Thornhill Academy (By Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 150

Chapter 150

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Cage

Every time I close my eyes, it’s there-shadows, blue light, dark shadows, whispers that sound like her voice. It hasn’t happened in a while, but last night was worse than any of the times before. I woke up in the dark, on the floor, gasping, with my pants…wet. My pulse was hammering as if I’d run for miles, and for a few seconds, I thought I could still hear its laugh, low, cruel and echoing right through the walls. Now the dorm is quiet. I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open waiting for the next surge through the bond. It comes eventually. It always does. A pulse, faint but distinct, right under my ribs. I grit my teeth and roll onto my side, hoping that if I ignore it, it’ll stop, but it doesn’t. The pulse grows steadily until I can tell exactly what she’s feeling. There was sadness first tonight, low and heavy, like a weight dragging me under. Then something like grief curls through the edges. She’s been a wreck all day. I know because I can feel it. After all, I caused it. Good. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, that it’s good, that this is what I want. She is unstable, off-balance, and emotional; it’s the reaction I need. The reaction my father told me to draw out of her. I came so close today. I could feel her rage through the bond in Hill’s class, that moment when she nearly snapped. If I can push a little harder, she’ll crack wide open in front of everyone. That’s the plan.

That’s what I need.

But then the bond shifts again. The heat that comes with it isn’t anger or sadness this time. My breath catches before I even register what it is. No. Not again. It builds, rolling through my veins in waves, and my whole body reacts before my brain can stop it. Heat curls low in my stomach, wrong and unwanted, and I know exactly what’s happening. She’s with them. I drag a hand through my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The bond hums louder with a heartbeat that isn’t mine. The air feels thick, stifling, heavy with things I don’t want to feel. I pace the room once, twice, the floorboards creaking under my boots. I shove the feeling back as hard as I can, but it doesn’t fade. It just burns hotter. Every heartbeat feels like someone else’s rhythm pulsing through my skin, every breath to shallow, too fast. I slam my fist into the wall, and the sound echoes through the room, dust drifting down from the old plaster. The bond stutters, flickers, but doesn’t break. It never breaks. I look around the dorm like the answer might be hidden somewhere in the mess. The desk. The maps. The corkboard still covered in notes and strings. Her face, printed and sketched and copied a dozen times, stares back at me from the centre. My chest tightens.

“Why can’t you just-”

The words die in my throat. I rip the picture off the wall and the paper crumples easily in my fist. I hate this. I hate her. I hate that every thought I have loops back to her like she’s the centre of some orbit I can’t escape. I hate that I can feel everything-her joy, her sadness, her need, her pleasure—and that I can’t tell

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where mine ends and hers begins. The bond throbs agah, and I dig my nails into the picture until they

tear through it.

“She’s an assignment,” I say out loud. My voice is hoarse. “That’s all.”

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The silence doesn’t argue, but the bond does. Sending another surge of heat straight to my cock, making it

twitch.

I drop into the chair, the weight of the day catching up with me. My reflection stares back from the dark window, pale and tired. I look like hell. The bottle on my desk catches the light, and I grab it, take a long swallow, then another. It burns all the way down. The whiskey steadies my hands but not my mind. Images flash every time I blink-her in class, arguing, that spark in her eyes when she’s angry, the soft curve of her mouth when she’s trying not to smile. I hate that I know them all by heart. The bond surges again, insistent, like fingers trailing down my spine. My cock strains against my pants, hard and aching, demanding attention I don’t want to give. I curse under my breath, shoving the bottle aside. This isn’t me. This is her -her and those bastards she’s tangled up with, sending their filthy echoes through the connection we never asked for. It’s incomplete, fractured, but strong enough to drag me under every damn time. I glance at the crumpled photo in my hand, half-torn from where my nails dug in. Her eyes stare back, defiant even in black and white, lips parted like she’s about to spit file. I should finish ripping it to shreds and scatter the pieces like confetti over the trash. Instead, my fingers smooth it out against my thigh, the edges frayed

but her face whole and…Beautiful.

“Fuck.” The word escapes on a groan as another wave hits, heat pooling low, making my hips shift involuntarily. I can’t ignore it anymore. The pressure builds like a storm, coiling tight in my gut. My hand moves before I can stop it, palming myself through the fabric to relieve it. That’s all. Not because I want this. Not because her pleasure bleeding through the bond feels like mine. I undo my belt with shaking fingers, the buckle clinking too loudly in the empty room. My pants slide down enough to free myself, and the cool air does nothing to ease the throb. I wrap my hand around my length, stroking slowly at first, hating how good it feels. Hating that it’s her face I’m fixated on, the photo propped against the desk now, like she’s watching, judging, mocking me…The thought alone turns me on even more, and I pump harder, the hate fueling me further. Her eyes in the picture pull me in. I imagine her like this, flushed and needy, not with them but… no. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the bond floods me with sensations: soft moans that aren’t real, the ghost of skin on skin. My rhythm falters then quickens, chasing the edge.

“Goddamn you,” I mutter, but there’s no venom left. My thumb circles the tip, slick with pre-cum, and I stare at her photo again. Could she be mine? The thought hits like a punch, and I come undone. Pleasure crashes through me, hot and blinding, spilling over my hand in messy spurts. I gasp, body arching, the bond humming in satisfaction, as if she’s felt it too. As if this twisted relief echoes back to her. I slump back in the chair, breath ragged, the photo still in my line of sight. I should hate this. Hate her… But as the

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Chapter 150

haze clears, all I feel is empty, hollow and a quiet, dangerous pull that whispers this isn’t hate at all.

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