Page 21 of Ghost Ribbon

Marco’s gaze flicked up accidentally and met mine.

Rei was already on his feet, stepping forward to confront Dimitri. Marco’s chest started rising and falling too fast, hyperventilating. I watched the terror bloom across his face like a flower I had personally cultivated. It was exquisite. The same terror that had filled his eyes on the rooftop a year ago, only now it was more personal, because I had touched him yesterday. Because he knew, on some level, that I was no longer content to watch from the shadows.

The next thing I knew, Rei grabbed Marco more firmly and pulled him away. They ran.

I turned my head slowly and saw Dimitri doubled over slightly, one large hand pressed firmly over his groin. The kid had actually kicked him in the balls. Hard enough that my cousin was still recovering, breathing through clenched teeth. I hadn’t noticed at all. My entire focus had been consumed by Marco. The rest of the world had blurred into irrelevance the moment those hazel eyes met mine.

Ilya was losing it nearby. Bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, he laughed his ass off as he pointed dramatically at Dimitri while wiping tears from his eyes. “Dima! Oh my god, your dick still attached? Should we call a medic or are you gonna need a little ice pack for the royal jewels?”

Dimitri was muttering curses in Russian under his breath. His face was flushed, pride more wounded than anything else. I said nothing. I rarely did. I only spoke when it was necessary, and right now it wasn’t.

My mind was already elsewhere, on the way Marco’s small frame had pressed against Rei’s, on the terror in his eyes that I had put there, on the promise I had made to myself a year ago and renewed yesterday when his pulse jumped under my thumb.

By the time night rolled around, Ilya had done what Ilya always did. He texted half the senior class and told them his parents were in Monaco again. The party was in full swing at his family’s estate on the edge of the academy grounds. I found a wall near the back of the main room, claimed it, and stayed there.

Ilya was in his element, laughing too loud at nothing, already three drinks deep and orbiting the crowd like a chaotic sun. Dimitri was posted up by the island counter nursing a beer. He looked mad, and Ilya decided it was time to piss Dimitri off even more.

He climbed onto the big glass coffee table in the center of the room and raised his glass high.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and whatever the fuck the rest of you are,” he called out over the music. “Tonight we celebrate a historic moment in Bloodburn history. Our beloved Dimitri Morozov got his royal fucking balls punted into the stratosphere!”

Laughter exploded across the room. Someone threw a balled-up napkin that bounced off Ilya’s chest. Ilya grinned wider, feeding off the chaos the way he always did.

Dimitri was sprawled in a leather chair near the table, one leg kicked out, drink in hand. His split lip from our sparring earlier had started to swell. He didn’t even look up at first. “Get off the table before I put you through it, Ilya.”

“Too late, big guy! The people deserve the truth!” Ilya pointed dramatically at him. “Look at him! Still standing funny. You walking like you got a stick up your ass or is that just the swelling? Be honest, on a scale of one to ‘I might never fuck again,’ how bad are we talking?”

Dimitri flipped him off with both hands. “Keep running your mouth and I will demonstrate exactly how functional my dick still is. On your face.”

“Ooooh, threats!” Ilya clutched his chest like he was touched, playing it up for the crowd.

Dimitri muttered something vicious in Russian and drained the rest of his beer in one go. A blonde in a silver dress had been watching him from the stairs the whole time. She caught his eye, bit her lip, and tilted her head toward the second floor. Dimitri didn’t even say goodbye. He set the bottle down, grabbed her by the wrist, and disappeared up the stairs without looking back. Typical. Dimitri handled his frustrations with bodies and violence. I handled mine with patience and planning.

Ilya watched them go and snorted. “There he goes. Off to prove his manhood. Hope she is gentle with the patient.”

He grabbed two fresh glasses from the bar and wandered over to where I was still holding up the wall. The music was louder here. Bass vibrated in my ribs like a second heartbeat I didn’t want. Ilya handed me one of the glasses without asking.

“You look bored,” he said, leaning against the wall beside me. His voice was slightly slurred.

I took the glass but I didn’t answer.

I was fucking bored. My only source of entertainment was probably curled up in his bed right now. I wondered if he was still feeling my thumb on his pulse. I hoped he was. I hoped the sensation lingered like a brand he couldn’t scrub away.

Ilya kept talking, something about the fight earlier and how I had looked like I was somewhere else entirely during the clinch. I let the words wash over me. He didn’t expect real answers. That was the beauty of the mask I had perfected since I was a kid. People filled the silence with their own assumptions and never looked deeper.

My mind was spiraling.

The ribbon in my pocket felt warm against my ribs.

I had tried to stay away for a year.

It wasn’t working.

And I was done pretending it ever would.

Marco Bellini was mine.

He just didn’t know it yet.