Chapter 2 - Jace

The Worst One

I should've left the second I saw her walk in.

I should've turned around, chugged whatever was in my cup, and found a warm body to distract me for a few hours—maybe the blonde who'd been eye-fucking me since I stepped inside. I could've had her up against the bathroom wall by now. I wouldn't have needed her name.

But no.

I watched the quiet one instead. The girl in the cardigan. With the nervous fingers and stupidly brave heart.

Ivy Wren.

I didn't know her name yet. But I knew her type. I'd been warned about her kind since I was fifteen—back when I first started breaking hearts and leaving girls crying in dorm stairwells.

Good girls.

Innocent girls

The kind who look at you like you're more than muscle and bad decisions. The kind who believe you could be safe if someone just loved you hard enough.

They're the worst.

Because they make you wish they were right.

And Ivy? She was every sweet thing I don't touch.

Tight little skirt she kept tugging down. Hair too perfect. That cardigan clinging to her shoulders like a lifeline. She looked like she should be carrying a book, not a Solo cup. Like she should be in a meadow somewhere—not surrounded by drunk, horny twenty-year-olds with something to prove.

And yet she was here.

Standing in a party where I've had more regrets than conversations. Looking at me like she wanted something. Like she didn't even know what it was, just that I might have it.

And maybe I did.

I tried to scare her off.

"You're gonna get eaten alive looking like that."

Not subtle. But I figured if she flinched, if she backed down, it'd be easy.

But she didn't.

She came closer.

She talked back.

Nervous as hell, blinking like she wasn't sure I was real—but still there. Still fucking standing there.

God.

When she said she'd never done this before—never been to a party, never had a drink, probably never been kissed—I felt something twist in my gut. Not guilt. Not pity.

Possession.

Like this girl didn't belong to anyone yet, and if I touched her—really touched her—she would.

And it would be me.

And I would break her.

"You came over here because you were curious," I said.

She looked like she wanted to lie. Couldn't do it. "You don't look scared of anything," she whispered.

Fuck.

I wanted to tell her I'm scared of everything.

That I wake up most nights with my chest on fire and a memory I can't name burning through my ribs. That I don't believe in love because I've only seen what it leaves behind. That I fuck because it's easier than feeling, and I leave because I'm not worth staying for.

But I didn't say any of that.

I leaned in.

"You should be."

And I left.

Because I had to.

Because if I didn't walk away right then, I would've done something stupid—like ask her name. Or ask if she wanted to get out of here. Or ask if she'd ever let someone kiss her like they meant it.

And I don't do firsts.

I don't leave marks that last.

Except I already knew—she was going to stay in my head.

And the worst part?

I wanted her there.