BOUND TO THE BULLIES

6 | Dangerous Games

Darcy

I don't remember running back to the dorms.

My memory is a blur of gray corridors, terrified faces of other students blurring past me, and the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

I slam the door of my room—Room 404, the "broom closet" as everyone calls it—and lock it. My fingers tremble so badly I almost drop the key.

Click.

It’s a pathetic sound. A flimsy piece of metal against four Alpha wolves who can punch through concrete.

I drag my desk chair and wedge it under the handle. Then I grab my heavy biology textbook and stack it on top. Then my suitcase.

It’s a barricade made of garbage, but it’s all I have.

I collapse onto my thin, lumpy mattress, curling into a ball. My hands are still glowing faintly, a soft violet light pulsing under my skin like a second heartbeat.

"Stop it," I whisper to my hands, scrubbing them against the rough wool blanket. "Go away."

The power fades, but the terror doesn't.

I just humiliated the Heirs. I made Ronan Thornfield—a future Alpha King—kneel on the floor like a servant.

When the command wears off... and it will wear off... he is going to tear this school apart to get to me.

I lie there for hours. The sun sets, casting long, creepy shadows across my peeling wallpaper. My stomach rumbles, but I refuse to leave. I’d rather starve than step into that hallway.

Knock. Knock.

Two soft, polite raps on the wood.

I stop breathing.

"Darcy?"

The voice is smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly calm.

Alastair.

I don't answer. I press my back against the wall, staring at the door handle.

"I know you’re in there," Alastair says. He doesn't raise his voice. He sounds like a friend dropping by for tea. "We can hear your heartbeat, you know. It’s racing like a rabbit’s."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Go away. Go away.

"You need to open the door, Darcy," he continues, his tone reasonable. "We need to talk about what happened in the Council Room. About what you are."

"Go to hell!" I scream, my voice cracking.

A pause. Then, a low chuckle. It sounds like dry leaves scraping over pavement.

"There’s the fire," Alastair muses. "Ronan is furious, by the way. He’s currently destroying the gym. But I told him violence isn't the answer. Not with a... specimen like you."

Specimen. The word makes my skin crawl.

"I’m not coming out," I say, trying to sound brave. "If you try to break the door down, I’ll use the Voice again."

"Will you?" Alastair asks softly. "I’ve been reading about Royal bloodlines in the old archives for the last two hours. It’s fascinating stuff. But it drains you, doesn't it? I can smell your exhaustion through the wood. You’re weak, Darcy. You used all your juice on that one command."

My blood runs cold. He’s right. I feel hollowed out, dizzy. I couldn't command a puppy to sit right now.

"You’re bluffing," I say, but my voice wavers.

"I’m a strategist, Darcy. I don't bluff," he replies. "I calculate."

He leans closer to the door. I can hear his breath hitching against the wood.

"Open the door. Let me in. I can protect you from Ronan," he lies. "I’m the nice one, remember?"

"You’re the worst one," I whisper. "Because you pretend you’re not a monster."

Silence stretches for a long minute.

"Have it your way," Alastair sighs, sounding disappointed. "Sleep tight, Darcy. Although... I doubt you’ll get much sleep tonight. The bond pulls at us. It pulls at you. You’ll be aching for our touch before dawn."

His footsteps recede down the hallway.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. He’s gone.

But he was right. The pain starts an hour later.

It’s a dull ache in my bones, a craving. My skin feels too tight. My body misses *them*. It misses the scent of Ronan’s ice, Damon’s gunpowder, Alastair’s mint, Amos’s earth. It’s a sickness.

I toss and turn, sweating, shivering.

I hate them. I hate them.

Midnight strikes. The dorm is silent.

I stare at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster to distract myself from the pain.

Then, I hear it.

Click.

The sound of metal sliding against metal.

My eyes snap to the door.

The lock turns slowly. Smoothly.

My barricade—the chair, the books, the suitcase—it’s a joke. It won't stop someone with a key.

A master key.

The handle turns. The door creaks open, pushing the chair aside with a heavy, grinding scrape.

A shadow falls across the floor. A massive, hulking silhouette fills the doorway, blocking out the hallway light.

It’s not Alastair. It’s too big.

It’s not Ronan. The shoulders are too broad.

The figure steps into my room, closing the door softly behind him. The lock clicks shut again.

I scramble backward on my bed until my back hits the headboard. "Stay back!" I gasp, grabbing my pillow as a shield.

The figure steps into a patch of moonlight.

Amos.

He looks wrecked. His hair is messy, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s sweating. He looks like he’s in physical agony.

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. They are large, scarred hands that could crush my skull like a grape.

"Quiet," he grunts, his voice rough like gravel.

He takes a step toward the bed.

"Don't scream," he warns, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Ronan is coming. And if he finds you before I hide you... he won't be as patient as Alastair."