Who's In Charge?
1662 Words
LUNA
Mal’s hand clamps around my wrist, his body closing the space between us until I’m practically caged against the wall. We’re both crouched, but he towers, broad shoulders blocking everything except him. His energy is feral—predatory—and I feel painfully aware of every inch of skin he touches.
“Don’t mess with me right now. This isn’t. The. Time.” His voice is a growl, low and controlled, like he’s wrestling something monstrous inside himself.
I don’t know whether to flinch or lean into him. Is this still Mal? The boy who used to fix my calculator when it glitched, who got flustered when he ordered coffee, who tucked his hair behind his ear as it embarrassed him? Because this version is heat and danger and command, and I don’t know where I fit in the fallout.
But I’m not letting him steamroll me.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Mal?” I rip my wrist away, shoving at his chest hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. The noise echoes—a sharp punctuation in the empty stalls.
“I don’t know what’s going on at all,” I say, breath shaking as the truth rips from me. “I forgot to take my meds yesterday, that’s why I was in so much pain. I forgot my perfume today, so yeah, people are staring, but you’re the one acting insane.” I point at him, fury prickling up my spine. “My Mal is nice, quiet, brilliant. He’s a nerd with stupid, adorable glasses who knows every formula before the teacher even writes it. This Mal is mean and possessive and keeps touching me like he has a right to, and I feel—”
God, why does my throat burn?
“—fireworks,” I choke. “And everything feels wrong and hot and terrifying.”
I try so hard not to sob. I’m angry, yes—but mostly I’m terrified. Not of him, but of myself. Of what I did wrong. Of why everything is unraveling.
“Wait—fireworks? What kind of—”
“But it doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, shoving everything into my bag with shaking hands. “I’m going home. I’m taking my meds. Tomorrow will be normal, and today never happened.”
Normal. Whatever the hell that is.
He stands slowly, expression unreadable, a crease forming between his brows—his thinking face. The one that always makes me soften. Damn him.
Our eyes lock for a second too long, and suddenly I’m burning. Not angry-burning. Different-burning.
Everything about him feels too close, even though he's three feet away.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and bolt out of the bathroom.
But I don’t get far.
A force slams into me again, hard enough to rattle the lockers. My breath stutters out of me—
Mal.
His palms bracket my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones reverently, like he’s memorizing me. Every nerve in my body lights up as sparks race under my skin, delicious and terrifying.
His eyes aren’t just brown anymore. Gold flares through them—alive, feral, hungry.
He scans the hallway. Empty. His lips curl into something wicked and confident, nothing like the nervous smiles I know.
He leans in and kisses me.
And I break open.
Heat explodes through me—wild, consuming, electric—like I’ve been starving and he is food. His mouth moves against mine with a desperate kind of reverence, as if he’s been dying for this. As if I belong here, tangled up in him. I grab his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing more.
Want him inside my skin.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
I’m drowning and breathing for the first time at the same time.
But logic claws its way up, and with a gutted, painful wrench, I push him away.
We both stare, stunned. Breathless. Hungry.
He looks dazed, like he didn’t expect that any more than I did. His lips are red. His hair mussed. His control cracked.
God, I want to kiss him again.
He steps forward, slow and careful now, like approaching a skittish animal. His fingers cup my cheek again, gentler this time, heat still pulsing between us. He rests his forehead on mine.
“I don’t want to see you in pain again,” he whispers, voice rough and intimate. His breath ghosts across my lips, and I shiver. “Don’t take the meds. Don’t use the perfume. Just… think about it. For me.”
For me.
He says it like a prayer.
I stare into those gold-flecked eyes. Desperation flickers there—fear, longing, certainty I don’t understand.
“I will,” I whisper.
Maybe I mean it.
Maybe I don’t.
I don’t know anymore.
All I know is his lips still burn on mine.
I scoop up my bag and walk out, his scent clinging to me like a brand.
-----
I push through the front door like a ghost. Mom cooks lunch. Dad sketches characters. They act like everything is normal while my world is cracking open.
“Honey, where’s the perfume bottle?” Mom asks. No hello, no why-are-you-home.
“I grabbed it. It was empty. I sprayed after first period.”
Silence. Their shared glance feels loaded—like a silent alarm.
Dad clears his throat. “Did you put it on before class?”
“No?” I force a laugh. “It’s perfume.”
Their eyes meet again. I feel like prey watching predators communicate telepathically.
Then Mom’s voice goes falsely bright. “Honey! Actually—good timing. Your dad’s job needs us to move again. So go pack!”
My heart stops.
Everything I know, everything I love—here.
Mal—here.
“What? It’s mid-semester. I can’t just leave.”
“Oh, silly, you’ve done it before.”
“Yeah, and my grades tanked, and you pretended to homeschool me.”
Their faces tighten. I see fear. Not fear of moving. Fear of me.
“Well,” Dad says, “you pulled through. You skipped a year.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to start over again.”
“Luna,” he says, voice like ice, “you will pack. We leave tomorrow.”
I stare at him, begging silently.
And just like always, I break. I obey.
But my chest burns with fury on the way upstairs.
Hours blur together as I throw pieces of my life into boxes, sobbing until I’m empty. My room is a mausoleum of memories.
Study sessions with Mal sprawled on my bed, teasing my music taste. His stupid laugh. His stupid glasses. His stupid, brilliant brain.
And the kiss.
God, that kiss.
A knock rattles my door.
“Honey, the med count is off. Have you been taking them?” Dad calls.
My blood freezes.
“Yes,” I lie. “I put extras in the organizer.”
Silence. Breathing. Suspicion.
I deliberately crinkle packing tape, hoping it sounds convincing. After a beat, he leaves.
I collapse on the bed and cry myself unconscious.
-----
I wake in darkness.
My room is stripped bare—empty except for the bed and desk. Five pills sit on the desk instead of four, with a note: TAKE THEM ASAP.
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe.
Mal. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t say anything.
Then pain hits—
A white-hot inferno ripping through every cell. My body convulses, too small to contain it. I crash to the floor with my desk, head pounding.
“Luna, are you okay?” Mom shouts.
I can’t speak. Only scream.
We need Mal.
We need him.
And then—
I’m coming.
The voice isn’t mine. Isn’t spoken.
But the moment I hear it, the pain evaporates.
Mom bursts in, horrified.
Her expression morphs rapidly—fear, calculation, dread. She takes in the overturned desk, the heavy wood that should’ve been impossible to move.
“MARK! Get me the Rohypnol, silver, and wolfsbane!”
Silver.
Something inside me recoils violently. I scramble backward on instinct, animal and panicked.
“No. No more pills.”
My voice isn’t mine anymore. Lower. Rougher. Commanding.
Dad rushes in with a syringe.
“It’s for your safety,” he says. “You need them.”
“No,” I snarl—and the word twists into something monstrous, something wild.
A howl.
The sound terrifies me—and thrills me.
The doorbell rings.
Once. Twice.
Then pounding.
I need you.
I need you.
I NEED YOU.
I can feel Mal’s presence like a beacon, warm and furious, tearing toward me.
Dad’s face warps in anger. “What have you done?”
He grabs my arm. “You will take the silver. I am your alph—your father. You obey me.”
Alph—
The word hits something deep and ancient inside me.
And shatters.
For the first time in my life, there is no compulsion. No pull. No invisible leash.
I am not his.
The front door explodes open downstairs. Heavy boots thunder inside. My father jolts—fear slicing across his face.
He releases me.
Mom doesn’t. Panic makes her strong.
Then a sudden, sharp sting in my thigh—Dad injects me with something. I scream, thrashing, animal.
Mom yanks the syringe out, horror etched on her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay now? You won’t scream?”
I nod, dazed, mind split between terror and a visceral need—
Him.
We rush downstairs.
Dad freezes on the last step.
I peer around him—
And there he is.
Mal.
Standing in the wreckage of my front door, eyes blazing gold, chest rising like he’s barely holding something back. The air around him crackles—warm, electric, dangerous.
And every cell in me exhales.
My body knows him before my brain does.
Not safety.
Not salvation.
Something deeper.
Something claimed.
- Writer
