They’re playing with fire. But what they don’t know yet is that I’m not the one who ends up burning. Anyway, the rest of the day was unbothered. Boring, even. Classes blurred into each other like spilt paint. Teachers droned. Students whispered. Papers passed. Bells rang. No more stares. No more twins. No more blood in the air. Just… calm. A weird kind of calm. Like the eye of a storm that hasn’t finished circling back. I kept to myself. Sitting in the back. Scribbled notes I didn’t care about on pages I’d probably never reread. Ate nothing. Drank less. My stomach curled in knots, but not from hunger. It was like waiting for something to break. Like the air itself was holding its breath. I didn’t see either of them again. Not Dorian with his goddamn smirk and syrupy voice. Not Victor with his silence sharp enough to cut through bone. No shadows looming. No locked eyes or whispered words. Just school. Sterile and slow. But the memory? Still there. Tucked under my skin like a splinter. Every time I blinked, I could feel it… his breath against my cheek, his scent on my clothes, Victor’s fury slicking down the hallway like oil. They were gone, but they weren’t. And that’s the worst kind of haunting. By the time the final bell rang, I didn’t even flinch. I just stood. Gathered my things. Hoodie up. Headphones on. Let the bass drum of my playlist bleed into my bones. And I walked out. Like nothing happened. Like everything hadn’t already started to change. Like I wasn’t carrying something with me I couldn’t name yet. Something that smelled like rosemary, black pepper, danger… and choice.

•

The final bell rings like a mercy kill. I don’t wait. Don’t linger. Don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me tired. I head straight for the front gates, headphones on, hoodie up, backpack slung low like a shield. My boots scuff against the pavement as I settle onto the rusted bench at the bus stop. It’s warm. Breezy. Too f.ucking peaceful. Caskets are screaming in my ears, exactly how I like it. I don’t look around. Don’t need to. I feel them. The twins. Standing across the street like they own gravity. Buzzcut menace. Dark-haired sin. Just… watching. Victor with that carved-from-ice jaw locked tight. Dorian smiles like he knows too much. But they don’t move. Just burn. And me? I sit there like I’m not holding their f.ucking attention in the palm of my hand.

Like I don’t know I could shatter the silence between us with one look. But I don’t. Not yet. I close my eyes and lean back against the glass. Let the sun hit my face. Let the music drown everything else. Let the tension stretch…until a shadow breaks across the light. And a hand, soft and intentional… gently slides one side of my headphones off. I blink up, ready to snarl. But it’s him. Fez. Brown curls. Golden eyes. That coat that costs more than rent and a smile that could sell you back your own secrets.

„Hello, little dove…” He says, voice smooth and warm like whiskey in winter. I don’t flinch. I smirk.

„Dangerous business dealer boy… what if I stabbed you in the neck for getting this close unannounced?” I ask. He chuckles low, like I just told him something sweet.

„I guess we’ll never know.” He holds out a hand. Not to touch me. Just to offer. One chance. One moment. This is the part in the story where most girls would say no. Would pull back. Would run. But me? I’m not like most girls. So I stand. Shoulders square. Hoodie still up. Eyes sharp.

„Are we going somewhere?” I ask, tone casual but my pulse is loud. He doesn’t blink.

„Anywhere but here.” He says. And that? That’s the right f.ucking answer, so I smile widely, but as I do, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. Victor. Standing stone-f.ucking-still across the street. His fists clenched. Shoulders coiled like a predator who missed his mark. Eyes locked on me like I just committed treason and smiled about it. His stare? It doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t move. It devours. And beside him? Dorian. No longer grinning like the world’s his playground. Now he’s smiling like a knife. Tight. Polished. But his jaw ticks. Just once. Barely. But enough. And Fez? Fez sees it. All of it. Of course he f.ucking does. He tilts his head, amused, golden eyes glinting with something cruel.

„Are those your boyfriends, little dove?” He purrs like a secret he already knows. I snort, venom-laced.

„Those two? One wants to kill me, the other wants to f***k me. Can’t decide which is more annoying.” Fez’s smile curves wickedly.

„Sounds exhausting.”

„It is.” I hum, sliding into the leather seat like sin never touched me.

„Good thing you showed up before they started marking territory or something.” He raises an eyebrow, engine idling as smoothly as his voice.

„I don’t think they liked that you got in.”