The car sat silent.
Marcus’s hands gripped the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white, his jaw set in that frustrated, brooding way that meant he was pissed off beyond words.
I could feel his anger. Radiating off him in waves.
It wasn’t directed at me—not entirely—but it was there, filling the space between us like something alive and ready to snap.
I swallowed, hesitating before speaking. Then, before I could stop myself—
"I saw what happened." Marcus’s posture stiffened immediately. I continued carefully. "With your father. The way he talked to you."
Silence. Tighter grip. Even tighter jaw.
I pressed forward, despite every instinct telling me to shut up.
"Marcus, that wasn’t okay. He—"
"Don’t," he cut me off, voice low, dangerous.
I turned to him fully now, eyebrows knitting together. "You can’t tell me that didn’t bother you."
His entire body tensed, like he was trying to restrain something.
"Betty," he said slowly. Warningly.
I ignored it.
"You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that," I pushed. "You—"
"Shut the fuck up, Betty."
I flinched.
The words came out harsh, sharp, laced with an undercurrent of something raw and ugly.
"You had no right to eavesdrop," he snapped, his voice colder now, cutting into me like ice. "You don’t get to involve yourself in things that don’t concern you."
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat.
So that was it.
He was angry because I saw him at his weakest. Because I had seen something that wasn’t cocky, confident Marcus Archibald, but something… real.
Something vulnerable.
I turned away, biting my lip, forcing back the sting of his words.
"Fine," I murmured. "Forget I said anything."
The rest of the drive? Even worse than the silence before.
* * *
Roy’s house was packed.
Music thumped against the walls, bodies moving in sync, the air thick with alcohol, sweat, and something else entirely.
We trade histories like secret handshakes, each story a testament to survival. I stuck close to my team, all of us still buzzing from our victory. We found an empty spot in the corner of the living room, laughing and trading stories from practice.
Lucy's laugh, Sasha's quiet wit, Carlos's dramatic stories – they feel like home in a way this world of expensive cars and designer clothes never will.
I was comfortable. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.
Then, of course, Stacey had to ruin it.
"Seven Minutes in Heaven, you guys," she announces, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. "Unless, of course, Betty's team is too scared to play with the big kids."
A challenge. I should have ignored it. Should have let it go.
But Jade—our captain and Stacey’s former teammate—wasn’t the type to back down. She tilted her head, smirking at Stacey like she was amused by the entire thing.
"We're not scared," she says, ice in her voice. "We'll play."
Something flickers across Stacey's face – frustration, maybe fear – before her mask slips back into place.
The game progresses like a slow-motion car crash. People disappeared into the darkness of the closet, emerging minutes later with flushed faces, rumpled clothes, and lingering touches.
I sat quietly, sipping my drink, pretending I wasn’t watching him.
Marcus.
Even with Stacey draped over him as always, he kept looking at me. Persistent. Intense. Unreadable.
Like he was waiting for something. And then the cup was shaken once again, after Lucy and Carlos left the closet.
Two slips of paper were drawn. Names were called.
Marcus. And me.
The entire room stilled.
Stacey’s eyes widened in horror. She snapped her head toward Marcus, grabbing his arm like she could stop this from happening.
"Marcus, baby, you really don't have to—"
But he's already moving, that damned smirk playing on his lips. "Rules are rules."
I swallowed hard, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. The room was spinning, all eyes on me. Before I could process any of it, Marcus grabbed my hand—firm, unyielding—and led me toward the closet.
The closet door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world shrinks to this – his breath, my pulse, seven minutes of dangerous truth.
He doesn't hesitate. The second the door clicked shut, Marcus was on me.
I barely had time to breathe before he pinned me against the wall, his hands gripping my waist tight enough to bruise, his body pressing into mine with a frustration, a hunger, a fury that sent my pulse into a frenzy.
"You’ve been driving me insane," he growled, his breath hot against my lips, his fingers digging into my hips like he wanted to own every inch of me.
I tried to speak, to push at his chest—but he didn’t let me. His mouth crashed onto mine, hard, demanding, claiming.
A punishment. A warning. A need too sharp to ignore.
I gasped into him, my fingers instinctively grabbing onto his shirt, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer.
His teeth grazed my bottom lip, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his chest when I trembled beneath him.
My head spun.
This wasn’t the Marcus I had kissed before. This was a storm—rough, angry, relentless. And I was caught in the eye of it.
His hands roamed lower, gripping, kneading, claiming, mapping my body as if he needed to memorize every curve.
"You feel so fucking good," he muttered, his lips trailing down my throat, sucking, biting, marking.
I shivered, a helpless noise escaping me before I could stop it.
Marcus chuckled darkly, his hand sliding beneath my uniform, his touch teasing, torturing.
"You’ve been acting like you don’t want this," he whispered, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the lace of my underwear. "But your body?"
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and I tensed when I felt his touch. His smirk brushed my skin.
"Your body knows the truth."
I whimpered, my hips jerking as he finally—finally—slid his finger inside me.
A sharp, broken moan slipped from my lips before I clamped my hand over my mouth, my body arching into his touch.
Marcus let out a low, satisfied groan, his other hand grabbing my wrist, ripping my hand away from my mouth.
"Don’t," he ordered, voice dark and authoritative, his fingers curling inside me, stroking that perfect spot. "Let me hear you, baby."
My breath hitched, my body trembling, my legs barely holding me up.
"That’s it," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his fingers relentless. "You’re perfect."
My nails dug into his shoulders, every muscle in my body tightening, burning, spiraling out of control.
"Marcus," I gasped, unable to stop the wave building inside me.
"Say my name again," he commanded, his voice low and guttural, his thumb pressing against my clit, sending me straight over the edge.
A sharp, shattered cry tore from my lips as I came undone in his hands, my body convulsing against him, my breathing ragged, desperate, broken.
His hand didn’t stop, working me through it, prolonging my pleasure until I was nothing but trembling limbs and breathless gasps.
Stacey's fist against the door comes too soon, her voice sharp with fury.
"Time’s up!"
Marcus froze.
His fingers still buried deep inside me. His breath still heavy against my skin.
His eyes met mine, dark, heated, filled with something dangerous and consuming. For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then—slowly, too slowly—he pulled away, his fingers sliding out of me, making me whimper at the loss.
Then, he brought them up to his lips—deliberate, unhurried, taunting. Without breaking eye contact, he ran his tongue over them, slow and sinful, savoring every trace of me.
His smirk deepened as he sucked one finger into his mouth, his gaze locked onto mine, watching my breath hitch.
"Sweet," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Just as I remember."
I shuddered, my entire body still buzzing, still aching, still screaming for more.
Marcus just smirked. Then, as if nothing had happened, he unlocked the door and stepped out. I followed a moment later, my breath still uneven, my face burning.
We emerge into harsh light, and I know what Stacey sees – my flushed cheeks, Marcus's heavy breathing, the evidence of what just happened written all over us.
She. Was. Seething.