"You motherfucker!"
The word hadn't even finished tumbling out of my mouth when my fist connected squarely with his nose.
Crack.
The sound echoed across the courtyard, sharp and final, drawing the attention of every gawking student within earshot. Mark, bigger, broader, and definitely stronger than me, stumbled backwards, shock plastered across his stupid face. The punch had come from nowhere. Hell, even I was surprised by it.
"Arabella!"
Monica's incredulous voice cut through the noise. She darted to my side, her fingers latching onto my arm before I could do anything reckless. Mark's hand flew to his face, blood already seeping between his fingers.
"You fucking bitch!" he spat, voice muffled by the crimson mess.
My knuckles throbbed. His nose had been as hard as a damn rock, and now that the adrenaline was ebbing, the ache was blooming. Impulsiveness gave way to the creeping edge of reality, and my sky-blue eyes swept the crowd. Monika's face was pale, though I caught the faintest flicker of pride there. In contrast, Mark's expression, and that of his ever-loyal crony, was a storm of rage.
Shit. I was dead.
The bulky, bumbling fool's face twisted into something feral as he approached me.
"What do you think you are, you blue-eyed freak?" he sneered.
Mark didn't do this.
"Mark, don't do this!" Monica's voice trembled, but there was steel beneath it.
We edged backwards, though the crowd of busybodies pressed in like vultures. No escape route, no breathing room.
What's the best way to start a Monday? Punch an oversized donkey whose ego could rival his body mass.
"Your nose looks better now, Mark," I said sweetly, "A better upgrade than the huge tree you used to carry around before."
I didn't move. I didn't flinch. He wasn't going to win, not against us.
Mark's angry laugh scraped along my spine. "Then you won't mind if I arrange your entire face."
"You wouldn't beat girls, Mark," Monica shot back. "Even you have some standards."
Monica's hand found mine, her caramel-brown eyes locking on my blue ones, wide with panic.
Ready? my look asked.
She gave the tiniest nod.
"You should have thought about that before you ran your little lips," he snarled.
"And you should have known better than to grope my best friend," I snapped. "But your brain is as small as your dick, isn't it?"
Gasps rippled through the circle.
Before Mark could lunge, Monika and I bolted, shoving some gawker, who looked suspiciously like PewDiePie, out of the way.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Monika panted. "He's right behind us!"
"Shit!" I barked, legs burning as we tore across the courtyard.
I pushed harder, my sneakers slapping against the pavement. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed the worst, Mark was still on our heels, his crew charging after him like a pack of idiots. The cool fall breeze whipped at our hair, but it couldn't cool the fire in our lungs. Our hearts were battering our ribcages, desperate to escape.
"Oh my god, get in the fucking car!" Monika shrieked.
We didn't argue. We dove inside, breaths ragged, the small car instantly shrinking around the pounding of our chests. Monika slammed the gear into reverse and tore us out of the parking lot -
BAM!
"AHHH!"
We screamed in unison as a hand smacked against my window hard enough to rattle the glass.
"MOVE BACK! BACK! BACK! NOW!" Mark roared.
"STOP YELLING!" I yelled right back, as if that would calm anyone down.
More screaming, more chaos, and Monica miraculously, managed to whip the car around and speed off.
"COME BACK, YOU BITCHES!" Mark's voice chased us like a rabid dog until distance finally swallowed it.
For a while, the only sound was our breathing. Heavy. Shaky. Alive.
Monica looked at me. I looked at her.
And then we cracked.
Giggling turned to full-blown laughter.
"GOD! That was so insane!" I wheezed between fits.
We looked at each other again, and that somehow made it worse. Our laughter grew louder, sharper, and uncontrollable.
"Wooo! That was awesome!" Monika whistled.
"Awesome?" I pouted. "My knuckles feel like they're about to fall off, and that's not even possible."
She reached over and smacked my arm lightly with her free hand. "Don't be such a crybaby."
"Oh, I'm a crybaby now?" I stared at her, mock-offended.
"OMG! Poor man went and beat Goliath!" she teased.
"Psh! If he gets that worked up over his physical size, how the hell would you handle a guy with a large d-?"
I raised a hand to stop her before she could say something outrageous.
"Don't even start with me, Monica Crawford. Your brother has better manners than you."
Monika scoffed. "How would you even know? One's Lancelot, and the other doesn't even talk."
"Moni!" I gasped, reaching over to pinch her thigh.
"Ai! Do you want to have an accident?" she hissed, swerving just enough to make her point.
I rolled my eyes. "Please. I'd haunt you even if we were ghosts."
The crazy driver clicked her tongue and turned up the radio. M.I.A. exploded from the speakers, and within seconds, we were both screaming the lyrics at the top of our lungs.
By the time we pulled up to the Crawford estate, our throats were raw from singing.
I lived in a gorgeous penthouse down the street, but nothing topped Crawford's wealth. The automated main gates stood like silent sentinels, guarded by both visible security and the kind you didn't see. We drove along the long trail, fountains of every imaginable shape lining the way to the main mansion.
It was a masterpiece. A European-Victorian design modernized by crisp white walls and diamond accents. I'd always loved this place, especially the sprawling garden that smelled like summer, and the rooftop swimming pool that glittered like a jewel.
I'd been visiting since I was three, and it still managed to take my breath away.
"I can't believe just five people live here," I muttered under my breath as we stepped inside. The interior was luxurious yet tasteful, grand without being gaudy. Michelle Crawford knew what she was doing.
"Yeah, like your room doesn't lead to its very own ice-skating rink," Monica retorted.
The nerve of this witch.
God, sometimes I wondered how someone so beautiful could say the most atrocious things. Monica, like every member of her ridiculously perfect family, stood at a regal 5'8". Her dark caramel-honey eyes always seemed to glisten, her pouty pink lips could make any girl jealous, and her high cheekbones only emphasized her flawless, glassy skin.
Eighteen years old and fully aware of her own power, she owned it in every word she spoke and every step she took. It was the same beauty her mother, father, and brother carried like a crown, and it was exactly why Mark having the audacity to even look at her was practically a sin.
"Fuck, I can't believe the idiot grabbed my perky ass," she said with a disgusted shrug.
I laughed. "Don't worry, when your brothers hear about this, they'll make sure Mark loses both his hands and his balls."
Monica examined her manicured pink nails with fake nonchalance. "Oh, please. You already defended myhonourr. My hero," she said dramatically, draping her arms around me.
"Get off, you psycho." I shoved her away. "Like you wouldn't love it, him knowing you punched a guy for me."
My ears went hot, and I turned my face so she wouldn't notice.
Monika noticed.
"The whole of CentralFort City knows about your lame crush on him," she groaned.
I shook my head firmly. "No, I don't."
"Which begs the question, why haven't you asked him out yet?" Monika pressed.
"I am not having this conversation right now. I'm going to the kitchen to get some ice for my bruised knuckles."
I didn't wait for a response, I walked. Ran. Escaped.
"You can run from the truth, but you can't hide from me!" she called after me.
I almost turned around just to beat her. Narcissist much?
But the kitchen's threshold stopped me cold.
He was there.
Jamal had just entered from the opposite doorway, and now we stood across from each other on either side of the long marble counter.
My lips tugged upward. *Hi, Jamal*, I signed to him.
He wore black joggers, a black hoodie, and a custom black face mask. The only part of him I could see was his eyes - storm-gray orbs that caught the light like silver rain. They were so much more captivating than I'd ever noticed, so deep they almost pulled me under.
They were nothing like his older brother's eyes, light brown, always blank, always distant. Jamal was alive.
*You sign? Since when?* he signed back, his brows lifting slightly.
*I learned a few months ago, but I hadn't seen you around.* I let my hands move smoothly, confident now.
He tilted his head, and something in my chest tightened.
*See?* I added with a small shrug. *One more person to talk to.*
My smile widened.
Since he was adopted fifteen years ago, I had never once heard Jamal speak.
Poor boy had been through so much that he simply… stopped. His silence wasn't shyness, it was his armour.
Learning sign language had been on my to-do list for years, and finall, ticking it off felt like opening a door I'd always wanted to walk through. But the truth was, Jamal and I barely crossed paths. Sometimes, it was as if he didn't even exist. That's how well he blended into the shadows.
Yet standing in the same room with him now felt suffocating, like some invisible force was tightening around my lungs.
And I knew exactly what that force was.
His hair, those curls at the front, fell lazily toward his face, almost brushing the edges of his eyes. And those eyes… storm-gray, piercing, demanding. They didn't just look at you; they measured you.
I wondered how he did it, how someone so quiet could command so much space. His presence matched his father's, a rare and intimidating feat.
The temperature always seemed to drop when he entered, and in that moment, it felt like the world itself shifted.
Like the world was his oyster.
Like the world was suddenly… small.
It felt like everyone was meant to bow to him, yet he moved as though he belonged in the shadows.
The corners of his eyes crinkled briefly before he moved, no words, just a nod as he opened the fridge, pulled out a jug of water, and slid an ice pack across the counter toward me.
"How did you?" I asked, brows lifting in surprise.
He pointed to my hands resting on the counter's edge.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
With one last, lingering glance, he turned and walked away like the ghost he'd always been.
Jamal Crawford. He was so mysterious. He was so quiet that he would never know he was there.
I grabbed the ice pack and trailed after him. We ascended the golden, two-sided staircase, his broad back steady ahead of me. Even through the hoodie, I could tell how solid he was, the kind of strength you didn't need to flaunt.
And then-
"Ah!"
The scream ripped from my throat before I could think.