Page 26 of Ignition

She glowered at me for a long moment. My mouth opened—to argue or apologise, I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t get to do either.

A flash of movement caught my eye as she drew her hand back.

Then, she slapped me across the face so hard, my ears started ringing. A split-second later, she flinched. Staggered back a step.

My guts sharpened into ice and the breath stuttered out of me. My arms uncrossed and my hands fell limp at my sides.

Pri, what the fuck? I wouldn’t hurt you.

The tang of copper bloomed on my tongue.

She’d split the inside of my cheek.

Christ.

My palm lifted to graze the smarting flesh. The urge to demand why she’d hit me shot up the balls of my feet—restless and ugly—but I bit down on it and clenched my jaw shut instead, wincing at a sharp flicker of pain.

I’d probably deserved it. And though I wouldn’t admit it, her unflinching loyalty touched me, deep down.

If this had been anyone else, maybe the aftermath would have been different. But we’d grown up door to door from each other, dealt with the same mercurial world. She was the only one who truly knew, who’d seen—

My frown deepened. Not with anger this time, but with an emotion so unfamiliar, I had no name for it.

“Where is she?”

My voice came out quiet and steady. Too steady, considering the way my chest pinched in to the point of pain.

“I’m not telling you.”

My stomach sank.

I didn’t even know her voice was capable of such venom, but somehow, that wasn’t the worst thing. The withering look she gave me—like I was little more than filth on her shoe—was infinitely worse.

And painfully familiar.

It cut deep, sliding under my ribs and prodding at a wound that had scabbed over a million times, but still bled. It was the way my father looked at me, whenever I didn’t quite meet whatever expectations he’d set that week.

“Pri,” I rasped, “just… tell me.”

“Leave her the fuck alone,” she spat, before turning on her heel and storming away.

I ran my hands through my hair, clawing at my scalp as if the act could physically click the pieces into place inside my brain. My feet kicked up gravel as I paced, not caring if someone might see me less than composed.

I hadn’t touched her or crowded her, so this must have been something I said. Was it the way I’d called her “poor”? The contemptuous tone? It couldn’t be. I’d done that dozens of times before. She’d usually snap right back—

I skidded to a halt, trainers catching on gravel, as the realisation whipped through me with a crack.

I’d called her a slut.

Fuck.

I didn’t even know why I’d done it. I told myself it was because of how much I hated how everyone was leering at her. But maybe a vicious part of me had known it would land—the part that needed to be the heir, to crush whatever pulsed like a live wire between us.

A flicker of something twisted and nauseating shot through me, but I shoved it back, footsteps thumping against gravel.

An hour of scouring the grounds, searching for her literally everywhere, and nothing. I wasn’t sure what I even wanted to say to her at this point. I just knew I had to find her.