Kissing Skulls *Revised*

Chapter 18

All that mattered was that Dustyn sounded like he was about two seconds from losing his shit. 

The man’s words only seemed to make him madder, and I heard a sudden smash—as if he’d punched a hole through glass. 

In fact, I had a sinking suspicion in my chest that was exactly what the smashing sounds had been.  Him punching things—anything to hold onto his rapidly fading control.

“What—”   Dustyn choked off his words and when he spoke again his voice was somewhat steadier.   But I could sense that the rage was still there, burning underneath.

 “What did you tell her, huh?”   He snarled.  “What did you say to make her hate me this time?”

“I didn’t say anything,” the cold voice replied.  “I didn’t have to.  She didn’t want to see you.”

The words are aimed like a whip, and I can tell that they hit their mark.  There was a sharp intake of breath from Dustyn—like he’d been stabbed with something wickedly sharp.

“Y-you’re lying,” he said, but I could tell that he didn’t believe it. 

As cold as they might have been, there was a truth to the man’s words that couldn’t be denied. 

The guy realized this too, and when he spoke again, his voice was harsher than acid.  

“Why would she?”  He demanded.  “You’re a disgrace—look at yourself.  Clean this mess up.”

“Screw you!”  Dustyn yelled, his voice cracking with pain.

It was only then that I realized I had unconsciously been moving up the hall this entire time.  Now, I only had to crane my neck around the thick archway to peer into the foyer. 

That fancy room was in shambles. 

It looked like a hoard of elephants had done the jig.  Glittering glass covered the floor.  Various weapons were scattered and thrown about in haphazard clutches.  Near my head, a knife stuck out of the oak paneling and a suit of armor lay toppled over by the door.

In the center of the chaos was Dustyn, crouched on the floor with his head in his hands. 

A man towered over him.  A man with icy pale skin and hair so dark that I almost mistook it for shadow.  His face was like a bust made of alabaster—set with cold, dead eyes that gleamed like black gems. 

“Do you want to know what she said?” he spat at Dustyn’s prone form.  “She said ‘I don’t want to see it.’  ‘Keep it away from me—‘”

“Shut up,” Dustyn wailed—and that was no exaggeration. 

As impossible as it seemed…Dustyn Grayson…was crying.

I didn’teven have to see his heaving shoulders to know that he was.  The sound echoed throughout the room; choking, gasping cries that set every single hair I had on end.   

But the strange man seemed to revel in it. 

 “She begged me to keep you away from her,” he gloated. 

“She wouldn’t—”  

Dustyn’s voice was just a whisper, and the man easily cut over him.

“She despises you.”

Dustyn flinched.  His pale hands dug into his hair as if he just needed anything to hold on to.  The sight ripped at something in my chest.

But seeing what he did next was the worst of all.