o3 | be witched (part two)

THE ROOM IS PACKED WITH writhing bodies, the mindless gyrations of the elite and hedonistic, and a bunch of children who have never looked more out of their depth.

Sweaty bodies press against mine, the reek of tequila and weed hanging heavy in the air, infused with the choking tang of tobacco. With each graze of bare skin, I feel a shudder, because being a Witch and an A-rank doesn't make me any less small, any less prey-like to a room full of careless predators, double my size and uncaring of who I am.

It's not so bad when I'm behind those velvet ropes, nursing a bottle of expensive French wine on the pool deck, but the firsters' party is always the worst, and at this point, the sick feeling pooling like acid in my stomach has become instinctive.

The shouts are loud enough to dig into my ears with a blunt shovel, and I have to fight the urge to hold my wrist to my nose to block out the dizzying aroma of cannabis. Instead, I close my eyes, hands clutched to my body but elbows out, trying to clear out a path to the VIP area in the corner, housed by a cluster of IPs and Witches minding their own business and awaiting my arrival.

But it's in the midst of the chaos—rushing around me on all sides and near-knocking me off my feet—that I receive a text, and I feel my eyes bugging in my head.

My response is weak, a confidence-inducing reminder that Archer is wrong and Rebel is right. She's not bringing me down, she's helping me. By encouraging me to be myself.

I'm not even at the VIP area, but I know I have to turn back now. If I don't arrive, Mr Rose will come looking, and it won't be long before I bring all King City Saturday Nights crashing to the ground.

"I have to go!" I holler over the ear-splitting noise, in Rebel's general direction. Sprawled across Jake and Tyler, she yells something unintelligible back before taking another swig of her beer.

For the sake of the predicament ahead, I'm suddenly glad I haven't had time to get a drink. Some people consider it liquid courage, and I agree—to an extent. Even if it's subconsciously, alcohol makes you vulnerable, and that's the part I'm most worried about. If I want to survive a meeting with Mr Rose, I need all my nerves intact, or I know what'll happen.

I turn on my heels, starting to bolt. This time, with frenzied panic radiating off of me in waves, the path clears for me almost instantly, and I make it to the door in half the time it took for me to escape it.

Mr Rose's room is in the West Wing, the administration building. As headmaster, he occupies the largest office, at the head of the hallway.

In heels and someone else's discarded jacket, my footsteps click against the tiled floor but I shrink into myself regardless, hyper-aware of the sense of unease creeping up my spine as I approach the grand door.

My knuckles hover against its wood, rapping twice before a muted come in is heard, and the door falls open beneath my weight.

My little brother, Ebony, is sat on one of the chairs in front of his desk, chin cradled in his cupped hands and elbows braced against the desk. Upon the click of the door behind me, he glances up, meeting my gaze.

Everyone has always said we look alike with our matching bronze skin, copper eyes and wavy brown hair. The eyes that stare into mine are a mirror, but truthfully, I've never felt more distant from him. We've hardly spent any time together in the past few years—it's been several since we've even spoken—and it's hard to think of him as my brother when we aren't even friends.

He never liked Rebel, and that's driven more of a wrench in our relationship than anything else.

"Hi." I pull down my skirt, smoothing it down over my lap as I take a seat beside my brother and regard Mr Rose.

Fingers interlocked into a church's steeple, a smile forever balanced on his lips. His brown eyes are bright and clear, denoting all his intentions. Just the look of him has a thousand memories racing through my head at hyper-speed.

Unprecedented closeness. Unwanted touches. Uncomfortable stares raking down my body. Too many pleads for me to stay when I had to leave. Too many excuses to get us alone.

He's supposed to be a family friend, but since I hit puberty, King City's Headteacher stopped feeling like family or friend.

When he stares at me like that, nausea rises like bile in my throat. I feel the urge to duck my head, to press back against my chair, to run as far from him as possible, but his unwavering, unflinching gaze keeps me grounded. Pinned to the chair, and at his mercy if he so wishes.

A man who can have fear deep-rooted in my chest in front of my brother is a man that has no shame at all.

"So, I suppose we can skip formalities," he muses. Mild. Polite. In a tone that makes my skin crawl.

I shake my head almost too quickly, fingernails clenching into palms. "Formalities are fine...Sir."

"Nonsense." His tongue darts out, trailing across his lips a little too slowly, a little too deliberately. His smile is sharp and poisonous. Acid, seeping into my veins. "So, Ivory, Ebony. Your mother told me she's going out of town. Is this correct?"

I don't have to answer to you.

But I do, I do, I do, because no matter what I say, he'd make it suit him. I need to try.

"Correct." My voice comes out hoarse. No matter how much defiance blasts through my veins, he could get anything he wants out of me. In fear of something else. There's a line he has yet to cross, but I don't doubt he would take it that far if he has the inclination.

"Right, so she's made arrangements for you two to stay in the dorms until her return."

My world spins off its axis.

Dorms. Closer to Mr Rose. Where he can check up on me whenever he wants. Where he has free reign in and out of my life. Where he can do what he wants because he is the Headteacher and he has the power.

As if sensing my sickness, Ebony grabs my hand. I look at him, realising that even if we're not close, he's my brother and he still has my back.

I think I need him right now.

Mr Rose's gaze is still piercing into mine, so I nod, even if it's the last thing I want to do. There's no way I can ever step foot in those dorms; no way I could ever suffocate in his presence longer than necessary. No way can I tell him all the thoughts racing through my head, screaming for me to get away from him, even when his arm is reaching over the desk, even when his hand is closing around mine, even when his fingers are curling my own around the pen, even when he is guiding my hand into spelling my name.

"I should go first, I'm younger." Ebony snatches the pen from my hands, and though this causes Mr Rose to stifle a frustrated groan from the back of his throat, I'm thankful for the reprieve.

He takes a deliberately long time to write his name before it clatters to the table, and Mr Rose is offering to help me sign myself.

"I can write my own name." My throat closing, voice tight and small and unheard. He obliges, but his hand still hovers over mine and his eyes won't leave. When I'm done, I drop the pen, tear my hand away, but I still feel tainted by his presence all around me.

I have to look at Ebony when I speak—I owe him that much. "I should probably go. I'm late."

I stand up on shaking legs, self-conscious in my short dress. Quivering fingers tugging at the hem of my skirt, willing it to cover every sliver of exposed skin that he can't seem to tear his eyes away from, not for a moment. Jacket around my waist, now covering my goosebumped arms; hairs standing on end.

But he's still staring, and his eyes trailing down my figure do nothing to make me feel any more at ease.

"It's late, I can drive you—,"

"I'm good, thank you." The parroted response leaves my lips in an instant, but in that moment, I can't feel less thankful. "I need to walk Ebony back as well."

I don't, and he knows that, but he lets me say what I want, taking his arm and walking him out of the room. I would happily, because I have to be somewhere, anywhere else but here, because Mr Rose is far too comfortable in my upset.

☆☆☆