Natalya
The rustle of the wind through the tree and the birds chirping above us are barely audible over our labored breathing.
Alexander’ heat penetrates through me as his cock remains embedded deep inside of me. His face is buried against my neck. Every drop of his cum spent in my bare pussy.
We have to stop being so fucking risky having unprotected sex. It’s stupid and foolish and I don’t need to be the girl who gets pregnant before graduating.
Alexander kisses the column of my throat almost tenderly but doesn’t say a word, pulling his cock out of me and returning me to my feet.
I shudder as he takes a step back, the cold air rushing in behind me.
The sound of his zipper echoes through the trees as I stand straighter, pulling my panties and pants back up. Somehow I got them wet when I came, and I notice the patch on Alexander’ pants, too.
Once they’re secured, I look my bully in the eyes. Something haunts them, but God knows what.
We may have spent six years at this academy together, but I hardly know anything about the boy who has tormented me during that time.
“Do you think anyone heard us?” I ask, smoothing my hands down over my hair.
Alexander shakes his head. “It’s unlikely. The wind is too fierce.” He glances around. “It’s also blowing the opposite direction from where everyone entered the woods.”
I swallow hard, thankful that despite his promise to make me scream and ensure everyone heard, it’s unlikely that they did. The humiliation of people realizing that despite everything he’s done to me over the years, I’m fucking Alexander would probably kill me.
However, if we keep taking risks like this, it’s only a matter of time until someone catches us.
I bite my lip as I pick up my rifle and shoulder it. “I guess we should actually do some hunting.”
His eyebrow raises. “I guess, unless you are ready for round two?”
I shake my head, cheeks heating at the thought. My pussy feels sore from his rough fucking and the idea of going at it again makes my thighs clench. “No, we should hunt.”
He nods and walks ahead silently, leading me up a path further into the woods.
I follow him, a million questions whizzing through my mind. The question is, do I have the guts to ask him any of them?
I’m not sure if it’s the fear of the answers he’ll give me or if he won’t answer me at all that is holding me back. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, watching him as he moves ahead of me.
Fuck it.
“Alexander,” I say his name, my heart hammering hard and fast.
“Yeah,” he says, not glancing back at me.
“What made you hate me so much?” I ask, wishing my throat didn’t constrict with pain the moment I ask that question. It’s a question that has played on my mind since his first day in the cafeteria, when he turned my world upside down.
He stops walking, back as stiff as a board. And then he turns to look at me, eyes blazing with an emotion I can’t quite place. “It’s a complicated story,” he says, brow furrowing slightly. “I blamed your family for me being taken from my home.”
My brow furrows at that, as it was the last thing I expected him to say. “What?”
He shakes his head. “As I say, it’s a long and complicated story.”
I glance at my watch. “We have two hours to kill.”
He sighs heavily, glancing at his watch too. “Fine, but I’ll tell you while we walk.” His movements are stiff and unnatural as he turns his back to me, continuing along the path through the trees. “New year’s eve before I started at The Syndicate Academy, my father came home drunk and angry.” There’s a sadness in his tone as he speaks, and I wonder what he’s about to tell me. “He fought with my mother and I watched while he beat her to death.”
I gasp at that. “I’m sorry, Alexander-”
“Save it. I don’t need your pity,” he snaps, glaring at me over his shoulder with those intense blue eyes.
I fall silent, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip.
“The next day, my family dragged me onto a jet and flew me to Chicago. Along with my uncle, my father and my cousins.” He draws in a deep breath, hesitating before saying, “They didn’t even let me go to my mother’s funeral.”
What kind of family doesn’t allow a son to attend his own mother’s funeral?
His footsteps hasten as if out of rage at reliving the time he’s talking about and I have to jog to keep up with him. “The Estrada Cartel had struck up a deal with the Gurin Bratva and we were to head up the operations north of the border.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “That is all they told me, and until recently, I’d believed that my father had killed my mother because she didn’t want him to take me to America. So, I blamed your family for her death and, subsequently, me being ripped away from everything I knew.”
I stare at him, almost shocked that there is a genuine reason behind his dislike of me, even if it’s utterly ridiculous. A twelve-year-old girl could never have had any knowledge or hand in what he’s talking about. But I understand now why he hated me. His rage over watching his mother beaten to death and then dragged to a new country where he had only a loose grasp on the language. Any boy would be angry, and my last name directed his anger at me.